FAILED!

First Class, Second Class, and still no sign of the familiar number.

Third Class--it was not there! Rhoda gave a little gulp, and began

again from the very beginning. She had been too quick, too eager. It

was so easy to miss a number. One by one she conned them over, but it

was not there. The long Pass List lay below, and she looked at it with

dreary indifference. To scramble through with the rabble was a sorry

attainment, or it seemed so for one moment, but at the next it became,

suddenly, a wild, impossible dream, for--the number was not there! No

fear of overlooking this time, for the figures stood out as if printed

in fire, and burned themselves into her brain. The number was not in

the First Class, nor the Second, nor the Third; it was not in the Pass

List, it was not mentioned at all.

If she had ever permitted herself to anticipate such a situation, which

she had not, Rhoda would have pictured herself flying into a paroxysm of

despair; but in reality she felt icy cold, and it was in a tone almost

of indifference that she announced:

"I am plucked! I have not passed at all."

"Never mind, dear; you did your best, and the work matters more than the

result. Very uncertain tests, these examinations--I never cared about

them," said her father kindly, and Mrs Chester smiled in her usual

placid fashion, and murmured, "Oh, I expect it's a mistake. It's so

easy to make a mistake in printing figures. You will find it is all

right, darling, later on. Have some jam!"

They were absolutely placid; absolutely calm; absolutely unconscious of

the storm of emotion raging beneath that quiet exterior; but Harold

glanced at his sister with the handsome eyes which looked so sleepy, but

which were in reality so remarkably wide-awake, and said slowly:

"I think Rhoda has finished, mother. You don't want any jam, do you,

Ro? Come into the garden with me instead. I want a stroll."

He walked out through the French window, and Rhoda followed with much

the same feeling of relief as that with which a captive escapes from the

prison which seems to be on the point of suffocating him, mentally and

physically. Brother and sister paced in silence down the path leading

to the rose garden. Harold was full of sympathy, but, man-like, found

it difficult to put his thoughts into words, and Rhoda, after all, was

the first to speak. She stopped suddenly in the middle of the path, and

confronted him with shining eyes. Her voice sounded strange in her own

ears.

"Harold, I--have--failed! I am plucked. I have not passed at all--not

even a common pass."

"No? I'm uncommonly sorry, but--"

"But do you realise it; do you understand what it means? I _think_ I

do, but I don't. If I did, I should not be here talking quietly to you.

I should go mad! I should want to kill myself. I should be

desperate!"

"Don't be silly now, Ro. It's a big disappointment, and I'm sorry for

you, but it's not a bit of use working yourself into hysterics. Face

the thing quietly, and see--"

"All that it means--. It means a good deal, Harold; more than you can

understand. I think I'd rather be alone, please. You are very kind,

but I can't stand consolation just yet. I'll sit in the arbour."

"Just as you please. I don't want to force myself, but I'd like to help

you, old girl. Is there nothing else I can do?"

"Yes; keep mother away! Don't let her come near me until lunch. I am

best left alone, and she doesn't understand--no one understands except

those who have been at school, and know how--how hard--"

The girl's voice trembled, and broke off suddenly, and she walked away

in the direction of the summer-house, while Harold thrust his hands into

his pockets and kicked the pebbles on the gravel path. He was very fond

of his impetuous young sister, and the quivering sob which had strangled

her last word echoed painfully in his ears. He realised as neither

father nor mother could do what such a failure meant to a proud,

ambitious girl, and how far-reaching would be its consequences. It was

not to-day nor to-morrow that would exhaust this trouble; the bitterest

part was yet to come when she returned to school, and received the

condolences of her more successful companions; when she sat apart and

saw them receive their reward. Harold longed to be able to help, but

there was nothing to do but persuade his parents to leave the girl

alone, and to return at intervals to satisfy himself that she was still

in her retreat, and not attempting to drown her sorrows in the lake.

Three times over he paced the path, and saw the white-robed figure

sitting immovable, with elbows planted on the table, and falling locks

hiding the face from view. So still she sat that he retired silently,

hoping that she had fallen asleep, but on the fourth visit he was no

longer alone, but accompanied by a graceful, girlish figure, and they

did not halt until they stood on the very threshold of the arbour

itself.

"Rhoda!" he cried, then, "look up! I have brought someone to you.

Someone you will be glad to see."

The flaxen mane was tossed back, and a flushed face raised in protest.

"I don't--" began Rhoda, and then suddenly sprang to her feet and

stretched out her arms. "Oh, Evie--Evie! You have come. Oh, I wanted

you--I wanted you so badly!"

Miss Everett stepped forward and drew the girl to her side, and Harold

waited just long enough to see the fair head and the dark nestle

together, and then took himself off to the house, satisfied that comfort

had come at last.

"I have _failed_, Evie!" cried Rhoda, clasping her friend's hands, and

staring at her with the same expression of incredulous horror with which

she had confronted her brother a couple of hours earlier. "Yes,

darling. I know."

"And what are you going to say to me, then?"

"Nothing, I think, for the moment, but that I love you dearly, and felt

that I must come to be with you. Aren't you surprised to see me,

Rhoda?"

