14
When breakfast was over and the girls were clearing the table, Fräulein went to one of the great windows and stood for a moment with her hands on the hasp of the innermost of the double frames. “Balde, balde,” Miriam heard her murmur, “werden wir öffnen können.” Soon, soon we may open. Obviously then they had had the windows shut all the winter. Miriam, standing in the corner near the companion window, wondering what she was supposed to do and watching the girls with an air—as nearly as she could manage—of indulgent condescension—saw, without turning, the figure at the window, gracefully tall, with a curious dignified pannier-like effect about the skirt that swept from the small tightly-fitting pointed bodice, reminding her of illustrations of heroines of serials in old numbers of the “Girls’ Own Paper.” The dress was of dark blue velvet—very much rubbed and faded. Miriam liked the effect, liked something about the clear profile, the sallow, hollow cheeks, the same heavy bonyness that Anna the servant had, but finer and redeemed by the wide eye that was so strange. She glanced fearfully, at its unconsciousness, and tried to find words for the quick youthfulness of those steady eyes.
Fräulein moved away into the little room opening from the schoolroom, and some of the girls joined her there. Miriam turned to the window. She looked down into a little square of high-walled garden. It was gravelled nearly all over. Not a blade of grass was to be seen. A narrow little border of bare brown mould joined the gravel to the high walls. In the centre was a little domed patch of earth and there a chestnut tree stood. Great bulging brown-varnished buds were shining whitely from each twig. The girls seemed to be gathering in the room behind her—settling down round the table—Mademoiselle’s voice sounded from the head of the table where Fräulein had lately been. It must be raccommodage thought Miriam—the weekly mending Mademoiselle had told her of. Mademoiselle was superintending. Miriam listened. This was a sort of French lesson. They all sat round and did their mending together—in French—darning must be quite different done like that, she reflected.
Jimmie’s voice came, rounded and giggling, “Oh, Mademoiselle! j’ai une potato, pardong, pum de terre, je mean.” She poked three fingers through the toe of her stocking. “Veux dire, veux dire—Qu’est-ce-que vous me racontez là?” scolded Mademoiselle. Miriam envied her air of authority.
“Ah-ho! Là-là—Boum—Bong!” came Gertrude’s great voice from the door.
“Taisez-vous, taisez-vous, Jair-trude,” rebuked Mademoiselle.
“How dare she?” thought Miriam, with a picture before her eyes of the little grey-gowned thing with the wistful, frugal mouth and nose.
“Na—Miss Henderson?”
It was Fräulein’s voice from within the little room. Minna was holding the door open.