"Who, for instance?" Clare was curious; it was the first she had heard of Louise with friends of her own.
"Well—Elizabeth Bennett, and the Little Women, and Garm, and Amadis of Gaul——"
"Oh—not real people?" Clare was amused at herself for being relieved.
"Oh, but Miss Hartill—they are real." Louise was indignant. "Ever so much more than—oh, most people! Look at Mrs. Bennett and Mamma! Nobody will think of Mamma in a hundred years—but who'd ever forget Mrs. Bennett?"
"Mrs Bennett in the Garden of the Hesperides, Louise?" Clare began to chuckle. "I can't swallow that."
Louise pealed with laughter.
"You should have seen her the other day, with the dragon after her. She'd been trying to sneak some apples, because Bingley was coming to tea."
"Who came to the rescue?"
"Oh, I did." Louise was revelling in her sympathetic listener. "I have to keep order, you know. She was awfully blown, though. Siegfried helped me."
"I wish I could get to fairyland as easily as you do."
Louise considered.
"I don't. My country is only in my head. Fairyland must be somewhere, mustn't it? Do you know what I think, Miss Hartill?"
"In patches, Louise."
Louise blushed.
"No, but seriously—don't laugh. You know you explained the fourth dimension to us the other day?"
"That I'm sure I never did." Clare was lying back in her chair, her arms behind her head, smiling inscrutably.
"Oh, but Miss Hartill——"
"Never, Louise!"
"Oh, but honestly—I'm not contradicting you, of course—but you did. Last Thursday fortnight, in second lesson."
"I wish you were as accurate over all your dates, Louise! Your History paper was not all that it should be."
"It's holidays, Miss Hartill! But don't you remember?"
"I explained to you that the fourth dimension was inexplicable—a very different thing."
"The Plattner Storyexplains it—clearly." Louise's tone was distinctly reproachful.
"Oh no, it doesn't, Louise. Mr. Wells only deludes you into thinking it does."
"Well, anyhow, I think—don't you think that it's rather likely that fairyland is the fourth dimension? It would all fit in so beautifully with all the old stories of enchantment and disappearances. Then there was another book I read about it.The Inheritors——"
"Have done, Louise! You make me dizzy. Don't try to live exclusively on truffles. If you could continue to confine your attention to books you have some slight chance of understanding, for the next few years, it would be an excellent thing. Neither Meredith nor the fourth dimension is meat for babes, you know."
"I like what I don't understand. It's the finding out is the fun." Louise looked mutinous.
"And having found out?"
"Then I start on something else."
Clare considered her.
"Louise, I don't know if it's a compliment to either of us—but I believe we're very much alike."
Louise gave a child's delighted chuckle, but she showed no surprise.
"That's nice, Miss Hartill." She hesitated. "Miss Hartill, did you know my Mother?"
"Mrs. Denny?" Clare hesitated.
Louise gave an impatient gesture.
"Not Mamma. My very own Mother."
"No, my dear." Clare's voice was soft.
Louise sighed.
"No one does. There are no pictures. Father was angry when I asked about her once: and Miss Murgatroyd—she was our governess—she said I had no tact. I miss her, you know, though I don't remember her. I had a nurse: she told me a little. Mother had grey eyes too, you know," said Louise, gazing into Clare's. "I expect she was rather like you."
She watched Clare a little breathlessly. There was more of tenderness in her face than many who thought they knew Clare Hartill would have credited, but no hint of awakening memory, of the recognition the child sought. She went on—
"People never come back when they're dead, do they?" She had no idea of the longing in her voice.
"No, you poor baby!" Clare rose hastily and began to walk up and down the room, as her fashion was when she was stirred.
"Never?"
"'Stieg je ein Freund Dir aus dem Grabe wieder?'" murmured Clare.
"What, Miss Hartill?"
"Never, Louise."
Louise's thistledown fancies were scattered by her tone. Impossible to discredit any statement of Miss Hartill's. Yet she protested timidly.
"There was the Witch of Endor, Miss Hartill. Samuel, you know."
"Is that Meredith?" said Clare absently. Then she caught Louise's expression. "What's the matter?"
"But it's the Bible!" cried Louise horrified.
Clare sat down again and began to laugh pleasantly.
"What am I to do with you, Louise? Are you five or fifty? You want to discuss Meredith with me—(not that I shall let you, my child—don't think I approve of all this reading—I did it myself at your age, you see) and five minutes later you look at me round-eyed because I've forgotten my Joshua or my Judges! Kings? I beg your pardon; Kings be it! Never mind, Louise. Tell me about the Witch of Endor."
"Only that she called up Samuel, I meant, from the dead."
Louise was evidently abstracted; she was picking her words.
"Don't you believe it, Miss Hartill, quite?"
"It's the Old Testament, after all," temporised Clare. She began to see Louise's difficulty. She had no beliefs herself but she thought she would find out how fourteen handled the problem.
"Then the New is different? There was Dorcas, you know, and the widow's son. That is all true, Miss Hartill?"
Clare fenced.
"Many people think so."
"I want to know the truth," said Louise tensely. "I want to know what you think." She spoke as if the two things were synonymous.
Clare shook her head.
"I won't help you, Louise. You must find out for yourself. Leave it alone, if you're wise."
"How can I? I've been reading——"
"Ah?"
"TheOrigin of Species—andWe Two."
Clare's gravity fled. She lay back shaking with laughter.
"Louise, you're delightful! Anything else?"
Louise pulled up her footstool to Clare's knee.
"Miss Hartill, I've been reading a play. It's horrible. I can't bear it, though it was thrilling to read——"
Clare interrupted.
"Where do you get all these books, Louise?"
"They are all Mother's, you know. Nobody else wants them. And then there's the Free Library."
Clare shuddered. She would sooner have drunk from the tin cup of a public fountain than have handled the greasy volumes of a public library.
"How can you?" she said disgustedly. "Dirt and dog-ears!"
Louise opened her eyes. She was too young to be squeamish.
"'A book's a book for a' that,'" she laughed. "How else am I to get hold of any—that I like?"
Clare jerked her head to the lined walls.
"Help yourself," she said.
Louise was radiant.
"May I? Oh, you are good! I will take such care. I'll cover them in brown paper."
She jumped up and, running across the room, flung herself on her knees before the wide shelves. Timidly, at first, but with growing forgetfulness of Clare, she pulled out here a volume and there a volume, handling them tenderly, yet barely opening each, so eager was she for fresh discoveries. She reminded Clare ofAlicewith the scented rushes. Clare was amused by her absorption, and a little touched. The child's attitude to books hinted at the solitariness of her life: she relaxed to them, greeting them as intimates and companions; there was a new appearance on her; she was obviously at home, welcomed by her friends; a very different person to the shy-eyed, prim little prodigy her school-fellows knew.
