Chapter Seventeen.Six months had passed by. The elder pupils at Horsham had gone tremblingly through the ordeal of the Oxford senior examination in July, and Mary, having achieved distinction in three separate subjects, was now busy preparing for the mathematical group of the Cambridge higher local examination in December. She was eventually going on to college, and intended to devote her life to teaching, to which prospect she looked forward with an equanimity which Dreda regarded with mystified amazement.“And youlikeit! You are content to think of spending your life in a schoolroom, going over and over the same dull old books, Mary! Howcanyou?”But Mary could very easily, it appeared.“Why not, Dreda?” she inquired. “The books are not dull to me, and surely it is a noble and interesting life to hand on the lamp of learning from one generation to another. It’s the work that appeals most to me. Ever since I was a child I have wished to be a schoolmistress.”“Oh, well, I shouldn’t mind it myself—for a time,” Dreda conceded carelessly. “When one has suffered under the yoke,itwould be a kind of satisfaction to boss it oneself for a change. I’d quite like to be a headmistress—a horribly strict Head—and make all the girls c–c–ringe before me—for a term, say; but after that—no thank you! I want a wider scope for my life than a stupid old school-house.”Mary smiled, in an elderly, forbearing fashion.“We are all different, dear Dreda. It would not do if we were made alike. You and I have not the same vocation.”“No; I shall marry,” announced Dreda, blandly unconscious of the inference of her words. “I am one of the old-fashioned womanly girls—(it says in the papers, ‘Would there were more of them!’)—who shine best in their own homes. I’m not learned, and I don’t pretend to be; but I can keep house, and order servants about, as well as anybody, and I intend to be very hospitable and give lots of dinners and parties and make my husband proud of me by being the best-dressed woman in the room, and so witty and charming that everything will go with a roar. That’s all I want. I haven’t an ambitious nature.”Mary’s long upper lip looked longer than ever as she listened to this egotistical tirade. She was a plain-looking girl, and the lack of humour in her composition made her somewhat dull and unattractive in manner; but she possessed great strength of character, and was never found lacking in the courage of her opinions. Her opinion at this moment was that Etheldreda Saxon needed a downright good snubbing, and she set herself to administer it without a qualm.“My dear Dreda, there is nothing in the world you understand as little as your own character. I never met a girl who was so blind to her own defects. Not ambitious! How can you say such a thing in the same breath as that in which you express your longing for admiration? One may be ambitious for unworthy aims as well as for worthy ones; and your desires are all for poor, worldly things which pass away, leaving no one better or wiser. It is false modesty to say you are not clever; you would not allow anyone else to make such a statement unchallenged. If you chose to exert yourself to overcome your faults of carelessness and frivolity, you might take a very fair average position among your companions.”To say that Dreda was taken aback by this very candid criticism of her character is to state the matter far too calmly. She turned white with agitation, and the pupils of her eyes dilated until they appeared to cover the entire iris. It was characteristic of her that it was not anger which so affected her, but real honest horror and distress that a fellow-creature should live and entertain so poor an opinion of her delightful self. She was not, it was true, particularly devoted to Mary, but it had never for a fraction of a second occurred to her that Mary could be otherwise than enthusiastically loyal to herself. And now that the horrible truth was disclosed, her absorbing desire was to reform so mistaken an attitude of mind as speedily as possible.“Oh, Mary!” she cried tragically. “How you misjudge me! How little you know my real inmost nature! Ask mother—ask Rowena—ask anyone who knows me well; they will all tell you the same thing—I am all heart. I live on my affections; I don’t want anything but just to be happy, and have people love me. What have I ever said or done to you that you should think such perfectly horrid things? It hurts me to be misjudged—it hurts awfully! It’s like a knife sticking into my heart.”“Because you want to be praised, and can’t endure reproof, even if it is for your good. It isn’tpleasantto find fault, Dreda,” declared Mary judicially; “but if I don’t speak out I may blame myself in the future. I am afraid of what may happen if you float along as you are doing, blind to your own failings. Some day something may happen to put you to the test, and then you willfail, and be humiliated in your own eyes and those of the world.”Dreda regarded her with eyes full of a solemn reproach.“May you be forgiven, Mary! I forgive you. I’m sorry for your want of charity and understanding. I’m not surprised that you don’t understand me; we are made on such different lines; but you ought not to judge.—I don’t judgeyou. I think you are very painstaking and industrious. I bear you no ill-will, Mary. I’m only sorry for you.”So far from being melted by this touching forgiveness, Mary flushed with anger, shrugged her shoulders impatiently, and turned back to her desk, whereon lay the first lines of an essay on one of Addison’s “Spectator” Essays. An extract from the essay had been given as subject, with the significant words: “Discuss this,” inscribed beneath, and Mary’s mood was not improved by the fact that with regard to ethical sentiments she seemed to have no idea to discuss. She was fifty times more at home with cut-and-dried figures about the correctness of which there could be no two opinions, whereas Etheldreda the Ready was invariably in the front rank for compositions. The two girls were indeed made “on different lines,” and at that moment Mary was not unnaturally provoked to be confronted by a task in which Dreda was undoubtedly her superior.Dreda was laboriously amiable to her opponent for some days after this “heart to heart” talk, but the endeavour to pour coals of fire was so obvious as to be more irritating than soothing, and Mary had no wish to reopen the discussion. “I’ve warned her—she must go her own way now.Myconscience is clear,” she told herself stoically, and Dreda went her own way—danced gaily along it, so to speak, and had no thought of danger. She had become accustomed to school routine by this time, and, like most girls, found interest and enjoyment in the full busy life and in the companionship of her kind. She was a favourite with both teachers and scholars, and Susan’s quiet devotion could always be counted upon in those moments of need which seemed to be inevitable occurrences in her life. Dreda forgot, and Susan reminded; Dreda procrastinated, and Susan hastened to the rescue; Dreda grew discouraged and Susan cheered; Dreda failed, and Susan succoured; yet with such diffidence were these services performed that self-love felt never a wound, and Dreda was left with the agreeable sense of having conferred, rather than accepted, favours.“You turn yourself into a nigger slave for Dreda Saxon,” grumbled Norah of the spectacles one day when she and Susan walked together in the “crocodile” along a dull country lane. “A regular black, cringing slave—and what thanks do you get for it, I’d like to know? None! Not one little scrap. She’s such a bat of self-conceit that she doesn’t even know that sheishelped. If you did a hundredth part as much for other people they’d go off their heads for joy!”The spectacled eyes rolled wistfully Susan-wards as the last words were spoken, for Norah cherished a schoolgirl’s sentimental devotion for her companion, and could not overcome her chagrin at being so completely eclipsed by a new girl—a girl, moreover, who had given to her the undignified nickname of “Gig-lamps,” which had been instantly adopted by the whole school. She gazed at Susan as humbly as a dog begging a favour from its master’s hand, but no favour was vouchsafed.“I don’t want Dreda to be grateful. I need no thanks. I love her so much that it is my greatest pleasure to be able to help her,” said little Susan proudly; but when Norah persistently demanded to know why she had no answer to give. In truth, she herself was sometimes puzzled to account for her own devotion to the hasty, undisciplined creature who fell so far short of her ideal feminine character. Susan’s quiet brown eyes were not blinded; probably no girl in the school was more conscious of Dreda’s faults, yet her love lived on unchecked by the discovery. She did not realise that it was Dreda’s personal beauty and charm which had captivated her imagination, and that all the starved instincts of her beauty-loving nature were finding vicarious satisfaction in another’s life. Susan had lived her life in a prosaic household, where beauty was the last consideration to be taken into account. If an article had to be bought, Mrs Webster gave consideration to strength and durability, and to strength and durability alone. In buying curtains, for instance, she sought for a nondescript colour which would defy the sun’s rays, a material that would stand repeated washings, and a pattern which would conceal possible stains. A discovery that the cloth would ultimately cut up into desirable dusters was sufficient to give the casting vote of decision, and thereafter draperies of dingy cinnamon would be hung against walls of yellow ochre, with complacent and lasting satisfaction. Amid such drab surroundings Susan had spent her life, and when she looked in the glass it was to see a replica of her sister’s faulty features and pallid skin, yet hidden away within that insignificant exterior there burnt the true artist’s passion for beauty, for colour, for grace, of which three qualities Etheldreda Saxon was so charming an embodiment. When Susan mentally worked out her novels of the future her heroines invariably wore Dreda’s guise, the romantic figures of history took upon themselves Dreda’s form, and smiled upon her with Dreda’s confident eyes.The ordinary sentimental school friendship was glorified into a selfless devotion in which her highest joy was found in denying herself for Dreda’s good. The two girls—one tall, golden-haired, with vivid colouring and an air of confident strength; the other small, plain, neutral-tinted, timid of mien—were inseparable in work and at play.Six months’ experience of school life had destroyed Dreda’s early ardour with regard to examinations. Arithmetic was such a hopeless stumbling-block in her path that it was doubtful whether she would be able to secure a bare pass, and having once realised the fact she readjusted her ambitions with facile speed, announced that she disapproved of modern methods, had no wish to enter the public arena, and was anxious to abandon a course of dangerous cram. Her favourite subject was composition, and here and here alone, she and Susan ran an even race, it being a moot point each week which would gain the highest marks. Susan’s essays were more thoughtful, and were written with an apt and dainty choice of words which was a delight to Miss Drake’s literary taste, but a certain primness and conventionality still remained to be conquered, in contrast to which Dreda’s dashing breeziness of style was a real refreshment. After reading through a dozen essays, all of which began in almost exactly the same words, and ended abruptly after dragging through a dozen commonplace sentences, the tired reader rejoiced at the sight of Dreda’s bold handwriting, and was disposed to forgive many failings in gratitude for the one great gift of originality.Miss Drake was aware of the literary ambitions cherished by the two friends, and in leisure moments sent many a thought into the future, wondering what the years would bring, and if the time would ever arrive when she should say proudly of a well-known writer: “She was my pupil. I helped her towards the goal!” It seemed impossible to prophesy to which of the two girls success would come—Susan of the eloquent brain, the tender heart, or Dreda, with her gift of charm to gild the slightest matter. The young teacher pondered over the question, and one day in so doing there came to her mind a suggestion which promised interest to herself and a useful incentive to her pupils.The third number of the school magazine would soon be due, and Miss Drake was fully aware of the fact that the sub-editor had grown to regard her responsibilities as a distasteful burden; while the contributors one and all exhibited a lamentable falling away from their early ambitions. Fragments of conversation had reached her ears as she made her way along the corridors. “You must write something—youmust! I haven’t a thing ready.”“You and your old magazine! What a nuisance you are! I’ve something better to do.”“Here comes Dreda Saxon! Let’s hide! She’s on the rampage about the mag.”Miss Drake’s heart softened towards her “sub” in this difficult plight; she waited a few days to mature her plans, and then made an interesting announcement to the pupils at the conclusion of a history class.“Before you go, girls, I want to speak to you for a few minutes on another subject. The third number of the school magazine is nearly due, and I am afraid from what I hear that contributions are coming in slowly. You will remember the one condition on which you were allowed to start the paper was that it should be continued for at least two years. One of the lessons you have to learn in life is that a duty once undertaken cannot be lightly thrown aside because it weighs more heavily after the first enthusiasm is past. Steady, quiet perseverance is a great force, and can overcome mountains of difficulty, but,”—she glanced whimsically at the row of depressed young faces—“I am quite aware that it is not a quality which makes a strong appeal at your age, so I propose to be generous, and offer an extra stimulus. You all know the name of Henry Rawdon, one of the greatest—many people think the greatest—writer of our times. He happens to be not only a family connection but my very good friend, and he has promised to help me to carry out a little scheme for your benefit. Instead of the usual nondescript contributions, you will all be required to write an essay on a given subject for the next number of the magazine, and after it has been circulated in the school, the typed papers will be sent to Mr Rawdon, marked with numbers instead of names, and he will judge them, and select the best as the prize number. Miss Bretherton is giving the prize. She is most interested in the competition, and it will be a prize worth having—a complete edition of Mr Rawdon’s works, which he has promised to present in person at our breaking-up gathering. Now is that not a splendid stimulus? I hope you feel inspired to do your best to rise to the occasion, and do honour to yourselves and the school.” She paused, and the girls stared at her in a solid phalanx of amazement. Henry Rawdon’s name was a household word; his works adorned every library worthy the name; it was, in the literal sense of the word,stunningto think that such a celebrity should condescend to read their poor little efforts! Etheldreda Saxon was naturally the first to recover her voice.“And the subject, Miss Drake—what is to be the subject?”Miss Drake smiled quietly.“The subject is a very big one, and one on which the youngest girl is as competent to write as the oldest. No one can plead ignorance on this point, or if she does no outsider can give her enlightenment. The subject, chosen by Mr Rawdon himself, is ‘My Life—and how I mean to use it.’”A subdued murmur sounded in the room, the chief notes of which were wonder and dismay. The girls looked at each other with startled looks, their lips fell apart, a blank, half-stupefied expression settled on their faces, as though they found themselves confronted by a task with which they had no power to grapple. But Susan’s brown eyes shone like stars; she clasped her little hands tightly together beneath her desk.
