But the boy’s thoughts had wandered: he was making signs to a friend down in the front of the Stand. Miss Snodgrass seemed to repress a smile.
Here, however, the little girl at Laura’s side chimed in. “I think cricket’s awful rot,” she announced, in a cheepy voice.
Now what was it, Laura asked herself, in these words, or in the tone in which they were said, that at once riveted the boy’s attention. For he laughed quite briskly as he asked: “What’s a kid like you know about it?”
“Jus’ as much as I want to. An’ my sister says so’s well.”
“Get along with you! Who’s your sister?”
“Ooh!—wouldn’t you like to know? You’ve never seen her in Scots’ Church on Sundays I s’pose—oh, no!”
“By jingo!—I should say I have. An’ you, too. You’re the little sister of that daisy with the simply ripping hair.”
The little girl actually made a grimace at him, screwing up her nose. “Yes, you can be civil now, can’t you?”
“My aunt, but she’s a tip-topper—your sister!”
“You go to Scots’ Church then, do you?” hazarded Laura, in an attempt to re-enter the conversation.
“Think I could have seen her if I didn’t?” retorted the boy, in the tone of: “What a fool question!” He also seemed to have been on the point of adding: “Goose,” or “Sillybones.”
The little girl giggled. “She’s church”—by which she meant episcopalian.
“Yes, but I don’t care a bit which I go to,” Laura hastened to explain, fearful lest she should be accounted a snob by this dissenter. The boy, however, was so faintly interested in her theological wobblings that, even as she spoke, he had risen from his seat; and the next moment without another word he went away. This time Miss Snodgrass laughed outright.
Laura stared, with blurred eyes, at the white-clad forms that began to dot the green again. Her lids smarted. She did not dare to put up her fingers to squeeze the gathering tears away, and just as she was wondering what she should do if one was inconsiderate enough to roll down her cheek, she heard a voice behind her.
“I say, Laura … Laura!”—and there was Chinky, in her best white hat.
“I’m sitting with my aunt just a few rows down; but I couldn’t make you look. Can I come in next to you for a minute?”
“If you like,” said Laura and, because she had to sniff a little, very coldly: Chinky had no doubt also been a witness of her failure.
The girl squeezed past and shared her seat. “I don’t take up much room.”
Laura feigned to be engrossed in the game. But presently she felt her bare wrist touched, and Chinky said in her ear: “What pretty hands you’ve got, Laura!”
She buried them in her dress, at this. She found it in the worst possible taste of Chinky to try to console her.
“Wouldn’t you like to wear a ring on one of them?”
“No, thanks,” said Laura, in the same repellent way.
“Truly? I’d love to give you one.”
“You? Where would you get it?”
“Would you wear it, if I did?”
“Let me see it first,” was Laura’s graceless reply, as she returned to her stony contemplation of the great sunlit expanse.
She was sure Miss Snodgrass, on getting home, would laugh with the other governesses over what had occurred—if not with some of the girls. The story would leak out and come to Tilly’s ears; and Tilly would despise her more than she did already. So would all the rest. She was branded, as it was, for not having a single string to her bow. Now, it had become plain to her that she could never hope for one; for, when it came to holding a boy’s attention for five brief minutes, she could be put in the shade by a child of eight years old.
XVI
Since, however, it seemed that someone had to be loved if you were to be able to hold up your head with the rest, then it was easier, infinitely easier, to love the curate. With the curate, no personal contact was necessary—and that was more than could be said even of the music-masters. In regard to them, pressures of the hand, as well as countless nothings, were expected and enacted, in the biweekly reports you rendered to those of your friends who followed the case. Whereas for the curate it was possible to simulate immense ardour, without needing either to humble your pride or call invention to your aid: the worship took place from afar. The curate was, moreover, no unworthy object; indeed he was quite attractive, in a lean, ascetic fashion, with his spiritual blue eyes, and the plain gold cross that dangled from his black watch-ribbon—though, it must be admitted, when he preached, and grew greatly in earnest, his mouth had a way of opening as if it meant to swallow the church—and Laura was by no means his sole admirer. Several of her friends had a fancy for him, especially as his wife, who was much older than he, was a thin, elderly lady with a tired face.
And now, by her own experience, Laura was led to the following discovery: that, if you imagine a thing with sufficient force, you can induce your imagining to become reality. By dint of pretending that it was so, she gradually worked herself up into an attack of love, which was genuine enough to make her redden when Mr. Shepherd was spoken of, and to enjoy being teased about him. And since, at any rate when in church, she was a sincerely religious little girl, and one to whom—notwithstanding her protested indifference to forms of worship—such emotional accessories as flowers, and music, and highly coloured vestments made a strong appeal, her feelings for Mr. Shepherd were soon mystically jumbled up with her piety: the eastward slant for the Creed, and the Salutation at the Sacred Name, seemed not alone homage due to the Deity, but also a kind of minor homage offered
