On the last day of ‘cram,’ she sat from
morning to night in her comfortless little bedroom,
bending over the smoky fire, reading desperately through
a pile of note-books. The motive of vanity no
longer supported her; gladly she would have crept away
into a life of insignificance; but the fee for the
examination was paid, and she must face the terrors,
the shame, that waited her at Burlington House.
No hope of ‘passing.’ Perhaps at the
last moment a stroke of mortal illness would come
to her relief.
Not so. She found herself in the ghastly torture-hall,
at a desk on which lay sheets of paper, not whiter
than her face. Somebody gave her a scroll, stereotyped
in imitation of manuscript—the questions
to be answered. For a quarter of an hour she could
not understand a word. She saw the face of Samuel
Barmby, and heard his tones—’The
delicacy of a young lady’s nervous system unfits
her for such a strain.’
That evening she went home with a half-formed intention
of poisoning herself.
But the morrow saw her seated again before another
scroll of stereotype, still thinking of Samuel Barmby,
still hearing his voice. The man was grown hateful
to her; he seemed to haunt her brain malignantly,
and to paralyse her hand.
Day after day in the room of torture, until all was
done. Then upon her long despair followed a wild,
unreasoning hope. Though it rained, she walked
all the way home, singing, chattering to herself,
and reached the house-door without consciousness of
the distance she had traversed. Her mother and
sister came out into the hall; they had been watching
for her.
’I did a good paper to-day—I think
I’ve passed after all—yes, I feel
sure I’ve passed!’
‘You look dreadful,’ exclaimed Mrs. Morgan.
‘And you’re wet through—’
‘I did a good paper to-day—I feel
sure I’ve passed!’
She sat down to a meal, but could not swallow.
‘I feel sure I’ve passed—I
feel sure—’
And she fell from the chair, to all appearances stone-dead.
They took her upstairs, undressed her, sent for the
doctor. When he came, she had been lying for
half-an-hour conscious, but mute. She looked
gravely at him, and said, as if repeating a lesson:
’The delicacy of a young lady’s nervous
system unfits her for such a strain.’
‘Undoubtedly,’ repeated the doctor, with
equal gravity.
‘But,’ she added eagerly, ’let Mr.
Barmby know at once that I have passed.’
‘He shall know at once,’ said the doctor.
