Mr Rawdon was still talking. The hands of the clock had only registered ten minutes since he began; it seemed a lifetime before the big hand reached the next figure. No; she would not tell. The mistake had happened, and she must abide by it. There were other people to think of besides herself. Mother had cried for joy; father’s eyes had glowed with happy pride—could they bear to have their joy turned to pain?
Mr Rawdon was talking about life, taking up the subject of the girls’ essays, enlarging upon what they had tried to express. The words floated to Dreda’s ears; she listened in curious, detached fashion. “Difficulties and temptations came to us all; they were hard to bear, bitterly hard at the time, but looked upon in the right light they were just opportunities given to us to prove our true worth, to help us farther on our way.” Fine words, fine words! It was easy to preach when all was going well for oneself, and there was no terrible mountain of difficulty blocking up the very next step. She could not tell! All the eyes would stare at her again, but the admiration would be changed into pity—perhaps even into suspicion. Some people might believe that she herself was responsible for this mistake. She would give Susan another copy of the books for Christmas. Susan should not suffer. She would not tell.
Mr Rawdon had put down his notes, the hands of the clock had touched yet another figure; he was looking down the room and smiling in her direction. She lost the drift of his sentence, but his last words were her own name—“an Etheldreda Saxon,” he said, and in the midst of the applause which followed a girl’s voice rang out: “Three cheers for Dreda Saxon!” And once more the room was in an uproar of delight.
The girls leapt to their feet; Dreda leapt with them. Susan felt her thrust her way forward, and stared in surprise. She feared that her friend had turned faint with emotion, but when Dreda had cleared herself from the crowded forms she marched quietly up the room towards the platform. The unfolded essay was in her hand, her face was as white as the paper itself. The applause died away into a tense, uneasy silence. Something had gone wrong. What could it be?
Dreda held up the essay towards Mr Rawdon.
She opened her lips, but it was only after several ineffectual efforts that the husky voice would come.
“It is not mine! There has been a mistake. Susan wrote it—Susan Webster—the prize is hers!”