Six months had passed by. The elder pupils at Horsham had gone tremblingly through the ordeal of the Oxford senior examination in July, and Mary, having achieved distinction in three separate subjects, was now busy preparing for the mathematical group of the Cambridge higher local examination in December. She was eventually going on to college, and intended to devote her life to teaching, to which prospect she looked forward with an equanimity which Dreda regarded with mystified amazement.
“And youlikeit! You are content to think of spending your life in a schoolroom, going over and over the same dull old books, Mary! Howcanyou?”
But Mary could very easily, it appeared.
“Why not, Dreda?” she inquired. “The books are not dull to me, and surely it is a noble and interesting life to hand on the lamp of learning from one generation to another. It’s the work that appeals most to me. Ever since I was a child I have wished to be a schoolmistress.”
“Oh, well, I shouldn’t mind it myself—for a time,” Dreda conceded carelessly. “When one has suffered under the yoke,itwould be a kind of satisfaction to boss it oneself for a change. I’d quite like to be a headmistress—a horribly strict Head—and make all the girls c–c–ringe before me—for a term, say; but after that—no thank you! I want a wider scope for my life than a stupid old school-house.”
Mary smiled, in an elderly, forbearing fashion.
“We are all different, dear Dreda. It would not do if we were made alike. You and I have not the same vocation.”
“No; I shall marry,” announced Dreda, blandly unconscious of the inference of her words. “I am one of the old-fashioned womanly girls—(it says in the papers, ‘Would there were more of them!’)—who shine best in their own homes. I’m not learned, and I don’t pretend to be; but I can keep house, and order servants about, as well as anybody, and I intend to be very hospitable and give lots of dinners and parties and make my husband proud of me by being the best-dressed woman in the room, and so witty and charming that everything will go with a roar. That’s all I want. I haven’t an ambitious nature.”
Mary’s long upper lip looked longer than ever as she listened to this egotistical tirade. She was a plain-looking girl, and the lack of humour in her composition made her somewhat dull and unattractive in manner; but she possessed great strength of character, and was never found lacking in the courage of her opinions. Her opinion at this moment was that Etheldreda Saxon needed a downright good snubbing, and she set herself to administer it without a qualm.
“My dear Dreda, there is nothing in the world you understand as little as your own character. I never met a girl who was so blind to her own defects. Not ambitious! How can you say such a thing in the same breath as that in which you express your longing for admiration? One may be ambitious for unworthy aims as well as for worthy ones; and your desires are all for poor, worldly things which pass away, leaving no one better or wiser. It is false modesty to say you are not clever; you would not allow anyone else to make such a statement unchallenged. If you chose to exert yourself to overcome your faults of carelessness and frivolity, you might take a very fair average position among your companions.”
To say that Dreda was taken aback by this very candid criticism of her character is to state the matter far too calmly. She turned white with agitation, and the pupils of her eyes dilated until they appeared to cover the entire iris. It was characteristic of her that it was not anger which so affected her, but real honest horror and distress that a fellow-creature should live and entertain so poor an opinion of her delightful self. She was not, it was true, particularly devoted to Mary, but it had never for a fraction of a second occurred to her that Mary could be otherwise than enthusiastically loyal to herself. And now that the horrible truth was disclosed, her absorbing desire was to reform so mistaken an attitude of mind as speedily as possible.
“Oh, Mary!” she cried tragically. “How you misjudge me! How little you know my real inmost nature! Ask mother—ask Rowena—ask anyone who knows me well; they will all tell you the same thing—I am all heart. I live on my affections; I don’t want anything but just to be happy, and have people love me. What have I ever said or done to you that you should think such perfectly horrid things? It hurts me to be misjudged—it hurts awfully! It’s like a knife sticking into my heart.”
“Because you want to be praised, and can’t endure reproof, even if it is for your good. It isn’tpleasantto find fault, Dreda,” declared Mary judicially; “but if I don’t speak out I may blame myself in the future. I am afraid of what may happen if you float along as you are doing, blind to your own failings. Some day something may happen to put you to the test, and then you willfail, and be humiliated in your own eyes and those of the world.”
Dreda regarded her with eyes full of a solemn reproach.
“May you be forgiven, Mary! I forgive you. I’m sorry for your want of charity and understanding. I’m not surprised that you don’t understand me; we are made on such different lines; but you ought not to judge.—I don’t judgeyou. I think you are very painstaking and industrious. I bear you no ill-will, Mary. I’m only sorry for you.”
So far from being melted by this touching forgiveness, Mary flushed with anger, shrugged her shoulders impatiently, and turned back to her desk, whereon lay the first lines of an essay on one of Addison’s “Spectator” Essays. An extract from the essay had been given as subject, with the significant words: “Discuss this,” inscribed beneath, and Mary’s mood was not improved by the fact that with regard to ethical sentiments she seemed to have no idea to discuss. She was fifty times more at home with cut-and-dried figures about the correctness of which there could be no two opinions, whereas Etheldreda the Ready was invariably in the front rank for compositions. The two girls were indeed made “on different lines,” and at that moment Mary was not unnaturally provoked to be confronted by a task in which Dreda was undoubtedly her superior.
Dreda was laboriously amiable to her opponent for some days after this “heart to heart” talk, but the endeavour to pour coals of fire was so obvious as to be more irritating than soothing, and Mary had no wish to reopen the discussion. “I’ve warned her—she must go her own way now.Myconscience is clear,” she told herself stoically, and Dreda went her own way—danced gaily along it, so to speak, and had no thought of danger. She had become accustomed to school routine by this time, and, like most girls, found interest and enjoyment in the full busy life and in the companionship of her kind. She was a favourite with both teachers and scholars, and Susan’s quiet devotion could always be counted upon in those moments of need which seemed to be inevitable occurrences in her life. Dreda forgot, and Susan reminded; Dreda procrastinated, and Susan hastened to the rescue; Dreda grew discouraged and Susan cheered; Dreda failed, and Susan succoured; yet with such diffidence were these services performed that self-love felt never a wound, and Dreda was left with the agreeable sense of having conferred, rather than accepted, favours.
“You turn yourself into a nigger slave for Dreda Saxon,” grumbled Norah of the spectacles one day when she and Susan walked together in the “crocodile” along a dull country lane. “A regular black, cringing slave—and what thanks do you get for it, I’d like to know? None! Not one little scrap. She’s such a bat of self-conceit that she doesn’t even know that sheishelped. If you did a hundredth part as much for other people they’d go off their heads for joy!”
The spectacled eyes rolled wistfully Susan-wards as the last words were spoken, for Norah cherished a schoolgirl’s sentimental devotion for her companion, and could not overcome her chagrin at being so completely eclipsed by a new girl—a girl, moreover, who had given to her the undignified nickname of “Gig-lamps,” which had been instantly adopted by the whole school. She gazed at Susan as humbly as a dog begging a favour from its master’s hand, but no favour was vouchsafed.
“I don’t want Dreda to be grateful. I need no thanks. I love her so much that it is my greatest pleasure to be able to help her,” said little Susan proudly; but when Norah persistently demanded to know why she had no answer to give. In truth, she herself was sometimes puzzled to account for her own devotion to the hasty, undisciplined creature who fell so far short of her ideal feminine character. Susan’s quiet brown eyes were not blinded; probably no girl in the school was more conscious of Dreda’s faults, yet her love lived on unchecked by the discovery. She did not realise that it was Dreda’s personal beauty and charm which had captivated her imagination, and that all the starved instincts of her beauty-loving nature were finding vicarious satisfaction in another’s life. Susan had lived her life in a prosaic household, where beauty was the last consideration to be taken into account. If an article had to be bought, Mrs Webster gave consideration to strength and durability, and to strength and durability alone. In buying curtains, for instance, she sought for a nondescript colour which would defy the sun’s rays, a material that would stand repeated washings, and a pattern which would conceal possible stains. A discovery that the cloth would ultimately cut up into desirable dusters was sufficient to give the casting vote of decision, and thereafter draperies of dingy cinnamon would be hung against walls of yellow ochre, with complacent and lasting satisfaction. Amid such drab surroundings Susan had spent her life, and when she looked in the glass it was to see a replica of her sister’s faulty features and pallid skin, yet hidden away within that insignificant exterior there burnt the true artist’s passion for beauty, for colour, for grace, of which three qualities Etheldreda Saxon was so charming an embodiment. When Susan mentally worked out her novels of the future her heroines invariably wore Dreda’s guise, the romantic figures of history took upon themselves Dreda’s form, and smiled upon her with Dreda’s confident eyes.
The ordinary sentimental school friendship was glorified into a selfless devotion in which her highest joy was found in denying herself for Dreda’s good. The two girls—one tall, golden-haired, with vivid colouring and an air of confident strength; the other small, plain, neutral-tinted, timid of mien—were inseparable in work and at play.
