Chapter 16 A Bunch of Cherries by L. T. Meade
TEMPTATION
Amongst the many duties which fell to the care of Bertha Keys was the one of looking after the postbag. Every afternoon she took the girls' letters and put them in that receptacle, hanging the key on a little hook in the hall. Morning after morning it was she who received the postbag, unlocked it, and brought the contents to Mrs. Clavering, who always distributed the letters herself. Thus it was easy for Bertha to abstract the letters which contained the Dawlish postmark. She did this for a reason. It would never do for Florence to find out that her mother had not received the letter with the postoffice order.
Bertha knew well that if enquiries were made it could be quickly proved that she had never obtained a postoffice order at all, and thus her own ruin would be the result of her theft. She had taken the two sovereigns in a momentary and strong impulse, and had since to a certain extent regretted her foolhardy and wicked deed. Not that she regretted it because she had stolen the money, but because she feared the consequences. She now, therefore, had a double object for putting Florence Aylmer into her power. If she could do that, if by means of some underhand action on her part she could win the Scholarship for Florence, Florence would help her in the future, and even if Bertha's theft was known to her, would never dare to betray her. It is well known that it is the first step which costs, and Bertha's first theft was followed by the purloining of several letters from poor Mrs. Aylmer to her daughter.
At first Florence, relieved with regard to her mother's financial condition, did not bother about this silence. She was very much occupied and intensely anxious on her own account, but when more than a week went by and she had no letter from Dawlish, she began to get alarmed. What could be wrong?
In these days it would be easy for a girl to satisfy her nervous terrors by means of a telegram, but in 1870 a telegram cost a shilling, and Florence was now saving every penny of her money to send to her mother. She hoped soon to have another two pounds to transmit to her by means of a post-office order. For Mrs. Aylmer the great was thoroughly generous now to Florence, and never a letter arrived which did not contain a money remittance.
"She never guesses that it all goes to the little Mummy, that it helps to cheer her life and to give her some of the comforts she needs," thought the anxious girl; "but why, why does not Mummy write?"
When ten days had gone by, Florence sat down one morning and wrote to her mother:
"DARLING MUMMY: I cannot understand your silence. You have not even acknowledged the post-office order which I sent to you. I meant to wait until I could send you another postoffice order for two pounds, but I won't delay any longer, but will send you a postoffice order for one pound to-day. Darling, darling Mummy, I do wonder how you are. Please write by return mail to your loving daughter, FLORENCE AYLMER."
Having written and signed her letter, Florence addressed it, stamped it, and laid it by her desk. She then took out some sheets of manuscript paper on which she was vainly endeavoring to sketch out a scheme for her essay on Heroism. The conditions which attached to this essay were already neatly written out by Mrs. Clavering's directions, and were placed opposite to her on her desk: "The essay must contain not less than two thousand words. It must be the unaided work of the competitor. It must further be written without reference to books."
Florence, smart enough about most things, was altogether foiled when a work which must so largely be a work of imagination was required of her.
It was a half-holiday in the school, and Mary Bateman and Kitty Sharston were not sharing the oak parlor with Florence. They were out in the cherry orchard; their gay voices and merry laughter might have been heard echoing away through the open window.
Florence sighed heavily. As she did so she heard the handle of the door turn and Bertha Keys came softly in. Bertha brought a basket with her. It contained some stockings belonging to the little ones which she was expected to darn. She sat down on the low window-ledge and, threading her needle, proceeded to work busily. She did not glance in Florence's direction, although Florence knew well that she was aware of her presence, and in all probability was secretly watching her.
The silence in the room was not broken for several minutes. Bertha continued to draw her needle in and out of the little socks she was darning. Once or twice she glanced out of the open window, and once or twice she cast a long, sly glance in the direction of Florence's bent head. The scratch of Florence's pen over the paper now and then reached her ears. At last Florence stopped her work abruptly, leant back in her chair, stretched out her arms behind her head, uttered a profound yawn which ended in a sigh, and then, turning round, she spoke.
"I wish to goodness, Bertha," she said, "you wouldn't sit there just like a statue; you fidget me dreadfully."
"Would you rather I went out of the room, dear?" said Bertha, gently.
