Kitabı oku: «A Bunch of Cherries: A Story of Cherry Court School», sayfa 8

CHAPTER XV.
THE PUPIL TEACHER

At the beginning of the autumn term there happened to come to the school a girl of the name of Bertha Keys. She was between seventeen and eighteen years of age, and came to Cherry Court School in the capacity of pupil teacher. She was not a pleasant girl to look at, and had Mrs. Clavering seen her before she engaged her she might have hesitated to bring her into the midst of her young scholars.

But Bertha was clever and outwardly amiable. She performed her duties with exactitude and despatch. She kept the younger girls in order, and was apparently very unselfish and willing to oblige, and Mrs. Clavering, after the first week or fortnight, ceased to feel apprehensive when she looked at her face. For Bertha's face bore the impress of a somewhat crooked mind. The small light blue eyes had a sly gleam in them; they were incapable of looking one straight in the face. Bertha had the fair complexion which often accompanies a certain shade of red hair, and but for the expression in her eyes she might have been a fairly good-looking girl. She had an upright trim figure, and dressed herself neatly. Those watchful eyes, however, marred the entire face. They were as clever as they were sharp and knowing. Nothing escaped her mental vision. She could read character like a book.

Now, Bertha Keys was very poor. In her whole future life she had nothing to look forward to except what she could win by her own individual exertions. Bertha's apparent lot in life was to be a teacher – her own wish was to cringe to those in power, to obtain a footing amongst those who were likely to aid her, and she had not been a week in the school before she made up her mind that of all the girls at Cherry Court School no one was so likely to help her in the future as Florence Aylmer. If Florence won the Scholarship and became the adopted heiress of a rich aunt, the opportunities in favor of Bertha's advancement would be enormous. On the other hand, if Mary Bateman won the Scholarship nothing at all would happen to further Bertha's interest. The same might be said with regard to Kitty Sharston. Bertha, therefore, who was extremely sharp herself and thoroughly well educated, determined that she would not leave a stone unturned to help Florence with regard to the Scholarship. Nothing was said on the subject between Florence and Bertha for several weeks. Bertha never failed, however, to propitiate Florence, helping her when she could with her work, doing a thousand little nameless kindnesses for her, and giving her, when the opportunity offered, many sympathetic glances. She managed to glean from the younger girls something of Florence's history, noted when those long letters came from Mrs. Aylmer the great, observed how depressed Florence was when she received letters from Dawlish, noted her feverish anxiety to deport herself well, to lead a life of excellent conduct, and, above all things, to struggle through the weighty themes which had to be mastered in order to win the great Scholarship.

One day about three weeks before the Scholarship examination was to take place, and a week after the events related in the last chapter, Florence was engaged in reading a long letter from her Aunt Susan. Mrs. Aylmer had received her invitation to Cherry Court Park, and had written to her niece on the subject.

"I shall arrive the day before the Scholarship examination," she wrote, "and, my dear girl, will bring with me a dress suitable for you to wear on the great day. I have consulted my dressmaker, Madame le Rouge, and she suggests white bengaline, simply made and suitable to a young girl. Yours, my dear Florence, will be the simplest dress in the school, and yet far and away the most elegant, for what we have to aim at now is the extreme simplicity of graceful youth. Nothing costs more than simplicity, my dear girl, as you will discover presently. But more of that when we meet. One last word, dear Florence; of course, you will not fail. Were I to see you dishonored, I should never hold up my head again, and, as far as you are concerned, would wash my hands of you forever."

Florence's lips trembled as she read the last words. An unopened letter from her mother lay on her lap. She flung down Mrs. Aylmer's letter and took up her mother's. She had just broken the envelope and was preparing to read it when Dolly Fairfax rushed into the room.

"Florence, do come out for one moment," she said; "Edith wants to tell you something."

"Oh, I can't go; I am busy," said Florence, restlessly.

"I wish you would come; it is something important; it is something about to-night. Do come; Edith would come to you, but she is looking after two or three of the little ones in the cherry orchard. You can go back in five minutes."

Uttering a hasty exclamation, and thrusting her mother's letter into her pocket, Florence started up and followed Dolly. She forgot all about her aunt's letter, which had fallen to the floor.