Six months’ experience of school life had destroyed Dreda’s early ardour with regard to examinations. Arithmetic was such a hopeless stumbling-block in her path that it was doubtful whether she would be able to secure a bare pass, and having once realised the fact she readjusted her ambitions with facile speed, announced that she disapproved of modern methods, had no wish to enter the public arena, and was anxious to abandon a course of dangerous cram. Her favourite subject was composition, and here and here alone, she and Susan ran an even race, it being a moot point each week which would gain the highest marks. Susan’s essays were more thoughtful, and were written with an apt and dainty choice of words which was a delight to Miss Drake’s literary taste, but a certain primness and conventionality still remained to be conquered, in contrast to which Dreda’s dashing breeziness of style was a real refreshment. After reading through a dozen essays, all of which began in almost exactly the same words, and ended abruptly after dragging through a dozen commonplace sentences, the tired reader rejoiced at the sight of Dreda’s bold handwriting, and was disposed to forgive many failings in gratitude for the one great gift of originality.
Miss Drake was aware of the literary ambitions cherished by the two friends, and in leisure moments sent many a thought into the future, wondering what the years would bring, and if the time would ever arrive when she should say proudly of a well-known writer: “She was my pupil. I helped her towards the goal!” It seemed impossible to prophesy to which of the two girls success would come—Susan of the eloquent brain, the tender heart, or Dreda, with her gift of charm to gild the slightest matter. The young teacher pondered over the question, and one day in so doing there came to her mind a suggestion which promised interest to herself and a useful incentive to her pupils.
The third number of the school magazine would soon be due, and Miss Drake was fully aware of the fact that the sub-editor had grown to regard her responsibilities as a distasteful burden; while the contributors one and all exhibited a lamentable falling away from their early ambitions. Fragments of conversation had reached her ears as she made her way along the corridors. “You must write something—youmust! I haven’t a thing ready.”
“You and your old magazine! What a nuisance you are! I’ve something better to do.”
“Here comes Dreda Saxon! Let’s hide! She’s on the rampage about the mag.”
Miss Drake’s heart softened towards her “sub” in this difficult plight; she waited a few days to mature her plans, and then made an interesting announcement to the pupils at the conclusion of a history class.
“Before you go, girls, I want to speak to you for a few minutes on another subject. The third number of the school magazine is nearly due, and I am afraid from what I hear that contributions are coming in slowly. You will remember the one condition on which you were allowed to start the paper was that it should be continued for at least two years. One of the lessons you have to learn in life is that a duty once undertaken cannot be lightly thrown aside because it weighs more heavily after the first enthusiasm is past. Steady, quiet perseverance is a great force, and can overcome mountains of difficulty, but,”—she glanced whimsically at the row of depressed young faces—“I am quite aware that it is not a quality which makes a strong appeal at your age, so I propose to be generous, and offer an extra stimulus. You all know the name of Henry Rawdon, one of the greatest—many people think the greatest—writer of our times. He happens to be not only a family connection but my very good friend, and he has promised to help me to carry out a little scheme for your benefit. Instead of the usual nondescript contributions, you will all be required to write an essay on a given subject for the next number of the magazine, and after it has been circulated in the school, the typed papers will be sent to Mr Rawdon, marked with numbers instead of names, and he will judge them, and select the best as the prize number. Miss Bretherton is giving the prize. She is most interested in the competition, and it will be a prize worth having—a complete edition of Mr Rawdon’s works, which he has promised to present in person at our breaking-up gathering. Now is that not a splendid stimulus? I hope you feel inspired to do your best to rise to the occasion, and do honour to yourselves and the school.” She paused, and the girls stared at her in a solid phalanx of amazement. Henry Rawdon’s name was a household word; his works adorned every library worthy the name; it was, in the literal sense of the word,stunningto think that such a celebrity should condescend to read their poor little efforts! Etheldreda Saxon was naturally the first to recover her voice.
“And the subject, Miss Drake—what is to be the subject?”
Miss Drake smiled quietly.
“The subject is a very big one, and one on which the youngest girl is as competent to write as the oldest. No one can plead ignorance on this point, or if she does no outsider can give her enlightenment. The subject, chosen by Mr Rawdon himself, is ‘My Life—and how I mean to use it.’”
A subdued murmur sounded in the room, the chief notes of which were wonder and dismay. The girls looked at each other with startled looks, their lips fell apart, a blank, half-stupefied expression settled on their faces, as though they found themselves confronted by a task with which they had no power to grapple. But Susan’s brown eyes shone like stars; she clasped her little hands tightly together beneath her desk.
Chapter Eighteen.For the next few days conversation circled incessantly round the subject of the forthcoming literary competition, concerning which there were naturally many diverging opinions. “My life, indeed!Well, my first principle has always been ‘One thing at a time, and that done well.’ I’m cramming for an exam., and have no time to waste on meanderings,” declared Barbara, whose compositions invariably received the lowest marks in her form, while Nancy smiled her enigmatical smile, and stared mysteriously into space.“I shall write it, of course, but I shall not put in myrealsentiments. It would not be fair to my future. If my plans are to succeed they demand secrecy—breathless, inviolate secrecy, until the hour arrives!”“Gracious, Nancy! You talk as if you were an Anarchist in disguise!” gasped a horrified voice from the far corner of the fireside round which the girls were assembled, whereupon the gratified Nancy endeavoured to look more mysterious than ever.“Why in disguise? Is there anything in my appearance which is out of keeping with a life of noble rebellion against tyranny and oppression? A bomb may be often a blessing in disguise, but there is so much narrow prejudice and ignorance in this world that people must be trained to appreciate the true meaning. Till that hour arrives my life’s ambition must remain locked within my own breast!”“I haven’t got one—at least, only to have a good time and be done with work. You couldn’t putthatin an essay. It sounds so mean,” confessed blue-eyed Flora with a sigh. Dreda looked at her quickly, and as quickly averted her eyes. Put in bald language was not that her own ambition also? In thinking over the essay, she had mentally rehearsed many grandiose phrases; but now, with a sudden chilling of the blood, she realised the emptiness of the high-sounding words. What had she ever wished from life but pleasure, approbation, and easy success? How much thought had she given to possible trials and difficulties? How much effort to train herself for the battle of life? It was one of those blinding moments of self-revelation which come to us all, and before which the noblest natures shrink aghast. Dreda leant her head against the wall to hide herself from the dancing firelight, but her unusual silence could not fail to attract attention, and Norah was quick with a gibing question.“Why so silent, Etheldreda the Ready? Can it be that you have been so busy arranging the lives of other people that you have not had time to think of your own?”The dart struck home once more, but before there was time to answer Susan rushed to the defence.“It’s just because Dredaisthinking that she does not talk. Dreda will win the prize. No one has a chance against her, but it is such a thrilling subject that it will be interesting to try. The difficulty will be to keep within the limit; only three thousand words—”“Only! My dear, do you know what three thousand words mean? I counted up one sheet of foolscap, and it came to two hundred and fifty. How on earth could one find enough to say about life to fill twelve whole pages?”Flora was transparently in earnest, her blue, opaque-looking eyes roving from face to face, inviting sympathy and understanding; but Susan gave a clear little laugh of derision.“I could fill volumes! It’s a wonderful, wonderful theme—a voyage into the dark—a battle to be fought, a victory to be won, a mountain to be climbed, or perhaps no mountain at all, but just a long, long road, on a dead level plain. Work and effort, and failure and success, sorrow and joy, and at the end the secret—the great secret—solved at last!”Susan’s voice trembled, her slight little form shook with emotion, she pressed her hands against her knees to still their trembling. The girls stared at the floor, or exchanged furtive glances of embarrassment. Susan was “too too for words” in her high falutin’ moods; she talked just like people in books; silly nonsense that no one could understand! She was going to leave school when she was eighteen and help her mother in the house, because the two elder girls wanted to be teachers. Why couldn’t she say so straight out, instead of mooning about secrets, and battles, and mountains to be climbed? Flora sniggered into her handkerchief, Barbara gaped, Nancy tilted her head, and rolled her eyes to the ceiling, Dreda wakened out of her dream, and sat up flushed and eager.“Susan,stop! You mustn’t! If you tell us your ideas we may copy them without meaning to do it... If you put thoughts into our heads they stay there and grow, and we can’t send them away, but they areyours. You ought to keep them to yourself.”“My dear, she says she has enough to fill a volume. She needn’t grudge a few to her starving friends,” cried Nancy in would-be reproach. “Confide in me, Susan dear! I’ll sit at your feet, and gobble up all the pearls that you drop, and perhaps in the end I may win the prize myself. I don’t see why it should be taken for granted that only two girls have a chance. There’s a lot of vulgar prejudice in this school, but Mr Rawdon will judge with an unbiased mind. I have thought more than once when I’ve been reading his books that the style was rather like my own, and I’ve a sort of a—kind of a—what’s the word?—premonitionthat he’ll like me best.”There was a general laugh, but Nancy was a favourite despite her teasing ways, so the laughter was good-tempered and sympathetic, and it was easy to see that if by chance the prize fell to her lot the award would be a popular one. Nancy was incurably lazy, but the conviction lingered in the minds of her companions that “she could be clever if she chose,” and it would seem quite in character that she should suddenly wake up to the surprise and confusion of her competitors. Dreda looked round with an anxious air, as if recognising a new, and formidable competitor. She determined to begin making notes that very evening, and asked suddenly:“Has anyone seen my stylo? My things seem to be bewitched nowadays. They are always disappearing. I searched for my French book for a solid hour yesterday, and this morning it was my penknife, and now it’s the pen—I waste half my time hunting and searching.”“You are so untidy. If you would be more methodical—”“I didn’t ask for moral reflections, Barbara. I asked for my pen.”“Is it a black one? A little stumpy black one—about so long?”“Yes—yes! That’s it. Have you seen it, Nancy?”Nancy stroked her chin with a meditative air.“Ididsee a stylo somewhere! I remember noticing it—a very nice one. Quite new.”“Yes—yes; that’s it. Where was it? Do think, Nancy! Cudgel your brains.”“I am cudgelling them—I’m cudgellinghard.” Nancy nipped her chin between her finger and thumb, and knitted her brows till her eyebrows appeared to meet. “I saw it this morning. It was lying on a shelf, near a window. I can see it before me now.” She waved her hand in the air. “Like a picture. Distinctly!”“Yes—yes—yes! But where?Think! In the big classroom?”“No–o; I think not. No; certainly not the big classroom?”“Miss Drake’s room, then? The study? Number 5? Our bedroom? If you can see it distinctly, youmustknow.”Nancy frowned on, apparently plunged in thought, then slowly a flash seemed to irradiate her features.“I have it!” she cried triumphantly. “It was in the window of the chemist’s shop! I saw it as we passed by in walk.