A Bunch of Cherries Part 21

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 ma.n.u.script 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 compet.i.tor. 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 pa.s.s," 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."