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.”