A Prize Essay
Gwen went back to school feeling rather tamed and sober. The bad cold
and face-ache, subsequent on her adventure in the snow, had seriously
interfered with her plans for the holidays, and she had not
accomplished half she intended to do in the time. Dick Chambers had
been laid up in bed with an attack of rheumatism, so she had scarcely
seen anything of him, and altogether the much-longed-for month had
held its disappointments. She returned to her desk in the Fifth almost
glad to begin a fresh term, though she knew many difficulties awaited
her. First and foremost was the horrible fact that she owed a whole
sovereign to Netta Goodwin, and had absolutely no prospect of paying
it. She tried to avoid any private conversation with her chum, but the
ruse was not successful for long. Netta was a girl who was accustomed
to get her own way, and she followed Gwen round the school until she
caught her alone.
"I say, you old slacker, what about that sov.?" she began. "I suppose
you got your Christmas presents all right?"
"Oh, yes, I got my presents!" said Gwen, trying to pass things off
airily. "Not quite what I expected, though."
"But you can pay me back?"
"I'm afraid I can't just yet."
Netta's rather pretty face changed its expression considerably.
"When can you, then?" she asked sharply. "I want to know."
"Could you wait a fortnight?"
"It's inconvenient, but I might."
Netta was still scowling. "Will you promise faithfully to bring it by
the 1st of February?"
"I'll do my best," agreed Gwen, escaping from what was to both a very
unpleasant interview.
She had mentioned a fortnight simply on the spur of the moment to put
Netta off, but she knew that the 1st of February would bring no way
out of her entanglement. It was something, however, to have even a
respite of two weeks; it gave her time to think and to lay plans. She
wondered what Netta would do if, as seemed most likely, the debt still
remained owing. She did not suppose Netta would turn informer to Miss
Roscoe, but she might very possibly mention the matter to Winnie, who
would tell Beatrice, who would promptly tell Father.
"Only a fortnight!" groaned Gwen, feeling like a criminal in a
condemned cell. "Unless 'something turns up', as Mr. Micawber says in
_David Copperfield_. If I were the heroine of a novel, a forgotten
uncle in America would suddenly die, and leave me a million just at
the opportune moment. But I'm only a very unromantic, every-day kind
of person, not the forget-me-not-eyed, spun-gold-haired,
wild-rose-petal-complexioned, pearly-toothed sort of girl who gets
fortunes; I'm solid fact, not fiction. Most things are nowadays, I
suppose."
Certainly the Fifth Form did not offer scope for romance or sentiment.
Its daily doings were most prosaic, a round in which Latin,
mathematics, and chemistry were chiefly to the fore, and the only
appeal to the imagination was the weekly lecture on English literature
from the Principal. Gwen liked these; Miss Roscoe had the knack of
making historical dry bones live, and encouraged the girls to read for
themselves. All her lessons were interesting, but in this she was
inspiring. She was accustomed to give themes for fortnightly
exercises, and at the first lecture of this new term she announced as
a special subject: "An Essay on any one of the Great Writers of the
Victorian Era", promising a volume of Browning's poems as a prize.
"I had intended to offer it for Christmas," she said, "but I thought
you were too busy preparing for examinations to be able to give time
to such an essay. I hope you'll do justice to the subject now."
It was a large order, thought Gwen, when already their homework had
about reached its outside limit. Miss Roscoe was quite unconscionable
in her demands on their time and brains. She fixed the standard of the
Form so high that only the very bright girls could possibly keep up to
it. Many slacked off entirely, but Gwen could not, dared not slack.
She knew Miss Roscoe was watching her work, and that very much
depended upon her reports for the next year or two. Father had thrown
out a few hints that had stirred her ambition and raised wild hopes
for the future. She was aware that there were several good
scholarships from Rodenhurst, and visions of College began to dawn on
her horizon.
"'Gwen Gascoyne, B.A.', sounds no end. It would be worth the grind. I
mayn't be the beauty of the family, but I believe I've got the best
share of the brains. Beatrice would be proud of me if I took my
degree. I must make something of this essay if I 'burn the midnight'.
Miss Roscoe will expect me to turn up trumps. I'll toil like a navvy!"