—A beautiful black brand-new stylo!”The audience sniggered with enjoyment, for though not quite so heartless as their brothers, it cannot be denied that most school-girls take a mischievous delight in teasing their companions. Dreda Saxon was, moreover, from this point of view an amusing victim, for when a joke was directed against herself her sense of humour was temporarily eclipsed, and she took refuge in what was laughingly dubbed “heroics.” Now, as usual, her eyes flashed, her chin tilted itself in air, and her voice swelled in deep-toned reproof.“That is not funny, Nancy—it isunkind! To laugh at people who are in trouble is a sign of a mean, unprincipled mind. I am surprised that you condescend to such depths.”A shriek of laughter followed this reproof, and as she marched majestically from the room Dreda caught a glimpse of Nancy beaming and unrepentant, pretending to wring tears out of a dry pocket-handkerchief. In that moment she mentally added three “heads” to the essay on life, and headed them with large capital letters: Misunderstanding. Mockery. Faithless Friends.During the next week Dreda spent every moment that could be spared from ordinary school-work in working at her essay, alternating between wild elation and depths of despair as her thoughts flowed or flagged. Her home letter was full of the all-absorbing topic, but Rowena’s reply was a great surprise—for behold, pessimistic repinings had given place to an outlook which was positively jaunty in tone.“It’s a nice old world, after all,” Rowena wrote. “It is stupid to allow oneself to get humped, for sometimes at the very moment when you believe that all is over, the very nicest things are just about to begin. Put that in your essay, and make moral reflections. ‘Oft-times in our ignorance we believe ... but looking back over a gap of time we can see—A trivial word, a passing glance, the choice of a road, on such trifles may depend ... Discipline is good for us all, but joy cometh in the morning.’ You know the sort of thing. For once I really wish I could write your essay for you. I feel just in the mood to write pages. I’ve been out riding with Mr Seton and his cousins three times this week, and the exercise is so exhilarating. The cousins are staying at the Manor House—such nice girls! We have taken quite a fancy to one another, and they lend me a mount, so that we can go about together Mr Seton sends you his best wishes for the competition. We talked about it together when we were riding to-day. He is so clever, and has such beautiful thoughts. He is looking forward most awfully to his life, and says it gets better and better all the time. I feel quite ashamed to remember how depressed and discontented I have been, and how irritable with poor old Maud. She can’t help it, poor dear, if sheisstupid; one ought to be patient with her, and satisfied with a peaceful home life! Iamsatisfied now. To-morrow I go to lunch at the Manor House.”“But it was tomehe offered the mount,” was Dreda’s comment, not without a touch of offence. Then with a benevolent impulse: “Oh, well, Ro can have it until the holidays, and then he’ll take me.” Rowena’s suggestions as to the essay were too valuable to be ignored, and the fact that they were in exact contradiction of the pessimistic passages on persecution last added, was no hindrance to an author of Etheldreda’s ingenuity. She had simply to write, “On the other hand, it may be said,” and in came Rowena’s reflections as pat as possible. During those next few days her versatile mind seized on everything that she heard, saw, or read, which could by any possibility be turned into material for the essay, until page after page was filled with her big straggling handwriting, and while her companions were still biting their pens in search of inspiration, she was confronted by the task of reducing her masterpiece by at least one-half of its length. And what a task that was!“Really,” she told Susan with a sigh, “cutting down is more difficult than making-up! I read over each bit by itself, and it seems as if I love it more than all the rest put together, and I simply can’tendureto lose it; but the next bit is the same, and the next, and the next.” She rolled her eyes dramatically to the ceiling. “I am like a mother, called upon to sacrifice one of her children. Whichever I choose, it will break my heart! How I wish I could send in two papers, and have two chances!”Such a proceeding was, of course, out of the question, so with much groaning and lamentation Dreda cut out the quieter passages, reserving the highly coloured flights of fancy which she considered more likely to attract an author of Mr Rawdon’s standing. When at last the typed copies of the twelve essays were circulated in the school it was found, as had been expected, that Susan and Dreda had far out-distanced the other competitors, but Susan’s most devoted admirers confessed that her production appeared tame and dull when compared with Dreda’s sparkling eloquence.“I don’t quite know what she’s driving at,” Barbara admitted, “but it sounds awfully grand all the same; and dear old Sue’s so painfully in earnest! We’d better resign ourselves to the worst, for Dreda’s bound to get the prize, and lord it over us for the rest of the term. Our lives won’t be worth living.”“It’s the unexpected that happens in this world. I have a feeling that there will be strange developments about this prize. Wait and see!” said Nancy, darkly.
For the next few days conversation circled incessantly round the subject of the forthcoming literary competition, concerning which there were naturally many diverging opinions. “My life, indeed!Well, my first principle has always been ‘One thing at a time, and that done well.’ I’m cramming for an exam., and have no time to waste on meanderings,” declared Barbara, whose compositions invariably received the lowest marks in her form, while Nancy smiled her enigmatical smile, and stared mysteriously into space.
“I shall write it, of course, but I shall not put in myrealsentiments. It would not be fair to my future. If my plans are to succeed they demand secrecy—breathless, inviolate secrecy, until the hour arrives!”
“Gracious, Nancy! You talk as if you were an Anarchist in disguise!” gasped a horrified voice from the far corner of the fireside round which the girls were assembled, whereupon the gratified Nancy endeavoured to look more mysterious than ever.
“Why in disguise? Is there anything in my appearance which is out of keeping with a life of noble rebellion against tyranny and oppression? A bomb may be often a blessing in disguise, but there is so much narrow prejudice and ignorance in this world that people must be trained to appreciate the true meaning. Till that hour arrives my life’s ambition must remain locked within my own breast!”
“I haven’t got one—at least, only to have a good time and be done with work. You couldn’t putthatin an essay. It sounds so mean,” confessed blue-eyed Flora with a sigh. Dreda looked at her quickly, and as quickly averted her eyes. Put in bald language was not that her own ambition also? In thinking over the essay, she had mentally rehearsed many grandiose phrases; but now, with a sudden chilling of the blood, she realised the emptiness of the high-sounding words. What had she ever wished from life but pleasure, approbation, and easy success? How much thought had she given to possible trials and difficulties? How much effort to train herself for the battle of life? It was one of those blinding moments of self-revelation which come to us all, and before which the noblest natures shrink aghast. Dreda leant her head against the wall to hide herself from the dancing firelight, but her unusual silence could not fail to attract attention, and Norah was quick with a gibing question.
“Why so silent, Etheldreda the Ready? Can it be that you have been so busy arranging the lives of other people that you have not had time to think of your own?”
The dart struck home once more, but before there was time to answer Susan rushed to the defence.
“It’s just because Dredaisthinking that she does not talk. Dreda will win the prize. No one has a chance against her, but it is such a thrilling subject that it will be interesting to try. The difficulty will be to keep within the limit; only three thousand words—”
“Only! My dear, do you know what three thousand words mean? I counted up one sheet of foolscap, and it came to two hundred and fifty. How on earth could one find enough to say about life to fill twelve whole pages?”
Flora was transparently in earnest, her blue, opaque-looking eyes roving from face to face, inviting sympathy and understanding; but Susan gave a clear little laugh of derision.
“I could fill volumes! It’s a wonderful, wonderful theme—a voyage into the dark—a battle to be fought, a victory to be won, a mountain to be climbed, or perhaps no mountain at all, but just a long, long road, on a dead level plain. Work and effort, and failure and success, sorrow and joy, and at the end the secret—the great secret—solved at last!”
Susan’s voice trembled, her slight little form shook with emotion, she pressed her hands against her knees to still their trembling. The girls stared at the floor, or exchanged furtive glances of embarrassment. Susan was “too too for words” in her high falutin’ moods; she talked just like people in books; silly nonsense that no one could understand! She was going to leave school when she was eighteen and help her mother in the house, because the two elder girls wanted to be teachers. Why couldn’t she say so straight out, instead of mooning about secrets, and battles, and mountains to be climbed? Flora sniggered into her handkerchief, Barbara gaped, Nancy tilted her head, and rolled her eyes to the ceiling, Dreda wakened out of her dream, and sat up flushed and eager.
“Susan,stop! You mustn’t! If you tell us your ideas we may copy them without meaning to do it... If you put thoughts into our heads they stay there and grow, and we can’t send them away, but they areyours. You ought to keep them to yourself.”
“My dear, she says she has enough to fill a volume. She needn’t grudge a few to her starving friends,” cried Nancy in would-be reproach. “Confide in me, Susan dear! I’ll sit at your feet, and gobble up all the pearls that you drop, and perhaps in the end I may win the prize myself. I don’t see why it should be taken for granted that only two girls have a chance. There’s a lot of vulgar prejudice in this school, but Mr Rawdon will judge with an unbiased mind. I have thought more than once when I’ve been reading his books that the style was rather like my own, and I’ve a sort of a—kind of a—what’s the word?—premonitionthat he’ll like me best.”
There was a general laugh, but Nancy was a favourite despite her teasing ways, so the laughter was good-tempered and sympathetic, and it was easy to see that if by chance the prize fell to her lot the award would be a popular one. Nancy was incurably lazy, but the conviction lingered in the minds of her companions that “she could be clever if she chose,” and it would seem quite in character that she should suddenly wake up to the surprise and confusion of her competitors. Dreda looked round with an anxious air, as if recognising a new, and formidable competitor. She determined to begin making notes that very evening, and asked suddenly:
“Has anyone seen my stylo? My things seem to be bewitched nowadays. They are always disappearing. I searched for my French book for a solid hour yesterday, and this morning it was my penknife, and now it’s the pen—I waste half my time hunting and searching.”
“You are so untidy. If you would be more methodical—”
“I didn’t ask for moral reflections, Barbara. I asked for my pen.”
“Is it a black one? A little stumpy black one—about so long?”
“Yes—yes! That’s it. Have you seen it, Nancy?”
Nancy stroked her chin with a meditative air.
“Ididsee a stylo somewhere! I remember noticing it—a very nice one. Quite new.”
“Yes—yes; that’s it. Where was it? Do think, Nancy! Cudgel your brains.”
“I am cudgelling them—I’m cudgellinghard.” Nancy nipped her chin between her finger and thumb, and knitted her brows till her eyebrows appeared to meet. “I saw it this morning. It was lying on a shelf, near a window. I can see it before me now.” She waved her hand in the air. “Like a picture. Distinctly!”
“Yes—yes—yes! But where?Think! In the big classroom?”
“No–o; I think not. No; certainly not the big classroom?”
“Miss Drake’s room, then? The study? Number 5? Our bedroom? If you can see it distinctly, youmustknow.”
Nancy frowned on, apparently plunged in thought, then slowly a flash seemed to irradiate her features.
“I have it!” she cried triumphantly. “It was in the window of the chemist’s shop! I saw it as we passed by in walk.—A beautiful black brand-new stylo!”
The audience sniggered with enjoyment, for though not quite so heartless as their brothers, it cannot be denied that most school-girls take a mischievous delight in teasing their companions. Dreda Saxon was, moreover, from this point of view an amusing victim, for when a joke was directed against herself her sense of humour was temporarily eclipsed, and she took refuge in what was laughingly dubbed “heroics.” Now, as usual, her eyes flashed, her chin tilted itself in air, and her voice swelled in deep-toned reproof.
“That is not funny, Nancy—it isunkind! To laugh at people who are in trouble is a sign of a mean, unprincipled mind. I am surprised that you condescend to such depths.”
