Etheldreda the Ready Part 18

"I disapprove of this modern method of _cram_," she announced in a home letter. "Young girls need rest and amus.e.m.e.nt, 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 b.u.t.ton and regarded her reflection in the gla.s.s 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 pa.s.sionately. "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. n.o.body 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 cla.s.sroom. 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 pa.s.sing 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 cla.s.sroom. 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 auth.o.r.esses, 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.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

Mr Rawdon deliberately fastened his eye gla.s.ses 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 ma.n.u.scripts 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 embarra.s.sment, 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 ma.n.u.script slipped beneath the cover of the topmost volume. The visitors on either side beamed congratulations as she pa.s.sed; 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 pa.s.s along to her seat. She saw each face quite close as she pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 ma.n.u.script 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.