She turned eagerly to Julia who was saying something and laughing unconcernedly as she said it. “If you’d like to know what it is I’ve come over for I’ll tell you at once. I’ve come over to learn Chopang’s Funeral March. It’s all I think about. When I can play Chopang’s Funeral March I’ll not call the Queen me aunt.”
“Well, my dear child, I’m sure I wish I could arrange your life for ye,” said Miss Haddie that evening. She was sitting on the edge of the schoolroom table, having come in at ten o’clock to turn out the gas and found Miriam sitting unoccupied. The room was cold and close with the long-burning gas, and Miriam had turned upon her with a scornful half laugh when she had playfully exclaimed at finding her there so late. Miss Haddie was obviously still a little excited. She had presided at schoolroom tea and Julia had filled the room with Dublin—the bay, the streets, the jarveys and their outside cars, her journey, the channel boat, her surprise at England.
“Eh, what’s the matter, Miriam, my dear?” For some time Miriam had parried her questions, fiercely demanding that her mood should be understood without a clue. Presently they had slid into an irritated discussion of the respective values of sleep before and sleep after midnight, in the midst of which Miriam had said savagely, “I wish to goodness I knew what to do about things.”
Miss Haddie’s kindly desire gave her no relief. What did she mean but the hopelessness of imagining that anybody could do anything about anything. Nobody could ever understand what anyone else really wanted. Only some people were fortunate. Miss Haddie was one of the fortunate ones. She had her share in the school and many wealthy relatives and the very best kind of good clothes and a good deal of strange old-fashioned jewelry. And whatever happened there was money and her sisters and relatives to look after her without feeling it a burden because of the expense. And there she sat at the table looking at what she thought she could see in another person’s life.
“If only one knew in the least what one ought to do,” said Miriam crossly.
Miss Haddie began speaking in a halting murmur, and Miriam rushed on with flaming face. “I suppose I shall have to go on teaching all my life, and I can’t think how on earth I’m going to do it. I don’t see how I can work in the evenings, my eyes get so tired. If you don’t get certificates there’s no prospect. And even if I did my throat is simply agonies at the end of each morning.”
“Eh! my dear child! I’m sorry to hear that. Why have ye taken to that? Is it something fresh?”
“Oh no, my throat always used to get tired. Mother’s is the same. We can’t either of us talk for ten minutes without feeling it. It’s perfectly awful.”
“But, my dear, oughtn’t ye to see someone—have some advice? I mean ye ought to see a doctor.”
Miriam glanced at Miss Haddie’s concerned face and glanced away with a flash of hatred. “Oh no. I s’pose I shall manage.”
“D’ye think yer wise—letting it go on?”
Miriam made no reply.
“Well now, my dear,” said Miss Haddie, getting down off the table, “I think it’s time ye went to bed.”
“Phm,” said Miriam impatiently, “I suppose it is.”
Miss Haddie sat down again. “I wish I could help ye, my dear,” she said gently.
“Oh, no one can do that,” said Miriam in a hard voice.
“Oh yes,” murmured Miss Haddie cheerfully, “there’s One who can.”
“Oh yes,” said Miriam, tugging a thread out of the fraying edge of the table cover. “But it’s practically impossible to discover what on earth they mean you to do.”
“N—aiche, my dear,” she said in an angry guttural, “ye’re always led.”
Miriam tugged at the thread and bit her lips.
“Why do ye suppose ye’ll go on teaching all yer life? Perhaps ye’ll marry.”
“Oh no.”
“Ye can’t tell.”
“Oh, I never shall—in any case now.”
“Have ye quarrelled with him?”
“Oh, well, him,” said Miriam roundly, digging a pencil point between the grainings of the table-cover. “It’s they, I think, goodness knows, I don’t know; it’s so perfectly extraordinary.”
“You’re a very funny young lady.”
“Well, I shan’t marry now anyhow.”
“Have ye refused somebody?”
“Oh well—there was someone—who went away—went to America—who was coming back to see me when he came back—”
“Yes, my dear?”
“Well, you see, he’s handed in his checks.”
“Eh, my dear—I don’t understand,” said Miss Haddie thwarted and frowning.
“Aw,” said Miriam, jabbing the table, “kicked the bucket.”
“My dear child, you use such strange language—I can’t follow ye.”
“Oh well, you see, he went to America. It was in New York. I heard about it in January. He caught that funny illness. You know. Influenza—and died.”
“Eh, my poor dear child, I’m very sorry for ye. Ye do seem to have troubles.”
“Ah well, yes, and then the queer thing is that he was really only the friend of my real friend. And it was my real friend who told me about it and gave me a message he sent me and didn’t like it, of course. Naturally.”
“Well really, Miriam,” said Miss Haddie, blushing, with a little laugh half choked by a cough.
“Oh yes, then of course one meets people—at dances. It’s appalling.”
“I wish I understood ye, my dear.”
“Oh well, it doesn’t make any difference now. I shall hardly ever meet anybody now.”
Miss Haddie pondered over the table with features that worked slightly as she made little murmuring sounds. “Eh no. Ye needn’t think that. Ye shouldn’t think like that. …