She had scarcely left the room before Bertha Keys stepped forward, picked up the letter, read it from end to end, and having done so laid it back on Florence's desk. Florence returned presently, sat down by her desk, and, taking her mother's letter out of her pocket, read it.

The little Mummy was in trouble; she had contracted a bad cold, the cold had resolved into a sharp attack of pleurisy. She was now on the road to recovery, and Florence need not be the least bit anxious about her, but she had run up a heavy doctor's bill, and had not the slightest idea how she was to meet it.

"I do wish, Florence, my darling," she said, "you could manage to let me have some of that pocket-money which your Aunt Susan sends you every week. If I could give the doctor even one pound I know he would wait for the rest, and then there is the chemist, too, and I have to be a little careful now that the weather is getting chilly, and must have fires in the evening, and so on. Oh, I am quite well, my precious pet, but a little help from you would see me round this tight corner."

Florence ground her teeth and her eyes flashed. The little Mummy ill, ill almost to the point of danger. Better now, it is true, but wanting those comforts which Aunt Susan had in such abundance.

"I cannot stand it," thought the girl. "What is to be done? By fair means or foul, I must get that Scholarship. Oh, I fear nothing. I believe I am sure to win if only I can beat Kitty on her own ground. Her ground is history and literature. There is to be a horrible theme written, and a great deal depends on how that theme is handled, and I am no good at all at composition. I have no power with regard to picturesque writing. I cannot see pictures like Kitty can. I believe Sir John has set that theme on purpose, in order to give Kitty an advantage; if so, it is horribly unfair of him."

Florence muttered these words to herself; then she glanced again at her mother's letter. She put her hand into her pocket and pulled out her purse. That purse, owing to Aunt Susan's bounty, contained over two pounds. Florence resolved to send that two pounds to her mother immediately. She began to write, but had scarcely finished her letter before Bertha Keys, equipped for a walk, briskly entered the room.

"I am going to Hilchester," she said; "have you any message, Florence?"

"Oh, I should be so much obliged if you would post a letter for me," said Florence.

"I will, with pleasure," replied Bertha.

"Can you wait five minutes? I shall not be longer than that writing it."

"Yes," replied Bertha. She went and stood by the low window-ledge, and Florence bent over her sheet of paper. She wrote rapidly, a burning flush coming into each cheek.

"Oh, darling little Mummy," she wrote, "I am sending you all the money I have. Yes, you may be quite certain I will win the Scholarship by fair means or foul. I feel nearly mad when I think of your sufferings; but never mind, once the Scholarship is won and I am declared to the world to be the Cherry Court Scholarship girl, once I am crowned queen on the great day of the Scholarship competition, I shall, I perceive well, be able to do exactly what I like with Aunt Susan, and then be sure you shall not want. Please, dear Mummy, pay what is necessary of this to the doctor, and get yourself what you can in the way of nourishment. I am most, most anxious about you, my own darling little Mummy, and I vow at any risk that you shall have my ten shillings a week for the present. What do the girls at the school matter? What matters anything if you are ill? Oh, do take care of yourself for my sake, Mummy."

Bertha Keys moved restlessly, and Florence, having addressed the envelope and stamped it, went up to her.

"Look here," she said, eagerly, "I wish I could come with you, but I can't, for I have my lessons to prepare, and this is the night of the conversazione. If you would be truly kind, would you do something for me!"

"Of course I'll be truly kind," said Bertha; "I take a great interest in you, Miss Aylmer, but who would not who knew you well?"

"What do you mean by that?" said Florence, who was keenly susceptible to flattery.

Bertha gave a little contemptuous sniff.

"You are the only girl in the school whose friendship is worth cultivating," she said; "you have go and courage, and some day you will be very handsome; yes, I feel sure of it. I wish you would let me help you to form your figure; you might draw your stays a little tighter, and do your hair differently. I wish you would let me be your friend. You are the only girl in the school whose friendship I care twopence about."

"What!" said Florence, trembling slightly and looking full into Bertha's face, "do you think more about me than you do of Kitty Sharston?"

