Chapter Seventeen.
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.