After bed-making, Fräulein settled a mending party at the window end of the schoolroom table. She sent no emissary but was waiting herself in the schoolroom when they came down. She hovered about putting them into their places and enquiring about the work of each one.
She arranged Miriam and the Germans at the Saal end of the table for an English lesson. Mademoiselle was not there. Fräulein herself took the head of the table. Once more she enjoined silence—the whole table seemed waiting for Miriam to begin her lesson.
The three or four readings they had done during the term alone in the little room had brought them through about a third of the blue-bound volume. Hoarsely whispering, then violently clearing her throat and speaking suddenly in a very loud tone Miriam bade them resume the story. They read and she corrected them in hoarse whispers. No one appeared to be noticing. A steady breeze coming through the open door of the summerhouse flowed past them and along the table, but Miriam sat stifling, with beating temples. She had no thoughts. Now and again in correcting a simple word she was not sure that she had given the right English rendering. Behind her distress two impressions went to and fro—Fräulein and the raccommodage party sitting in judgment and the whole roomful waiting for cancer.
Very gently at the end of half an hour Fräulein dismissed the Germans to practise.
Herr Schraub was coming at eleven. Miriam supposed she was free until then and went upstairs.
On the landing she met Mademoiselle coming downstairs with mending.
“Bossy coming?” she said feverishly in French; “are you going to the Saal?”
Mademoiselle stood contemplating her.
“I’ve just been giving an English lesson, oh, Mon Dieu,” she proceeded.
Mademoiselle still looked gravely and quietly.
Miriam was passing on. Mademoiselle turned and said hurriedly in a low voice. “Elsa says you are a fool at lessons.”
“Oh,” smiled Miriam.
“You think they do not speak of you, hein? Well, I tell you they speak of you. Jimmie says you are as fat as any German. She laughed in saying that. Gertrude, too, thinks you are a fool. Oh, they say things. If I should tell you all the things they say you would not believe.”
“I dare say,” said Miriam heavily, moving on.
“Everyone, all say things, I tell you,” whispered Mademoiselle turning her head as she went on downstairs.
Miriam ran into the empty summerhouse tearing open a well-filled envelope. There was a long letter from Eve, a folded half sheet from mother. Her heart beat rapidly. Thick straight rain was seething down into the garden.
“Come and say goodbye to Mademoiselle, Hendy.”
“Is she going?”
“Umph.”
“Little Mademoiselle?”
“Poor little beast!”
“Leaving!”
“Seems like it—she’s been packing all the morning.”
“Because of that letter business?”
“Oh, I dunno. Anyhow there’s some story of some friend of Fräulein’s travelling through to Besançon today and Mademoiselle’s going with her and we’re all to take solemn leave and she’s not coming back next term. Come on.”
Mademoiselle, radiantly rosy under her large black French hat, wearing her stockinette jacket and grey dress, was standing at the end of the schoolroom table—the girls were all assembled and the door into the hall was open.
The housekeeper was laughing and shouting and imitating the puffing of a train. Mademoiselle stood smiling beside her with downcast eyes.
Opposite them was Gertrude with thin white face, blue lips and hotly blazing eyes fixed on Mademoiselle. She stood easily with her hands clasped behind her.
She must have an appalling headache thought Miriam. Mademoiselle began shaking hands.
“I say, Mademoiselle,” began Jimmie quietly and hurriedly in her lame French, as she took her hand. “Have you got another place?”
“A place?”
“I mean what are you going to do next term, petite?”
“Next term?”
“We want to know about your plans.”
“But I remain now with my parents till my marriage!”
“Petite!!! Fancy never telling us.”
Exclamations clustered round from all over the room.
“Why should I tell?”
“We didn’t even know you were engaged!”
“But of course. Certainly I marry. I know quite well who is to marry me.”
The room was taking leave of Mademoiselle almost in silence. The English were standing together. Miriam heard their voices. “’Dieu, m’selle, ’dieu, m’selle,” one after the other and saw hands and wrists move vigorously up and down. The Germans were commenting, “Ah, she is engaged—ah, what—en‑gaged. Ah, the rascal! Hör mal—”
Miriam dreaded her turn. Mademoiselle was coming near … so cheap and common-looking with her hard grey dress and her cheap jacket with the hat hiding her hair and making her look skinny and old. She was a more dreadful stranger than she had been at first … Miriam wished she could stay. She could not let anyone go away like this. They would not meet again and Mademoiselle was going away detesting her and them all, going away in disgrace and not minding and going to be married. All the time there had been that waiting for her. She was smiling now and showing her babyish teeth. How could Jimmie hold her by the shoulders?
“Venez mon enfant, venez à l’instant,” called Fräulein from the hall.
Mademoiselle made her hard little sound with her throat.
“Why doesn’t she