A shriek of laughter followed this reproof, and as she marched majestically from the room Dreda caught a glimpse of Nancy beaming and unrepentant, pretending to wring tears out of a dry pocket-handkerchief. In that moment she mentally added three “heads” to the essay on life, and headed them with large capital letters: Misunderstanding. Mockery. Faithless Friends.
During the next week Dreda spent every moment that could be spared from ordinary school-work in working at her essay, alternating between wild elation and depths of despair as her thoughts flowed or flagged. Her home letter was full of the all-absorbing topic, but Rowena’s reply was a great surprise—for behold, pessimistic repinings had given place to an outlook which was positively jaunty in tone.
“It’s a nice old world, after all,” Rowena wrote. “It is stupid to allow oneself to get humped, for sometimes at the very moment when you believe that all is over, the very nicest things are just about to begin. Put that in your essay, and make moral reflections. ‘Oft-times in our ignorance we believe ... but looking back over a gap of time we can see—A trivial word, a passing glance, the choice of a road, on such trifles may depend ... Discipline is good for us all, but joy cometh in the morning.’ You know the sort of thing. For once I really wish I could write your essay for you. I feel just in the mood to write pages. I’ve been out riding with Mr Seton and his cousins three times this week, and the exercise is so exhilarating. The cousins are staying at the Manor House—such nice girls! We have taken quite a fancy to one another, and they lend me a mount, so that we can go about together Mr Seton sends you his best wishes for the competition. We talked about it together when we were riding to-day. He is so clever, and has such beautiful thoughts. He is looking forward most awfully to his life, and says it gets better and better all the time. I feel quite ashamed to remember how depressed and discontented I have been, and how irritable with poor old Maud. She can’t help it, poor dear, if sheisstupid; one ought to be patient with her, and satisfied with a peaceful home life! Iamsatisfied now. To-morrow I go to lunch at the Manor House.”
“But it was tomehe offered the mount,” was Dreda’s comment, not without a touch of offence. Then with a benevolent impulse: “Oh, well, Ro can have it until the holidays, and then he’ll take me.” Rowena’s suggestions as to the essay were too valuable to be ignored, and the fact that they were in exact contradiction of the pessimistic passages on persecution last added, was no hindrance to an author of Etheldreda’s ingenuity. She had simply to write, “On the other hand, it may be said,” and in came Rowena’s reflections as pat as possible. During those next few days her versatile mind seized on everything that she heard, saw, or read, which could by any possibility be turned into material for the essay, until page after page was filled with her big straggling handwriting, and while her companions were still biting their pens in search of inspiration, she was confronted by the task of reducing her masterpiece by at least one-half of its length. And what a task that was!
“Really,” she told Susan with a sigh, “cutting down is more difficult than making-up! I read over each bit by itself, and it seems as if I love it more than all the rest put together, and I simply can’tendureto lose it; but the next bit is the same, and the next, and the next.” She rolled her eyes dramatically to the ceiling. “I am like a mother, called upon to sacrifice one of her children. Whichever I choose, it will break my heart! How I wish I could send in two papers, and have two chances!”
Such a proceeding was, of course, out of the question, so with much groaning and lamentation Dreda cut out the quieter passages, reserving the highly coloured flights of fancy which she considered more likely to attract an author of Mr Rawdon’s standing. When at last the typed copies of the twelve essays were circulated in the school it was found, as had been expected, that Susan and Dreda had far out-distanced the other competitors, but Susan’s most devoted admirers confessed that her production appeared tame and dull when compared with Dreda’s sparkling eloquence.
“I don’t quite know what she’s driving at,” Barbara admitted, “but it sounds awfully grand all the same; and dear old Sue’s so painfully in earnest! We’d better resign ourselves to the worst, for Dreda’s bound to get the prize, and lord it over us for the rest of the term. Our lives won’t be worth living.”
“It’s the unexpected that happens in this world. I have a feeling that there will be strange developments about this prize. Wait and see!” said Nancy, darkly.
Chapter Nineteen.After a week’s circulation in the school, the twelve typed essays upon “My life, and what I hope to do with it,” were packed up and sent to Mr Rawdon for judgment, and Miss Drake begged her pupils to dismiss the subject from their minds as far as possible.“Mr Rawdon has promised to attend our prize-giving on December the nineteenth, and will announce the result of the competition himself, so that nothing can be gained by discussing the matter before then. It will be useless to question me, for I shall know he more than yourselves, and we have the serious work of preparing for examinations before us. Give your whole minds to your work, and don’t waste time on useless speculation.”“Easier said than done,” was Dreda’s comment on this exhortation as she walked to the hockey field with Susan after the class was dismissed. “It’s easy for The Duck to be calm and cold-blooded; she isn’t in it, and doesn’t much care how it’s decided; but to you and me it means life or death. Susan, tell me exactly how you will feel if my name is read out. Will you hate me with a deadly hatred?”“Dreda, how can you? As if I could ever hate you—as if such a thing were possible!” Susan was breathless with horror, her brown eyes turned reproachfully upon her friend. “Would you hate me?”“Yes,” returned Dreda calmly; “I should. At that moment my love would change into gall and bitterness. I should hate the very sight of your face. Of course,”—she drew a deep sigh of complacence—“of course, in the end my better nature would prevail, but I’m so emotional, you know—my heart is strung by every breath—like an Aeolian harp.—I could not answer for myself for the first few moments, so keep out of my way, darling, if you get the prize, until I have fought my battle and overcome.”“I hope you will win, Dreda. I expect you will. All the girls think your essay the best. I should be miserable if I won and you were angry,” said little Susan in a low, pained voice. But Dreda was too much occupied with a sudden suspicion to notice the pathos of her attitude.“Doyouthink it the best?” Susan hesitated painfully; her nature was so transparently honest that she could never succeed in disguising her real sentiments.“I like—bits of it—awfully, Dreda!”“Like the curate’s egg. Thanks. But not all?”“Not—equally well, dear.”“You think your own is better?” Susan’s usually sallow face was flooded with a painful red.“It sounds horribly conceited to say so, Dreda. I wish you hadn’t asked. It’s only my own opinion, dear. All the others like yours best. I believe it will win. Honestly I do.”Dreda walked on in silence, her lips compressed, her back very stiff and erect. She deigned no answer until the pavilion was only a few yards distant, and even then her voice had a strained, unnatural tone.“I think we will not discuss the subject any more. Miss Drake said, if you remember, that she would rather we didn’t. We ought to respect her wishes.”“I’m sorry,” said Susan meekly. She was not the one who had introduced the subject, but she was quite willing to take the blame upon herself, willing to endure any amount of blame if only Dreda would be kind and love her once more.For the rest of the term the whole routine of the school was arranged for the benefit of those girls who were going in for the different examinations at Christmas; and those who, like Dreda, had not entered their names were necessarily somewhat left out in the cold. They took part in the same classes, but it was not in teacher-nature to take quite so keen an interest in them as in those whose prowess might add to the reputation of the school. If an ordinary scholar were inclined to “slack,” now was her chance to do so with the least chance of discovery or punishment, and it is to be feared that Dreda, among others, did not disdain to do so.“I disapprove of this modern method ofcram,” she announced in a home letter. “Young girls need rest and amusement, not one long, continual grind; and I don’t think it’s feminine to be so learned. Accomplishments give far more pleasure, and you ought to be unselfish in life. I should like a new dress for the prize-giving, please. Something very nice—blue—and extra well made, because it may be noticed a good deal. I’m so glad you are all coming. It will be nice for you to see Mr Rawdon. I am looking forward to it fearfully much.”The new dress arrived in due course, and was all that could be desired. Dreda beamed complacently as she fastened the last button and regarded her reflection in the glass at two o’clock on the afternoon of the nineteenth of December; but her satisfaction was somewhat damped by the discovery that her favourite little pearl brooch was missing, making still another of those mysterious disappearances by which she had been annoyed during the whole of the term.“I really cannotbear it. It’s too much! It would try the patience of Job!” she cried passionately. “Someone is bent on driving me frantic, and whoever she is she’s a mean, dastardly wretch. Sometimes,”—her eyes flashed upon Nancy, who sat upon her bed leisurely brushing out her long brown mane—“sometimes, Nancy, I believe it isYou.”Susan, glancing fearfully across the room, saw Nancy’s shoulders give a slight involuntary jerk, but she made no other sign of perturbation, and voice and manner remained as usual, calmly nonchalant.“Doyou?” she queried, smiling. “How interesting! And what has led you to that conclusion, may I ask?”“Your own character. You take a delight in teasing and worrying and mystifying people out of their senses. You probably think it amusing to hide my things, and see me rushing about searching desperately in every corner. I’m good sport, I suppose, because I’m so easily roused. Things affect me more than other people, because I’m so sensitive. I’m like—”“An Aeolian harp—I know! I’ve heard the comparison before,” said Nancy, with a quiet nod of the head which was infinitely exasperating. Dreda stamped her foot upon the floor.“Have you hidden my brooch or have you not? Answer me this moment! I have not time to waste.”Nancy rose to her feet and selected a hair ribbon from a drawer with an air of unruffled composure.“I’m sorry, but I find myself unable to oblige you. If I am the person who has been playing tricks with your things all this time, you can hardly expect me to prove my guilt out of my own mouth. On the other hand, if I am innocent—”“Well?”“Then I should naturally be too proud and wounded to vindicate my honour!”Dreda stood irresolute—swayed one moment towards penitence, the next to anger. From the farther end of the room Susan mutely gesticulated appeals for peace. What would have happened next it is impossible to say, for at that moment a knock sounded at the door, and a voice cried:“Miss Saxon. Wanted, please! In the drawing-room.”No need to inquire the meaning of that summons! Dreda flew breathlessly downstairs, and in the moment of opening the drawing-room door beheld her four dear visitors standing in the alcove made by a rounded window—father, mother, and two sisters. Such darlings—such darlings; so infinitely more attractive than the other relations with whom the room was full! Father was handsomer than ever, mother so sweet and elegant, Maud was for the moment quite animated, while Rowena in her blue dress and ermine furs was a beauty—so dazzling a beauty, and withal so sweet, and bright, and womanly in expression, that the schoolgirl sister was breathless with admiration. When the first greetings were over and the parents were talking to Miss Drake, Dreda slipped her hand within Rowena’s arm, and gave it a rapturous squeeze.“Ro, you are lovely! Everybody is staring at you, and I’m just bursting with pride... You dear old thing! What have you done with yourself to look so nice? You are fifty times prettier than you were!”“Oh, Dreda! Am I—am I, really? I’m so glad!” cried Rowena, smiling. But Dreda noticed with amazement that she didn’t seem a bit conceited; if such a curious thing could be believed true, there was a hitherto unknown modesty and self-forgetfulness about her manner. “You look a darling yourself,” Rowena added affectionately. “Are you going to get a lot of prizes to make us proud of you too?”“Nary a one,” said Dreda with a grimace. “The girls are so horribly clever in this school. I have no chance against them. We Saxons are different; we have the artistic temperament; it’s more interesting for daily life, but it doesn’t pay in exams. I am simply nowhere in the lists.”