“No–o; I think not. No; certainly not the big classroom?”
“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 passed by in walk.—A beautiful black brand-new stylo!”
The audience sniggered 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 passing 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 competition. 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 passages 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!