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?"
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."