Part 3 (1/2)
She would only sigh. To a person who was fond of conversational give-and-take it was trying.
And the name of the girl who shared my bedroom was Travers--Hester--generally known as Hetty--Travers. She was, well, she is one of my dearest friends at this hour, and she may see this, so I don't want to say anything to hurt her feelings, but she certainly was a mischievous imp. Mischief brimmed out of her finger-tips. And the point was that she had such an excessively demure air that you never had the faintest notion that she was that kind of person till the truth was forced upon you. Even then you gave her the benefit of the doubt; or you tried to--at least I did--until it was obviously absurd to attempt to do so any longer since there was no doubt. Reverence!
she did not know what it was. She had not a mite of respect for me, though I was a good three months her senior. She used to make fun of all the varying things I held most sacred--that is, while the mood was on me.
That inveterate habit of hers ought to have made me suspect her. But I was ever a Una for innocence. She was always taking me in. She had an insidious way about her which would take in anybody.
One night we were going to bed. I had one stocking off, and was wondering how the holes did get into the toes; I used to bribe other girls to do my darning. It cost me frightful sums. We were talking about other people's peculiarities, as was our agreeable custom.
”You know Miss Frazer told me to walk with her when she took us out to-night. I kept talking to her all the time, and yet the whole way there and back she never spoke a word. I believe she's going mad.”
”I shouldn't wonder.”
Hetty was doing her hair. I was wis.h.i.+ng she would make haste, because she was using the only gla.s.s we had, and it seemed to me that she never would have done with it. What discussions we had about that looking-gla.s.s! We took it in turns to use it first, and whoever had first turn used to hang on to it as if it was the Koh-i-noor.
Something struck me in her tone.
”Why shouldn't you wonder?”
”I shouldn't.” This was cryptic. But I was aware that it was advisable to give her a little rope. So I held my peace and found another hole.
And presently she added, ”When a woman's heart is breaking she sometimes does go mad.”
”Hetty!”
I had been giving utterance to my sentiments on the subject of the importance which love plays in human lives; I think I got them from Byron. Hetty had been scoffing. I suspected her of paraphrasing my words with mischievous intention. But it seemed that she was actually in earnest.
”You talk about love wrecking people's lives, as if you know anything at all about it; I saw that paper-covered Byron in your workbox--and you can't see what's taking place underneath your very eyes.”
”Hetty, what do you mean?”
”Poor Miss Frazer!”
She sighed, actually. Or she emitted a sound which appeared to me to be a sigh. A light dawned on me.
”You don't mean--you don't mean that you think that she's in love?”
Miss Frazer was short, square, and squat. Sandy-haired, with not much of that. Short-sighted, her spectacles would not keep straight owing to the absence of a bridge on her abbreviated nose. Freckled, you might have been able to stick a pin between some of the freckles, but I doubt it. To me, then, she seemed ancient; but I suppose she was about forty. And, considering her general appearance and style of figure, she had a most unfortunate fondness for Scotch plaids. Up to that moment my sentimentalism had been all theory. I had not a.s.sociated the tender pa.s.sion with Miss Frazer. It was left for Hetty to direct my theoretical sympathy into a practical channel.
”Do I think? No, I do not think.”
”Do you know that she's in love?”
”I know nothing. I want to know nothing. I will know nothing. But with you, who are always talking, it is different.”
”Hetty, if you don't tell me what you mean, I--I--I'll throw my shoe at you.”
”Throw away. You never hit anything you aimed at yet.” She went on calmly brus.h.i.+ng her hair, as if she had not made me all over pins and needles. Presently she gave utterance to an observation which was Sphinx-like in its mystery: ”A Frenchman thinks no more of breaking an Englishwoman's heart than--than of eating his breakfast.”
”Hetty! what do you mean?”
”Ask Monsieur Doumer.”