“But the essay, dear—the great essay on Life! Surelythere—”Dreda bridled, and held up a modest hand.“Impossible to say. Nobody knows. Mr Rawdon will announce it himself. There he is—over by the fireplace, talking to Miss Drake. Fancy an author looking like that! Quite smart and shaved, like an ordinary man. I expected yards of beard. Oh, dear! my life is in his hands, and he is laughing and talking as if nothing were going to happen! At three o’clock we have all to go down to the big classroom. Sit where you can see me, Ro, and smile at me encouragingly when he gets up; but if someone else wins, look the other way—I shall want to hide my anguish.”Rowena laughed—a trill of merry, irresistible laughter, and the stare of scornful reproach failed to move her to penitence.“You funny girl—you funny girl! Oh, Dreda, youdoexaggerate! A passing disappointment like that! Such a little, little thing, when there are such big prizes waiting in life! Oh, Dreda, you areyoung!”“Oh, Rowena, you are—” The retort hung fire, for at the moment it seemed impossible to think of the right word to express what Rowena was. “Changed!” came at last, as a somewhat tame conclusion, but at least it had the effect of making Rowena blush from the tip of her dainty chin to the very roots of her flaxen hair. Now, why should one blush as though one had been detected in a crime at simply being accused of change?At five minutes to three the pupils left the drawing-room, and took their places ranged at the back of the big classroom. A small platform had been erected at the farther end, on which sat the teachers, with Mr Rawdon in the place of honour, just behind the water-bottle on the table. Parents and friends sat in chairs running sideways down the room, so that they were able to see the girls and watch the progress of happy prize-winners towards the platform. Rowena smiled confidently at her sister, but Dreda had forgotten her sister’s existence. Her heart was beating in quick, sickening thuds; her feet and hands were icy cold; her knees jerked up and down, and in her throat was a hard, swelling pain. It seemed as if all the happiness of life depended upon the next few minutes; as if she could never hold up her head again if she failed now. The girls were smiling and nudging each other gaily; Norah was whispering to Susan, and Susan was listening with an air of genuine interest. Were they all sticks and stones, who had no capacity for feeling? Then Mr Rawdon rose to his feet, and there was an outburst of clapping from the audience. Dreda’s own hands moved automatically, and again she wondered at their cold. The first few sentences sounded like a meaningless buzz; then gradually her brain took in the words. Mr Rawdon was expressing conventional pleasure at the “privilege” accorded him by his “kind friend;” these formal civilities were just the clearing of the way before the real business began, and speaker and hearers alike heaved a sigh of relief when they were over and the interesting criticism had begun. Mr Rawdon considered that four out of the twelve essays submitted to him were decidedly above the average of such productions, showing evidences of originality, thought, and literary style. His lips twitched humorously as he described himself as having been quite overwhelmed by the flights of eloquence of one of these budding authoresses, but although four essays had stood out conspicuously from the rest, he had not had a moment’s hesitation in deciding on the prize-winner. The essay of this young writer bore the inevitable marks of youth and inexperience, but it bore something else too—something which it was a joy to discover—something which had given himself as a writer a deep pleasure and satisfaction—it bore the marks of a strong literary gift. The girl who had written this essay possessed the great gifts of wit, pathos, and charm; she could not only feel, but she could clothe her thoughts in apt, telling words. She had faults to overcome, and her apprenticeship to art might be long and hard; but he had confidence in making a prophecy to-day, a prophecy which he called upon his hearers to remember and recall in after years, a prophecy that the writer of this schoolgirl essay would live to make an honoured name for herself in the English-speaking world.A wild burst of applause sounded from the benches at the back of the room. Mr Rawdon smiled, and lifted a slip of paper from the table before him.
After a week’s circulation in the school, the twelve typed essays upon “My life, and what I hope to do with it,” were packed up and sent to Mr Rawdon for judgment, and Miss Drake begged her pupils to dismiss the subject from their minds as far as possible.
“Mr Rawdon has promised to attend our prize-giving on December the nineteenth, and will announce the result of the competition himself, so that nothing can be gained by discussing the matter before then. It will be useless to question me, for I shall know he more than yourselves, and we have the serious work of preparing for examinations before us. Give your whole minds to your work, and don’t waste time on useless speculation.”
“Easier said than done,” was Dreda’s comment on this exhortation as she walked to the hockey field with Susan after the class was dismissed. “It’s easy for The Duck to be calm and cold-blooded; she isn’t in it, and doesn’t much care how it’s decided; but to you and me it means life or death. Susan, tell me exactly how you will feel if my name is read out. Will you hate me with a deadly hatred?”
“Dreda, how can you? As if I could ever hate you—as if such a thing were possible!” Susan was breathless with horror, her brown eyes turned reproachfully upon her friend. “Would you hate me?”
“Yes,” returned Dreda calmly; “I should. At that moment my love would change into gall and bitterness. I should hate the very sight of your face. Of course,”—she drew a deep sigh of complacence—“of course, in the end my better nature would prevail, but I’m so emotional, you know—my heart is strung by every breath—like an Aeolian harp.—I could not answer for myself for the first few moments, so keep out of my way, darling, if you get the prize, until I have fought my battle and overcome.”
“I hope you will win, Dreda. I expect you will. All the girls think your essay the best. I should be miserable if I won and you were angry,” said little Susan in a low, pained voice. But Dreda was too much occupied with a sudden suspicion to notice the pathos of her attitude.
“Doyouthink it the best?” Susan hesitated painfully; her nature was so transparently honest that she could never succeed in disguising her real sentiments.
“I like—bits of it—awfully, Dreda!”
“Like the curate’s egg. Thanks. But not all?”
“Not—equally well, dear.”
“You think your own is better?” Susan’s usually sallow face was flooded with a painful red.
“It sounds horribly conceited to say so, Dreda. I wish you hadn’t asked. It’s only my own opinion, dear. All the others like yours best. I believe it will win. Honestly I do.”
Dreda walked on in silence, her lips compressed, her back very stiff and erect. She deigned no answer until the pavilion was only a few yards distant, and even then her voice had a strained, unnatural tone.
“I think we will not discuss the subject any more. Miss Drake said, if you remember, that she would rather we didn’t. We ought to respect her wishes.”
“I’m sorry,” said Susan meekly. She was not the one who had introduced the subject, but she was quite willing to take the blame upon herself, willing to endure any amount of blame if only Dreda would be kind and love her once more.
For the rest of the term the whole routine of the school was arranged for the benefit of those girls who were going in for the different examinations at Christmas; and those who, like Dreda, had not entered their names were necessarily somewhat left out in the cold. They took part in the same classes, but it was not in teacher-nature to take quite so keen an interest in them as in those whose prowess might add to the reputation of the school. If an ordinary scholar were inclined to “slack,” now was her chance to do so with the least chance of discovery or punishment, and it is to be feared that Dreda, among others, did not disdain to do so.
“I disapprove of this modern method ofcram,” she announced in a home letter. “Young girls need rest and amusement, not one long, continual grind; and I don’t think it’s feminine to be so learned. Accomplishments give far more pleasure, and you ought to be unselfish in life. I should like a new dress for the prize-giving, please. Something very nice—blue—and extra well made, because it may be noticed a good deal. I’m so glad you are all coming. It will be nice for you to see Mr Rawdon. I am looking forward to it fearfully much.”
The new dress arrived in due course, and was all that could be desired. Dreda beamed complacently as she fastened the last button and regarded her reflection in the glass at two o’clock on the afternoon of the nineteenth of December; but her satisfaction was somewhat damped by the discovery that her favourite little pearl brooch was missing, making still another of those mysterious disappearances by which she had been annoyed during the whole of the term.
“I really cannotbear it. It’s too much! It would try the patience of Job!” she cried passionately. “Someone is bent on driving me frantic, and whoever she is she’s a mean, dastardly wretch. Sometimes,”—her eyes flashed upon Nancy, who sat upon her bed leisurely brushing out her long brown mane—“sometimes, Nancy, I believe it isYou.”
Susan, glancing fearfully across the room, saw Nancy’s shoulders give a slight involuntary jerk, but she made no other sign of perturbation, and voice and manner remained as usual, calmly nonchalant.
“Doyou?” she queried, smiling. “How interesting! And what has led you to that conclusion, may I ask?”
“Your own character. You take a delight in teasing and worrying and mystifying people out of their senses. You probably think it amusing to hide my things, and see me rushing about searching desperately in every corner. I’m good sport, I suppose, because I’m so easily roused. Things affect me more than other people, because I’m so sensitive. I’m like—”
“An Aeolian harp—I know! I’ve heard the comparison before,” said Nancy, with a quiet nod of the head which was infinitely exasperating. Dreda stamped her foot upon the floor.
“Have you hidden my brooch or have you not? Answer me this moment! I have not time to waste.”
Nancy rose to her feet and selected a hair ribbon from a drawer with an air of unruffled composure.
“I’m sorry, but I find myself unable to oblige you. If I am the person who has been playing tricks with your things all this time, you can hardly expect me to prove my guilt out of my own mouth. On the other hand, if I am innocent—”
“Well?”
“Then I should naturally be too proud and wounded to vindicate my honour!”
Dreda stood irresolute—swayed one moment towards penitence, the next to anger. From the farther end of the room Susan mutely gesticulated appeals for peace. What would have happened next it is impossible to say, for at that moment a knock sounded at the door, and a voice cried:
“Miss Saxon. Wanted, please! In the drawing-room.”
No need to inquire the meaning of that summons! Dreda flew breathlessly downstairs, and in the moment of opening the drawing-room door beheld her four dear visitors standing in the alcove made by a rounded window—father, mother, and two sisters. Such darlings—such darlings; so infinitely more attractive than the other relations with whom the room was full! Father was handsomer than ever, mother so sweet and elegant, Maud was for the moment quite animated, while Rowena in her blue dress and ermine furs was a beauty—so dazzling a beauty, and withal so sweet, and bright, and womanly in expression, that the schoolgirl sister was breathless with admiration. When the first greetings were over and the parents were talking to Miss Drake, Dreda slipped her hand within Rowena’s arm, and gave it a rapturous squeeze.
“Ro, you are lovely! Everybody is staring at you, and I’m just bursting with pride... You dear old thing! What have you done with yourself to look so nice? You are fifty times prettier than you were!”
“Oh, Dreda! Am I—am I, really? I’m so glad!” cried Rowena, smiling. But Dreda noticed with amazement that she didn’t seem a bit conceited; if such a curious thing could be believed true, there was a hitherto unknown modesty and self-forgetfulness about her manner. “You look a darling yourself,” Rowena added affectionately. “Are you going to get a lot of prizes to make us proud of you too?”
“Nary a one,” said Dreda with a grimace. “The girls are so horribly clever in this school. I have no chance against them. We Saxons are different; we have the artistic temperament; it’s more interesting for daily life, but it doesn’t pay in exams. I am simply nowhere in the lists.”
“But the essay, dear—the great essay on Life! Surelythere—”
Dreda bridled, and held up a modest hand.