Clare, glancing at her now and then, sympathised benevolently,and left her to herself; she understood that side of the child; her remark to Louise about the resemblance between them had not been made at random; she was constantly detecting traits and tastes in her similar to her own. She was interested; she had thought herself unique. Their histories were not dissimilar; she, too, different as her environment had been, could look back on a lonely, self-absorbed childhood; she, too, had had forced and premature successes. They had not been empty ones, she reflected complacently; she had used those schoolgirl triumphs as stepping-stones. She doubted if Louise could do the same: there was something unpractical about Louise—a hint of the visionary in her air. She had at present none of Clare's passion for power and the incense of success. Clare, quite aware of her failing, aware that it was a failing and perversely proud of it, yet hoped that she should not see it sprouting in the character of Louise. She hated to see her own defects reproduced (ineffably vulgarised) in others; it jarred her pride. The discovery of the resemblance between herself and Louise amused and charmed her, as long as it was confined to the qualities that Clare admired; but if the girl began to reflect her faults, Clare knew that she should be irritated.
She considered these things as she sat and sewed. She was an exquisite needlewoman. The frieze of tapestry that ran round the low-ceilinged room was her own work. Alwynne had designed it—a history of the loves of Deirdre and Naismi some months before, when she and Clare had discovered Yeats together; and Clare had adapted the rough, clever sketches, working with her usual amazing speed. The foot-deep strips of needlework and painted silk, with their golden skies and dark foregrounds, along which the dim, rainbow figures moved, were just what Clare had wanted to complete her panelled room; for she was beauty-loving and house-proud, though her love of originality, or more correctly her tendency to be superior and aloof, often enticed her into bizarrerie. But the Deirdrefrieze was as harmonious as it was unusual; and Clare, as she daily feasted her eyes on the rich, mellow colours, was only annoyed that the idea of it had been Alwynne's. That fact, though she would not own it, was able, though imperceptibly, to taint Clare's pleasure. She was quite unnecessarily scrupulous in mentioning Alwynne's share in the work to any one who admired it; but it piqued her to do so, none the less. If any one had told her that it piqued her she would have been extremely amused at the absurdity of the idea.
She was at the time working out a medallion of her own design, and growing interested, she soon forgot all about Louise, sitting Turkish fashion at the big book-case. The light had long since faded and the enormous fire, gilding walls and furniture, rendered the candles' steady light almost superfluous. Candlelight was another predilection of Clare's—there was neither electricity nor gas in her tiny, perfect flat. The tick of the clock in the hall and the flutter of turning pages alone broke the silence. Outside, the snow fell steadily.
Half-a-mile away Alwynne Durand, drumming on the window-pane, while her aunt dozed in her chair, thought incessantly of Clare, and was filled with restless longing to be with her. She tried to count the snowflakes till her brain reeled. She felt cold and dreary, but she would not rouse Elsbeth by making up the fire. She wished she had something new to read. She thought it the longest Christmas Day she had ever spent.
The neat maid, bringing in the tea-tray, roused Clare. She pushed aside her work and began to pour out; but Louise in her corner, made no sign.
Clare laughed.
"Louise, wake up! Don't you want any tea?"
Louise, as if the conversation had not ceased for an instant, scrambled to her feet and came to the table, a load of books in her arms, saying as she did so—
"I'll be awfully careful. May I take these, perhaps?"
Clare nodded.
"Presently. I'll look them over first. Muffins?"
She gave Louise a delightful meal and taught her to take tea with a slice of lemon. She was particular, Louise noticed; some of the muffins were not toasted to her liking, and were instantly banished; she criticised the cakes and the flavouring of the dainty sandwiches; then she laughed wickedly at Louise for her round eyes.
"What's the matter, child?"
"Nothing," said Louise, embarrassed.
"I believe you're shocked because I talked so much about food?"
Louise blushed scarlet.
"I like eating, Louise."
"Yes—yes, of course," she concurred hastily.
Clare was entertained. She knew quite well that Louise, like all children, considered a display of interest in food, if not indelicate, at least extremely human. She knew, too, that in Louise's eyes she was too entirely compounded of ideals and noble qualities to be more than officially human. She enjoyed upsetting her ideas.
"If you come to actual values, I'd rather do without Shakespeare than Mrs. Beeton," she remarked blandly.
"Oh, Miss Hartill!" Louise was protesting—suspecting a trap—ready to ripple into laughter. "You do say queer things."
"I?"
"Yes. As if you meant that!"
"But I do! Eating's an art, Louise, like painting or writing. I had a pheasant last Sunday——" She gave the entire menu, and enlarged on the etceteras with enthusiasm.
Louise looked bewildered.
"I never thought you thought about that sort of thing," she remarked. "I thought you just didn't notice—I thought you would always be thinking of poetry and pictures——" She subsided, blushing.
Clare laughed at her pleasantly.
"I thought, I thought, I think, I thought! What a lot of thoughts. I'm sorry, Louise! Is all my star-dust gone?"
Louise shook her head vigorously, but she was still embarrassed. She changed the subject with agility.
"I've read that!"
"What?"
"The star-dust book—but I've picked out two others of his. May I? All these?"
Clare ran her finger along the titles.
"Yes—yes—Fiona Mcleod—yes—Peer Gynt—yes, if you like, you won't understand it, or Yeats—but all right. No, not Nietzsche! Not on any account, Louise."
Louise protested.
"Oh, why not, Miss Hartill? I'm nearly fourteen."
"Are you really?" said Clare, with respect.
"He looks so jolly—Old Testamenty——"
"He does, Louise! That's his little way. But he's not for the Upper Fifth."
"He's in the Free Library," said Louise, with a twinkle. Clare turned.
"You can have all the books you want, if you come to me. But no more Free Library, Louise. You understand? I don't wish it."
Louise tingled like a bather under a cold spray. She liked and disliked the autocratic tone.
Clare went on.
"I detest trash—and there's a good deal, even in a Carnegie collection. There's no need for you to dull your imagination on melodrama like—what was it?"
"What, Miss Hartill?"
"The play you began to tell me about—you thought it horrible, you said."
Louise opened her eyes.
"Miss Hartill, it wasn't melodrama—it was good stuff.That's why it worried me. It's by a Norwegian or a Dane or some one.Pastor Sangit's called."
"That? I don't follow. I should have thought the theology would have bored you, but there's nothing horrible in it."
"It worried me. Oh, Miss Hartill, what does it all mean? Darwin says, we just grew—doesn't he? and that the Bible's all wrong. But you say that doesn't matter—it's just Old Testament? And this play says—do you remember? the wife is ill—and the husband, who cures people by praying—he can't cure her——"
"Well?" said Clare impatiently.
"And he says, if the apostles did miracles, we ought to be able to—he kills his wife, trying. He can't, you see. But the point is, if he couldn't, with all his faith—could the apostles? And if the apostles couldn't, could Christ Himself? The miracles are just only a tale, perhaps?"
