Part 27 (1/2)
”If you don't understand me,” Hilda said, dropping into the corner of a sofa, ”_Cela que je m'en doute_, it's because you look for too much elaboration. I am a simple creature, done with rather a broad brush--_voila tout!_”
Nevertheless, Miss Livingstone's was a happy impression. The neutrality of her hospital dress left Hilda in a manner exposed: one saw in a special way the significance of lines and curves; it was an astonis.h.i.+ngly vigourous human expression.
Alicia leaned forward, her elbow on the arm of her chair, her chin tucked into her palm, and looked at it. The elbow bent itself in a light blue muslin sleeve of extreme elegance, trimmed with lace. The colour found a wistful echo in the eyes that regarded Miss Howe, who was accustomed to the look and met it with impenetrable commonplace, being made impatient by nothing in this world so much as by futility, however charming.
”Just now,” Alicia said, ”the shadows under your eyes are brushed too deep.”
”I don't believe I sleep well in a dormitory.”
”Horrible! All the little privacies of life--don't you miss them?”
”I never had them, my dear--I never had them. Life has never given me the luxury of curtains--I don't miss them. An occasional blind--a closed door--and those we got even at the Inst.i.tution. The decencies are strictly conserved, believe me.”
”One imagines that kind of place is always clean.”
”When I have time I think of Number Three, Lal Behari's Lane, and believe myself in Paradise. The repose is there, the angels also--dear commanding things--and a perpetual incense of cheap soap. And there is some good in sleeping in a row. It reminds one that after all one is very like other women.”
”It wouldn't convince me if I were you. And how did the Sisters receive you--with the harp and the psaltery?”
”That was rather,” said Hilda gravely, ”what I expected. On the contrary, they snubbed me--they really did. There were two of them. I said, 'Reverend ladies, please be a little kind. Convents are strange to me; I shall probably commit horrible sins without knowing it. Give me your absolution in advance--at least your blessing.”
”Hilda, you didn't!”
”It is delightful to observe the Mother Abbess, or whatever she is, disguising the fact that she takes any interest in me. Such diplomacy--funny old thing.”
”They must be _devoured_ with curiosity!”
”Well, they ask no questions. One sees an everlasting finger on the lip.
It's a little boring. One feels inclined to speak up and say, 'Mesdames, _entendez_--it isn't so bad as you think.' But then their fingers would go into their ears.”
”And the rules, Hilda? I can't imagine you, somehow, under rules.”
”I am attached to the rules; I think about them all day long. They make the thing simple and--possible. It is a little like living for the first time in a house all right angles after--after a life-long voyage in a small boat.”
”Isn't the house rather empty?”
”Oh, well!”
Alicia put out her hand and tucked an irrelevant bit of lace into Hilda's bosom. ”I can tell you who is interested,” she cried. ”The Archdeacon--the Archdeacon and Mrs. Barberry. They both dined here last night; and you lasted from the fish to the pudding. I got so bored with you, my dear, in your new capacity.”
A new ray of happiness came into the smile of the novice. ”What did they say? Do tell me what they said.”
”There was a difference of opinion. The Archdeacon held that with G.o.d all things were possible. He used an expression more suitable to a dinner-party, but I think that is what he meant. Mrs. Barberry thought it wouldn't last. Mrs. Barberry was very cynical. She said anyone could see that you were as emotional as ever you could be.”
The eyes of the two women met and they laughed frankly. A sense of expansion came between them, in which for an instant they were silent.
”Tell me about the hospital,” Alicia said presently.