11
“You will be asleep, Miss Hendershon.” Miriam started at the sound of Ulrica’s wailing whisper. Fräulein had only just gone. She had been sitting on the end of Emma’s bed talking quietly of self-control and now Emma was asleep. Ulrica’s corner had been perfectly quiet. Miriam had been lying listening to the steady swishing of the rain against the chestnut leaves.
“No; what is it?”
“Oh, most wonderful. Ich bin so empfindlich. I am so sensible.”
“Sensitive?”
“Oh, it was most wonderful. Only hear and I shall tell you. This evening when the storm leave himself down it was exactly as my Konfirmation.”
“Yes.”
“It was as my Konfirmation. I think of that wonderful day, my white dress, the flower-bouquet and how I weeped always. Oh, it was all of most beautifullest. I am so sensible.”
“Oh, yes,” whispered Miriam.
“I weeped so! All day I have weeped! The all whole day! And my mozzer she console me I shall not weep. And I weep. Ach! It was of most beautifullest.”
Miriam felt as if she were being robbed.... This was Ulrica.... “You remember the Konfirmation, miss?”
“Oh, yes, I remember.”
“Have you weeped?”
“We say cry, not weep, except in poetry—weinen, to cry.”
“Have you cry?”
“No, I didn’t cry. But we mustn’t talk. We must go to sleep. Good night.”
“Gute Nacht. Ach, wie empfindlich bin ich, wie empfindlich....”
Miriam lay thinking of how she and Harriett on their confirmation morning had met the vicar in the Upper Richmond Road, having gone out, contrary to the desire expressed by him at his last preparation class, and how he had stopped and greeted them. She had tried to look vague and sad and to murmur something in spite of the bull’s-eye in her cheek and had suddenly noticed as they stood grouped that Harriett’s little sugar-loaf hat was askew and her brown eye underneath it was glaring fixedly at the vicar above the little knob in her cheek—and how they somehow got away and went, gently reeling and colliding, moaning and gasping down the road out of hearing.