A Bunch of Cherries: A Story of Cherry Court School

"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."