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The Time of Roses, a fiction by L. T. Meade |
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Chapter 31. Bertha Writes The Essay |
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_ CHAPTER XXXI. BERTHA WRITES THE ESSAY Bertha got up early next morning to act upon the idea that had occurred to her on the previous evening. She ran downstairs and had a private interview with the cook. It was Mrs. Aylmer's custom, no matter what guests were present, to breakfast in her room, and immediately after breakfast Bertha, as a rule, waited on her to receive her orders for the day. These orders were then conveyed to the cook and to the rest of the servants. Breakfast was never over at Aylmer's Court until long past nine o'clock, and if Bertha wished to keep Florence from putting in a most undesired appearance, she must be at Hamslade Station at half-past nine. She had a chat with the cook and then wrote a brief note to Mrs. Aylmer. It ran as follows:-- "I am going in the dogcart to Hamslade. Have just ascertained that the pheasants we intended to have for dinner to-day are not forthcoming. Will wire for some to town, and also for peaches. I will leave a line with Kitty Sharston to take the head of the table at breakfast." "She will be awfully cross about it all," thought Bertha, "and, of course, it is a lie, for there is plenty of game in the larder, and we have an abundant supply of peaches and apricots, but any port in a storm, and cook will not betray me." The dogcart was round at the door sharp at nine o'clock, and Bertha, having sent up a twisted bit of paper to Kitty's bed-room, asking her to pour out coffee, started on her way. She reached the station a little before the train came in, and sent the necessary telegrams to the shops in London with which they constantly dealt. A large party was expected to dine at Aylmer's Court that night, which was Bertha's excuse for ordering the fruit and game. The train was rather late, which added to her impatience. She paced up and down the platform, and when at last Florence's anxious, perturbed face appeared, Bertha was by no means in the best of humours. "What mad craze is this?" she cried. "You know you cannot possibly come to Aylmer's Court. I came here to prevent it. Now, what is it you want with me?" "I must speak to you, and at once, Bertha." "Come into the waiting-room for a moment. You must return by the next train, Florence; you really must. You don't know how terribly annoyed I am, and what risks I run in coming here. The house is full of company, and there is to be a dinner-party to-night. Mrs. Aylmer won't forgive me in a hurry." While Bertha was talking Florence remained quite silent. "We must find out the next train to town," continued Bertha. "I am not going back until you do what I want," said Florence. "I dare not. If you do not choose to have me at Aylmer's Court, I will stay here; but you must do what I want." "What is that?" "I want you to write an essay for me immediately." "Oh, my dear, what utter folly! Really, when I think of the way in which I have helped you, and the splendid productions which are being palmed off to the world as yours, you might treat me with a little more consideration. My head is addled with all I have to do, and now you come down to ask me to write an essay." "Listen, Bertha, listen," said poor Florence. She then told her story in as few words as possible. "I made such a fool of myself. I was very nearly betrayed, but fortunately Mr. Franks and Mr. Anderson took it as a practical joke. I have promised that they shall have an admirable essay by to-morrow evening. You must write it; you must let me have it to take back with me." "What is the subject?" said Bertha, who was now listening attentively. "The modern woman and her new crazes. You know you have all that sort of thing at your finger-tips," said Florence, glancing at her companion. "Oh, yes, I could write about the silly creatures if I had time; but how can I find time to-day? It is not even a story. I have to think the whole subject out and start my argument and--it cannot be done, Florence--that's all." "But it can, it must be done," replied Florence. "Bertha, I am desperate; all my future depends on this. I have gone wrong again, and you are the cause, and now I will not lose all: I must at least have my little share of this world's goods as my recompense. Oh, I am a miserable girl! You are the evil genius of my life." "Don't talk such folly," said Bertha; "do let me think." They were now both seated in the waiting-room, and Bertha covered her face for a moment with her hands. Florence looked round, she felt hemmed in, and now that she was face to face with Bertha she found that she regarded her with loathing. Presently Bertha raised her head and glanced at her. "You must have it to-night?" "Yes." "Well, the best thing I can possibly do is to go