A Bunch of Cherries Part 23

"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 n.o.ble 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 n.o.ble 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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, G.o.d, 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, G.o.d, 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 compet.i.tion, 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.