Читать книгу: «A Bunch of Cherries: A Story of Cherry Court School», страница 9

Florence's eyes lighted upon a short essay. It was called "The Contented Heart," and her first glance at it made her sigh.

"My heart is so terribly discontented I don't want to read about the contented heart just now," she said.

"Oh, but I do wish you would; it is not long, Florence."

Urged by a peculiar look in Bertha's eyes, Florence did read the short essay. It was couched in plain language and was forcible and to a certain extent clever. It occupied but a couple of pages, and having once begun, Florence read on to the end without a pause.

"Well," she said at last, "I should judge by that writing that the author had not a contented mind. It seems to say a great deal about things the other way round."

"Ah, but how do you judge the writing? Is that good or bad?"

"Good, I should say; it interested me immensely. I was full of worries and it seemed to lift them and smooth them away. I forgot them for the time being. Yes, I should say that essay was well written, but I didn't think about the writing at all."

"Ah, then it was well written," said Bertha. "But it is nearly tea time; don't let us say anything more about it now. I will tell you when we are walking to Hilchester."

She caught up the little magazine, thrust it into her pocket, and left the room without glancing at Florence again.

"What a queer girl she is!" thought Florence to herself. She had run up to her room to wash her hands, for tea, and presently joined her companions in the tea-room.

Half an hour later Florence and Bertha were on their way to Hilchester. Both girls were feeling anxious. Florence had that weight of care ever at her heart, and Bertha was wondering by what means she could smuggle the letter to Mrs. Aylmer out of her daughter's hands. Think and think as she would, however, she could see no way of preventing that postoffice order being obtained, of its being slipped into the envelope, and put into the post. She was noted for her ready wit, however, and ingenuity, and she could only now trust to what she termed a lucky chance. One thing, however, was more important than ever; she must as quickly as possible get Florence into her power.

"Well," she said, as the two girls strolled arm in arm down the shady lane towards Hilchester, "you wonder, don't you, why I showed you 'The Flower of Youth' this morning?"

"I had forgotten all about it," said Florence, frowning.

"I will tell you now. You admired that little paper on a contented heart!"

"It interested me," said Florence, "but why do you harp so about it? I have so much to think of, it is rather bothering for you to go back again and again to the same subject. The writer of that paper has not a contented heart."

"How clever of you to say that, for it is true."

"True! Do you know the writer?"

"I happen to know her."

"You know a real live author! Are you joking, Bertha? You must be joking."

"I know her," said Bertha, casting down her eyes, and a modest expression creeping over her face, "I know her well, for she – don't start away from me, Flo – she happens to be your humble servant."

"Now you must be joking! You are the author of 'The Contented Heart'?"

"I am, dear. I got five shillings for that little essay; not much, you will say, but better than nothing. The editor praised me and asked for more. I write occasionally in 'The Flower of Youth,' and when I am very hard up I am glad of the few shillings my writings bring me."

"Then you are a real genius," said Florence "and I respect you."

"I am glad you respect me; I always had a gift for writing."

"I should like to read your essay, 'The Contented Heart,' again."

"You shall, dear, you shall. I have always said that you could understand me, Florence, but you must not reveal my secret. I would not have it known in the school for worlds that I am an author. It would be fatal."

"But why? Are you not proud of the fact?"

"Oh, yes, I am proud of it, but perhaps Mrs. Clavering might not approve. People have strange ideas in these days. They think when a girl puts herself into print she makes herself too public."

"But they can't think that. Why, they would make you into a perfect heroine; you are a great, great genius, Bertha."

"I am glad you think I have a little talent," said Bertha, in a modest voice.

"But it is a great deal more. Have you ever written stories?"

"A few; but I have never published any."

"Some day you will write a great book, a book that will live. You will be a second Currer Bell."

"Ah, how I adore 'Jane Eyre,'" said Bertha, in a low, intense voice. "Currer Bell has a great soul; she lifts the curtain, she reveals to you her heart."

"I wish I could read 'Jane Eyre' again," said Florence. "I read it once when I was at home for the holidays, but Mrs. Clavering does not approve of novels."

"Mrs. Clavering is a little old-fashioned. Let us walk quickly, Florence. Do you know that I write poetry, too?"

"Oh, then you are a tremendous genius."

"I have a little talent," replied Bertha once more; "but now, Florence, I have a suggestion to offer."

There was something in her tone which caused Florence's heart to beat; she seemed to guess all of a sudden what was coming.

Bertha turned and gazed at her. "Look here," she said, "I don't do things without a reason. I am anxious to be your friend because – well, because I do like you, and also because I think you may be useful to me by and by."