“Impossible to say. Nobody knows. Mr Rawdon will announce it himself. There he is—over by the fireplace, talking to Miss Drake. Fancy an author looking like that! Quite smart and shaved, like an ordinary man. I expected yards of beard. Oh, dear! my life is in his hands, and he is laughing and talking as if nothing were going to happen! At three o’clock we have all to go down to the big classroom. Sit where you can see me, Ro, and smile at me encouragingly when he gets up; but if someone else wins, look the other way—I shall want to hide my anguish.”
Rowena laughed—a trill of merry, irresistible laughter, and the stare of scornful reproach failed to move her to penitence.
“You funny girl—you funny girl! Oh, Dreda, youdoexaggerate! A passing disappointment like that! Such a little, little thing, when there are such big prizes waiting in life! Oh, Dreda, you areyoung!”
“Oh, Rowena, you are—” The retort hung fire, for at the moment it seemed impossible to think of the right word to express what Rowena was. “Changed!” came at last, as a somewhat tame conclusion, but at least it had the effect of making Rowena blush from the tip of her dainty chin to the very roots of her flaxen hair. Now, why should one blush as though one had been detected in a crime at simply being accused of change?
At five minutes to three the pupils left the drawing-room, and took their places ranged at the back of the big classroom. A small platform had been erected at the farther end, on which sat the teachers, with Mr Rawdon in the place of honour, just behind the water-bottle on the table. Parents and friends sat in chairs running sideways down the room, so that they were able to see the girls and watch the progress of happy prize-winners towards the platform. Rowena smiled confidently at her sister, but Dreda had forgotten her sister’s existence. Her heart was beating in quick, sickening thuds; her feet and hands were icy cold; her knees jerked up and down, and in her throat was a hard, swelling pain. It seemed as if all the happiness of life depended upon the next few minutes; as if she could never hold up her head again if she failed now. The girls were smiling and nudging each other gaily; Norah was whispering to Susan, and Susan was listening with an air of genuine interest. Were they all sticks and stones, who had no capacity for feeling? Then Mr Rawdon rose to his feet, and there was an outburst of clapping from the audience. Dreda’s own hands moved automatically, and again she wondered at their cold. The first few sentences sounded like a meaningless buzz; then gradually her brain took in the words. Mr Rawdon was expressing conventional pleasure at the “privilege” accorded him by his “kind friend;” these formal civilities were just the clearing of the way before the real business began, and speaker and hearers alike heaved a sigh of relief when they were over and the interesting criticism had begun. Mr Rawdon considered that four out of the twelve essays submitted to him were decidedly above the average of such productions, showing evidences of originality, thought, and literary style. His lips twitched humorously as he described himself as having been quite overwhelmed by the flights of eloquence of one of these budding authoresses, but although four essays had stood out conspicuously from the rest, he had not had a moment’s hesitation in deciding on the prize-winner. The essay of this young writer bore the inevitable marks of youth and inexperience, but it bore something else too—something which it was a joy to discover—something which had given himself as a writer a deep pleasure and satisfaction—it bore the marks of a strong literary gift. The girl who had written this essay possessed the great gifts of wit, pathos, and charm; she could not only feel, but she could clothe her thoughts in apt, telling words. She had faults to overcome, and her apprenticeship to art might be long and hard; but he had confidence in making a prophecy to-day, a prophecy which he called upon his hearers to remember and recall in after years, a prophecy that the writer of this schoolgirl essay would live to make an honoured name for herself in the English-speaking world.
A wild burst of applause sounded from the benches at the back of the room. Mr Rawdon smiled, and lifted a slip of paper from the table before him.
Chapter Twenty.Mr Rawdon deliberately fastened his eye glasses on his nose, and looked down at the slip of paper. There was a dead breathless silence in the room.“The name of the prize-winner is Etheldreda Saxon.”It seemed to Dreda that her very heart stopped beating in that moment of wild, delirious joy. It was almost as though she had received a blow on her head, so dazed and paralysed did she appear; then dimly she was conscious of the sound of clapping and stamping, and looking across the room the four dear familiar faces stood out in bold relief, while all the others remained a mist and blur. Father quite pale, with his eyes shining like blue flames; mother with the tears streaming down her face—why did mothers always cry when they ought to be glad?—Rowena, one sweet, glowing smile of delight. Maud with her mouth wide open—one could almosthearher snore.The clapping went on—everyone seemed to be staring in her direction, and someone was pressing her arm, and saying gently: “Go, dear—go! They are waiting for you. Go for your prize!”It was Susan’s voice. Susan’s face was looking at her with the sweetest, kindest smile... With a start Dreda came back to herself, and as she did so half a dozen words sounded in her brain as distinctly as though spoken by a real human voice. “That is love!” said the voice. “That is the true love!” As she walked up the bare centre of the floor she was thinking not of her own triumph, but of Susan’s unselfish joy; it came to her mind that Susan’s triumph was greater than her own.Once on the platform, however, face to face with Mr Rawdon, with Miss Drake by his side beaming with happy smiles, conscious of being the cynosure of every eye, it was impossible not to feel a natural pride and elation.Before presenting the pile of handsomely bound volumes—ten in all—Mr Rawdon held out his hand with a very charming gesture of friendship.“Etheldreda Saxon, I congratulate you on what you have achieved in the present; I congratulate you still more on what you are going to achieve in the future! My good friend Miss Drake, knowing of old my unmethodical methods, told me not to trouble to return the manuscripts of the various essays submitted for my criticism, but before leaving home to-day I put your typed copy in my pocket, thinking that you would naturally like to have it. I return it to you now, together with these books, which, to my mingled pride and embarrassment, have been chosen for your prize. I hope and expect that the time will come when those present this afternoon may feelitone of their happiest recollections that they were present on the occasion when Etheldreda Saxon received her first literary recognition.”Thunderous applause. Dreda walked down the little stairway, carrying her heavy load of books with the folded manuscript slipped beneath the cover of the topmost volume. The visitors on either side beamed congratulations as she passed; on the faces of her school friends was an expression which she had never seen before—proud andyetawed, affectionate yet shrinking. It was as if they said to themselves:“Who is this Dreda who has changed into a genius before our eyes? We have laughed at her, and made fun of her pretensions, and behold, they are not pretensions at all—they are real! We have been blind. We have never really known her as she is.”The girls in the second row made way for her as she came, pulling their skirts aside, and tucking their feet beneath the bench to allow her to pass along to her seat. She saw each face quite close as she passed along—Flora, Barbara, Nancy, Norah, Grace—all smiled shyly upon her—all except one. Norah’s eyes remained hard and cold—Norah was not glad. She wanted Susan to win the prize.The clapping was dying down, and Mr Rawdon was beginning his promised address.“My dear friends—It is my privilege this afternoon—” It was not possible to listen to an address at this supreme moment of realisation—even the words of Mr Rawdon himself were a meaningless jargon in Dreda’s ears. Someone tried to take the books from her, but she clung tightly to the volume containing the precious essay which had brought this triumph into her life. Such a wonderful essay that on the strength of it one of the greatest of living authors had confidently prophesied a worldwide reputation. She, Dreda Saxon, an author whom strange people talked about, whose name appeared familiarly in newspapers and magazines! She herself had dreamed of such fairy tales, had expatiated on their probability to sceptical friends; but now that Mr Rawdon had prophesied the same thing she was none the less surprised and tremulous. He who has experienced what the world calls triumph knows well that at those moments the inmost feeling of the heart has beenhumilityrather than pride. He alone knows his own limitations, his own weakness; he trembles lest he may prove unworthy of the praise he has won. As the first delirious moments passed by, Dreda was amazed to feel a sense of depression chilling her blood. She questioned herself as to its cause, and discovered that it arose from a new and disagreeable doubt of her own capacities. Mr Rawdon thought her very, very clever; but was she—wasshe really? He believed that she could write books—long books of hundreds of pages, like the one lying on her lap; many books—one after another—all different, about different people, different things. Could she do it? Was her brain really full enough, wise enough, original enough for such a strain? Face to face with herself Dreda experienced some horrible moments of doubt. It had been so difficult to write that one essay—of herself she had seemed to have no ideas. She had merely pounced on what other people had written and said and rearranged their words. “I am quick, I am sharp. I am what they callready,” said Dreda to herself in that rare moment of modesty; “but I am not really clever. I don’t think thoughts of my very own like Susan. It’s all a mistake. I shall fail, and everyone will know.”She began to tremble again, and the form creaked behind her. Some one edged nearer and pressed a supporting arm against her side. It was Susan.DearSusan! If she had been cross and jealous it would have spoiled those first wonderful moments of triumph. Dreda remembered her own prediction of how she would have felt had positions been reversed, and pressed lovingly against the thin little arm. Her eye fell on the sheets of manuscript folded within the book on her lap, and at the sight she knew a returning thrill of confidence. After all Mr Rawdon was a better judge than herself—he would not have spoken as he did if he had not been sure. It was one of the signs of greatness to distrust oneself.Dreda smiled, and let her fingers touch the paper with caressing touches. She turned back a corner of the sheet and read some scattered words; even in this short time they seemed unfamiliar, and she searched mentally for the context. It refused to be recalled. She lifted another corner, and a third; her hand trembled, she turned a fourth corner; her fingers dropped the paper, and clenched themselves upon her knee, lay there motionless.At the moment of tension when Dreda had been waiting for Mr Rawdon’s announcement, she had felt a strange bursting sensation in her head; but now something reallydidsnap—it must have done, for she heard it with her ears—a sharp, splitting noise, so loud that it seemed impossible that others had not heard it also; yet they still sat smiling and complacent. No one knew, no one suspected. They still believed what she herself had believed, a moment ago—long, long years ago—which was it?—that she was the winner of the coveted prize, the clever, fortunate girl who had a future before her, whose name was to be a household word in the land. She had thought so too; she had walked down the room to the sound of applause, had felt every eye riveted on her face, had seen her mother’s tears; but this paper which lay on her knee, the paper with “Prize Essay” scrawled across the back—this was not her composition. The sentences which she had read were not her own; there had been some mistake—some horrible, incomprehensible mistake! The numbers must have been confused together. It was Susan’s essay which had won the prize, and not her own.Three minutes ago she had been sure, yet she had not been happy; she had allowed herself to think of the future—to worry and to doubt. Oh, the folly of it! And now she could never be happy any more; her triumph was turned into humiliation and shame.What would they think—do—say? Mr Rawdon, Miss Drake, father and mother, the other visitors, the girls? Whatcouldthey say? It would be miserable for everybody—even for Susan. Susan could not enjoy her triumph at such a cost to her chosen friend. Susan’s arm pressed lovingly against her side—she was distressed that Dreda seemed unnerved, but she did not guess what had happened. Nobody guessed! No onecouldguess if she kept those sheets carefully folded, and destroyed them as soon as she reached the dormitory. It was not her own mistake. It was Mr Rawdon’s. Was one called upon to taste the very dregs of humiliation because another person had made a mistake?Mr Rawdon was still talking. The hands of the clock had only registered ten minutes since he began; it seemed a lifetime before the big hand reached the next figure. No; she would not tell. The mistake had happened, and she must abide by it. There were other people to think of besides herself. Mother had cried for joy; father’s eyes had glowed with happy pride—could they bear to have their joy turned to pain?Mr Rawdon was talking about life, taking up the subject of the girls’ essays, enlarging upon what they had tried to express. The words floated to Dreda’s ears; she listened in curious, detached fashion. “Difficulties and temptations came to us all; they were hard to bear, bitterly hard at the time, but looked upon in the right light they were just opportunities given to us to prove our true worth, to help us farther on our way.” Fine words, fine words! It was easy to preach when all was going well for oneself, and there was no terrible mountain of difficulty blocking up the very next step. Shecouldnot tell! All the eyes would stare at her again, but the admiration would be changed into pity—perhaps even into suspicion. Some people might believe that she herself was responsible for this mistake. She would give Susan another copy of the books for Christmas. Susan should not suffer. She would not tell.Mr Rawdon had put down his notes, the hands of the clock had touched yet another figure; he was looking down the room and smiling in her direction. She lost the drift of his sentence, but his last words were her own name—“an Etheldreda Saxon,” he said, and in the midst of the applause which followed a girl’s voice rang out: “Three cheers for Dreda Saxon!” And once more the room was in an uproar of delight.The girls leapt to their feet; Dreda leapt with them. Susan felt her thrust her way forward, and stared in surprise. She feared that her friend had turned faint with emotion, but when Dreda had cleared herself from the crowded forms she marched quietly up the room towards the platform. The unfolded essay was in her hand, her face was as white as the paper itself. The applause died away into a tense, uneasy silence. Something had gone wrong. What could it be?Dreda held up the essay towards Mr Rawdon.She opened her lips, but it was only after several ineffectual efforts that the husky voice would come.“It is not mine! There has been a mistake. Susan wrote it—Susan Webster—the prize is hers!”
