Chapter 21 A Bunch of Cherries by L. T. Meade
THE STING OF THE SERPENT
The day was over, the long, exciting, exhausting evening had come to an end. The girls had danced to their hearts' content, had played and romped, and congratulated Florence with all the heartiness of which their frank natures were capable. They had wandered through the grounds in groups to watch the bonfires, they had partaken of the most delicious supper the heart of girl could conceive, and at last, worn out and intensely happy, they had retired to rest.
Three long dormitories had been fitted up for their occupation, but the lucky three had each a very small room to herself. Florence was glad of that. Yes, if she could be glad of anything on that awful, terrible evening, it was the knowledge that she might be alone, all alone for some hours. During those hours she could think, could collect her thoughts, could face the position which she had in future to occupy.
In the pleasure and delight of the evening no one had specially noticed how little Florence spoke. Mrs. Aylmer the less, as the mother of the heroine, minced about with her head in the air, so elated, so excited, so carried out of herself, that not the grandest county lady present had power to awe her.
"Yes, I am the mother of the dear child. Oh, I always knew that she was specially gifted," Mrs. Aylmer was heard to say. "She could learn from the time she was a baby in the most marvellous way, but even I was astonished at her essay; it wrung tears from my eyes."
"It was a very noble work," said the Countess of Archester, slightly bowing her own queenly head, and giving Mrs. Aylmer a half-quizzical, half-pitying glance. "How the girl wrote it, how that woman's daughter could have written such an essay, is a puzzle to me," said the Countess afterwards to her husband.
But Mrs. Aylmer was unconscious that any such remarks were uttered. She was thinking of her own dazzling future, of what Dawlish would mean to her in the time to come, of what Sukey would say, what Ann Pratt would say, what other neighbors would say. All was indeed well; she was the mother of a genius, a girl who had achieved such high honor that her name in future would always be remembered in the neighborhood of Cherry Court School. Yes, it was a proud moment for Mrs. Aylmer, quite the proudest in her life. It is true that Florence had said very little to her mother, that Florence had scarcely responded to Mrs. Aylmer when she had flung her arms round her neck, and pressed up close to her, and looked into her eyes, and said, "My darling! oh, my darling, my sweet, precious daughter, how proud your Mummy is of you!"
Florence had turned away just then, and Mrs. Aylmer had felt that her daughter's hand trembled as it lay for a moment in hers.
But Mrs. Aylmer the great was even more remarkable in her conduct than Mrs. Aylmer the less. She had called Florence to her, and before all the assembled guests had kissed her solemnly.
"You are my daughter henceforth," she said, "my adopted daughter. Not a word, Mabel; this girl belongs to me in the future."
And just then the queerest pang of jealousy had rushed through the heart of Mrs. Aylmer the less, for was it possible that Susan really meant to take her child from her altogether? Was Florence henceforward to be considered by the world as the daughter of Mrs. Aylmer the great? Was she, her real mother, the mother who had nursed her as a baby, who had put up with her childish troubles, to have nothing whatever to do with her in the future? Notwithstanding that crown of glory which seemed to quiver over the forehead of the little widow, she did not like this aspect of the question. She felt she could scarcely stand it. If Susan meant to have the child, then indeed the Scholarship would present a very serious drawback to the mind of Mrs. Aylmer.
Mrs. Aylmer the great, however, now pushed herself quite into the forefront of the county society. It was impossible to suppress her; she was past suppressing. Sir John himself took her into the great hall where supper was laid. She sat by his side during that auspicious meal, and when he talked of Florence she boldly told him that a golden future lay before the girl.
"It is a pity," was his reply, "that being the case, that Miss Aylmer should have got the Scholarship, for whether she got it or not, being your niece, she would of course have been well educated. The Scholarship money would have done more good to a poorer girl"—and here Sir John had quickly to suppress a sigh, for was he not thinking of Kitty—Kitty, who had never looked sweeter than during this evening of defeat, who had never, never been nearer to his heart?
Mrs. Aylmer the great looked at him in some astonishment.
"I am surprised," she said; "it almost sounds as if you——"
"As if I grudged the Scholarship to your niece; far from that," he answered; "she is a remarkable girl; any girl who could write that essay possesses genius. She will be heard of in the future."
Then the heart of Mrs. Aylmer the great swelled within her, and she absolutely loved her niece Florence.
But now the day was over and Florence was alone in her room. The door was closed; her mother's last kiss and blessing had been given. Mrs. Aylmer the great had solemnly embraced Florence also, had given her to understand that there was no request which she would not grant, and then the tired girl had been left alone.
