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."
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 withaplomband 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."
It wanted three days to the Scholarship competition. The girls who were called in the school the lucky three now scarcely spoke on the subject—the other girls watched them anxiously. All lessons, except those in connection with the Scholarship, were suspended so far as Mary Bateman, Kitty Sharston, and Florence Aylmer were concerned.
The trial essays, the essays which were to be the supreme test of merit, were all written, and in sealed envelopes were handed in to Mrs. Clavering. Meanwhile exercises on history, French, German, arithmetic, were the order of the hour. The girls were busy all day long. The three faces were somewhat pale, and lines which ought not to have appeared round the young eyes and lips were beginning to make themselves manifest.
"I shall be truly thankful when the thing is over," said Mrs. Clavering to Sir John; "this is bad for them, very bad. In particular I do not like Florence Aylmer's expression. The girl thinks too much about this matter. If she fails she will have an illness."
"And if she succeeds Kitty will fail or have an illness," said Sir John, restlessly.
"Kitty will feel it, but she will not have an illness," said Mrs. Clavering; "you have but to see the expression on the two faces to know that. Kitty is anxious also and resolved, but there is a firm, steady, fine sort of expression about her, quite the reverse of poor Florence's."
"Yes, I confess I do not understand that girl," said Sir John; "and yet," he added, "I cannot help liking her; she has a good deal in her."
"I pity her, poor child," said Mrs. Clavering; "she is placed in a very false position. I once met her aunt, Mrs. Aylmer, of Aylmer's Court; that was on the occasion when Florence was brought to my school, and I confess I did not take to her."
Sir John shrugged his shoulders.
"It is invidious to speak of a lady who is soon to be one's guest," he said, "but I also have met Mrs. Aylmer."
On the morning of the same day Florence had received a letter from her mother. Bertha Keys had gone away on the previous evening to visit a sick cousin, and in consequence had not the charge of the postbag. She was very unwilling to leave at this critical moment, but the cousin was ill, required her services. Mrs. Clavering was willing to spare her for one night, there was no help for it; she must go. "I must only trust that no letter will come from Dawlish," she said to herself; "but after all, even if it does, it cannot really matter. Florence must sooner or later feel that she is in my power; perhaps the sooner the better."
Florence found the letter from her mother on the breakfast-table. She stretched out her hand, caught it with a firm grip, thrust it into her pocket, and then applied herself to her breakfast.
"Why don't you read your letter? You know you are allowed to do so," said Edith King, who was seated next to her.
"Oh, it will do after breakfast," said Florence.
"You don't look well, Flo; what is the matter with you?"
"I am a little anxious, if you must know," said Florence, turning round and glancing at her companion; "I have not heard from my mother for two or three weeks; but there, of course, it is all right. She has not even told me whether she has accepted Sir John Wallis's invitation. Sir John told me he had written, but I cannot tell whether she is coming or not."
"It will be delightful for you if she does come, will it not?" said Edith King.
"Oh, yes, delightful," answered Florence. She did not speak any more, but finished her breakfast somewhat hastily. At the first moment she could find herself alone Florence rushed into the cherry orchard and tore open her letter. It contained the following words:
"MY DARLING CHILD:
"Such a wonderful, extraordinary, delightful thing has happened. It is so unexpected that it quite puts out of my head a great deal which has made me anxious up to the present. I have received a letter from no less a person than Sir John Wallis, the distinguished owner of that magnificent place, Cherry Court Park, and he has invited me, my darling, to be present at the moment of your great triumph. He says, which I regret very much, that your Aunt Susan will also be there, but I am asked as your guest, my child. It is all most wonderful, unexpected, and truly fascinating. The effect on the neighbors is already so surprising that I have literally not been obliged to provide myself with a single meal since the news came. The Pratts have invited me each morning to breakfast, and Ann Pratt has assiduously catechized me, so much so that I have found an ancient book on the 'baronial halls of England, and have worked up some information for her benefit from this volume. I never saw anyone so eager as the creature is to find out Sir John's income and all about him. It is extraordinary, but still quite human nature.
