Meade L. T.
A Bunch of Cherries: A Story of Cherry Court School

Florence did not dare to look back at Bertha; she left the room. There was a noise in her ears and a swimming before her eyes.

Bertha stood for a moment, looking after her retreating form.

"I am almost sorry I did not tell her at the time," she said to herself; "when she has accepted the Scholarship I shall be safe; but she has had a shock. There is no saying what a girl of that temperament may do under pressure; but there, I believe the excitement will carry her through, and I don't believe for a moment she has the moral courage to stand the public disgrace which would be hers if she told now. Yes, she is in for it; she must go through with it."

Bertha patted her red hair and drew herself up to her full height, and presently accompanied the pupils down to the great hall, where they took their seats in the places allotted to them; excellent seats from the point of view, for they could see every single thing and were themselves to a certain extent in shadow.

The different guests had assembled, all beautifully dressed. Mrs. Aylmer the great and Mrs. Aylmer the less found themselves side by side. Mrs. Aylmer the great was in a magnificent robe of violet brocade, open at the throat, displaying a quantity of rich lace. On her head glittered diamonds, and her light eyes flashed as she glanced from time to time at Mrs. Aylmer the less.

"Really," she said to herself, "the one drawback in adopting Florence is that most unpleasant little woman. Where did she get that splendid silk from? But what airs she does put on; how vulgar she is!"

Mrs. Aylmer the great did not look particularly happy. She was most anxious to force herself into what she termed county society, and she found up to the present that, although she was the owner of a magnificent place like Aylmer Court, she was not taken much notice of by those people who were, as she expressed it, really in the swim. It was a great feather in her cap to be invited to Cherry Court Park, and if Sir John would only favor her with a little attention she might get more invitations in consequence.

If her niece was the lucky winner of the Scholarship all would undoubtedly go well with Mrs. Aylmer. She would be the aunt, practically the adopted mother, of the heroine, the girl on whom all eyes were fixed, Sir John's special protégée, the Cherry Court School Scholarship girl. She could talk about Florence and her great abilities from time to time, and gently insinuate little hints with regard to the girl's unfortunate position and her great kindness in adopting her. Thus people would think her a most good-natured woman as well as a very rich one, the aunt of a girl of undoubted genius – yes, a great deal might follow in the train of such consequences.

Mrs. Aylmer the less on this occasion had many wild and exciting thoughts with regard to Miss Pratt and the other neighbors at Dawlish, also with regard to Sukey; but still, her thought above all other thoughts was the consciousness that soon her beloved child would be done honor to, and her eyes, silly enough in expression, were now so full of love that many people thought her a good-natured and pleasant-looking woman, and in reality gave her far kinder thoughts than they did to Mrs. Aylmer the great, whose cold face would never shine with any human feeling, and whose motives could be easily read by the proud county folk.

As Florence slowly entered the room, accompanied by Kitty and Mary, a little buzz of applause greeted the three graceful girls as, in their Greek costumes, they glided slowly forward and took their places at the little desks placed for them. Florence for one wild moment glanced at her mother, and the love and longing and delight in the little Mummy's face did more to reconcile her present evil plight than anything else.

"There," she whispered under her breath, "in for a penny, in for a pound. I cannot break the heart of the little Mummy – I can't – I won't."

A peculiar expression stole round her lips, her eyes grew feverishly bright, she looked handsome, and Mrs. Aylmer the great felt justly very proud of her.

"She is tall, her figure is improving every day; she will be a very good-looking girl by and by – what is more, a stylish one," thought Aunt Susan.

But most of the guests scarcely looked at Florence, for their eyes were attracted by the sweet expression, the inimitable grace of Kitty Sharston.

Florence's cheeks were deeply flushed, her eyes so bright that they looked dark as night; but Kitty, equally excited, her heart beating, every nerve highly strung, only showed her excitement by a dewy look in the great big grey eyes, and a wild-rose bloom on the delicate cheeks.

Mary's downright appearance did not attract comment one way or the other. All three were pronounced nice-looking, ladylike girls, and now the guests bent forward to listen to the viva voce examination, which immediately began.