She went to the door of her room and locked it, then she stood for a moment in the centre of the floor. There was a large mirror fastened to one of the walls, and Florence could see her own reflection in it. She glanced at it for a moment in a puzzled way, a solitary young figure, tall and well proportioned, a head of dark hair, eyes very bright, a face somewhat pale now from excessive emotion, pathetic lines round the mouth. On the head shone the silver crown of bay-leaves, the Greek dress fell away from the graceful figure, on the neck gleamed the wonderful locket with its dazzling ruby. The light from a large lamp fell upon this ruby and caused it to gleam brightly. Florence went nearer to the mirror and looked into it. The fire from the heart of the ruby seemed to leap out. She hastily unfastened the gold chain from her neck and held the locket in her hand. The ruby with its heart of fire seemed now to the excited girl to possess an evil eye which could see through her. She felt that she hated it, she trembled a little, she hastily unlocked a drawer and thrust in the ruby locket and chain. She then removed the silver wreath of bay-leaves and put it also in the drawer with the ruby. Then she clasped her hands above her head and looked earnestly into her own face. Well she knew in that moment of bitter triumph what had happened to her.
"I am made for life," she said at last slowly, aloud; "all the good things of life can in the future be mine—all the wealth, all the glory, to a great extent also the love."
But when Florence thought of the love she paused; for she remembered her mother. Did anyone in all the world love her as the little Mummy loved her? In the future she knew well that she should see very little of her mother. Aunt Susan would not permit it for a moment; she might see her occasionally, but never again would they meet as child and mother. There would be a gulf between them, the gulf which ever and always separates the rich from the poor. For Florence henceforth would belong to the rich ones of the earth. Mrs. Aylmer the great was so pleased, so elated, so triumphant at her marked and brilliant success that there was nothing she would not do for her. Yes, Florence's future life was secure, she was fortunate, the world lay at her feet, her fortune was made.
She sat down on a low chair.
"It is all before me," she muttered, "the riches, the honor, the glory. I shall also, if I am dressed well, be beautiful. Mine is the sort of face that requires good decoration; mine is the figure which needs the best clothes. I shall have everything, everything. I ought to be happy; I wonder I am not. I ought to be very happy. Oh, I wish this fire did not burn in my heart, and that horrid, scorching, intolerable feeling, I wish it did not consume me. Oh, I suppose I shall get over it in time; and if life lasted forever I should be the happiest girl in the world; but of course it won't—nothing lasts forever, for age comes even to the youngest, and then—then there is illness and—and perhaps death. And I may not even live to be old. Rich and lucky and fortunate as I am, I may die. I should not like to die a bit—not a bit; I should not be prepared for the other world. Oh, I must shut away the thought, for there is no going back now."
Just at this point in her meditations there came a knock at her door. Florence started when she heard the sound. She wished that she had thought of putting out the candle. She could not bear to feel that anyone was coming to see her to-night. Her mother?—she dared not meet her mother alone; she would be prepared in the morning, but she could not meet her mother's searching glance just now.
She did not reply at all to the first knock, but the light from the candle streamed out under the door, and the knock was repeated, and now it was more insistent, and a voice said:
"It is only me, Florence; it is only me; let me come in."
Florence shuddered and turned very pale. She knew the voice: it was the voice of Bertha Keys. If there was anyone in all the wide world whom she would most dread to meet on that unhappy night it was Bertha Keys, the girl who knew her secret. There was no help for it, however.
With a shudder Florence arose, crossed the room, unlocked the door, and flung it open.
"I am so tired, Bertha," she said; "must you see me to-night?"
"I am sorry you are tired," replied Bertha, "but I must see you to-night."
Bertha slowly entered the room. When Florence shut the door Bertha turned the key in the lock.
"What are you doing that for?" said Florence.
"Because I do not wish to be interrupted; I want to see you alone."
"But I wish you would not lock the door; it is quite unnecessary—no one will come here at present."
"I make certainty sure—that is all," said Bertha. "Don't fuss about the lock. Now, then, Florence, I want to have a straight talk with you; you understand?"
"I suppose I do; but I don't think I can comprehend anything to-night."
"Oh, yes, you can, you certainly can; you must pull yourself together. You went through that ordeal very well, let me tell you. How do you feel now?"
"Miserable," said Florence.
Bertha went up close to her, sat down by her, and, suddenly putting her hand under Florence's chin, raised her face, and looked into her eyes.
"Bah!" she said, "it was a pity I did it for you; you are not worth it."
"What do you mean?" said Florence, turning pale.
