Etheldreda the Ready Part 17

"Susan, _stop_! You mustn't! If you tell us your ideas we may copy them without meaning to do it... If you put thoughts into our heads they stay there and grow, and we can't send them away, but they are _yours_. You ought to keep them to yourself."

"My dear, she says she has enough to fill a volume. She needn't grudge a few to her starving friends," cried Nancy in would-be reproach.

"Confide in me, Susan dear! I'll sit at your feet, and gobble up all the pearls that you drop, and perhaps in the end I may win the prize myself. I don't see why it should be taken for granted that only two girls have a chance. There's a lot of vulgar prejudice in this school, but Mr Rawdon will judge with an unbiased mind. I have thought more than once when I've been reading his books that the style was rather like my own, and I've a sort of a--kind of a--what's the word?--_premonition_ that he'll like me best."

There was a general laugh, but Nancy was a favourite despite her teasing ways, so the laughter was good-tempered and sympathetic, and it was easy to see that if by chance the prize fell to her lot the award would be a popular one. Nancy was incurably lazy, but the conviction lingered in the minds of her companions that "she could be clever if she chose," and it would seem quite in character that she should suddenly wake up to the surprise and confusion of her compet.i.tors. Dreda looked round with an anxious air, as if recognising a new, and formidable compet.i.tor. She determined to begin making notes that very evening, and asked suddenly:

"Has anyone seen my stylo? My things seem to be bewitched nowadays.

They are always disappearing. I searched for my French book for a solid hour yesterday, and this morning it was my penknife, and now it's the pen--I waste half my time hunting and searching."

"You are so untidy. If you would be more methodical--"

"I didn't ask for moral reflections, Barbara. I asked for my pen."

"Is it a black one? A little stumpy black one--about so long?"

"Yes--yes! That's it. Have you seen it, Nancy?"

Nancy stroked her chin with a meditative air.

"I _did_ see a stylo somewhere! I remember noticing it--a very nice one. Quite new."

"Yes--yes; that's it. Where was it? Do think, Nancy! Cudgel your brains."

"I am cudgelling them--I'm cudgelling _hard_." Nancy nipped her chin between her finger and thumb, and knitted her brows till her eyebrows appeared to meet. "I saw it this morning. It was lying on a shelf, near a window. I can see it before me now." She waved her hand in the air. "Like a picture. Distinctly!"

"Yes--yes--yes! But where? _Think_! In the big cla.s.sroom?"

"No-o; I think not. No; certainly not the big cla.s.sroom?"

"Miss Drake's room, then? The study? Number 5? Our bedroom? If you can see it distinctly, you _must_ know."

Nancy frowned on, apparently plunged in thought, then slowly a flash seemed to irradiate her features.

"I have it!" she cried triumphantly. "It was in the window of the chemist's shop! I saw it as we pa.s.sed by in walk.--A beautiful black brand-new stylo!"

The audience sn.i.g.g.e.red with enjoyment, for though not quite so heartless as their brothers, it cannot be denied that most school-girls take a mischievous delight in teasing their companions. Dreda Saxon was, moreover, from this point of view an amusing victim, for when a joke was directed against herself her sense of humour was temporarily eclipsed, and she took refuge in what was laughingly dubbed "heroics." Now, as usual, her eyes flashed, her chin tilted itself in air, and her voice swelled in deep-toned reproof.

"That is not funny, Nancy--it is _unkind_! To laugh at people who are in trouble is a sign of a mean, unprincipled mind. I am surprised that you condescend to such depths."

A shriek of laughter followed this reproof, and as she marched majestically from the room Dreda caught a glimpse of Nancy beaming and unrepentant, pretending to wring tears out of a dry pocket-handkerchief.

In that moment she mentally added three "heads" to the essay on life, and headed them with large capital letters: Misunderstanding. Mockery.

Faithless Friends.

During the next week Dreda spent every moment that could be spared from ordinary school-work in working at her essay, alternating between wild elation and depths of despair as her thoughts flowed or flagged. Her home letter was full of the all-absorbing topic, but Rowena's reply was a great surprise--for behold, pessimistic repinings had given place to an outlook which was positively jaunty in tone.

"It's a nice old world, after all," Rowena wrote. "It is stupid to allow oneself to get humped, for sometimes at the very moment when you believe that all is over, the very nicest things are just about to begin. Put that in your essay, and make moral reflections. `Oft-times in our ignorance we believe ... but looking back over a gap of time we can see--A trivial word, a pa.s.sing glance, the choice of a road, on such trifles may depend ... Discipline is good for us all, but joy cometh in the morning.' You know the sort of thing. For once I really wish I could write your essay for you. I feel just in the mood to write pages.

I've been out riding with Mr Seton and his cousins three times this week, and the exercise is so exhilarating. The cousins are staying at the Manor House--such nice girls! We have taken quite a fancy to one another, and they lend me a mount, so that we can go about together Mr Seton sends you his best wishes for the compet.i.tion. We talked about it together when we were riding to-day. He is so clever, and has such beautiful thoughts. He is looking forward most awfully to his life, and says it gets better and better all the time. I feel quite ashamed to remember how depressed and discontented I have been, and how irritable with poor old Maud. She can't help it, poor dear, if she _is_ stupid; one ought to be patient with her, and satisfied with a peaceful home life! I _am_ satisfied now. To-morrow I go to lunch at the Manor House."

"But it was to _me_ he offered the mount," was Dreda's comment, not without a touch of offence. Then with a benevolent impulse: "Oh, well, Ro can have it until the holidays, and then he'll take me." Rowena's suggestions as to the essay were too valuable to be ignored, and the fact that they were in exact contradiction of the pessimistic pa.s.sages on persecution last added, was no hindrance to an author of Etheldreda's ingenuity. She had simply to write, "On the other hand, it may be said," and in came Rowena's reflections as pat as possible. During those next few days her versatile mind seized on everything that she heard, saw, or read, which could by any possibility be turned into material for the essay, until page after page was filled with her big straggling handwriting, and while her companions were still biting their pens in search of inspiration, she was confronted by the task of reducing her masterpiece by at least one-half of its length. And what a task that was!

"Really," she told Susan with a sigh, "cutting down is more difficult than making-up! I read over each bit by itself, and it seems as if I love it more than all the rest put together, and I simply can't _endure_ to lose it; but the next bit is the same, and the next, and the next."

She rolled her eyes dramatically to the ceiling. "I am like a mother, called upon to sacrifice one of her children. Whichever I choose, it will break my heart! How I wish I could send in two papers, and have two chances!"

Such a proceeding was, of course, out of the question, so with much groaning and lamentation Dreda cut out the quieter pa.s.sages, reserving the highly coloured flights of fancy which she considered more likely to attract an author of Mr Rawdon's standing. When at last the typed copies of the twelve essays were circulated in the school it was found, as had been expected, that Susan and Dreda had far out-distanced the other compet.i.tors, but Susan's most devoted admirers confessed that her production appeared tame and dull when compared with Dreda's sparkling eloquence.

"I don't quite know what she's driving at," Barbara admitted, "but it sounds awfully grand all the same; and dear old Sue's so painfully in earnest! We'd better resign ourselves to the worst, for Dreda's bound to get the prize, and lord it over us for the rest of the term. Our lives won't be worth living."

"It's the unexpected that happens in this world. I have a feeling that there will be strange developments about this prize. Wait and see!"

said Nancy, darkly.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

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 compet.i.tion 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 cla.s.s 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 att.i.tude.

"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 cla.s.ses, 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.