CHAPTER XX.
"THE HILLS FOR EVER."

The examination began and was continued amidst a profound silence on the part of all the spectators. Necks were craned forward and ears were at attention point. When Florence answered a question correctly Mrs. Aylmer the less nodded her little head until the plumes which she wore in her hair quivered all over. Mrs. Aylmer the great bridled and glanced with her cold eyes at the proudest of the county folk, as much as to say, "There's genius for you."

Mary Bateman's father, who sat very near Mrs. Aylmer the less, smiled also when Florence made a correct answer, and looked with sympathy at little Mrs. Aylmer; and when his own child Mary scored a point, as he expressed it, a gratified flush rose to his old cheeks, and he dropped his eyes, not caring to look at the girl whom he loved best in the world.

But when to question after question Kitty Sharston gave a correct reply, the furore and excitement in the breasts of several of the spectators rose to the highest pitch, for Kitty's soft voice, her gentle answers, her correct and lady-like utterances impressed everyone favorably. Then, too, it was an open secret that she was Sir John's favorite; it had been whispered by more than one visitor to another that it was on account of Kitty Sharston that this great fuss had been made, that the Scholarship had been opened to the competition of the school, that the girls were here, that they themselves were here – it was all on account of this slim little girl with the big eyes and the sweet pathetic face; and reminiscences of Sir John and Kitty's father together side by side, shoulder to shoulder, in the trenches before Sebastopol arose in the memory of one or two visitors present.

It was undoubtedly the wish of the guests who were assembled at Cherry Court Park that night that Kitty should be the successful winner. And now there were strong, more than strong hopes that such would be the case, for although Florence's answers were full of spirit and invariably correct, there seemed to those who listened to be a background of substantial knowledge behind Kitty's grave remarks.

Miss Helen Dartmoor sat bolt upright, her lips firmly compressed, and a disapproving expression in her eyes; but Miss Helen Dartmoor did not count. It was Sir John, whose eyes followed his favorite with keener and keener appreciation and admiration; it was Mrs. Clavering; it was also most of the girls themselves, for beyond doubt Kitty was the favorite. If she won the Scholarship it would give universal satisfaction.

And now most of the examination had come to an end. The questions on history had all been answered and duly marked by the patient professors who had come to Cherry Court Park for the great occasion. The girls one by one had approached the piano and played each her trial piece and had sung her trial song, and still it seemed to everyone that Kitty led the van; for her music, although not quite so showy and brilliant as Florence's, was marked with true musical expression, and her song, a sweet old English ballad, came purely and freely from her young lips.

Mary also acquitted herself extremely well in the musical examination, and old Mr. Bateman raised his head and listened with real pleasure as the wild warbling notes of "Annie Laurie" sounded through the old hall.

But at last the supreme test of all arrived. The three girls, Sir John leading the way, approached the central dais. There they stood side by side, their soft Greek draperies falling round their slim young figures. Sir John then stepped to the front and addressed the crowd of eager spectators.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "I need not tell you with what intense pleasure I have listened to the spirited answers our three young friends have made to the different questions put to them. The Scholarship, however, has yet to be won – the supreme test is now to be given – the trial essays are now to be read. In order that fair play should above all things be exercised on this important occasion, I have asked my three young friends not to sign their names to the essays they have written. The essays are in three blank envelopes, which now lie before me on the table." Here Sir John touched three envelopes with his hand. "I will proceed to read them aloud, taking them up haphazard, and having no idea myself who the writer of each essay is. I have selected as the subject of the test essay the great and wonderful subject of Heroism, for I feel that such a theme will give scope for the real mind, the real heart, the real soul of the young writer. I will say no more now. After I have read the essays we will retire into the outer hall for two or three minutes, and on our return I shall have the pleasure of declaring on whose head I am to place the crown of bay-leaves."

Sir John paused for a moment, the girls stood close together, they faced the crowd standing at one side of the dais. Florence glanced across the hall. Once again she met her mother's eyes – she saw no one in that intense moment of her young life except the little Mummy, and the love in her mother's eyes once again made her say to herself, "Nothing, nothing, nothing will make me break her heart; I will go through with it – yes, I will go through with it."