The pupil teacher gave a slight shrug of her shoulders.

"Miss Sharston," she said; "oh, a nice little girl, very nice and very amiable, but, my dear Miss Aylmer, you and she are not in the same running at all. But there, I must be quick; I have to return home in time to undress the little ones. Oh, what a lot is mine, and I pine for so much, so much that I can never have."

"Poor girl, I am sorry for you," said Florence; "but there, I won't keep you any longer. See, this is what I want you to do. Will you convert these two sovereigns into a postoffice order, and will you put it into this letter, and then fasten the envelope and put the whole into the post?"

Florence gave some more directions with regard to the postoffice order. In 1870 postal orders, much simpler things, were unknown. Bertha Keys promised, took in all the directions quickly, and started off on her mission.

She walked down the road as briskly as possible. The distance between Hilchester and Cherry Court School was between two and three miles. The road was a lonely one. Bertha presently crossed a stile and found herself in a shady lane. When she reached this point she looked behind her and in front of her; there was no one in sight. Then taking Florence's letter out of her pocket, she slowly and quietly read the contents. Having read them, a smile flitted across her face.

"Little Mummy," she said aloud, "you must do without your two pounds. Bertha Keys wants this money a great deal more urgently than you do. Florence must suppose that her letter has got lost in the post. Let her suppose what she will, this money is mine."

Having made these remarks under her breath, Bertha calmly tore poor Florence's letter into a thousand tiny fragments. These she scattered to the four winds, and then, humming a gay air to herself, proceeded on her way to Hilchester. She transacted her business, went to a shop and purchased out of one of Florence's sovereigns some gay ribbons and laces for her own bedizenment, and then returned home.

"Did you post my letter?" said Florence, who met her in one of the corridors.

"Yes, dear, I am glad to say it caught the evening post."

"Then that's right, and mother will receive it early to-morrow," thought the girl to herself.

The feeling that her money would relieve her mother contrived to ease her overburdened conscience, and she was more cheerful and happy-looking that evening.

The next day at an early hour, as Florence was standing in the oak parlor alone for a wonder, for neither Mary Bateman nor Kitty Sharston were present, Bertha Keys came into the room.

"The subject of the composition is to be set this afternoon," she said. "You are good at composition, are you not, Miss Aylmer?"

"No, that is it – I am very bad indeed," replied Florence.

"I am very sorry, for I believe a great deal turns on the way the themes are done. They must be very good ones."

"I must do my best," said Florence, in a gloomy voice; "there is not the least doubt that I shall beat Kitty Sharston in mathematics and arithmetic, and as to Mary Bateman, she has not a scrap of imagination in her composition."

"But the little Kitty has a great deal," said Miss Keys, in a reflective tone. "I have read some of her themes; she has a poetical mind. The programme for the great day is to be given out also this afternoon, and I believe Sir John intends to read the three Scholarship essays aloud, and the guests present are then to vote with regard to the fortunate winner. Of course, the theme will not quite decide the Scholarship, but it will go a very long way in that direction. I have seen Sir John, and I know that all his tendencies, all his feelings are in favor of Miss Sharston."

"There is little doubt on that point," replied Florence; "if it were not for Kitty Sharston this Scholarship would never have been offered. I wish it never had been offered," she continued, with a burst of confidence which she could scarcely repress. "Oh, Miss Keys, I have a great weight on my mind; I am a miserable girl."

"I see you are, but why don't you confide in me? I believe I could sympathize with you; I also believe I could help you."

"I will, I must win," said poor Florence. "Oh, I could scarcely sleep last night with thinking of my mother. I am so truly, truly glad that you were able to post that letter in time; but for your happening to go to Hilchester she would not have had it this morning. Now she must be feeling great relief."

"I can post as many more letters to your mother as you like," said Bertha Keys. "I will do anything in my power for you; I want you to believe that. I want you to believe also that I am in a position to give you serious and substantial help."

"Thank you," said Florence. She gazed into Bertha's eyes, and felt a strange thrill.

Bertha had a rare power of magnetism, and could influence almost any girl who had not sufficiently high principles to withstand her power.

