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 you _like_ it! You are content to think of spending your life in a
schoolroom, going over and over the same dull old books, Mary! How
_can_ you?"
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, _it_ would 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't _pleasant_ to 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 will _fail_, 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 judge _you_. 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.
_My_ conscience 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 she _is_ helped. 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--you
_must_! 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,
_stunning_ to 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.