"Perhaps," said Clare. "You're not clear, Louise, but I know what you mean."
"It frightened me, that play," said the child in a low voice. "If there were no miracles—and everything one reads makes one sure there weren't—why, then, the Bible's not true! Jesus was just a man! He didn't rise? Perhaps there isn't an afterwards? Perhaps there isn't God?"
"Perhaps," said Clare.
The child's eyes were wide and frightened. She put her hand timidly on Clare's knee.
"Miss Hartill—you believe in God?"
Clare looked at her, weighing her.
Louise spoke again; her voice had grown curiously apprehensive.
"Miss Hartill—you do believe in God?"
Clare shrugged her shoulders.
Louise stared at her appalled.
"Ifyoudon't believe in God——" she began slowly, and then stopped.
They sat a long while in silence.
Clare felt uncomfortable. She had not intended to express any opinion, to let her own attitude to religion appear. But Louise, with her sudden question, had forced one from her. After all, if Louise had begun to doubt and to inquire, no silence on Clare's part would stop her.... Every girl went through the phase—with Louise it had begun early, that was all.... Yet in her heart she knew that Louise, with her already overworked mind, should have been kept from the mental distress of religious doubt.... She knew that for some years she could have been so kept; that, as the mouth can eat what the body will not absorb, so, though her intelligence might have assimilated all the books she chose to read, her soul need not necessarily have been disturbed by them. Her acquired knowledge that the world is round need not have jostled her rule of thumb conviction that it is flat. Her interest in 'ologies and 'osophies could have lived comfortably enough, with her child's belief in four angels round her head, for another two or three years—strengthening, maturing years.
Clare knew her power. At a soothing word from her, Louise would have shelved her speculations, or at least have continued them impersonally. Clare could have guaranteed God to her. But Clare had shrugged her shoulders, and Louise had grown white—and she had felt like a murderess. Do children really take their religion so seriously?... After all, what real difference could it make to Louise?... She, Clare, had been glad to be rid of her clogging and irrational beliefs.... Louise, too, when she recovered from the shock, would enjoy the sense of freedom and self-respect.... If Louise talked like a girl of eighteen she could not be expected to receive the careful handling you gave a child of twelve.... Anyhow, it was done now....
Suddenly and persuasively she began to talk to Louise. She touched gently on the history, the growth and inevitable decay of all religions—the contrasting immutabilityof the underlying code of ethics, upon which they, one and all, were founded. She told her vivid little stories of the religious struggles of the centuries, had her breathless over the death of Socrates, nailed up for her anew the ninety-five theses to the Wittenberg church door. Exerting all her powers, all her knowledge, all her descriptive and dramatic skill, to charm away one child's distress, Clare was, for an hour, a woman transformed, sound and honey-sweet. Against all that happened later, she could at least put the one hour, when, remorsefully, she had given Louise of the best that was in her.
Incidentally, she delivered to her audience of one the most brilliant lecture of her career. Later she wrote down what she remembered of it, and it became the foundation for her monograph on religions that was to become a minor classic. Its success was immediate—that was typical of Clare—but she never wrote another line. That also was typical of Clare. It bored her to repeat a triumph.
She soon had Louise happy again: it was not in Louise to stick to the high-road of her own thoughts, with Miss Hartill opening gates to fairyland at every sentence. Clare kept her for the rest of the evening, and took her home at last, weighed down by her parcel of books, sleepy from the effects of excitement and happiness. She poured out her incoherent thanks as they waited on the doorstep of her home. There had never been such a Christmas—she had never had such a glorious time—she couldn't thank Miss Hartill properly if she talked till next Christmas came.
Clare, nodding and laughing, handed her over to the maid, and went home, not ill-pleased with her Christmas either. She thought of the child as she walked down the snowy, star-lighted streets, and wondered whimsically what she was doing at the moment. Would she say her prayers on her way to bed still, or had Clare's little, calculated shrug stopped that sort of thing for many a long day? She rather thought so. She shook off her uneasy sense of compunction and laughed aloud. The cold night air waslike wine to her. After all, for an insignificant spinster, she had a fair share of power—real power—not the mere authority of kings and policemen. Her mind, not her office, ruled a hundred other minds, and in one heart, at least, a shrug of her shoulders had toppled God off His throne; and the vacant seat was hers, to fill or flout as she chose.
With the opening of the spring term began the final and most arduous preparations for the Easter examinations.
The school had been endowed, some years before, under the will of a former pupil, with a scholarship, a valuable one, ensuring not only the freedom of the school, but substantial help in the subsequent college career, that the winning of it entailed.
The rules were strict. The papers were set and corrected by persons chosen by the trustees of the bequest. The scholarship was open to the school, but no girl over seventeen might enter: and though an unsuccessful candidate might compete a second time, she must gain a percentage of marks in the first attempt. Total failure debarred her from making a second. This last rule limited in effect, the entries to members of the Sixths and Fifths, for the scholarship was too valuable for a chance of it to be risked through insufficient training. The standard, too, was high, and the rules so strictly enforced that withheld the grant if it were not attained, that Miss Marsham was accustomed to make special arrangements for those competing. They were called the "Scholarship Class," and had certain privileges and a great amount of extra work. To most of them the particular privilege that compensated for six months' drudgery was the fact that they were almost entirely under Miss Hartill's supervision. She considered their training her special task and spared neither time nor pains. She loved the business. She understood the art of rousing their excitement, pitting ambition against ambition. She worked them like slaves, weeding out remorselessly the useless members. Theoretically all had the right to enter; but none remained against Miss Hartill's wishes.
In spite of the work, the members of the Scholarship Class had an envied position in the school. Clare saw to that. Without attackable bias, she differentiated subtly between them and the majority. Each of the group was given to understand, without words, impalpably, yet very definitely, that if Miss Hartill, the inexorable, could have a preference, one had but to look in the glass to find it; and that to outstrip the rest of the class, to be listed an easy first, would be the most exquisite justification that preference could have. And as the type of girl who succumbed the most surely to Clare's witchcraft was also usually of the type to whom intellectual work was in itself attractive, it was not surprising if her favourite class were a hot-bed of emulation and enthusiasm—enthusiasm that was justified of its origin, for not even Henrietta Vigers denied that Clare contributed her full share to the earning of the scholarship, Miss Marsham, towards the end of the spring, was wont to declare, with her usual kindly concern, that she was thankful that the examination was not an annual affair.... Their good Miss Hartill was too anxious, too conscientious.... Miss Marsham must really forbid her to make herself ill. And, indeed, when the class was a large one, Clare was as reckless of her own strength as of that of her pupils, and suffered more from its expenditure. Where they were responsible, each for herself, Clare toiled early and late for them all. She fed them, moreover, from her own resources of energy, was entirely willing to devitalise herself on their behalf. The strain once over, she appeared slack, gaunt, debilitated. She had, however, her own methods of recuperation. Her ends gained, she could take back what she had given—take back more than ever she had given. Moreover, the supply of child-life never slackened. Old scholars might go—but ever the new ones came. Was it not Clare who gave the school its latter-day reputation? By the end of the summer term Clare would be once more in excellent condition.