"Sukey is wonderfully affected since the news came, and in fact right and left your poor Mummy is quite an honored individual.
"I feel like a heroine, my darling, and walk about Dawlish with my head well up. I am also quite extravagant, and am wearing that dress which I described to you as being turned for the fifth time. It is reckless of me, but I cannot help it. For what do you think, dear?—Sir John has sent me a check for my expenses. He says that he could not possibly ask me to be present if I were put to any expense in the matter, and he has absolutely sent me twenty pounds; so I shall be able to buy a suitable costume to be present in when I see my darling crowned with glory.
"Oh, what a supreme moment it will be! I have already got the black silk, and Miss Macgregor, in the Parade—you know what a fashionable dressmaker she is—is making it up. I shall, of course, wear my widow's bonnet, as it looks sodistingué, and Mrs. Sweat, the milliner in the High Street, is making up a new one, most stylish.
"I can add no more now. My heart goes pit-a-pat. When you receive this I shall be packing for my journey. It will be splendid to see Susan in the moment of your triumph. Altogether, dear, I never felt more elated in my life. This great and unexpected excitement has perfectly restored my health. I say to myself—you know, Flo, I always was a reckless little woman—I say to myself, 'Never mind, enjoy the present, Mabel Aylmer, even if afterwards comes the deluge.' Good-bye, my dearest; we shall soon meet and embrace.
"Your most affectionate"MOTHER."
Florence read the letter over once or twice. She then put it in her pocket and paced thoughtfully up and down the cherry orchard. The cherry trees were rapidly dropping their leaves now, and some of them fell over Florence. She shook them off impatiently.
"It was queer of mother never to mention those postoffice orders which I sent her," thought the girl; "she has not even thanked me for them; but there, I suppose it is all right, and she is very happy. It was good of Sir John to send her that twenty pounds, and yet—and yet it chokes me to think of it. He would not dare to send the money to Kitty's cousin, Helen Dartmoor, nor would he dare to send it to Mary Bateman's father. Oh, if I can only win this Scholarship I shall hold my head high and exercise that pride, which, after all, no woman ought to be without."
Florence went back to the house, and soon afterwards Bertha Keys entered the oak parlor. In the course of the morning she sat next to Florence, who bent towards her and said, "I have had a long letter from my mother."
"Oh, indeed," said Bertha, changing color in spite of herself; "and what did she say?"
"She is coming to Cherry Court Park. Bertha, it is rather queer she has said nothing at all about the postoffice orders. I wonder if she got them safely."
"Is it likely she didn't?" replied Bertha, in a calm voice; "of course she did. She was too excited to think of them; to have an invitation of that sort would absorb her very much."
"It does absorb her very much indeed," replied Florence. "Doubtless she forgot. Well, I shall soon see her and be able to ask her all about the matter."
Sir John Wallis had arranged that the three girls who were to compete for the Scholarship were to arrive at Cherry Court Park early on the morning of the great day. They were to sleep there that night, and return to the school the following day. The rest of the school were to arrive in the evening, but the Scholarship girls were to have the run of the Hall, and were to be entertained as the honored guests during the whole of the important day.
No girls could possibly be more excited than these three when at last the morning broke. Florence, who had scarcely slept at all the previous night, felt that she would be almost glad, even if the worst befell her, to have the terrible ordeal over.
"By this time to-morrow I shall be the happiest girl in the world or the most truly miserable," she thought to herself. But the greatness of the ordeal now had a certain composing effect, and Kitty, Mary and Florence started off in Sir John's carriage in apparently high spirits.
"What do you think?" said Kitty, bending forward and touching Mary on the sleeve; "Sir John has promised if I succeed to send a cable to father. Isn't it perfectly splendid of him? He has not said anything to father about the cable. What a surprise and delight it will be if he gets it."