"Because you are not; I don't believe you'll go through with it even now. Bah! such glory, such honor, such a proud moment, and to say you are miserable! May I ask what you are miserable about?"
"Because I have sacrificed my honor; because I am the meanest, most horrid girl on God's earth," said Florence, with passion. "Because the Scholarship so won turns to dust and ashes in my mouth. Because—because of Kitty, little Kitty, who wanted really what I have so basely taken from her. Oh, I hate myself and I hate you, Bertha. Why did I ever meet you?"
Florence was past tears, a dry sob rose in her throat, it half choked her for a moment, then she stood up and wrung her hands.
"Go away, please, Bertha; leave me now; I cannot have you."
"You can put things right, of course, according to your idea of right," said Bertha, in a sulky voice; "you can go to Sir John and tell him what has happened; you can do that if you please."
"I cannot—you know I cannot."
"I certainly do know you cannot," said Bertha. "Well, now, my dear, we will leave off heroics; it is all very fine for you to talk of your conscience, but I don't think that little monitor within is of a very active turn of mind. If he were he would have absolutely at the first idea shunted off the evil proposal which I happened to make to you. You would never have yielded to the temptation. Think just for a moment: would Kitty Sharston have done this thing?"
"Of course not; why do you ask?"
"Think again, would Mary Bateman have done this thing?"
"Again, why do you ask?"
"My dear Florence, I ask in order to reassure you that, sensitive and keen as you think your little inward monitor, it is at best but a poor weakling. Now, the conscience of Kitty and the conscience of Mary would have risen up in hot protest, and the temptation would not have been a temptation to them, but it was to you because of the poor health of your little monitor. Believe me, the monitor is in a bad way, and if you will struggle through the remorse of the next couple of days it will simply die."
"And then I shall be lost," said Florence, with a frightened look in her face.
"Oh, you will live a very comfortable life if you take care of your health; you have a good sixty years before you. You can do a good deal in sixty years, and now for goodness' sake stop talking about the matter. It is done and cannot be undone. I want to say something to you myself."
"But at the end of sixty years I shall die all the same," said Florence. "Oh, Bertha, I go mad when I think of dying. Oh, Bertha! Bertha!"
Even Bertha felt a momentary sense of terror when she looked into Florence's eyes. She backed away from her and stood by the table.
"Come, come, my dear," she said, "you'll get over all this," but still she avoided looking at Florence's eyes.
"What do you want with me?" said Florence at last, restlessly; "I must sleep. I wish you would go away."
"I will when I have made my request."
"What is that?"
"I want you to give me twenty pounds."
"Twenty pounds! Why, you know I have not got it."
"Practically you have, and I want it. I want it early to-morrow morning."
"Now, Bertha, you must be mad."
"Not at all; I am abundantly sane. That essay which so excited the spectators to-night was worth twenty pounds. I mean you to buy it from me, and those are my terms."
"You know I cannot. I cannot imagine what you mean by coming to me in this fashion."
"Without twenty pounds I shall be undone," said Bertha; "I need it to pay some debts. If the debts are not paid I shall be exposed, and if I go under, you, my pretty Florence, go under, too—understand that, please. Twenty pounds is cheap at the price, is it not?"
"But I have not got it, Bertha; I would give it you, but I cannot. You might as well ask me for my right hand."
"I tell you the great Mrs. Aylmer will do anything for her pretty and gifted niece. Ask her for the money to-morrow."
"For you?"
"By no means—for yourself."
"Bertha, I simply cannot."
"All right," said Bertha. "I give you until to-morrow at noon to decide. If by that time I have twenty pounds in my hand all right, your secret is respected and no catastrophe will happen, and your frightful deceit will never be found out. Only one person will know it, and that is I. But if you do not give me the twenty pounds I shall myself go to Mrs. Clavering and tell her everything. I shall be sorry; the consequences will be very disagreeable for me; I cannot even say if I shall quite escape the punishment of the law, but I expect I shall. In any case, you will be done for, my pretty Florence; your career will be over. Think of that; think of the little Mummy, as you call her, without the great Scholarship to back you up—think what it means."
"I do, I do; the only one I do think of at the present moment is my mother," said Florence. "When I think of her it gives me agony. But, Bertha, I cannot get that twenty pounds."
"You can; make an excuse to your Aunt Susan to obtain it. Now, my dear, you know why I have come to you; I will not trouble you any further. The twenty pounds at noon to-morrow, or you know the consequences." Bertha waved her hand with a light air, kissed the slim little figure in its Greek dress, then she opened the door and went out.