She now hastily left the oak parlor to attend to her studies, and Florence sat down to begin her studies. Her head ached, and she felt restless and miserable. She envied Kitty's serene face and Mary Bateman's downright, sensible way of attacking her subjects.

"I cannot think how you keep so calm about it," she said to Mary, in the course of that morning; "suppose you lose?"

"I have thought it all out," answered Mary, "and I cannot do more than my best. If I succeed I shall be truly, truly glad. If I fail I shall be no worse off than I was before. I wish you would feel as I do about it, Florry, and not make yourself quite ill over the subject. The fact is you are not half as nice as you were last term when everyone called you Tommy."

"Oh, I know, I know," answered Florence, "but I cannot go back now. What do you think the theme for the Scholarship will be?"

"I have not the slightest idea. That theme will be Kitty's strong point; there is not the slightest doubt about that."

Florence bent again over her French exercise. She was fairly good at French, and her German was also passable, but as she read and worked and struggled through a difficult piece of translation her thoughts wandered again and again to the subject of the English theme. What would it be? History, poetry, or anything literary?

The more she thought, the less she liked the idea of this supreme test.

Dinner passed, and the moment for the reassembling of the school for afternoon work arrived. Just as all the girls were streaming into the large schoolroom, Mrs. Clavering came hurriedly forward.

"Before you begin your duties this afternoon, young ladies," she said, "I have received a communication from Sir John, and as you are all interested in the Scholarship, which may be offered another year to some further girls of Cherry Court School, I may as well say that I have just received a letter from him suggesting the theme for the essay. I will repeat to you what he has said."

Mrs. Clavering stood beside her desk and looked down the long school-room. The room contained at this moment every girl in the school, also the teachers. Florence glanced in the direction of Bertha Keys. She was standing just where a ray of light from one of the windows caught the reflection of her red hair, which surrounded her pale face like a glory. She wore it, not in the fashion of the day, but in an untidy and yet effective style. The girls of the day wore their hair neatly plaited and smooth to their heads.

One of Mrs. Clavering's special objections to Bertha was her untidy head. She often longed to ask her to get a brush and smooth out those rough locks.

Nevertheless, that very roughness of her hair gave her face a look of power, and several girls gazed at her now half fascinated. Bertha's light blue eyes flashed one glance in Florence's direction, and were then lowered. She liked best to keep her most secret thoughts to herself.

Mrs. Clavering glanced round the room, and then, opening Sir John's letter, spread it out before her.

"I will read you my friend's letter aloud," she said; "you will all clearly understand what he says." She then proceeded to read:

"MY DEAR MRS. CLAVERING: After a great deal of reflection I have resolved that the all-important essay which the lucky three are to write shall be on the following subject – Heroism. This opens up a wide field, and will test the capacities of each of the young competitors. The essay is to be written under the following conditions: It is to be the unaided work of the competitor; it is to contain not less than two thousand words and not more than two thousand five hundred. It is to be written without the aid of books of reference, and when finished is to be unsigned and put into a blank envelope. The three envelopes containing the essays are to be handed to you, who will not open them, but will place them before me on the night of the Scholarship competition.

"Further particulars with regard to the competition I will let you know in a few days, but I may as well say now that most of the examination will be vivâ voce, and will consist of eight questions relating to the study of the French language, eight questions on the study of the German tongue, eight mathematical questions, eight arithmetical questions, eight questions on English History, and eight on English Literature. In addition, a piece of music will be played by each girl and a song sung by each; but the final and most searching test of all will be the essay, which in itself will contain, I doubt not, the innermost heart of the competitor, for she cannot truly write on Heroism without understanding something of what a hero or heroine should be. Thus that innermost spirit which must guide her life will come to the front. Her spelling and English composition will be subjected to the best tests by means of those written words; her handwriting will not go without comment; her style will be noted. She can make her essay rich with reference, and thus prove the varied quality of her reading. And the grace of her diction will to a certain extent testify to her ladylike deportment and the entire breadth of her education.

"I need add no more. I have thought deeply over this matter, and trust my subject will meet with universal approval.

"Yours very truly,

"JOHN WALLIS."

CHAPTER XVI.
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?"