So Gwen decided, and stuck to her resolution. She had an undoubted
capacity for work, a power of application and of steady plodding that
were of immense service, as well as more brilliant gifts. She attacked
the question at once. The Victorian writers offered a fairly wide
choice of subject. She hesitated at first between George Eliot and
Dickens, and finally selected Thomas Carlyle. Something about the
rugged old prophet attracted her, and she thought he would be a
congenial theme for her pen. She spent every spare moment in reading
his biographies or his works, till she felt she had him at her
fingers' ends. Then, with a mass of notes as a foundation, she began
her essay.
Most young writers undergo the same first agonies of composition: the
vainly sought simile, the sentence that will not turn nicely, the
tiresome word that crops up too often, yet for which there seems no
adequate substitute; the sudden lack of ideas, or the non-ability to
clothe those one has in suitable language.
Gwen wrote and burnt, and wrote and burnt again, till at last she
managed something, not at all up to the ideal of her imagination, but
the best her limited literary experience could produce. She refused to
show it to anybody at home, and bore it off to school to read over and
correct during the dinner hour. She was sitting at her desk, busy
altering sentences and erasing words, when Netta came into the room.
"Hello, you old solitary hermit!" she exclaimed. "What are you doing
here, with your nose buried in an exercise book? There's no getting at
you nowadays. You'll grow old before your time, Gwen, my child! Come
out this instant, and play basket-ball."
"Can't, so that's flat," responded Gwen. "Netta, if you love me, if
you've any humanity in you, leave me alone. Basket-ball's off till
I've finished this."
"Well, you've got to tell me what you're doing, at any rate. Let me
look! No, Miss Modesty, you're not going to hide your light under a
bushel. I insist! Oho! What have we got here now?"
Netta dragged the book from Gwen's reluctant hands, and sitting on a
neighbouring desk, began hastily to skim through the essay, giving
grunts of approval as she read.
"First rate! I say, this is immense! Gwen, my hearty, I didn't think
you'd got it in you!"
"Will it do?" demanded Gwen anxiously. She had sat on metaphorical
pins to hear Netta's verdict.
"Do? I should rather think it would! If Lemonade doesn't mark it A1,
First Prize, I shall say she doesn't know her business, that's all!
You're pretty safe for that book of Browning, in my opinion."
"Wish it were cash instead! But I shan't get it in any case," sighed
Gwen. "If I did, I'd trade it for anything I could."
"You mercenary wretch!"
"I'm so hard up. I'm no nearer paying what I owe you, Netta. I
literally haven't a penny in my pocket I wish you'd take it in kind
instead of money."
Netta sat silent, drumming with her fingers on the desk.
"I've a rather decent locket, if you'd care for that--" continued
Gwen.
"Hush! Be quiet! You've given me an idea, Gwen Gascoyne."
"Or I've a really jolly writing case--almost new--"
"I don't want your lockets or your writing cases; I've heaps of my
own. I know one thing I do want, though, and if you like to trade, you
can."
"Done! Only name it, and it's yours with my blessing."
"Well, I want this essay--"
"My essay! What do you mean?"
Gwen snatched back her exercise book as a mother clutches her
first-born.
"I mean what I say. If you like to hand over 'Thomas Carlyle' to me,
I'll take it instead of the sov., and call us quits. It would be a new
experience to win a prize. How amazed everyone would be!"
"You surely wouldn't pass it off as your own?"
"Why not?"
"Why, Netta! That would be rather strong, even for you!"
"I told you long ago I was no saint. Besides, what's the harm? It's a
business arrangement. You offered to pay me in kind, and this happens
to be the 'pound of flesh', I fancy. It's perfectly fair."
"Um! Don't quite see the fairness myself."
"But it is!" protested Netta rather huffily. "I believe lots of
popular authors don't do all their own writing themselves. They engage
secretaries to help them. I've even heard of clergymen buying their
sermons."
"Oh, oh! Father doesn't!" Gwen's tone was warm.
"Well, I didn't say he did, but I believe it's done all the same. And if
a vicar can read somebody else's sermon in the pulpit as if it were his
own, I may hand in somebody else's essay. _Quod est demonstrandum_, my
child."
"Can't see it!" grunted Gwen.
"Look here, Gwen Gascoyne, you've got to see it! I've been uncommonly
patient with you, but I don't quite appreciate the joke of being done
out of that sov. I must either have it or its equivalent. You can
please yourself which."
Netta's eyes were flashing, and her mouth was twitching ominously. She
was a jolly enough fair-weather comrade, but she could be uncommonly
nasty if things went wrong.
"I suppose you don't consider it unfair to keep me waiting all this
time?" she added scathingly.
Gwen kicked the desk and groaned.
