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 almost _hear_ her 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 feel _it_ one 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 and _yet_ awed,
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 been _humility_ rather
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--_was_ she 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
call _ready_," 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. _Dear_ Susan! 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 really _did_ snap--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? What _could_ they 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
one _could_ guess 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. She _could_ not 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!"