“It’s like the operating theatre at a hospital! Oh my! and don’t I feel as if I were going to be cut up too!” groaned Dorothy, as she filed along in front of a seat, looking for her place. At a distance of every two or three yards the desks were marked with a number, in front of which was a supply of blotting and writing paper. Some of the candidates made out their own number at once, others went roaming helplessly about, and Rhoda found herself perched in the furthest corner, far from her companions. She looked across and received Dorothy’s smiling nod, but Kathleen’s face was set in stern anxiety, and the others were too busy arranging papers to remember her existence. The Examiner, in cap and gown, stood on the platform, talking to the lady secretary of the Centre. She made a remark, and he smiled, and said something in reply at which they both laughed audibly. It shocked Rhoda in much the same way as it would have done to hear a chief mourner laugh at a funeral. Such levity was most unseemly, yet on the other hand the pictures on the walls were surely unnecessarily depressing! They were oil-coloured portraits of departed worthies, at that gloomy stage of decay when frame, figure, and background have acquired the same dirty hue, and the paint has cracked in a hundred broken lines. One old gentleman—the ugliest of all—faced Rhoda as she sat, and stared at her with a mocking gaze, which seemed to say:
“You think you are going to pass in arithmetic, do you? Wait until you see the paper! You’ll be surprised—!”
It was a relief to turn to the paper itself and know the worst, which seemed very bad indeed. She glanced from question to question, feeling despair deepen at the sight of such phrases as—“Simplify the expression”; “debenture stock at 140 1/8”; “at what rate per cent.?” etcetera, etcetera. In the present condition of mind and body it was an effort to recall the multiplication table, not to speak of difficult and elaborate calculations. Poor Rhoda! She dipped her pen into the ink, and wrote the headline to her paper, hesitated for a moment, added “Question A,” and then it seemed as if she could do no more. The figures danced before her eyes, her knees shook, her hands were so petrified with cold that she clasped them together to restore some feeling of warmth, and the faintness of an hour ago seemed creeping on once more. She leant her elbows on the desk, bowed her hands in her head, and remained motionless for ten minutes on end. The other girls would think that she was studying the paper, and deciding what question she could best answer; but in reality she was fighting the hardest battle of her life, a battle between the Flesh, which said, “Give in; say you are too ill! Think what bliss it would be to lie down and have nothing to do!” and the Will, which declared, “No, never! I must and shall go on. Brain! Hands! Eyes! you are my servants. I will not let you fail!” In the end Will conquered, and Rhoda raised her face, pale to the lips, but with determination written on every feature.
The girl next to herself had covered half the sheet with figures, and was ruling two neat little lines, which showed that Question A was satisfactorily settled. All over the room the girls were scribbling away, alert and busy; there was plainly no time to be wasted, and Rhoda began slowly to puzzle out the easiest problem. The answer seemed inappropriate; she tried again, with a different result; a third time, with a third result; then the firm lips set, and she began doggedly the fourth time over. To her relief this answer was the same as number two, so it was copied out without delay, and the next puzzle begun, and the next, and the next.
Oh, the weariness of those two hours, the struggle against weakness, the moments of despair when memory refused to work, and simplest facts evaded her grasp! Nobody ever knew all that it meant, and as she had the presence of mind to tear up her blotting-paper, no examining eyes were shocked by the sight of the expedients to which a senior candidate had been reduced in order to discover the total of six multiplied by six, or eight plus eleven. There were other moments, however, when the brain cleared and allowed a space for intelligent work. More faintness came on again, and at the end she could announce to her companions that she had answered nine out of the twelve questions.
“What did you get for the square root?” enquired Kathleen anxiously. “Irene’s answer was different from mine; but I did think I was right. I went over it twice!”
The girls were all surging together in the ante-room, comparing answers, and referring eagerly to Irene, who read aloud her own list with a self-satisfied air. Those whose numbers agreed with hers announced the fact with whoops of joy, those who had differed knitted their brows and were silent. Kathleen looked worried and anxious, and could not think what she had been about to get “that decimal wrong.”
“But it was horrible, wasn’t it? The worst we have had.”
“The wall-paper was vile,” cried another voice indignantly. “Toujours wall-paper! They might have a little originality, and think of something else. I longed to give Tom’s answer!”
“It wasn’t really difficult, but tricky! Decidedly tricky!” said Irene, with an air. She could afford to be superior, for there was no doubt that she had passed! and passed well. “The square root was absurdly easy.” Then her eye fell on Rhoda, and she asked, kindly enough, “What did you make it, Rhoda? I hope you got on all right, and feel better.”