straight home. I will leave you here; you must on no account let anyone see you--that is all-important. I will try to get to the station this evening and let you have it. I don't know that I can write anything worth reading in the time." "But at least you will give style and epigram and pure English," said poor Florence, who was sore after the bitter words with which her own production had been received. "Yes, I shall at least write like a woman of education," said Bertha. "Well, stay here now, and I will, by hook or by crook, come here in time for you to take the last train to town. I suppose it would not do if I posted it?" "No, it would not; I dare not go back without it. You think I am altogether in your power; but I am desperate, and if you do not let me have that essay to-night I will come to the Court, whoever dines there, and see you. What does it matter to me? Aunt Susan cannot hate me more than she does." "You shall have the essay, of course," said Bertha, who turned pale when Florence uttered this threat. "She means it too," thought Miss Keys, as she drove rapidly home. "Oh, what shall I do? Such a world of things to be done, and all those guests expected, and if the fruit or game does not arrive in time (and cook and I dare not now show the stores which we have put away in hiding) what is to be done?" Bertha entered the house and saw Mrs. Aylmer, who was in just as bad a humour as Bertha had expected to find her in. Everything, she declared, was going wrong. She wished she had not asked those guests to dinner. If there was no game nor proper fruit for dessert, she, Mrs. Aylmer, would be disgraced for life. Bertha roused herself to be soothing and diplomatic. She brought all her fund of talent and ingenuity to the fore, and presently had arranged things so well that she was able to rush to her desk in Mrs. Aylmer's boudoir and begin to write Florence's essay. Bertha was a quick writer and had a great deal of genius, as we know, but she was harassed and worried to-day, and for a time the paper which she had promised to give to Florence did not go smoothly. She was in reality much interested in the struggles of the woman who was at that time called "modern." She pitied her; she felt that she belonged to the class. Had she time she would have written with much power, upholding her, commending her, encouraging her to proceed, assuring her that the difficulties which now surrounded her lot would disappear, and that by-and-by those who watched her struggles would sympathise with her more and more. But she had not time to do this. It was much easier to be sarcastic, bitter, crushing. This was her real forte. She determined to write quickly and in her bitterest vein. She was in her element. The paper she was writing would make the modern woman sit up and would make the domestic woman rejoice. It was dead against aestheticism: against all reform with regard to women's education. It was cruel in its pretended lack of knowledge of women's modern needs. Bertha felt that she hated her at that moment. She would give vent to her hatred. She would turn the disagreeable, pugnacious, upstart New Woman into ridicule. If Bertha possessed one weapon which she used with greater power than another it was that of sarcasm. She could be sarcastic to the point of cruelty. Soon her cheeks glowed and her eyes shone: she was in her element. She was writing quickly, for bare life, and she was writing well. The paper would make the New Woman sit up, and would make the old woman rejoice. It would be read eagerly. It was not a kind paper. It was the sort of paper to do harm, not good; but its cleverness was undoubted. She finished it just before the luncheon gong rang, and felt that she had done admirable work. "After all," she said to herself, "why should I work through the channel of that little imp, Florence Aylmer? Why should she have the fame and glory, and I stay here as a poor companion? Why should I not throw up the thing and start myself as a writer and get praise and money and all the good things which fame and success bring in their train? Why should I not do it?" Bertha thought. She held the paper in her hand. It was but to betray Florence and go herself to the editor of the Argonaut and explain everything, and the deed was done. But no: she could not do it. She knew better--she was trying for a bigger prize. "Either I inherit Mrs. Aylmer's wealth or I marry Maurice Trevor and inherit it as his wife," she thought. "I think I see my way. He is depending on me in spite of himself. He will never marry Kitty Sharston. He neither wants her nor she him. He is to be my husband, or, if not, he goes under completely and I secure Mrs. Aylmer's wealth. No amount of writing would give me what I shall get in that way. I can keep Florence quiet with this, and she is welcome, heartily welcome, to the cheap applause." _ |
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