When the promotion of Louise to the Upper School hadfirst been mooted, Miss Hartill had not forgotten that the scholarship examination was once more drawing near. She saw no reason why Louise should not compete. That Louise, the whilom dullard of the Third, the youngest girl in the Upper School, should snatch the prize from the expectants of the Sixths and Fifths, would be an effective retort on Clare's critics, would redound very pleasantly to Clare's credit.
If she let the opportunity pass, Louise must wait two years: at thirteen it would be a triumph for Louise and Clare; at fifteen there would be nothing notable in her success. And the baby herself would be delighted. Clare was already sufficiently taken with Louise to enjoy the anticipation of her delight.
She was quite aware that it would entail special efforts on her own part, as well as on the child's, and that she had a large class already on her hands, and in need of coaching. But there was always Alwynne. Alwynne was so reliable; she could safely leave Louise's routine work in Alwynne's hands. It remained to consult Louise and incidentally the parent Dennys.
Louise was awestruck, overwhelmed by the honour of being allowed to compete, absurdly and touchingly delighted. No doubt as to Louise's sentiments. No doubt as to the sincerity of her efforts. No doubt, until the spring term began, of the certainty of her success.
The spring term opened with Clare in Miss Marsham's carved seat at morning prayers. The school had grown accustomed to its head-mistress's occasional absence. Miss Marsham, who had for some time felt the strain of school routine too much for her advanced years, was only able to sustain the fiction of her unimpaired powers by taking holidays, as a morphineuse takes her drug, in ever-increasing doses. She was confident in the discretion alike of Clare Hartill and Henrietta Vigers, and, indeed, but for their efficiency, the school would have suffered more quickly than it actually did. Nevertheless, the absence of supreme authorityhad, though but slightly, the usual disintegrating effect. There was always, naturally, an increase of friction between the two women, especially when the absence of the directress occurred at the beginning of a term. There would be the usual agitations—problems of housing and classification. There would arrive parents to be interviewed and impressed, new girls to be gracefully and graciously welcomed. Clare (to whom Henrietta, for all her hostility, invariably turned in emergencies), showing delicately yet unmistakably that she considered herself unwarrantably hampered in her own work, would submit to being on show with an air of bored acquiescence, tempered with modest surprise at the necessity for her presence. It was sufficiently irritating to Henrietta, under strict, if indirect, orders to leave the decorative side of the vice-regency to her rival. She was quite aware of Clare's greater effectiveness. She did not believe that it weighed with Miss Marsham against her own solid qualities. She affected to despise it. Yet despising, she envied.
She was unjust to Clare, however, in believing the latter's reluctance entirely assumed. Clare enjoyed ruffling the susceptibilities of Henrietta, but she was none the less genuinely annoyed at being even partially withdrawn from her classes and was relieved when, at the end of a fortnight, Miss Marsham returned to her post. Clare had been forced to neglect her special work. Classes had been curtailed and interrupted, the many extra lessons postponed or turned over to Alwynne, whom more than any other mistress she had trained and could trust.
It was Alwynne who, reporting to her at the end of the first fortnight, had made her more than ever eager to be rid of her deputyship.
There were new girls in the Fifth in whom Alwynne was interested. One, at least, she prophesied, would be found to have stuff in her. It was a pity she was not in the Scholarship Class.... She was too good for the LowerFifth.... Alwynne supposed it would be quite impossible to let her enter?
"At this time of day? Impossible! Do you realise that we've only another three months?"
"I don't suppose she'd want to, anyhow," said Alwynne. "She's a quaint person! Talk about independence! She informed me to-day that she shouldn't stay longer than half-term, unless she liked us."
"Oho! Young America!" Clare was alert. "I didn't know you referred to Cynthia Griffiths. I interviewed the parents last week. Immensely rich! She was demure enough, but I gathered even then that she ruled the roost. Her mother was quite tearful—implored me to keep her happy for three months anyhow, while they both indulged in a rest cure abroad. She seemed doubtful of our capacities. But she was not explicit."
"Cynthia is. I've heard the whole story while I tried to find out how much she knew. She's a new type. Her French and her German are perfect—and her clothes. Her bedroom is a pig-sty and she gets up when she chooses. I gather that she has reduced Miss Vigers to a nervous wreck already. Thank goodness I'm a visiting mistress! I wonder what the girls will make of her!"
"Or she of them."
"That won't be the question," surmised Alwynne shrewdly. "Clare, she has five schools behind her, American and foreign—and she's fifteen! We are an incident. I know. There were two Americans at my school."
"It remains to be seen." Clare's eyes narrowed. "Well, what else?"
Alwynne fidgeted.
"I'm glad you're taking over everything again. I prefer my small kids."
"Why?"
"Easier to understand—and manage."
Clare looked amused.
"Been getting into difficulties? Who's the problem? Agatha?"
"That wind-bag! She only needs pricking to collapse," said Alwynne contemptuously. Then, with a frown: "I wish poor little Mademoiselle Charette would realise it. Have you ever seen a Lower Fifth French lesson? But, of course, you haven't. It's a farce."
Clare frowned.
"If she can't keep order——"
"She can teach anyhow," said Alwynne quickly. "I was at the other end of the room once, working. I listened a little. It's only Agatha. Mademoiselle can tackle the others. She's effective in a delicate way; but senseless, noisy rotting—it breaks her up. She loses her temper. Of course, it's funny to watch. But I hate that sort of thing. I did when I was a schoolgirl even, didn't you?"
"I don't remember." But in the back of Clare's mind was a class-room and herself, contemptuously impertinent to a certain ineffective Miss Loveday.
Alwynne continued, frowning—
"Anyhow, I wish you'd do something."
Clare yawned.
"One mustn't interfere with other departments—unasked."
"Well, I ask you." Alwynne was in earnest.
"Why?"
"I want you to."
"Why?"
Alwynne blushed.
"Why this championship? I didn't know you and Mademoiselle Charette were such intimates?"
"It's just because we aren't. I like her, but——"
"But what?"
"Well—we had a row. You see—You won't tell, Clare?"
Clare smiled.
"She doesn't like you," blurted out Alwynne indignantly."And I just want to show her how altogether wrong——"
"What a crime! How did you find it out?" Clare was amused.
"She was telling me about Agatha. And I said—why on earth didn't she complain to you? And she said—nothing on earth would induce her to. I said—I was sure you would be only too glad for her to ask you. And she said——" Alwynne paused dramatically: "She said—she hadn't the faintest doubt you would, and that I was a charming child, but that she happened to understand you. Then we had a row of course."
