Norah spoke with dogged resolution; but, for all her show of bravado, her face flushed to a deep brick red, and her eyes sank uneasily to the floor. Dreda, on the contrary, was very white. Any sort of emotion always drove the blood from her face, and the pupils of her eyes had expanded until the whole iris appeared black.
"You were quite right! At first, for the first few moments I thought I _could_ not tell. It seemed too dreadful, after all the applause and clapping. I had to struggle hard to be honest, and all the time you were watching me--and waiting! I didn't know that, but it shows how stupid it is to think that one can do wrong and not be found out.
Well!"--she drew a long, fluttering breath--"you succeeded, Norah. It was a great success. Susan got the prize, and I was humiliated before everybody, and heartbroken with disappointment. I thought I should really have to commit suicide that night, I felt so bad. It's the biggest trial I have ever known, so you may be quite satisfied. It was a great success."
Norah looked up sharply; but no, there was no sneer on Dreda's lips.
The big, sad eyes stared into hers with childlike candour and simplicity. Norah bit her lip, and swallowed nervously.
"I--I'm _not_ satisfied!"
"Oh, but why? You have gained all you wanted. It seems a pity that no one should be pleased. Susan wasn't a bit; she was miserable because _I_ was miserable, and all the girls were sorry for me, and were nicer than ever before. There's only you to _be_ glad, Norah. It was your plan, and you succeeded. You needn't mind me. I've tasted the dregs.
Nothing can ever be so bitter to me again."
Norah made no reply. Her lips were pursed so tightly together that there was nothing to be seen but a thin red line. She glanced furtively from one corner of the room to another; to the floor, to the ceiling, to anywhere but just the spot where Dreda sat, looking at her with those big, mournful eyes. In her many imaginings of the scene she had never pictured such a _denouement_ as this. She had schooled herself to hear furious denunciations, but the pitiful calm of Dreda's grief was ten times more difficult to bear.
Both girls were still weak and unfitted to bear long mental strain. The shaking of the bed testified to the nervous tremblings of Norah's body.
Dreda lay back against her cushions, and the weak tears rolled down her cheeks. The scones and cakes lay neglected upon the table, and the tea grew cold in the cups. Each minute seemed like an hour, crowded as it was with thoughts of such intensity as come rarely to careless, happy youth. Norah looked back on her finished schooldays, and acknowledged to her own heart that her want of popularity was the result, not of the prejudice of others but of her own jealous, ungenerous nature. Dreda, looking forward to the future, resolved to be less egotistical, less confident, to consider more tenderly the feelings of her companions.
She had made many resolutions before now--too many! And they had known but a short lifetime. But never before had they been born of suffering, and never before had they been strengthened by prayer. This last resolution was made in a very humble and anxious spirit, strangely different from Dreda's former airy complacence.
"Norah," she said slowly at last, "Norah, you have told me the truth, and it must have been awfully difficult. It's your affair and mine, Norah; let's keep it to ourselves. If you were going back to school, it might be your duty to tell; but you are not, and you want all the girls to remember you kindly. I don't see that it would make anyone happier to know. They believe that it was a mistake for which no one was to blame. Let them go on believing it! It will be better for you, and for everyone else. I promise you, Norah, I will never tell."
"Not--not Susan?"
"Oh, never Susan Susan last of all."
"Why last?"
"Because you, like her best, and because she would be so sorry. Susan is so good that it hurts her when people do wrong. I couldn't bear Susan to think badly of me, and neither would you Susan shall never know."
Then for the first time the tears started to Norah's eyes.
"Oh, Dreda, you are generous," she sighed; "you know how to forgive."
Then, with a sudden flash of intuition, "Susan will write books. She will be great; but _you_, Dreda, you will live! You will be better than famous--you will be loved!"
When Mrs Saxon entered the room a few minutes later her quick eyes realised at once the mental exhaustion of her two patients, and she escorted her daughter back to her room and tucked her up in bed.
Dreda's fair head rested on the pillow; but her eyes followed her mother's movements about the room with a wistful expression whose appeal could not be denied. Mrs Saxon asked no questions, but with true mother insight she divined the need at the girl's heart, and hastened to fill it.
"Try to sleep, my little girl," she said fondly. "Try to rest. Take care of yourself for my sake. You are more precious to me than ever, since Rowena became engaged. You don't know how many hundreds of times in the last few weeks I have comforted myself by thinking, `I have Dreda! Thank God for Dreda! When Rowena goes I shall not be lonely. I shall have my other dear big girl.'"
Dreda's face glowed. The dull eyes shone with happiness and expectation.
"Mother," she cried ardently, "I'll never leave you! I'll spend my whole life helping you and father. I'll never, never leave you for the sake of a horrid, strange man."
Mrs Saxon laughed softly.
"Beware of rash promises, dear. I don't ask that. I don't even wish it. When your time comes I hope you may be as fortunate as Rowena. I am a rich woman. I have three daughters. I shall still have Maud at home."
But with all her new-found humility Etheldreda the Ready could not submit to such a comparison.
"Maud!" she cried scornfully. "Maud could never make up for me!"