"No, no, of course not; only do you mind sitting so that I can see you? I hate to have anyone at my back."
Bertha very quietly moved her seat. The oak parlor had many windows, and she now took one which exactly faced Florence. As she did so she said, in a very quiet, insinuating sort of voice, "How does the essay on Heroism proceed?"
"Oh, it does not proceed a bit," said Florence; "I cannot master it. I am not a heroine, and how can I write about one? I think it was a very shabby trick on the part of Sir John Wallis to set us such a theme."
"Don't worry about it if your head aches," said Bertha. "You can only do work of that sort if you feel calm and in a good humor. Above all things, for work of the imaginative order you must have confidence in yourself."
"Then if I wait for the day when I have confidence in my own power and feel perfectly calm, the essay will never be written at all," said Florence.
"That would be bad," remarked Bertha; "you want to get that Scholarship, don't you?"
"I must get it; my whole life turns on it."
Bertha smiled, sighed very gently, lowered her eyes once more, and proceeded with her darning.
"I don't believe you have a bit of sympathy for me," said Florence, in an aggrieved voice.
"Yes, but I have; I pity you terribly. I see plainly that you are doomed to the most awful disappointment."
"What do you mean? I tell you I will get the Scholarship."
"You won't unless you write a decent essay."
"Oh, Bertha, you drive me nearly mad; I tell you I will get it."
"All the willing and the wishing in the world won't make the impossible come to pass," retorted Bertha, and now she once more threaded her darning-needle and took out another stocking from the basket.
"Then what is to be done?" said Florence. "Do you know what will happen if I fail?"
"No; tell me," said Bertha, and now she put down her stocking and looked full into the face of her young companion.
"Aunt Susan will give me up. I have told you about Aunt Susan."
"Ah, yes, have you not? I can picture her, the rich aunt with the generous heart, the aunt who is devoted to the niece, and small wonder, for you are a most attractive girl, Florence. The aunt who provides all the pretty dresses, and the pocket-money, and the good things, and who has promised to take you into society by and by, to make you a great woman, who will leave you her riches eventually. It is a large stake, my dear Florence, and worth sacrificing a great deal to win."
"And you have not touched on the most important point of all," said Florence. "It is this: I hate that rich aunt who all the time means so much to me, and I love, I adore, I worship my mother. You would think nothing of my mother, Bertha, for she is not beautiful, and she is not great; she is perhaps what you would call commonplace, and she has very, very little to live on, and that very little she owes to my aunt, but all the same I would almost give my life for my mother, and if I fail in the Scholarship my mother will suffer as much as I. Oh, dear! oh, dear! I am an unhappy girl!"
Bertha rose abruptly, walked over to Florence, and laid her hand on her shoulder.
"Now, look here," she said, "you can win that Scholarship if you like."
"How so? What do you mean?"
"Are you willing to make a great sacrifice to win it?"
"A great sacrifice?" said Florence, wearily; "what can you mean?"
"I will tell you presently, but first of all amuse yourself by reading this."
"Oh, I am in no mood to amuse myself; I must face my terrible position."
"Ah, I see you have written a letter to your mother; shall I put it in the postbag for you?"
"No, thank you; I mean to walk into Hilchester myself presently. I want to post that letter myself. I am anxious at not hearing from mother; she has never acknowledged my last postoffice order. I mean to send her another to-day, and I want to post the letter myself."
"Then I will walk into Hilchester with you after tea. We shall have plenty of time to get there and back before dark."
"Thank you," said Florence; "that will do very well."
"Now, then, read this. Put your essay away for the present. I can see by the expression on your face that you have a terrible headache."
"But why should I read that, Bertha? What is it?"
Bertha had thrust into Florence's hand a small magazine. It was called "The Flower of Youth," and had a gay little cover of bright pink. There were one or two pictures inside, rather badly done, for black-and-white drawings in cheap magazines were not a special feature of the early seventies. The letterpress was also printed on poor paper, and the whole get-up of the little three-penny weekly was shabby. Nevertheless, Florence glanced over it with a momentary awakening of interest in her eyes.
"I never heard of 'The Flower of Youth' before," she said. "Is it a well-known magazine?"
"It is one of the first magazines of the day," said Bertha, in a proud voice; "will you read this little paper?"
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."