Clare pealed with laughter.
"She's quite right, Alwynne. You are a charming child. So that is Mademoiselle Charette, is it? And I never guessed." She mused, a curious little smile on her lips.
"She's a dear, really," said Alwynne apologetically. "Only she's what Mrs. Marpler calls ''aughty.' I can't think why her knife's into you."
"Suppose——" Clare's eyes lit up, she showed the tip of her tongue—sure sign of mischief afloat. "Suppose I pull it out? What do you bet me, Alwynne?"
Alwynne laughed.
"I wish you would. I don't like it when people don't appreciate you. Anyhow, I wish you'd settle Agatha. You know, it's not doing the scholarship French any good. The class slacks. Mademoiselle is worried, I know."
Clare was serious at once.
"That must stop. The standard's too high for trifling. And one or two of them are weak as it is. Especially Louise. Isn't she? Don't you coach her for the grammar? How is her extra work getting on, by the way? Like a house on fire, I suppose?"
"Not altogether." Alwynne looked uneasy.
"What?" Clare looked incredulous.
"She's the problem," said Alwynne.
She had a piece of paper on the table before her and wasdrawing fantastic profiles as she spoke, sure sign of perturbation with Alwynne, as Clare knew.
"Well?" demanded Clare, after an interval.
Alwynne paused, pencil hovering over an empty eyesocket. She seemed nervous, opened her lips once or twice and closed them again.
"What's wrong?" Clare prompted her.
"Nothing's wrong exactly." Alwynne flushed uncomfortably. "After all, you've seen her in class. Her work is as good as usual?"
"I think so. Her last essay was a little exotic, by the bye, not quite as natural—but you corrected them. I was so busy."
"You don't think she's getting too keen, working too hard?" Alwynne's tone was tentative.
"Do you think so?" Clare was thoroughly interested. She was tickled at Alwynne's anxious tones. She always enjoyed her occasional bursts of responsibility. But she was nevertheless intrigued by Alwynne's hints. She had certainly not given her class its usual attention lately. To Louise she had scarcely spoken unofficially since term began; no opportunity had occurred, and she had been too busy to make one. Louise had returned a bundle of books to her on the opening day of the term, and had been bidden to fetch herself as many more as she chose. But Clare had been out when Louise had called. Clare, to tell the truth, had not once given a thought to Louise since Christmas Day. She had taken a trip to London with Alwynne soon after. The two had enjoyed themselves. The holidays had flown. But she had been glad to find her class radiantly awaiting her. She had found it much as usual. Alwynne's perturbation was the more intriguing.
"Do you think so?" she repeated, with a lift of her eyebrows that reduced Alwynne's status to that of a Kindergarten pupil teacher. She enjoyed seeing her grow pink.
"Of course, it's no affair of mine," said Alwynne aggrievedly. She went on with her drawing.
Clare swung herself on to the low table and sat, skirts a-sway, gazing down at Alwynne's head, bent over its grotesques. There was a curl at the nape of the neck that fascinated her. It lay fine and shining like a baby's. She picked up a pencil and ran it through the tendril. Alwynne jumped.
"Clare, leave me alone. You only think I'm impertinent."
"Does she want a finger in the pie, then?" said Clare softly. "Poor old Alwynne!" The pencil continued its investigations.
Alwynne tried not to laugh. She could never resist Clare's soft voice, as Clare very well knew.
"I don't! I only thought——"
"That Louise—your precious Louise——"
"She's trying so awfully hard——"
"Yes?"
"She's overdoing it. The work's not so good. She's too keen, I think——"
"Yes?"
"I think——"
"Yes, Alwynne?"
"You won't be annoyed?"
"That depends."
"Then I can't tell you."
"I think you can," said Clare levelly.
Alwynne was silent. Clare took the paper from her and examined it.
"You've a fantastic imagination, Alwynne. When did you dream those faces? Well—and what do you think? Be quick."
"I think she's growing too fond of you," said Alwynne desperately.
She faced Clare, red and apprehensive. She expected an outburst. But Clare never did what Alwynne expected her to do.
"Is that all? Pooh!" said Clare lightly and began tolaugh. She swung backwards, her finger-tips crooked round the edge of the table, her neat shoes peeping and disappearing beneath her skirts as she rocked herself. She regarded Alwynne with sly amusement.
"So I've a bad influence, Alwynne? Is that the idea?"
Alwynne protested redly. Clare continued unheeding.
"Well, it's a novel one, anyhow. Could you indicate exactly how my blighting effect is produced? Don't mind me, you know." Then, with a chuckle: "Oh, you delicious child!"
Alwynne was silent.
"Tell me all about it, Alwynne dear!" cooed Clare.
Alwynne shrugged her shoulders with a curiously helpless gesture.
"I can't," she said. "I thought I could—but I can't. You don't help me. I was worried over Louise. I thought—I think she alters. I think she gets a strained look. I know she thinks about you all the time. I thought—but, of course, if you see nothing, it's my fancy. There's nothing definite, I know. If you don't know what I mean——"
"I don't!" said Clare shortly. "Do you know yourself?"
"No!" said Alwynne. She searched Clare's face wistfully. "I just thought perhaps—she was too fond of you—I can't put it differently. I'm a fool! I wish I hadn't said anything."
"So do I," said Clare gravely.
"I didn't mean to interfere: it wasn't impertinence, Clare," said Alwynne, her cheeks flaming.
Clare hesitated. She was annoyed at Alwynne's unnecessary display of insight, yet tickled by her penetration, not displeased by the jealousy which, as it seemed to her, must be at the root of the protest. Alwynne had evidently not forgotten her chilly Christmas afternoon.... Louise, as obviously, had talked.... There must have been some small degree of friction for Alwynne to complain of Louise.... Curiously, it never occurred to Clare that Alwynne's remarkshid no motive, that Alwynne was genuinely anxious and meant exactly what she had said, or tried to say. Possibly in Alwynne's simplicity lay her real attraction for Clare. It made her as much of a sphinx to Clare as Clare was to her.
As she stood before her, apprehensive of her displeasure, obviously afraid that she had exceeded those bounds to their intercourse that she, more than Clare, had laid down, yet withal, a curiously dogged look upon her face, Clare was puzzled as to her own wisest attitude. She was inclined to batter her into a retraction; it would have relieved her own feelings. Clare could not endure criticism. But she was not yet so sure of Alwynne as to allow herself the relief of invective. She thought that she might easily reserve her annoyance for Louise. It was Louise, after all, who had exposed her to criticism.... And if Alwynne chose to be jealous, it was at least a flattering display.... She supposed she must placate Alwynne.... After all, fifty Louises and her own dignity could not weigh against the possession of Alwynne.... She spoke slowly, choosing her words,
"As if I could think you impertinent! But, my dear—I'm older than you. Can't you trust me to understand my girls? After all, I devote my life to them, Alwynne." Clare's quiet dignity was in itself a reproof.