"I am sure I cannot imagine what you mean, for it is not in my power to be useful to anyone. Your friendship for me must be disinterested, Bertha."

"That is as it may be," answered Bertha, in a dubious voice; "we will say nothing on that point at present. You want to get the Scholarship?"

"I must get it."

"You shall, with my aid."

"Now what do you mean?"

"It all depends on yourself, Florence. How much are you prepared to sacrifice to win the Scholarship?"

"To sacrifice? to sacrifice?" Florence felt very uneasy. She tried to wriggle away from her companion, who held her arm firmly. "To sacrifice?" she repeated.

"Yes, that's just about it – how much?"

"Well, my time – my health even."

"You must go a little further than that, Florence, if you mean to win."

"What do you mean?"

"I will be quite plain with you," said Bertha. "If you are not prepared to sacrifice more than your time, more than your health, you will fail, for Kitty Sharston has what you have not. She has the imaginative mind and the noble heart."

"Oh," said Florence. She colored, and tried to wriggle once again away from her companion.

"I must speak plainly," said Bertha. "At a moment like this there is no good beating about the bush. Kitty will write an essay on Heroism which will win her the Scholarship; she will do so because she is animated by a very great and noble love. She will do so because she has got poetry in her composition. You must face that fact. As to Mary Bateman, she is out of the running. She is a good girl and might even go ahead of you were the theme not the supreme and final test; but that being the test, Kitty will win. You may as well put down your oars at once, Florence; you may as well lower your colors, if you cannot compete with Kitty on her own ground."

"I know it; it is shockingly unfair."

"But all the same, you can win if you will make the supreme sacrifice."

"What is that?"

"The sacrifice of your honor."

"Oh, no; oh, no; oh, what do you mean?"

"That is what I mean. You can think it all over. I will make my suggestion, for I know you won't betray me. I will write your essay for you. I can do it. I can write on noble things; I am well educated; I am to a certain extent a practiced writer. I may not have Kitty's talent, but I have – what she has not – the practiced pen. She will struggle, but she cannot succeed against me. I will write the essay on Heroism, and you shall accept it as your work. Now, think it over; don't answer me at once."

CHAPTER XVII.
THE FALL

The remainder of that walk was taken in complete silence. Florence's head felt as if it were going round. There was a buzzing noise in her ears. Higher and yet higher over her moral nature did the waves of temptation rise. She struggled, but each struggle was feebler than the last. They reached Hilchester, and Bertha looked at her companion.

"You are as white as a sheet," she said; "won't you go in and rest at Mrs. Baker's shop? I shall call there presently for buns and things I am bringing back for the conversazione to-night; she will gladly let you rest. The postoffice is quite five minutes' walk from here. Let me post your letter for you. Have you the money in your pocket for the order?"

"I think I will rest at Mrs. Baker's," said Florence. "You will be sure to get the order all right, Bertha? Here is the letter; put the order in, won't you, and then put the letter in the post?"

"Yes, yes," said Bertha; "I'll be as quick as possible."

She almost snatched the letter from Florence's hand, took the sovereign, slipped it into her purse, and walked down the street with rapid strides. In less than a quarter of an hour she had returned to Florence.

"It is all right," she said, briskly; "and now for my commissions here. I hope you are more rested, Flo."

"Oh, yes, I am quite rested," replied Florence; but there was a dead sort of look on her face and the color had gone out of her eyes.

Bertha walked briskly to the counter. She was in excellent spirits, her carriage was perfectly upright, her well-poised head looked almost queenly as it rested on her graceful shoulders. Her figure was Bertha's strong point, and it never looked better than now. Even Florence as she glanced at her was conscious of a dull admiration.

How clever Bertha was, and really, when you come to consider her carefully, how stylish and good-looking!

"I shall never again as long as I live say that I dislike red hair," thought Florence to herself. "Yes, Bertha certainly has a remarkable face; no wonder she is able to write; and as to her eyes, I shall end by liking her eyes. They do look as if they held a secret power."

Bertha having given her orders now, waited until Mrs. Baker, the confectioner's wife, had made up the cakes and biscuits and chocolate creams which were necessary for the evening conversazione. Each girl then carried a large parcel, and retraced her steps in the direction of Cherry Court School. Their walk back was as silent as the latter part of their walk to Hilchester.

Just as they were entering the porch of the school Bertha laid her hand on her companion's arm.

"Well?" she said.

"I cannot give you my answer to-night; I will to-morrow," said Florence.