"No, I don't think so. I don't feel anything. I wanted you, and then--

there you were! It seemed quite natural."

"But it was rather peculiar all the same. I have been staying with Tom,

and we were both asked down to D-- for a four days' visit. That is only

half an hour's rail from here, as you know; so this morning when I saw

the list in the paper I thought at once--`I must see Rhoda! I will go

down and chance finding her at home!'"

"Yes!"

"So I came, and am so glad to be with you, dear. I have seen your

mother, and have promised to stay to lunch. I need not go back until

four o'clock."

"Oh, that's nice. I like to have you. Evie, I believe it was the

arithmetic. I was so ill, I could hardly think. You might as well know

all now. It was my own doing. I had been working every morning before

getting up, and that day I began at four. I tired myself out before the

gong rang."

"I guessed as much. Dorothy told me that she heard someone turning over

leaves!"

"Why don't you say, `I told you so!' then, and tell me that it's my own

fault?"

"I--don't--know! Perhaps because I do so many foolish things myself;

perhaps because I haven't the heart to scold you just now, you poor

dear."

Rhoda's face quivered, but she pressed her lips together, and said with

a gulp:

"I suppose--it's a childish trouble! I suppose--when I am old--and

sensible--I shall look back on to-day, and laugh to think how I worried

myself over such an unimportant trial."

"I am sure you will do nothing of the kind. You will be very, very

sorry for yourself, and very pitiful, and very proud, too, if you can

remember that you bore it bravely and uncomplainingly."

"But I can't! I can't bear it at all. It gets worse every moment. I

keep remembering things that I had forgotten. Miss Bruce preaching, and

Miss Mott staring through her spectacles--the girls all saying they are

sorry, and the--the Record Wall, where I wanted to see my name! I

_can't_ bear it, it's no use."

"But you will _have_ to bear it, Rhoda. It is a fact, and nothing that

you can do will alter it now. You will have to bear it; but you can

bear it in two ways, as you make up your mind to-day. You can cry and

fret, and make yourself ill, and everyone else miserable, or you can

brace yourself up to bear it bravely, and make everyone love and admire

you more than they have ever done before. Which are you going to do?"

"I am going to be cross and horrid. I couldn't be good if I tried. I'm

soured for life!" said Rhoda stoutly, but even as she spoke a smile

struggled with her tears, and Evie laughed aloud--her sweet, ringing

laugh.

"Poor, dear old thing! She looks so like it! I know better, and am not

a bit afraid of you. You will be good and plucky, and rejoice

unaffectedly in Kathleen's success."

"Has Kathleen--Oh! Is Kathleen first?"

"She has won the Scholarship. Yes, it will be such a joy. She needed

it so badly, and has worked so hard."

"I hate her!"

"She was always kind to you. I remember the very first day she took you

round the grounds. You were very good friends."

"I hate her, I tell you! I detest her name."

"I am sure you will write and congratulate her. Imagine if _your_

parents were poor, and you saw them harassed and anxious, how thankful

you would feel to be able to help! Kathleen had a harder time than any

of you, for she could take none of the nice, interesting `Extras.' I

think all her friends will be glad that she has won."

"I shall be glad, too, in about ten years. If I said I was glad now I

should be a hypocrite, for I wanted it myself. I suppose Irene is all

right, and Bertha, and all the Head girls? Has--has Dorothy--"

"Yes, Dorothy has passed too."

Rhoda cried aloud in bitter distress.

"Oh, Evie--oh! Dorothy passed, and I have failed! Oh it is cruel--

unjust. I am cleverer than she! You can't deny it. I worked harder.

I was before her always, in every class, in every exam. Oh, it's mean,

it's mean that they should have put her before me!"

The tears streamed down her face, for this was perhaps the bitterest

moment she had known. To be beaten by Kathleen, and Irene, was

bearable, but--Dorothy! Easy-going, mediocre Dorothy, who had so little

ambition that she could laugh at her own shortcomings, and contentedly

call herself a "tortoise." Well, the tortoise had come off victor once

more, and the poor, beaten hare sat quivering with mortified grief.

Miss Everett looked at her with perplexed, anxious eyes.

"You will probably find when the full report comes out that you have

done better in most respects, but that it is the preliminaries which

have caused your failure. But Rhoda, Rhoda, how would it help you to

know that another poor girl had failed, and was as miserable as

yourself? Would you be _glad_ to hear that Dorothy was sitting crying

at home, and Kathleen bearing her parents' grief as well as her own?

You could not possibly be so selfish. I know you too well. You are far

too kind and generous."

"I'm a pig!" said Rhoda contritely, and the tears trickled dismally off

the end of her nose, and splashed on to the wooden table. "I should

like to be a saint, and resigned, and rejoice in the good fortunes of my

companions like the girls in books, but I can't. I just feel sore, and

mad, and aching, and as if they were all in conspiracy against me to

make my failure more bitter. You had better give it up, Evie, and leave

me to fight it out alone. I'll come to my senses in time, and write

pretty, gushing letters to say how charmed I am--and make funny little

jokes at the end about my own collapse. This is Monday--perhaps by

Wednesday or Thursday--"

"I expect it will be Tuesday, and not an hour later. You are letting

off such an amount of steam that you will calm down more quickly than

you think. And now, hadn't we better go indoors, and bathe those poor

red eyes before lunch? Your mother will think I have been scolding you,

and I don't want to be looked upon as a dragon when I'm out of harness,

and posing as an innocent, unprofessional visitor. Come, dear, and

we'll talk no more of the horrid old exam., but try to forget it and

enjoy ourselves!"