Kitty Sharston's clear eyes also gazed across the hall, but she saw no one present – only, far, far away, a lonely man with an iron-grey head, and a face which was the dearest face in all the world to her. She saw this man, and felt that for his sake no effort could be too great. If she won the Scholarship all would indeed be well; but if she failed she could at least be good, she could at least submit. Oh, yes; oh, yes; it would be fearfully hard, but God could give her strength.

As to Mary Bateman, she looked at her father and her father looked at her, and then she held herself erect and said to herself, "I can but fail, and in any case I have done my best."

Just then, the murmurs of applause having died away, Sir John took up the first of the envelopes, opened it, unfolded the sheet of paper which lay within, and commenced to read.

The essay on Heroism which he first read happened to be written by Mary Bateman. It was practical, written in good English, the spelling all correct, and also contained some fairly well-chosen allusions to great heroes of history. The essay was thoughtful, and, although there was little originality in it, the guests listened with marked attention. The reading of the essay occupied exactly ten minutes, for Sir John read it slowly, pausing often to give full weight to the words which he read. He had a beautiful, mellow, perfectly-trained voice, and Mary's somewhat lame utterances could not have sounded to better advantage.

When he had finished the guests applauded, but without any intense enthusiasm. He laid the paper down before him on the table, and then proceeded to read the second essay. This had altogether a different note. The allusions to history were far less numerous, but the heart of the young writer made itself felt. It was the work of an immature mind, but here and there was a delicate touch which pointed to the possibility of future genius. Here and there was a graceful allusion which caused Sir John's own voice to falter, and above all things, through each word there breathed a lofty and noble spirit.

"Only the daughter of a soldier could have written those words," thought Sir John; "surely this must be Kitty's work, and surely no other essay could approach hers."

So he thought, and as he came to the last words his voice rang out clear and full, and when he ceased the applause was great, and Kitty's eyes shone, although she dared not meet anyone, for it was part of the code of honor amongst the three girls that the judges should not guess who had written each individual essay.

Then at last it came to be Florence's turn. Florence had copied Bertha Keys' paper, scarcely taking in its meaning. She had copied it in hot haste, with hot rage, defiance, determination in her heart. She scarcely knew herself what the words meant, she had not taken in their true significance. The essay was a little longer than the others, and began in quite a different way.

Sir John paused for a moment, glanced down the page, then adjusted his glasses, drew himself up very erect and began to read. He had not read one sentence before he perceived that he had now quite different metal to deal with. Although disappointment stormed at his heart, he was too true a gentleman and too brave a soldier to allow such a feeling to influence him even for a moment. Yes, he would do the spirited words with which he had now to deal every justice. So he read on, the fire in the paper communicating itself to him, and the guests who listened soon forgot all about the Scholarship and all about the three young candidates. They were interested in the words themselves; the words rang out; they were not remarkable so much for the heart element as for the strong, proud, intellectual touch.

The essay was rich in metaphor and still richer in quotation. From the Greeks, from the Romans, from the English, from America, from Australia, from all parts of the globe did the young writer cull incident and quotation. She used a brief and telling argument, and she brought it to a successful and logical conclusion. Finally she quoted some words from Tennyson, aptly and splendidly chosen, and when Sir John's voice ceased the entire hall rose up in a body and cheers and acclamations ascended to the roof.

Florence's face was white as death.

Sir John laid down the paper.

"We will now," he said, turning to his fellow-judges, "retire for a few moments to decide on the winner of the Scholarship."

Sir John and the other judges immediately left the hall, and the girls, still standing in that strained and painful position, waited with lowered eyes for the result. Amongst the three, however, all doubt was over. Mary Bateman knew that her poor and lame words had not the slightest chance. Kitty would not have taken the Scholarship even if it had been offered to her. Could Mary have written that brilliant essay? Could it by any possibility be the work of Florence? But whoever had written it deserved the Scholarship, deserved it by every rule which had been laid upon the young competitors.

So she thought, and Florence, who did not dare to meet Bertha's eyes, who did not dare at this moment even to look at her mother, wished with all her heart that the ground might open and swallow her up.