Mr Rawdon deliberately fastened his eye glasses on his nose, and looked down at the slip of paper. There was a dead breathless silence in the room.
“The name of the prize-winner is Etheldreda Saxon.”
It seemed to Dreda that her very heart stopped beating in that moment of wild, delirious joy. It was almost as though she had received a blow on her head, so dazed and paralysed did she appear; then dimly she was conscious of the sound of clapping and stamping, and looking across the room the four dear familiar faces stood out in bold relief, while all the others remained a mist and blur. Father quite pale, with his eyes shining like blue flames; mother with the tears streaming down her face—why did mothers always cry when they ought to be glad?—Rowena, one sweet, glowing smile of delight. Maud with her mouth wide open—one could almosthearher snore.
The clapping went on—everyone seemed to be staring in her direction, and someone was pressing her arm, and saying gently: “Go, dear—go! They are waiting for you. Go for your prize!”
It was Susan’s voice. Susan’s face was looking at her with the sweetest, kindest smile... With a start Dreda came back to herself, and as she did so half a dozen words sounded in her brain as distinctly as though spoken by a real human voice. “That is love!” said the voice. “That is the true love!” As she walked up the bare centre of the floor she was thinking not of her own triumph, but of Susan’s unselfish joy; it came to her mind that Susan’s triumph was greater than her own.
Once on the platform, however, face to face with Mr Rawdon, with Miss Drake by his side beaming with happy smiles, conscious of being the cynosure of every eye, it was impossible not to feel a natural pride and elation.
Before presenting the pile of handsomely bound volumes—ten in all—Mr Rawdon held out his hand with a very charming gesture of friendship.
“Etheldreda Saxon, I congratulate you on what you have achieved in the present; I congratulate you still more on what you are going to achieve in the future! My good friend Miss Drake, knowing of old my unmethodical methods, told me not to trouble to return the manuscripts of the various essays submitted for my criticism, but before leaving home to-day I put your typed copy in my pocket, thinking that you would naturally like to have it. I return it to you now, together with these books, which, to my mingled pride and embarrassment, have been chosen for your prize. I hope and expect that the time will come when those present this afternoon may feelitone of their happiest recollections that they were present on the occasion when Etheldreda Saxon received her first literary recognition.”
Thunderous applause. Dreda walked down the little stairway, carrying her heavy load of books with the folded manuscript slipped beneath the cover of the topmost volume. The visitors on either side beamed congratulations as she passed; on the faces of her school friends was an expression which she had never seen before—proud andyetawed, affectionate yet shrinking. It was as if they said to themselves:
“Who is this Dreda who has changed into a genius before our eyes? We have laughed at her, and made fun of her pretensions, and behold, they are not pretensions at all—they are real! We have been blind. We have never really known her as she is.”
The girls in the second row made way for her as she came, pulling their skirts aside, and tucking their feet beneath the bench to allow her to pass along to her seat. She saw each face quite close as she passed along—Flora, Barbara, Nancy, Norah, Grace—all smiled shyly upon her—all except one. Norah’s eyes remained hard and cold—Norah was not glad. She wanted Susan to win the prize.
The clapping was dying down, and Mr Rawdon was beginning his promised address.
“My dear friends—It is my privilege this afternoon—” It was not possible to listen to an address at this supreme moment of realisation—even the words of Mr Rawdon himself were a meaningless jargon in Dreda’s ears. Someone tried to take the books from her, but she clung tightly to the volume containing the precious essay which had brought this triumph into her life. Such a wonderful essay that on the strength of it one of the greatest of living authors had confidently prophesied a worldwide reputation. She, Dreda Saxon, an author whom strange people talked about, whose name appeared familiarly in newspapers and magazines! She herself had dreamed of such fairy tales, had expatiated on their probability to sceptical friends; but now that Mr Rawdon had prophesied the same thing she was none the less surprised and tremulous. He who has experienced what the world calls triumph knows well that at those moments the inmost feeling of the heart has beenhumilityrather than pride. He alone knows his own limitations, his own weakness; he trembles lest he may prove unworthy of the praise he has won. As the first delirious moments passed by, Dreda was amazed to feel a sense of depression chilling her blood. She questioned herself as to its cause, and discovered that it arose from a new and disagreeable doubt of her own capacities. Mr Rawdon thought her very, very clever; but was she—wasshe really? He believed that she could write books—long books of hundreds of pages, like the one lying on her lap; many books—one after another—all different, about different people, different things. Could she do it? Was her brain really full enough, wise enough, original enough for such a strain? Face to face with herself Dreda experienced some horrible moments of doubt. It had been so difficult to write that one essay—of herself she had seemed to have no ideas. She had merely pounced on what other people had written and said and rearranged their words. “I am quick, I am sharp. I am what they callready,” said Dreda to herself in that rare moment of modesty; “but I am not really clever. I don’t think thoughts of my very own like Susan. It’s all a mistake. I shall fail, and everyone will know.”
She began to tremble again, and the form creaked behind her. Some one edged nearer and pressed a supporting arm against her side. It was Susan.DearSusan! If she had been cross and jealous it would have spoiled those first wonderful moments of triumph. Dreda remembered her own prediction of how she would have felt had positions been reversed, and pressed lovingly against the thin little arm. Her eye fell on the sheets of manuscript folded within the book on her lap, and at the sight she knew a returning thrill of confidence. After all Mr Rawdon was a better judge than herself—he would not have spoken as he did if he had not been sure. It was one of the signs of greatness to distrust oneself.
Dreda smiled, and let her fingers touch the paper with caressing touches. She turned back a corner of the sheet and read some scattered words; even in this short time they seemed unfamiliar, and she searched mentally for the context. It refused to be recalled. She lifted another corner, and a third; her hand trembled, she turned a fourth corner; her fingers dropped the paper, and clenched themselves upon her knee, lay there motionless.
At the moment of tension when Dreda had been waiting for Mr Rawdon’s announcement, she had felt a strange bursting sensation in her head; but now something reallydidsnap—it must have done, for she heard it with her ears—a sharp, splitting noise, so loud that it seemed impossible that others had not heard it also; yet they still sat smiling and complacent. No one knew, no one suspected. They still believed what she herself had believed, a moment ago—long, long years ago—which was it?—that she was the winner of the coveted prize, the clever, fortunate girl who had a future before her, whose name was to be a household word in the land. She had thought so too; she had walked down the room to the sound of applause, had felt every eye riveted on her face, had seen her mother’s tears; but this paper which lay on her knee, the paper with “Prize Essay” scrawled across the back—this was not her composition. The sentences which she had read were not her own; there had been some mistake—some horrible, incomprehensible mistake! The numbers must have been confused together. It was Susan’s essay which had won the prize, and not her own.
Three minutes ago she had been sure, yet she had not been happy; she had allowed herself to think of the future—to worry and to doubt. Oh, the folly of it! And now she could never be happy any more; her triumph was turned into humiliation and shame.
What would they think—do—say? Mr Rawdon, Miss Drake, father and mother, the other visitors, the girls? Whatcouldthey say? It would be miserable for everybody—even for Susan. Susan could not enjoy her triumph at such a cost to her chosen friend. Susan’s arm pressed lovingly against her side—she was distressed that Dreda seemed unnerved, but she did not guess what had happened. Nobody guessed! No onecouldguess if she kept those sheets carefully folded, and destroyed them as soon as she reached the dormitory. It was not her own mistake. It was Mr Rawdon’s. Was one called upon to taste the very dregs of humiliation because another person had made a mistake?
Mr Rawdon was still talking. The hands of the clock had only registered ten minutes since he began; it seemed a lifetime before the big hand reached the next figure. No; she would not tell. The mistake had happened, and she must abide by it. There were other people to think of besides herself. Mother had cried for joy; father’s eyes had glowed with happy pride—could they bear to have their joy turned to pain?
Mr Rawdon was talking about life, taking up the subject of the girls’ essays, enlarging upon what they had tried to express. The words floated to Dreda’s ears; she listened in curious, detached fashion. “Difficulties and temptations came to us all; they were hard to bear, bitterly hard at the time, but looked upon in the right light they were just opportunities given to us to prove our true worth, to help us farther on our way.” Fine words, fine words! It was easy to preach when all was going well for oneself, and there was no terrible mountain of difficulty blocking up the very next step. Shecouldnot tell! All the eyes would stare at her again, but the admiration would be changed into pity—perhaps even into suspicion. Some people might believe that she herself was responsible for this mistake. She would give Susan another copy of the books for Christmas. Susan should not suffer. She would not tell.
Mr Rawdon had put down his notes, the hands of the clock had touched yet another figure; he was looking down the room and smiling in her direction. She lost the drift of his sentence, but his last words were her own name—“an Etheldreda Saxon,” he said, and in the midst of the applause which followed a girl’s voice rang out: “Three cheers for Dreda Saxon!” And once more the room was in an uproar of delight.
The girls leapt to their feet; Dreda leapt with them. Susan felt her thrust her way forward, and stared in surprise. She feared that her friend had turned faint with emotion, but when Dreda had cleared herself from the crowded forms she marched quietly up the room towards the platform. The unfolded essay was in her hand, her face was as white as the paper itself. The applause died away into a tense, uneasy silence. Something had gone wrong. What could it be?
Dreda held up the essay towards Mr Rawdon.
She opened her lips, but it was only after several ineffectual efforts that the husky voice would come.
“It is not mine! There has been a mistake. Susan wrote it—Susan Webster—the prize is hers!”