"I know." Alwynne lifted distressed eyes. "I didn't mean—I didn't imply—of course, you know best. I only thought——"
"That I took more notice of Louise than was wise?"
"No, no!" protested Alwynne unhappily.
Clare continued—
"If you think I'm to blame for encouraging a lonely child—she has no mother, Alwynne—lending her a few books—asking her to tea with me—because I felt rather sorry for her——"
"I didn't mean that——" Alwynne twisted her fingers helplessly.
"Then what did you mean?" Clare asked her. She had slipped on to the floor, and was facing Alwynne, very tall and grave and quiet. "Won't you tell me just exactly what you did mean?" she allowed a glimmer of displeasure to appear in her eyes.
And Alwynne, tongue-tied and cornered, had nothing whatever to say. She had been filled with vague uneasiness and had come to Clare to have it dispelled. The uneasiness was still there, formless yet insistent—but the only effect of her clumsy phrases was to hurt Clare's feelings. After all, was she not worrying herself unduly? Was she to know better than Clare? She had felt for some moments that she had made a fool of herself. There remained to capitulate. Her anxiety over Louise melted before the pain in Clare's eyes—the reproof of her manner.
"Would you like me to speak to Louise, before you?" went on Clare patiently. "Perhaps she could explain what it is that worries you——"
"No, no! for goodness' sake, Clare!" cried Alwynne, appalled. Then surrendering, "Clare—I didn't mean anything. I do see—I've been fussing—impertinent—whatever you like. I didn't mean any harm. Oh, let's stop talking about it, please."
"I'd rather you convinced yourself first," said Clare frigidly. "I don't want the subject re-opened once a week." Then relenting, "Poor old Alwynne! The trials of a deputy! Has she worried herself to death? But I'm back now. I think I can manage my class, Alwynne—as long as you stand by to give me a word of advice now and then."
Alwynne squirmed. Clare laughed tenderly.
"My dear—give Louise a little less attention. It won't hurt either of you. Are you going to let me feel neglected?" Then, with a change of tone. "Now we've had enough of this nonsense." She curled herself in her big chair. "Alwynne, there's a box of Fuller's in the cupboard,and an English Review. Don't you want to hear the new Masefield before you go home?"
And Alwynne's eyes grew big, and she forgot all about Louise, as Clare's "loveliest voice" read out the rhyme ofThe River.
Yet Clare had a last word as she sent her home to Elsbeth.
"Sorry?" said Clare whimsically, as Alwynne bade her good-bye.
"I always was a fool," said Alwynne, and hugged her defiantly.
But Clare, for once, made no protest. She patted her ruffled hair as she listened to the noises of the departure.
"Too fond of me?" she said softly. "Too fond of me? Alwynne—what about you?"
But if Alwynne heard, she made no answer.
Miss Marsham was accustomed to recognise that it was the brief career of Cynthia Griffiths that first induced her to consider the question of her own retirement.
It is certain that the school was never again quite as it had been before her advent. The Cynthia Griffiths term remained a school date from which to reckon as the nation reckons from the Jubilee. In an American school Cynthia Griffiths must have been at least a disturbing element—in the staid English establishment, with its curious mixture of modern pedagogy and Early Victorian training, she was seismic.
With their usual adaptability, the new girls, as they accustomed themselves subduedly to the strange atmosphere, had found nothing to cavil at in the school arrangements. They had not thought it incongruous to come from Swedish exercises to prolonged and personal daily prayers, kneeling for ten minutes at a time while their head mistress wrestled with Deity. It might have bored girls of sixteen and eighteen to learn their daily Bible verse, and recite it alternately with the Kindergarten and Lower School, but it never occurred to them to protest, any more than they were likely to object to the little note-book which each girl carried, with its printed list of twenty-five possible crimes, and the dangling pencil wherewith, at tea-time, to mark herself innocent or guilty. The hundred and one rules that Edith Marsham had found useful in the youth of her seminary, forty years before, and that time had rendered obsolete, irritating, or merely unintelligible, were nevertheless endured with entire good nature by her successions of pupils. Alwynne and her contemporaries might fume in private and Clare shrug her shoulders in languid tolerance,but nobody thought it worth while to question directly the entire sufficiency of a bygone system to the needs of the new century's hockey-playing generations.
But a little leaven leaveneth the whole lump.
What, if you please, is an old lady to do? An old lady, declining on her pleasant seventies, owning sixty, not a day more, traditionally awe-inspiring and unapproachable, whose security lies in the legends that have grown up of the terrors of her eye and tongue, when Young America clamours at her intimidating door? Young America, calm-eyed, courteous, coaxing, squatting confidentially at the feet of Authority, demanding counsel and comfort. Useless for harried Authority to suggest consultation with equally harried assistants. Young America, with a charming smile and the prettiest of gestures, would rather talk it over quietly with Authority's self. Authority, who is the very twin of her dear old Grannie at home, will be sure to understand. Such fusses about nothing all day and every day! Can it be that Authority expects her to keep her old bureau tidy, when she's had a maid all her life? Young America will be married as soon as she quits Europe (follows a confidential sketch of the more promising of Young America's best boys), and have her own maid right on. Can Authority, as a matter of cold common-sense, see any use in bothering over cupboards for just three months or so? If so—right! Young America will worry along somehow, but it seemed kind of foolish, didn't it? Or could Young America hire a girl—like she did in Paris? Anyway it was rough luck on the lady in the glasses to get an apoplexy every day, as Authority might take it was the case at present. Another point—could Authority, surveying matters impartially, see any harm in running down town when she was out of candy? It only meant missing ten minutes French, and if there was one thing Young America (lapsing suddenly, with bedazing fluency, into that language) was sure of, it was French. These English-French classes meant well—but, her God! how they were slow!There had been—Young America confessed it with candid regret—some difficulties with the cute little mark-books. Young America had mislaid three in a fortnight. She just put them down, and they lay around awhile, and then they weren't there. Some of the ladies had been real annoyed. And once on the subject of mark-books, did Authority really mean that she was to chalk it up each time she was late for breakfast, or said "Darn it," or talked in class? Would, in her place, Authority be able to keep tally? Couldn't Young America just mark off the whole concern and be done with it? Young America apologised for worrying Authority with these quaint matters—but, on her honour, every lady in the school seemed to have gone plum crazy about them.... They just sat around and yapped at her. Young America was genuinely scared. She had thought a heart-to-heart chat with Authority ought to put things right. She would be real grateful to Authority for fixing things....
And so, with the odd curtsey she had learned among "the Dutchies," as she called her German pensionat, and a hearty kiss on either cheek, Young America, affable as ever, beamed upon Authority and withdrew.