Could she take this undeserved honor? The words were crowding to her lips, "Oh, don't, for heaven's sake, give it to me; I could never have written it," but she did not speak the words.

Just then there was a pause amongst the crowd of spectators, and Sir John and the other judges returned. The judges sat down in their seats and Sir John came slowly forward. His face was very white.

"The examination for the Cherry Court School Scholarship is over," he began. "With one accord we have adjudged the prize. The three young competitors have all done admirably. The questions have been so universally well answered that there would have been a difficulty in giving the prize to any one when all three so very nearly had earned it, were it not for the trial essay; but the trial essay has removed all doubt. The Scholarship, by every test of learning, of high endeavor, of noble thought, belongs to the girl whose motto on her paper has been 'The Hills for Ever.' She has indeed gone to the hills for her breezy thoughts, for her noble and winged words. May she to the longest day she lives retain all that she now feels, and go on truly from strength to strength. The names of the competitors are not attached to the essays, therefore I must request the girl who has adopted the motto, 'The Hills for Ever,' to come forward, for she is the winner of the Scholarship."

Sir John paused and looked down the room. He did not dare to glance at Kitty, for he knew only too well that, clever and sweet as she was, she had not written those words.

There was a dead silence. Mary Bateman looked at Florence – Kitty also looked at her. They felt sure she had written the splendid essay, and they wondered at her silence. She remained quite still for a moment.

"Miss Bateman, is this your essay?" said Sir John, holding up the paper to Mary.

Mary shook her head and fell back.

"Catherine Sharston, is this yours?" again said Sir John.

Kitty bent her head low in denial.

"Then Miss Aylmer – what is the matter, Miss Aylmer?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing," said Florence. She gave one wild glance in the direction of Bertha Keys, but Bertha was too wise to meet Florence's eyes just then.

"She feels it, but she must go through with it," thought the pupil teacher. "I did not know that I had such genius, but I shall never doubt my own power in the future. Is she indeed mean enough to take my work and claim it as her own? Of course she is; it would be fatal to me if she did otherwise."

As Florence slowly, very slowly, as if each step was weighted with lead, crept forward to the front of the dais without any of that look of triumph and pleasure which ought to have marked her face at such a moment, Bertha Keys threw back her own head and allowed her watchful light blue eyes to follow the girl, while a smile of sardonic import curled her lips.

When Florence got opposite Sir John she suddenly, as if overpowered by intense emotion, fell on her knees. She could not have done anything which would more completely bring down the house. Cheers, acclamations, hurrahs, every sort of congratulation filled the air. When they had subsided for a moment and Mrs. Aylmer the less had released the hand of Mrs. Aylmer the great, which she had clutched frantically in her intense agitation, Sir John took Florence's hand and with a slight motion raised her to her feet.

"Stand up, Florence Aylmer," he said; "you have done splendidly; I congratulate you. The Scholarship is yours, nobly won, splendidly won. Take your honors, my dear."

As he spoke he stepped to the table and brought back a small crown of filigree silver. It was a simple wreath in the form of bay-leaves. He laid it on Florence's dark head.

"This is yours," he said; "wear it with dignity; keep the great, the good, the true always before you. And this also is yours," he said. He slipped a thin gold chain with the ruby locket attached round Florence's neck. He then placed the purse which contained the Scholarship money for the ensuing year, and the parchment scroll, in her hand. "And now, young people," he said, "let us all cheer three times the winner of the Scholarship."

The girls cheered as lustily as schoolboys, the band in the corner burst forth with the gay strains of "See the Conquering Hero Comes," and after a brief signal from Sir John there was suddenly heard outside the report of a small cannon, which was the intimation that the bonfires were to be lit.

"Florence, Florence, come here!" said her mother, and Florence ran across the hall and buried her face in her mother's lap.

CHAPTER XXI.
THE STING OF THE SERPENT

The day was over, the long, exciting, exhausting evening had come to an end. The girls had danced to their hearts' content, had played and romped, and congratulated Florence with all the heartiness of which their frank natures were capable. They had wandered through the grounds in groups to watch the bonfires, they had partaken of the most delicious supper the heart of girl could conceive, and at last, worn out and intensely happy, they had retired to rest.