"I wish you would not tell me," said Mary; "when I look into your eyes and see all that this means to you I feel a perfect brute, and yet nevertheless I mean to play my very best to-night, and to sing with all my heart in my voice, and to answer each question as carefully as I can, for my dear, dear old father will be present. Oh, how happy, how delighted I shall be to meet him again!"
"Yes, it will be splendid for you; and you, Florence, how glad you will be to see your mother," said Kitty. "But, oh, dear! oh, dear! I wish it hadn't been necessary to ask Helen Dartmoor to be present on the great occasion."
The girls went to the Hall in neat morning dresses, but the white dresses they were to wear in the evening, which were by Sir John's orders to be pure white, had already been sent on to the Hall.
The day was a glorious one, and as they drove through the beautiful scenery in Sir John's immense park a golden mist lay over everything. At last they drew up before the great front entrance. A group of ladies were standing in the hall. Sir John came down the steps. The next moment a little figure was seen running briskly forward, and Florence was clasped in the arms of the little Mummy.
"My darling! my darling!" said little Mrs. Aylmer. Florence kissed her with a quick passion, held her then at arm's length, looked into her face, and crushed some moisture out of her own eyes.
Meanwhile a very trim, staid-looking woman, with faded hair, pale blue eyes, and a correct, old-maid sort of demeanor, had given Kitty a light kiss on her forehead. "How do you do?" she said, in an accent which was truly Scotch. "It was very kind of Sir John to invite me to the Hall. I hope, for your own sake, you will win the Scholarship."
Kitty answered as brightly as she could.
"If not, of course, you are fully aware that you will be my guest for the next two or three years. It is scarcely likely you will win the Scholarship, and I have already been making all the arrangements I could with regard to your instruction," said Miss Dartmoor. "Will you come round the place now with me; I should like to have some conversation with you. I have not seen you for some little time."
Kitty gave a wild glance round. Would not Sir John help her? Helen Dartmoor was the only person in the world that she truly disliked. She felt a restless sensation rising up in her heart, but there was no escape. Sir John had gone off with Mary Bateman and Mary's father. Florence and her mother had already vanished inside the house. Kitty had to submit to her fate.
Helen Dartmoor walked with prim, small steps. She had a little three-cornered shawl on her shoulders, and an old-fashioned bonnet was tied under her chin. Her perfectly cold, serene face glanced now and then at Kitty.
"You are not improved, Catherine," she said.
"Why do you say that?" replied Kitty.
"You look anxious and excitable. I dislike a woman showing any emotion. Of course, you are only a child yet, but I trust if I have the care of you, which I fully expect to have—for it is scarcely likely you will for a single moment win this ridiculous Scholarship—I trust that I shall send you out to your father a well-mannered and decorous woman. I have the greatest dislike to the manners of the present day, and the new sort of girl who is growing up so rapidly in our midst is thoroughly abhorrent to me."
"Well, Helen," said Kitty, glancing full at her, "I know you won't mind if I am frank. I certainly wish to win the Scholarship; I am struggling with all my might and main to win it. It is of the utmost importance to me, for I want to be as well educated as possible when I go to dear father in India; but if I fail—yes, Helen, I will try my very best to please you while I am under your roof."
"Hoots, lass, you cannot do more, but do not speak in such exaggerated phrases. Now let us walk down this avenue. What a beautiful view! How soothing is nature in all her aspects!"
Kitty could not help shuddering. "Oh, dear! oh, dear!" she whispered, under her breath, "how am I to live if I lose the Scholarship!"
Meanwhile little Mrs. Aylmer, clasping a firm hold of Florence's arm, had carried her off right through the house and into one of the gardens at the back. "Your Aunt Susan is not down yet," she said; "it is the most merciful Providence, for I judge from her manner of last night that she means to absorb you. Now, then, darling, tell me what are your chances?"