Authority felt as if it had been out in a high wind. Instinctively it clutched at its imposing head-dress. All was in place. Authority lay back in its chair and gasped fishily.
But Miss Vigers, frenzied into confession of inability to deal with the situation—got scant sympathy.
"What am I to do? I hate troubling you—I am sure, though, it's a relief to us all to have you back. Of course, if you had been at home she would never have been admitted.... You would have realised the unsuitability—but it was not my decision.... Miss Hartill.... But what am I to do? I flatter myself I can control our English girls—but these Americans! Open defiance, Miss Marsham! Her room! She refuses to attend to it. She comes and goes when she chooses. She treats me, positively,as an equal. Her influence is unspeakable! It must be stopped! Ten minutes late for breakfast—oh, every day! Once, I could excuse. And on the top of it all to offer me chocolates! I must ask you to punish her severely.... Keep her in? Miss Marsham, I did.... I sent her to her room. Miss Marsham, will you believe me? When I went up to her later, she was fast asleep! On the bed! In the daytime!! Without taking off the counterpane!!! Miss Marsham, I leave the matter to you!"
She paused for the comments her tale deserved. But to outraged Authority, it had called up a picture—an impudent picture of Young America, curled kitten-fashion on its austere white pallet—pink cheek on rounded arm, guileless eyes opening sleepily under a sour and scandalised gaze.
Henrietta started. She could not believe her ears.
Benevolently—unmistakably—Authority had chuckled.
But the scandal was short-lived. Before the term was over: before Henrietta had braced herself to her usual resource, a threat of resignation, or Miss Marsham, hesitating between the devil of her protesting subordinates and the deep sea of Young America's unshakable conviction that in her directress she had an enthusiastic partisan, could allow her maid to suggest to her that she needed a change, the end had arrived.
Cynthia, as Alwynne had surmised, found ten weeks of an English private school more than enough for her; and an imperious telegram had summoned her docile parents.
She departed as she had come, in a joyous flurry. The school mourned, and the Common-room, in its relief, sped the parting guest with a cordiality that was almost effusive.
A remark of Henrietta's, as the mistress sat over their coffee on the afternoon of Cynthia's departure, voiced the attitude of the majority to its late pupil.
"I'm thankful," Miss Vigers was unusually talkative, "deeply thankful that she's gone. An impossible young woman. Oh, no—you couldn't call her a girl. Would anygirl—any English girl—conceivably behave as she has? They have begun to imitate her, of course. That was to be expected. She demoralised the school. It will take me a month to get things straight. I have three children in bed to-day. Headaches? Fiddlesticks! Over-eating! I suppose you heard that there was a midnight feast last night?"
The Common-room opened its eyes.
"I'm not astonished. A farewell gathering, I suppose! I'm sure it's not the first," said Clare, her eyes alight with amusement. "But go on. How did you find it out?"
"Miss Marsham informed me of it," said Henrietta, with desperate calmness. "It appears that Cynthia asked her permission. Miss Marsham—er—contributed a cake. Seed!"
Clare gurgled.
"This is priceless. Did she tell you? I wonder she had the face."
Henrietta grew pink.
"No. Cynthia herself. She—er—offered me a slice. She had the impertinence—the entirely American impertinence—to come to my room—after midnight—to borrow a tooth-glass. To eat ices in. It appeared that they were short of receptacles."
"Ices?" came the chorus.
"Her mother provided them, I believe. In a pail," said Henrietta stiffly.
"Did you lend the tooth-glass?" asked Clare.
Henrietta coughed.
"It was difficult to refuse. She had bare feet. I did not wish her to catch cold."
Clare turned away abruptly. Her shoulders shook.
"I do not wish to be unjust. I do not think she was intentionally insubordinate." Henrietta fingered one of the tall pink roses that had appeared on her desk that morning. "I believe she meant well."
"She was a dear!" said the little gym mistress.
"She was an impossible young woman," retorted Henrietta with spirit. "At the same time——"
"At the same time?" Clare spoke with unusual friendliness.
"She certainly had a way with her," said Henrietta.
Cynthia Griffiths had set a fashion.
Her kewpie hair-ribbons and abbreviated blouses were an unofficial uniform long after she had ceased, probably, to know that such articles of dress existed. Her slang phrases incorporated themselves in the school vocabulary. Her deeds of derring-do were imitated from afar. To have been on intimate terms with her would have been an impressive distinction, had not every member of the school been able to lay claim to it. For Cynthia's jolly temperament laughed at schoolgirl etiquette, could never be brought to realise the existence of caste and clique. She darted into their lives and out again, like a dragon-fly through a cloud of gnats. It was not strange that her beauty, her prodigality, in conjunction with the all-excusing fact of her nationality, should have attracted the weather-cock enthusiasm of her companions: should have made her, short as her career had been, the rage.
Yet the one person on whom that career was to have a lasting influence was, to all appearance, the least affected by it.
Cynthia and Louise Denny were class-mates, for Clare, amused and interested by the new type, had, after all, arranged for Cynthia to join the Scholarship Class, though there could be no idea of her entering. She agreed with Alwynne that there was not much likelihood of Cynthia's sojourn being a long one. In the meantime, as she had explained to Miss Marsham, it was better to have the fire-brand under her own eye. Miss Marsham agreed with alacrity, and contrasted Clare's calmly capable manner with the protests of Henrietta. She realised joyfully that Cynthia would not be permitted to appeal from any decisionof Miss Hartill. She recalled, not for the first time, that in all Clare's years there had never come a crisis for which she had been found unprepared. Details of a campaign might finally reach the ears of Authority—there would be always birds of the air to carry the matter—but from Miss Hartill herself, no word; if pressed, there would be a brief summary, a laughing comment, never an appeal for help. Miss Marsham had built up her school by sheer force of personality. She was old now, grown slack and easy, but instinctively she recognised a ruling spirit, a kindred mind. One day she must choose her successor.... She was rich. Her school need not fall to the highest bidder.... There were Henrietta and Clare. Henrietta had scraped and saved, she knew.... Henrietta was fond of trying on Authority's shoes.... Of Clare's wishes she was less sure.... But Clare was a capable girl—a capable girl.... Clare had never let any one worry her....
She read Clare correctly. Clare had no intention of allowing Cynthia Griffiths to lessen her prestige. But she had her own method of solving the American problem. She treated her new pupil with the easy good humour, the mocking friendliness of an equal. She realised the impossibility of counteracting the effects of a haphazard education, but recognising equally the inherent kindliness and lawlessness of the character, played on both qualities in her management of the girl. Her classes were not demoralised, but stimulated, by the new-comer's presence: yet Clare had said nothing to Cynthia of rules and regulations. But Miss Hartill's manner had certainly implied that while to her, too, they were a folly and a weariness, after all it was easy to conform. It saved trouble and pleased people. All conveyed without prejudice to the morals of her other pupils in a shrug, and a twinkle, and a half-finished phrase.
