The queer she-things had a wonderful, mysterious life you couldn"t touch.
Clara, when she walked with you, smiling with her black-treacle eyes and bad teeth, glad to be talked to. Clara in bed. You bathed her forehead with eau-de-cologne, and she lay there, happy, glad of her headache that made them sorry for her. Clara, waiting for you at the foot of the stairs, looking with dog"s eyes, imploring. "Will you walk with me?" "I can"t. I"m going with Lucy." She turned her wounded dog"s eyes and slunk away, beaten, humble, to walk with the little ones.
Lucy Elliott in the bathing machine, slipping from the cloak of the towel, slender and straight; sea water gluing red weeds of hair to her white skin. Sweet eyes looking towards you in the evening at sewing-time.
"Will you sit with me at sewing?"
"I"m sitting with Rose G.o.dwin."
Sudden sweetness; sudden trouble; grey eyes dark and angry behind sudden tears. She wouldn"t look at you; wouldn"t tell you what you had done.
Rose G.o.dwin, strong and clever; fourteen; head of the school. Honey-white Roman face; brown-black hair that smelt like Brazilian nuts. Rose G.o.dwin walking with you in the garden.
"You must behave like other people if you expect them to like you."
"I don"t expect them. How do I behave?"
"It isn"t exactly behaving. It"s more the way you talk and look at people. As if you saw slap through them. Or else as if you didn"t see them at all. That"s worse. People don"t like it."
"Anything else?"
"Yes. It was cheeky of you to tell Mademoiselle that those French verses didn"t rhyme."
"But they didn"t."
"Who cares?"
"I care. I care frightfully."
"There you go. That"s exactly what I mean," Rose said. "Who cares if you care? And there"s another thing. You"re worrying Miss Lambert. This school of hers has got a name for sound religious teaching. You may not like sound religious teaching, but she"s got fifteen of us to look after besides you. If you want to be an atheist, go and be it by yourself."
"I"m not an atheist."
"Well, whatever silly thing you are. You mustn"t talk about it to the girls. It isn"t fair," Rose said.
"All right. I won"t."
"On your honour?"
"On my honour."
V.
A three-cornered note on her dressing-table at bed-time:
Sept. 20th, 1878. Maison Dieu Lodge.
"My dear Mary: Our talk was not satisfactory. Unless you can a.s.sure me by to-morrow morning that you believe in the Blessed Trinity and all the other truths of our most holy religion, I fear that, _much as we love you_, we dare not keep you with us, for your school-fellows" sake.
"Think it over, my dear child, and let me know. Pray to G.o.d _to-night_ to change your heart and mind and give you His Holy Spirit.
"Affectionately yours,
"Henrietta Lambert."
The Trinity. A three-cornered note.
"My dear Miss Lambert: I am very sorry; but it really isn"t any good, and if it was it couldn"t be done in the time. You wouldn"t like it if I told you lies, would you? That"s why I can"t join in the prayers and say the Creed and bow; in Church or anywhere. Rose made me promise not to talk about it, and I won"t.
"If you must send me away to-morrow morning, you must. But I"m glad you love me. I was afraid you didn"t.
"With love, your very affectionate
"Mary Olivier."
"P.S.--I"ve folded my clothes all ready for packing."
To-morrow the clothes were put back again in their drawers. She wasn"t going. Miss Lambert said something about Rose and Lucy and "kindness to poor Clara."
VI.
Rose G.o.dwin told her that home-sickness wore off. It didn"t. It came beating up and up, like madness, out of nothing. The French verbs, grey, slender as little verses on the page, the French verbs swam together and sank under the clear-floating images of home-sickness. Mamma"s face, Roddy"s, Dan"s face. Tall trees, the Ess.e.x fields, flat as water, falling away behind them. Little feathery trees, flying low on the sky-line.
Outside the hallucination the soiled light shut you in.
The soiled light; odours from the warm roots of girl"s hair; and Sunday.
Sunday; stale odours of churches. You wrote out the sermon you had not listened to and had not heard. Somebody told you the text, and you amused yourself by seeing how near you could get to what you would have heard if you had listened. After tea, hymns; then church again. Your heart laboured with the strain of kneeling, arms lifted up to the high pew ledge. You breathed pew dust. Your brain swayed like a bladder, brittle, swollen with hot gas-fumes. After supper, prayers again. Sunday was over.
On Monday, the tenth day, she ran away to Dover Harbour. She had thought she could get to London with two weeks" pocket-money and what was left of Uncle Victor"s tip after she had paid for the eau-de-cologne; but the ticket man said it would only take her as far as Canterbury. She had frightened Miss Lambert and made her tremble: all for nothing, except the sight of the Harbour. It was dreadful to see her tremble. Even the Harbour wasn"t worth it.
A miracle would have to happen.
Two weeks pa.s.sed and three weeks. And on the first evening of the fourth week the miracle happened. Rose G.o.dwin came to her and whispered: "You"re wanted in the dining-room."
Her mother"s letter lay open on the table. A tear had made a glazed snail"s track down Miss Lambert"s cheek; and Mary thought that one of them was dead--Roddy--Dan--Papa.
"My dear, my dear--don"t cry. You"re going home."
"Why? Why am I going?"
She could see the dull, kind eyes trying to look clever.
"Because your mother has sent for you. She wants you back again."
"Mamma? What does she want me for?"
Miss Lambert"s eyes turned aside slantways. She swallowed something in her throat, making a funny noise: qualk-qualk.