“Oh, no. The most deadly earnest. You were Susan’s chum, and you patronised me, and gave yourself airs, and I was angry and jealous, and wanted to vex you. It was the only thing I could think of, and it amused me to see you fume and rage. I hid them all—every single thing. So now you know!”
Dreda sat open-mouthed and aghast. What she felt was not so much horror at thought of the deliberate unkindness, as sheer bewilderment at the discovery that a human being existed who cherished a positive dislike to her irresistible self. She had disliked Norah—that had seemed natural enough—but that Norah should return that dislike was a thought which had not even vaguely suggested itself to her mind. It was as if an earthquake had shaken the foundations of her complacent self-esteem. She had a second vision of herself as a novice coming among old pupils and companions, laying down the law, starting new enterprises, claiming the first place, and with it came also a new insight into Norah’s suffering, seeing all that had been denied to herself bequeathed so lavishly to a stranger. Instead of the expected outburst of anger, Norah saw with amazement the big tears rise in Dreda’s eyes.
“I’m sorry, Norah! I was very horrid. You took an awful lot of trouble. I lost nothing, after all, so you needn’t worry, and they were all quite little things.”
“Not all! They weren’t all little. The synopsis, for instance; you didn’t think that little.”
“Oh, Norah, did you hide it? That was cruel! I had worked so hard—had taken such pains. The Duck was so cross! You took it out of my desk, and put it back when I was in the study, just to make me look careless and stupid. Is it really true? I never for one moment believed that anyone had done it on purpose. I can’t believe it now.”
“It’s true, all the same. I did it. I made up my mind to tell you, and I will... I did worse than that... Can you guess what I did?”
They stared at one another across the neglected tea table; stared in silence while one might have counted ten; then Dreda drew a quick, fearful breath.
“No—no, not that! Not the essay—the numbers—the changed numbers! You could not have done that! ... Norah, I couldn’t believe it!”
“But I did, I did! It was all my doing. I didn’t mean to, but Miss Drake sent me to her room, and on the desk was the parcel of papers all ready except for the string, and the girls all said yours was the best, and I didn’t want you to win. I thought it would make you more conceited and bossy than ever. I wanted Susan to get the prize, so that everyone should see she was cleverer than you; but I was afraid she wouldn’t, for all the girls said yours was the best. The numbers were just fastened on with clips. It jumped into my head that it would only take a moment to put your number on Susan’s paper, and Susan’s on yours. Miss Drake said we were all to keep our own written copies, for Mr Rawdon, like most authors, was very unmethodical and careless, and would probably mislay the papers and never send them back. She wanted to make it as easy for him as possible, because it was doing her a big favour to read them at all; so she was going to tell him just to send the winning number and not to bother about the papers. I changed the numbers, and ran downstairs, and the parcel went off by the next post. I was glad I had done it. You were so certain you were going to win, and so condescending to Susan. I was glad I had done it!”
“I see—I understand. And—and when my name was read out, when I did get the prize—how did you feel then, Norah? Were you still glad?”