Mechanically Miriam went downstairs with the rest of the party. With the full force of her nerves she resisted the echoes of Fräulein’s onslaught, refusing to think of anything she had said and blotting out her image every time it rose. The essential was that she would be dismissed as Mademoiselle had been dismissed. That was the upshot of it all for her. Fräulein was a mad, silly, pious female who would send her away and go on glowering over the Bible. She would have to go, go, go in a sort of disgrace.
The girls were talking all round her, excitedly. She despised them for showing that they were disturbed by Fräulein’s despotic nonsense. As they reached the basement she remembered the letter crushed in her hand and sat down on the last step to glance through it.
“Dearest Mim. I have a wonderful piece of news for you. I wonder what you will say? It is about Harriett. She has asked me to tell you as she does not like to write about it herself.”
With steady hands Miriam turned the closely-written sheets reading a phrase here and there … “regularly in the seat behind us at All Saints’ for months—saw her with the Pooles at a concert at the Assembly Rooms and made up his mind then—the moment he saw her—joined the tennis club—they won the double handicap—a beautiful Slazenger racquet—only just over sixteen—for years—of course Mother says it’s just a little foolish nonsense—but I am not sure that she really thinks so—Gerald took me into his confidence—made a solemn call—admirably suited to each other—rather a long melancholy good-looking face—they look such a contrast—the big Canadian Railway—not exactly a clerk—something rather above that, to do with making drafts of things and so on. Very sweet and charming—my own young days—that I have reached the great age of twenty-three—resident post in the country—two little girls—we think it very good pay—I shall go in September—plenty of time—that you should come home for the long holidays. We are all looking forward to it—the tennis club—your name as a holiday member—the American tournament in August—Harry was the youngest lady member like you—of course Harry could not let you come without knowing—find somebody travelling through—Fräulein Pfaff—expect to see you looking like a flour sack with a string tied round its waist—all the dwarf roses in bloom—hardly any strawberries—we shall see you soon—everybody sends.”
Miriam got up and swung the half-read letter above her head like a dumbbell.
She looked about her like a stranger—everything was as it had been the day she came—the little cramped basement hall—the strange German girls—small and old looking, poking about amongst the baskets. She hardly knew them. She passed half-blindly amongst them with her eyes wide. The little dressing room seemed full of bright light. She saw everyone at once clearly. All the English girls were there. She knew every line of each of them. They were her old friends. They knew her. Looking at none of them she felt she embraced them all, closely, and that they knew it. They shone. They were beautiful. She wanted to cry aloud. She was English and free. She had nothing to do with this German school. Baskets at her feet made her pick her way. Solomon was kneeling at one, sorting and handing out. At a little table under the window Millie stood jotting pencil notes in a pocketbook. Judy was at her side. The others were grouped about the piano. Gertrude sat on the keyboard her legs dangling.
Miriam plumped down on a full basket.
“Hullo, Hendy, old chap, you look all right!”
Miriam looked fearlessly up at the faces that were turned towards her. Again she seemed to see all of them at once. The circle of her vision seemed huge. It was as if the confining rim of her glasses were gone and she saw equally from eyes that seemed to fill her face. She drew all their eyes to her. They were waiting for her to speak. For a moment it seemed as if they stood there lifeless. She had drawn all their meaning and all their happiness into herself. She could do as she wished with them—their poor little lives.
They stood waiting for some word from her. She dropped her eyes and caught the flash of Gertrude’s swinging steel buckles.
“Wasn’t Fräulein angry?” she said carelessly.
Someone pushed the door to.
“Sly old bird.”
“Fancy imagining we shouldn’t see through Mademoiselle leaving.”
“H’m,” said Miriam.
“I knew Mademoiselle would sneak if she had half a chance.”
“Yes, ever since she got so thick with Elsa.”
“Oh!—Elsa.”
“You bet Fräulein looks down on the two of them in her heart of hearts.”
“M’m—she’s fairly sick, Jemima, with the lot of us this time.”
“Mademoiselle told her some pretty things,” laughed Gertrude. “Lily thinks we’re lost souls—nearly all of us.”
“Onny swaw, my dears, onny swaw.”
“It’s all very well. But there’s no knowing what Mademoiselle would make her believe. She’d got reams about you, Hendy—nothing bad enough.”
“H’m,” said Miriam, “I can imagine—”
Her thoughts brought back a day when she had shown Mademoiselle the names in her birthday book and dwelt on one page and let Mademoiselle understand that it was the page—brown eyes—les yeux brunes foncés. Why did Mademoiselle and Fräulein think that bad—want to spoil it for her? She had said nothing about the confidences of the German girls to anyone. Elsa must have found that