"All right, Flo; but let me tell you in advance I know what that answer will be."

Florence felt a shudder run all through her frame. She ran upstairs to the dormitory. It was late, and time to dress for the evening festivities.

Kitty was in her cubicle. Mary Bateman in hers. Neither girl had drawn her curtain, and when they saw Florence they each began to talk to her.

"Do you know, Florence," said Mary, "that that little genius Kitty has absolutely written her essay, finished it all between tea and this hour. She means to polish it to-morrow, but the rough draft is done. I feel quite in despair when I look at her."

"Oh, you need not; I don't suppose it is good a bit," said Kitty.

"I dare not ask you what it is about," said Mary, "or I would love beyond words to read it. When I look at your face and then think that you were asked to write on Heroism, I feel that you were given a task which neither Florence nor I can execute."

"Speak for yourself, pray," said Florence, in a cross voice. She gave a vindictive glance at Mary, avoided meeting Kitty's eyes, and vanished into her own cubicle. Here she drew the turkey-red curtain, glanced wildly round, and the next moment had dropped on her knees.

"Oh, please, God, save me from myself," whispered the wretched girl. "Help me out of this somehow. Give me the strength to write the essay myself. Oh, please, God, I must – I must have the Scholarship. Please, please give me the ability, the genius to write the essay myself."

Her wild, distracted prayer was the reverse of soothing. She sprang up, poured some water into her basin, and began to wash her face and hands; then she dressed herself neatly and gracefully. There were no lack of pretty dresses now for Florence Aylmer to bedeck herself in. She took great pains with her toilet. There was a certain satisfaction, as she donned her silken chains, in knowing that at least she could look as well as Kitty, nicer even than Kitty, as far as dress was concerned.

Mrs. Aylmer the great had excellent taste, and every one of Florence's frocks were suitable for Florence to wear. They were all girlish and simple. The frock she chose to-night was of a very pale pink. It was made of the simplest stuff, and was not trimmed at all. It gave grace to her figure and added to her height. A little ruffle of lace surrounded her girlish throat, and on her arm she slipped a gold bangle, Mrs. Aylmer's latest present. She then ran downstairs to the drawing-room. In her pretty shoes and silk stockings and well-fitting dress Florence made quite a graceful figure. She dropped a curtsey at the door as she was required to do, and then, going forward, took her place beside Kitty Sharston and Mary Bateman.

These three girls were, according to the rules of the competition, to entertain their companions. Neither Kitty nor Mary were in the least self-conscious, and to-night Florence also, in the pressure of a great misery, contrived to forget herself.

Mrs. Clavering looked at her with distinct approval.

"How that girl has improved," she said, bending towards Sir John Wallis, who invariably appeared on these occasions. "She will end in being handsome."

"Yes, she is a distinguished-looking girl," said Sir John, just glancing at Florence, and then looking away again, "but Kitty is my choice; give me the little wildflower Kitty. How sweet she is!"

"Well, of course, she belongs to a totally different order of being," said Mrs. Clavering, dropping her voice; "but what about the Scholarship, Sir John?"

"I dare not think of anyone else winning it," said Sir John; "but, of course, I have to face the fact that either of the other girls may succeed. Above all things, one must act fairly."

"I just doubted whether you gave a fair subject for the essay," said Mrs. Clavering.

"What do you mean?"

"Heroism," repeated the head mistress, speaking slowly and dropping her voice. "With such a subject you appeal so distinctly to the heart. If the heart does not respond, the essay on Heroism will never be done justice to."

"Ay, it is the supreme test, the supreme test," said Sir John, slowly. Again his eyes wandered to Kitty. From her charming, bright, anxious face he looked at Florence. It so happened that at that moment Florence had raised her own dark eyes and fixed them on him. The suffering she had lately lived through had added refinement to her face, and the baronet caught himself looking at her again and again.

"Yes, she has improved; there is something in her; but what is she so unhappy about, I wonder?" he thought.

Just then Mary Bateman skipped up, asked his opinion with regard to a fresh sketch she was making, and carried him away to chat with her in a corner.

Next to Kitty, Sir John certainly liked plain little Mary best.

Light refreshments were brought in on little trays, and the girls were invited to partake. The three young hostesses acted with aplomb and much tact. Dull girls were drawn out of themselves, lively girls were placed with suitable companions. Games were proposed, which were all conducted in a spirited and lively manner, and finally the proceedings ended with a gay dance. It was at this moment, just when the dance was in full swing, that Sir John Wallis came up and offered his arm to Florence.

"Will you waltz with me?" he said.