Three long dormitories had been fitted up for their occupation, but the lucky three had each a very small room to herself. Florence was glad of that. Yes, if she could be glad of anything on that awful, terrible evening, it was the knowledge that she might be alone, all alone for some hours. During those hours she could think, could collect her thoughts, could face the position which she had in future to occupy.

In the pleasure and delight of the evening no one had specially noticed how little Florence spoke. Mrs. Aylmer the less, as the mother of the heroine, minced about with her head in the air, so elated, so excited, so carried out of herself, that not the grandest county lady present had power to awe her.

"Yes, I am the mother of the dear child. Oh, I always knew that she was specially gifted," Mrs. Aylmer was heard to say. "She could learn from the time she was a baby in the most marvellous way, but even I was astonished at her essay; it wrung tears from my eyes."

"It was a very noble work," said the Countess of Archester, slightly bowing her own queenly head, and giving Mrs. Aylmer a half-quizzical, half-pitying glance. "How the girl wrote it, how that woman's daughter could have written such an essay, is a puzzle to me," said the Countess afterwards to her husband.

But Mrs. Aylmer was unconscious that any such remarks were uttered. She was thinking of her own dazzling future, of what Dawlish would mean to her in the time to come, of what Sukey would say, what Ann Pratt would say, what other neighbors would say. All was indeed well; she was the mother of a genius, a girl who had achieved such high honor that her name in future would always be remembered in the neighborhood of Cherry Court School. Yes, it was a proud moment for Mrs. Aylmer, quite the proudest in her life. It is true that Florence had said very little to her mother, that Florence had scarcely responded to Mrs. Aylmer when she had flung her arms round her neck, and pressed up close to her, and looked into her eyes, and said, "My darling! oh, my darling, my sweet, precious daughter, how proud your Mummy is of you!"

Florence had turned away just then, and Mrs. Aylmer had felt that her daughter's hand trembled as it lay for a moment in hers.

But Mrs. Aylmer the great was even more remarkable in her conduct than Mrs. Aylmer the less. She had called Florence to her, and before all the assembled guests had kissed her solemnly.

"You are my daughter henceforth," she said, "my adopted daughter. Not a word, Mabel; this girl belongs to me in the future."

And just then the queerest pang of jealousy had rushed through the heart of Mrs. Aylmer the less, for was it possible that Susan really meant to take her child from her altogether? Was Florence henceforward to be considered by the world as the daughter of Mrs. Aylmer the great? Was she, her real mother, the mother who had nursed her as a baby, who had put up with her childish troubles, to have nothing whatever to do with her in the future? Notwithstanding that crown of glory which seemed to quiver over the forehead of the little widow, she did not like this aspect of the question. She felt she could scarcely stand it. If Susan meant to have the child, then indeed the Scholarship would present a very serious drawback to the mind of Mrs. Aylmer.

Mrs. Aylmer the great, however, now pushed herself quite into the forefront of the county society. It was impossible to suppress her; she was past suppressing. Sir John himself took her into the great hall where supper was laid. She sat by his side during that auspicious meal, and when he talked of Florence she boldly told him that a golden future lay before the girl.

"It is a pity," was his reply, "that being the case, that Miss Aylmer should have got the Scholarship, for whether she got it or not, being your niece, she would of course have been well educated. The Scholarship money would have done more good to a poorer girl" – and here Sir John had quickly to suppress a sigh, for was he not thinking of Kitty – Kitty, who had never looked sweeter than during this evening of defeat, who had never, never been nearer to his heart?

Mrs. Aylmer the great looked at him in some astonishment.

"I am surprised," she said; "it almost sounds as if you – "

"As if I grudged the Scholarship to your niece; far from that," he answered; "she is a remarkable girl; any girl who could write that essay possesses genius. She will be heard of in the future."

Then the heart of Mrs. Aylmer the great swelled within her, and she absolutely loved her niece Florence.