Cynthia was charmed. Here was common-sense. For the first time she felt herself at home. She appalled the classes by her loud encomiums, her delighted discovery of qualities that it was blasphemy to connect with MissHartill. For Cynthia, with the pitiful shrewdness that her cosmopolitan years had instilled, admired Clare for reasons that bewildered the worshippers. To them Clare moved through the school, apart, Olympian, a goddess, condescending delightfully. To Cynthia, accustomed to intrigue, she was obviously and admirably Macchiavellian. It amazed her that the English girls could not perceive Miss Hartill's cleverness, that they should adore her for qualities as foreign to her character as they were essentially insipid, and be indignant at understanding and discriminating praise.
But Cynthia was above all philosophical. She shrugged her shoulders over the crazy crew, and reserved her comments for—Louise. For in Louise, incredible as Alwynne Durand, for instance, would have thought it, she did find a listener—an antagonist, easily pricked into amusing indignation, into white-hot denials—nevertheless, a listener. Indeed, it was the attitude of Cynthia to Clare Hartill rather than her personal attraction that was responsible for Louise's departure from her original and sincere attitude of indifference to the advances of the popular American.
Louise was less in the foreground than she had been in the previous term. She had come back to school, less talkative, less brilliant, but working with a dogged persistence that had on Alwynne, at least, a depressing effect. But Alwynne, also, was seeing less of the girl. Cynthia Griffiths obstructed her view—Cynthia, taking one of her vociferous likings to a sufficiently unresponsive Louise. For therapprochementwas scarcely a normal, schoolgirl intimacy. Cynthia Griffiths had been intrigued by Louise's personality. She had been quick to grasp the importance of the child's position—to guess her there by reason of her brains and temperament. Yet to Cynthia, judging life, as she did, chiefly by exterior appearances, Louise, insignificant, timid, shadowy, was an incessant denial of her nevertheless recognisable influence in school politics. In the language of Cynthia, she was a dark horse.Cynthia was charmed—school life was dull—the mildest of mysteries was better than none. She would devote herself to deciphering a new type. This little English kid had undoubted influence with girl and mistress alike. Cynthia had intercepted glances between her and Miss Hartill, and Miss Durand too, that spoke of mutual understanding. Perhaps it was money—half the school in her pay? Or secret influences of the most sinister? Hypnotism, maybe? Cynthia Griffiths, fed on dime novels and magazine literature, was not ten minutes concocting the hopefullest of mare's nests. She approached Louise between excitement and suspicion.
Cynthia was not scrupulous. She forced her way through the reserves and defences of the younger girl like a bumble-bee clawing and screwing and buzzing into the heart of a half-shut flower.
She found much to puzzle her, more to amuse, but nothing to justify her gorgeous suspicions. She confessed them one day to Louise, in a burst of confidence, and Louise was hugely delighted. Cynthia always delighted her. She liked her jolly ways, and her sense of fun, and was quite convinced that she had no sense of humour at all. The conviction saved her some suffering. She was jealous, inevitably jealous, of the brilliant new-comer, painfully alive to, exaggerating and writhing at Clare's preoccupation with her; yet the warped shrewdness proper to her state of mind, she could calculate with painful accuracy how long it would take Clare to tire of her new toy, what qualities would soonest induce satiety. She guessed, hoped, prayed, that Miss Hartill would discover, as she had done, Cynthia's lack of conscious humour, the obtuseness that underlay her boisterous ease. She was not fine enough to hold Miss Hartill long: she would grow too fond of Miss Hartill: would, in the terrible craving to render up her whole soul, expose herself in all her crudity. Louise did, for a while, soothe the jealousy, the tearing, clawing beast in her breast, with that comfortable conviction. That her reasoning wassubconscious, that she was unaware of the process of analysation and deduction that led to her conclusions, is immaterial; she felt—and as she felt, she acted; her reasons for her actions were sounder than she dreamed.
She made mistakes often enough: her profound occupation with Clare Hartill had induced a spiritual myopia; the rest of the world was out of focus; and it was her initial misunderstanding of Cynthia Griffiths that led to their curious, unaffectionate alliance. In all Louise's ponderings, she had never doubted but that Cynthia would, like the rest of the world, fall down and worship at the shrine of Clare Hartill. Cynthia Griffiths, amused spectator of an alien life, did nothing of the kind. And Louise—amazed, fiercely incredulous, all-suspicious, yet finally convinced of the inconceivable fact—it had a curious effect. She should have been indignant, contemptuous of the obtuse creature—as, indeed, in a sense, she was—but chiefly she was conscious of a lifted weight—of an enormous and hysterical gratitude.
Cynthia was a fool—a purblind philistine. But what relief was in her folly, what immense security! Jealousy could not die out in Louise, but it entered on a new phase—became passive, enduring resignedly inevitable pain. But its vigilance, its fierce pugnacity was dead; for Cynthia—dear fool—did not care. Pearls had been cast before Americans. Louise was ready enough to be gracious to such exquisite insensibility. She became friendly. She had guarded her secret jealousy from the world. She was "keen" on Miss Hartill, certainly, but so was half the school, at least. She was merely in the fashion. Insignificant and circumspect, giving no confidences, no one but Clare herself, and Alwynne Durand, guessed at the intensity of her affection. But with Cynthia Griffiths she was reckless. Ostrich-like, she trusted to the protection of her formal disclaimer, while with each new discussion, each half-confidence, she exposed herself and her feelings more completely.
And Cynthia, dropping her theories, began to be interested in the strange, vehement imp, with its alternating fits of frankness and reticence, wit and childishness, its big brain and its inexplicable yet obvious unhappiness. She affected Louise, was accustomed to pet and parade her, long before she had solved the problem of her character; indeed, it was not until she had confided to the child her plans for an early departure, that Louise relaxed her self-protective vigilance. She had begun, in her walks with Cynthia, to realise the relief and healing of self-expression. If Cynthia were going away to Paris, America, never to be seen again, what harm in talking—in saying for once what she felt? There was wry pleasure in it, and, oh, what harm?
Louise found an odd satisfaction in leading Cynthia—on her side, if you please, alert for evidence, the amateur detective still—to sit in judgment on Clare Hartill; would sit, horrified, thrilled, drinking in blasphemy. She would have allowed no other human being to impeach the smallest detail of Clare Hartill's conduct, but from Cynthia, though she raged hotly, she did allow, and in some queer fashion, enjoy it. She had, perhaps, a vague assurance that Cynthia, being a foreigner, could not be taken seriously.
So the pair discussed Clare Hartill from all possible angles till Louise occasionally forgot to keep up her elaborate pretence of indifference, to insist on its being understood that the discussion was rhadamanthine in its impersonality.