She looked up at him, colored with delight, and laid her hand on his arm. The two led the dance, and right merry was the music which was played to it.

The dance had just come to an end when Sir John looked full at Florence and spoke.

"I heard from your aunt, Mrs. Aylmer, and she is much pleased to accept my invitation. She will be my guest on the evening of the 29th, and I hope I may persuade her to stay a few days longer. You must see a great deal of her while she is at Cherry Court Park. You are a great favorite with her, are you not?"

"Of late I have been a favorite," said Florence, and now she looked full at Sir John and her lip trembled.

"There is something the matter with you, my dear," said Sir John.

"Oh, I don't know – nothing." Then she added, as if the words were wrung from her lips, "I hate Aunt Susan."

"Oh, come, come," said Sir John, truly shocked; "let me tell you that is a very unladylike way of speaking and scarcely fair to your aunt, who is doing so much for you."

"That is all you know, Sir John, but I dare not say any more."

"But having said so much, I am afraid you must. I asked you three girls what special friend or relation you would like to be present in the hour of your triumph, and you selected Mrs. Aylmer. If you did not like Mrs. Aylmer, why did you ask her to come? I would gladly have received your own mother."

"I will tell you," said Florence, in a hurried voice. "Mrs. Aylmer is much interested in your Scholarship, Sir John, and she says if I win it that she will adopt me. I shall be her – her heiress then. You understand that it means a great deal to me, the Scholarship?"

"Yes, I understand," said Sir John, gravely. His face looked troubled. "Sit down here, my dear," he said. Florence seated herself on a chair by his side. "I can understand, and I am sorry; it is scarcely fair that your young mind should be strained to this extent. And if you don't win the Scholarship?"

"Ah, if I don't, Aunt Susan will not need you to ask me much to Cherry Court Park. She will wash her hands of me."

"Indeed, this is disturbing."

"I ought not to have told you, and you must pretend that you do not know."

"I shall say nothing, of course; all the same, I am sorry."

Sir John sat very thoughtful for a moment. After a long pause he spoke.

"I ought not to give you any special advantage over the other girls," he said, "but suppose I do this?"

"What?" asked Florence, looking into his face.

"Suppose I have Mrs. Aylmer as my guest and allow you to choose another? What about your mother, Miss Aylmer?"

"Oh, do you mean it?" said Florence; her face flushed, and then turned pale. She had a wild, wild thought that even if she failed her mother would not turn from her. She had a choking sensation in her throat, which made her feel that even in the moment of absolute defeat the little Mummy's kisses would be supporting, cheering, encouraging. Tears brimmed into her eyes. "You are very good," she said.

"Then I'll do it; give me your mother's address. She shall be your guest; the other Mrs. Aylmer shall be mine. And now cheer up, my dear; we can never do more than our best."

Sir John turned aside, and soon afterwards the little party broke up.

That night Florence hardly slept. At a very early hour she awoke. She had prayed her prayer of the night before; she had asked God to help her. As to not winning the Scholarship, that was absolutely and completely out of the question. She must win it. The thought of disgrace was too intolerable; she must, she would win it. She determined to rise now and test her powers of composition. It was between five and six in the morning. She rose very softly, got into her clothes, and stole out of the dormitory.

The light was just beginning to dawn, but there was not light enough to work. Florence slipped softly down to the oak parlor; having secured a candle and a box of matches, she lit the candle and placed it on her desk, and, taking out a sheet of manuscript paper, she pressed her face on her hands, once again uttered a wild, passionate prayer, and then, dipping the pen in the ink, waited for inspiration.

"Heroism," she said, under her breath. "What did it mean?" All that it really meant rushed over her – self-denial, self-abnegation, the noble courage which comes to those who think of others, not themselves. "I cannot write," she said, passionately. She said the words aloud, dashing down her pen and making a blot on the fair sheet of manuscript paper. At that moment the door was opened and Bertha came in.

"I thought I heard a noise," she said; "so it is you? What are you doing there, Florence?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing; but why have you come to tempt me?" said Florence. She raised two haggard eyes to the pupil teacher's face.

"Not to tempt you, but to help you, poor child. Of course, you will do what I wish. There, Florence, I wrote your essay for you last night. It came over me and I wrote it without much trouble. Here it is, dear; you have only to copy it; put it in your desk for the present, there is plenty of time, and go back to bed, dear, for you look worn out."

Florence burst into tears. The next moment she had flung her arms around Bertha's neck and laid her head on her shoulder.

"There, there," said Bertha, "there, there, you are overcome, but it will be all right now."