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.
"Do _you_ think 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 of _cram_," 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 can _not_ bear 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 is
_You_."
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.
"_Do_ you?" 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! Surely _there_--"
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, you _do_ exaggerate! A
passing disappointment like that! Such a little, little thing, when
there are such big prizes waiting in life! Oh, Dreda, you are _young_!"
"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.