But now the day was over and Florence was alone in her room. The door was closed; her mother's last kiss and blessing had been given. Mrs. Aylmer the great had solemnly embraced Florence also, had given her to understand that there was no request which she would not grant, and then the tired girl had been left alone.

She went to the door of her room and locked it, then she stood for a moment in the centre of the floor. There was a large mirror fastened to one of the walls, and Florence could see her own reflection in it. She glanced at it for a moment in a puzzled way, a solitary young figure, tall and well proportioned, a head of dark hair, eyes very bright, a face somewhat pale now from excessive emotion, pathetic lines round the mouth. On the head shone the silver crown of bay-leaves, the Greek dress fell away from the graceful figure, on the neck gleamed the wonderful locket with its dazzling ruby. The light from a large lamp fell upon this ruby and caused it to gleam brightly. Florence went nearer to the mirror and looked into it. The fire from the heart of the ruby seemed to leap out. She hastily unfastened the gold chain from her neck and held the locket in her hand. The ruby with its heart of fire seemed now to the excited girl to possess an evil eye which could see through her. She felt that she hated it, she trembled a little, she hastily unlocked a drawer and thrust in the ruby locket and chain. She then removed the silver wreath of bay-leaves and put it also in the drawer with the ruby. Then she clasped her hands above her head and looked earnestly into her own face. Well she knew in that moment of bitter triumph what had happened to her.

"I am made for life," she said at last slowly, aloud; "all the good things of life can in the future be mine – all the wealth, all the glory, to a great extent also the love."

But when Florence thought of the love she paused; for she remembered her mother. Did anyone in all the world love her as the little Mummy loved her? In the future she knew well that she should see very little of her mother. Aunt Susan would not permit it for a moment; she might see her occasionally, but never again would they meet as child and mother. There would be a gulf between them, the gulf which ever and always separates the rich from the poor. For Florence henceforth would belong to the rich ones of the earth. Mrs. Aylmer the great was so pleased, so elated, so triumphant at her marked and brilliant success that there was nothing she would not do for her. Yes, Florence's future life was secure, she was fortunate, the world lay at her feet, her fortune was made.

She sat down on a low chair.

"It is all before me," she muttered, "the riches, the honor, the glory. I shall also, if I am dressed well, be beautiful. Mine is the sort of face that requires good decoration; mine is the figure which needs the best clothes. I shall have everything, everything. I ought to be happy; I wonder I am not. I ought to be very happy. Oh, I wish this fire did not burn in my heart, and that horrid, scorching, intolerable feeling, I wish it did not consume me. Oh, I suppose I shall get over it in time; and if life lasted forever I should be the happiest girl in the world; but of course it won't – nothing lasts forever, for age comes even to the youngest, and then – then there is illness and – and perhaps death. And I may not even live to be old. Rich and lucky and fortunate as I am, I may die. I should not like to die a bit – not a bit; I should not be prepared for the other world. Oh, I must shut away the thought, for there is no going back now."

Just at this point in her meditations there came a knock at her door. Florence started when she heard the sound. She wished that she had thought of putting out the candle. She could not bear to feel that anyone was coming to see her to-night. Her mother? – she dared not meet her mother alone; she would be prepared in the morning, but she could not meet her mother's searching glance just now.

She did not reply at all to the first knock, but the light from the candle streamed out under the door, and the knock was repeated, and now it was more insistent, and a voice said:

"It is only me, Florence; it is only me; let me come in."

Florence shuddered and turned very pale. She knew the voice: it was the voice of Bertha Keys. If there was anyone in all the wide world whom she would most dread to meet on that unhappy night it was Bertha Keys, the girl who knew her secret. There was no help for it, however.

With a shudder Florence arose, crossed the room, unlocked the door, and flung it open.

"I am so tired, Bertha," she said; "must you see me to-night?"

"I am sorry you are tired," replied Bertha, "but I must see you to-night."

Bertha slowly entered the room. When Florence shut the door Bertha turned the key in the lock.

"What are you doing that for?" said Florence.

"Because I do not wish to be interrupted; I want to see you alone."

"But I wish you would not lock the door; it is quite unnecessary – no one will come here at present."