"Oh, I don't know, mother; I suppose they are pretty good, and I have tried my best—I can't do any more."
"Really, Florence, you look quite splendid; I would not know you for the same girl. How your figure has changed; you have attained quite an elegant shape, my love—small waist, rounded form, a little pale, paler than I should wish, but your eyes have greatly improved; they have got a sort of pathetic expression in them which is very becoming, very becoming indeed." Mrs. Aylmer danced in front of Florence, examining each feature critically, her own small eyes twinkling, and her round face flushing in her excitement.
"Oh, isn't it a magnificent place?" she said, "and such a dinner as they had last night—course after course, if you'll believe me. I should think there must have been fifteen courses if there was one. I kept counting them, and then my poor head got so confused, for I was seated not far from Sir John, and he talked to me in such a kind, marked sort of way, and your Aunt Susan kept glittering her pale blue eyes at me as if she was eaten up with jealousy. I tell you, my darling, I did enjoy myself; I gave myself away, and talked in a frank, pleasant, easy sort of style. I made several of the guests laugh, I did really. Florence, my dear, my dress is beautiful; it quite stands out with richness. I assure you, my love, you will have no cause to be ashamed of your little Mummy to-night. I got Miss Macgregor to put a yard and a half of train into the back—a yard and a half, Flo, and it quite adds to my height. I have not had such a lovely dress since your poor dear father's time—that I haven't. I thought I would like to thank Sir John in private, and to tell him that I have made the money for my expenses go so far that I was able to purchase the dress."
"Oh, mother, please, please, mother, don't!" said Florence, in a tone of agony.
"Why not, my sweet child? If Sir John knows that I am thoroughly poor he may give me another littledouceur—there's no saying."
"Oh, mother, mother, you don't know what agony this gives me!"
"My poor child, but are not you glad that your little Mummy has got some money? Dear me, Flo, I have been ill since you saw me last. I was almost at death's door, and Dr. Hunt was so kind, coming in two or three times a day. But there, I have not paid his bill yet; it is fearful to think of it! Now, I should really like to take Sir John into my confidence. I would not ask him for the money, but I should just tell him exactly how I am placed, with so much a year—very, very little; a scrimped, tightened widow: that's the only way in which I can express my condition, scrimped and tightened, nothing else. A generous cheque from him would set all right."
"Mother, you must promise me here and now that you will say nothing on the subject to Sir John. And, Mummy dear, that reminds me, you never acknowledged my postoffice orders. I know I hadn't much to send you, but what I did have I sent, and I promised that you should have ten shillings a week, my pocket-money, until you had paid the doctor's bill. I could do no more. Mummy dear, what is the matter? Why do you look at me like that, Mummy?"
"I may well ask you what is the matter?" said Mrs. Aylmer, now standing stock still in front of her daughter and raising a round, agitated face to Florence. "Postoffice orders, and from you, Flo! Oh, my dear, darling, precious child, I have been wondering at never hearing from you. I wrote to tell you all about my illness—not until it was over, Flo; as I said to myself, 'No, the child shall not be disturbed; that Scholarship she must win. I will not tell her that her mother is ill until her mother is out of danger.' But when the danger was past I told you—oh, my darling, I have not had any postoffice orders from you nor any letters whatsoever—none whatsoever, Flo, and I have been so astonished. I have tried not to feel hurt. I am very sensible about most things. I was sure that you did not write because you were too busy to write, but still, in the dead of night, I did shed one or two tears—I did really, my own pet."
"But, mother, this is too extraordinary for anything. I sent you two postoffice orders, the first was for two pounds, the second for one. Do you mean to say that you never got them?"
"Never, my darling; I have been robbed. Who could have done it? Oh, Flo, this is fearful; three pounds sent to me by my own darling, and I never to receive the money! What can it mean, Florence—what can it mean?"
"Say no more, mother; I will see about this."