"Well, it just amounts to this: if you don't choose to come to terms,
I'll tell Lemonade. Yes, I will! I don't care a scrap if I went into
her room as well as you. You broke the china, and you'd get into the
worst row. It wouldn't be pleasant for you. I think you'd better hand
over Mr. Thomas Carlyle to me, my dear."
"And what am I to do, I should like to know?"
"Write another on a different author."
"There isn't time."
"Yes there is, heaps! I don't want it to be as good as this,
naturally. Well, are you going to trade, or are you not? I can't wait
here all day!"
For answer, Gwen held out the exercise book. She was in a desperately
tight corner; everything seemed to have conspired against her. She
knew Netta and her mad, reckless moods quite well enough to appreciate
the fact that her threat to tell Miss Roscoe was no idle one. When her
temper was roused, Netta was capable of anything.
"It's her fault more than mine if it's not fair. I really can't help
it," thought Gwen, trying to find excuses for herself.
"Oh! Glad you've come to your senses at last!" sneered Netta, as she
clutched the precious manuscript and stalked away, slamming the door
behind her. There was no one else in the room, so Gwen laid her head
down on the desk, and indulged in an altogether early Victorian
exhibition of feeling. Her essay--her cherished essay, over which she
had taken such superhuman pains, to be torn away from her like this!
It was to have brought her such credit from Miss Roscoe, for even if
it did not win the prize, it would surely be highly commended. And she
had made herself a party to a fraud, for however much she might try
to whitewash her act, she knew she had no right to allow Netta to use
her work.
"Dad would despise me! Oh, what an abominable mix and muddle it all
is! And I was going to start the New Year so straight!" wailed Gwen.
Netta in the meantime had put the essay away in her locker with the
utmost satisfaction. She felt she had decidedly scored. Neither
brilliant nor a hard worker, she had no opportunity of distinguishing
herself in the Form under ordinary circumstances: here chance had
flung into her hand the very thing she wanted. It would not take long
to copy the sixteen pages of rather sprawling writing, then "Thomas
Carlyle" would be her own.
"And a surprise for everyone!" she chuckled complacently. "Of course,
it's rather dear--a whole pound! But--yes, most undoubtedly it's worth
it!"
To Gwen, not the lightest part of the business was that she was faced
with the horrible necessity of writing another essay. Only two days
remained, so time pressed. It was impossible to look up any subject
adequately, so she chose Dickens, as being an author whose books she
knew fairly well, and by dint of much brain racking and real hard
labour contrived to give some slight sketch of his life and an
appreciation of his genius. She was painfully conscious, however, that
the result was poor, the style slipshod, and the general composition
lacking both in unity and finish. She pulled a long face as she signed
her name to it.
"That isn't going to do much for you, Gwen Gascoyne," she said to
herself. "It won't even get 'commended'. Bah! I'm sick of the whole
thing!"
She felt more sick still on the day when Miss Roscoe returned the
essays.
"I had hoped the average standard would be higher," commented the
Principal. "Very few girls have treated the subject in any really
critical spirit. There is only one paper worthy of notice--that on
Thomas Carlyle by Netta Goodwin, and it is so excellent that it stands
head and shoulders above all the others. I am very pleased, Netta,
very pleased indeed, that you should have done so well. Your essay is
carefully thought out and nicely expressed, and is evidently the
result of much painstaking work. You thoroughly deserve the prize
which I offered, and I have written your name in the book."
The Fifth Form gasped as Netta, with a smile of infinite triumph,
marched jauntily up the room to receive her copy of Browning's Poems.
Each girl looked at her neighbour in almost incredulous astonishment.
Netta Goodwin, of all people in the world, to have won such praise!
Gwen drew her breath hard, and clenched her fists till her nails hurt
her palms. At that moment, I am afraid, she hated Netta.
"Who was your author, Gwen? I chose Thackeray," said Louise Mawson
afterwards.
"Dickens--and I only got 'fairly creditable'," responded Gwen. "It's
just rotten!"
Which was a word utterly tabooed both at Rodenhurst and at home, but
the sole one that seemed bad enough for the occasion.
"So I hear Netta Goodwin's was the prize essay," remarked Father that
evening. "Well, we can't all of us win prizes, can we? It was a
strange coincidence that she should have written on Thomas Carlyle
too!"
"Most remarkably strange, and very unfortunate for me," admitted Gwen,
drinking her cup of bitterness to the dregs.