Rhoda's sigh was sepulchral in its intensity, for, of course, happiness

must henceforth be a thing of the past, so far as she was concerned; but

as she did not appreciate the idea of appearing at lunch with a tear-

stained face, she followed meekly to the house, and entering by a side

door, led the way upstairs to her own luxurious bedroom.

Half an hour of chastened enjoyment followed as she sat sponging her

eyes, while Evie strolled round the room, exclaiming with admiration at

the sight of each fresh treasure, and showing the keenest interest in

the jugs and their histories. She admired Rhoda's possessions, and

Rhoda admired her, watching the graceful figure reflected in the

mirrors; the pretty dress, so simple, yet so becoming; the dark hair

waving so softly round the winsome face. Evie was certainly one of the

prettiest of creatures, and Rhoda felt a sort of reflected glory in

taking her downstairs and exhibiting her to her family.

If the tear marks had not altogether disappeared, no one appeared to

notice them, and despite her own silence, lunch was a cheery meal. Evie

chattered away in her gayest manner; Mrs Chester agreed with every word

she said, and called her "dear" as if she were a friend of years'

standing. Mr Chester beamed upon her with undisguised, fatherly

admiration, and Harold looked more animated than Rhoda had seen him for

many a long day. The brisk, bright way in which Evie took up his

drawling sentences, and put him right when he was mistaken in a

statement, would have made him withdraw into his shell if attempted by a

member of the household, but he did not seem in the least annoyed with

Evie. He only smiled to himself in amused fashion, and watched her

narrowly out of the corners of his eyes.

When dessert was put upon the table, Mrs Chester looked wistfully at

Rhoda's white face, lighted into a feeble smile by one of her friend's

sallies, and was seized with a longing to keep this comforter at hand.

"I suppose you must go back to D-- this afternoon, dear," she said, "but

couldn't we persuade you to come back and pay us a visit before you

leave this part of the world? It would be a great pleasure to Rhoda,

and to us all, and any time would suit us. Just fix your own day,

and--"

"Oh, Evie, do!" cried Rhoda eagerly, and both the men joined in with

murmurs of entreaty; but Miss Everett shook her head, and said

regretfully:

"I'm so sorry, but it's impossible. I have already been away longer

than I intended, and cannot spend another day away from home. My mother

is busier than usual, for a sister who used to teach has had a bad

illness and is staying with us for six months, to rest and be nursed up.

It would not be fair to stay away any longer."

"I should think you might be allowed to rest in your holidays. You work

hard enough for the rest of the year, and I need you more than the old

aunt, I'm sure I do. You must come, if only for a week!"

"I wish I could, Rhoda, but it is not possible. I'll tell you, however,

who I believe _could_ come, and who would do you more good than I, and

that is Tom Bolderston! She is in no hurry to return home, and as it is

decided that she is not to come back to Hurst Manor, but go on straight

to Newnham, it will be your last opportunity of seeing her for some

time. You would enjoy having Tom, wouldn't you, Rhoda?"

Rhoda lifted her eyebrows with a comical expression. Tom here; Tom in

Erley Chase! Tom sitting opposite to Harold and blinking at him with

her little fish eyes--the thought was so comical that she laughed in

spite of herself.

"I think I should. It would be very funny. If I may ask her, mother--"

"Of course, of course, darling! Ask whom you will, for as long as you

like," cried the fond mother instantly. From what she had heard of Tom

she had come to the conclusion that she was a very strange, and not

entirely sane, young woman; but Rhoda wished it, Rhoda had laughed at

the suggestion, and said it would be "funny," and that settled the

question.

A letter of invitation was duly written and given into Miss Everett's

hand when the time came for departure, and brother and sister escorted

her to the station. Rhoda was insistent in her regrets at parting, and,

wonderful to relate, Harold condescended to make still another plea. If

it were impossible to arrange a visit, could not Miss Everett spare a

few hours at least, come down by an early train, and spend a day on the

river with himself and his sister? He urged the project so warmly that

Evie flushed with mingled pleasure and embarrassment.

"Don't tempt me! I should love it, but we are here only for four days,

and I have been away for one already. It would not be courteous."

"She is so horribly conscientious, that's the worst of her!" said Rhoda,

as she and Harold retraced their steps across the Park. "She is always

thinking about other people. A day on the river would have been

lovely."

"Yes, it's a pity. I thought we would ask Ella, and take up lunch and

tea."

"Yes, of course, a very good idea. Then we should have been four, and I

could have had Evie to myself--"

"Y-es!" drawled Harold slowly. Two minutes later Rhoda happened to look

at his face, and wondered why in the world he was smiling to himself in

that funny, amused fashion!