So things progressed through half a dozen lessons. Then, one sunless afternoon, sky and sea and speck of island painted in half-tones, misty, dubious as the happiness of human life, came the rattle as of a score of chained captives along the avenue of Tintajeux. Marjorie, pacing up and down the schoolroom as she boldly struggled with the irregularities of a Greek verb, recognised the sound of Cassandra’s cart-wheels. Pushing Delectus and exercise books aside, she ran forth joyfully to meet her friend. Had not important news to be told? Our Cambridge B.A. thinking good things possible in the direction of Girton, the emancipation of those benighted Spanish women, who only know how to manage their house or fold their mantilla gracefully, a few prospective inches advanced!
‘You are inkier than ever, Marjorie Bartrand.’
This was Miss Tighe’s first personal observation, thrown back over her shoulder as she knotted Midge, the unkempt Brittany pony, to a rail, with one of the sundry odds and ends of rope stowed away in readiness within that all-containing cart of hers.
‘Only about the wrists,’ Marjorie pleaded, holding out the sleeve of her holland pinafore.
‘But I don’t see that University teaching puts flesh on your bones. You are growing too much like that picture of your mother. Eyes are all very well, especially handsome ones, but one wants something more than eyes in a face. You would have done much better’—who shall say Cassandra was not right—‘much better to come with Annette and me to Sark, jelly-fish hunting.’
The speech gave an impression of being double-shotted. But Marjorie, with unwonted meekness, made no retort until she and her visitor were within shelter of the drawing-room. There, in the familiar presence of the buhl Cupids, of the miniature Bartrands, who had danced, loved or hated each other, and gone to the guillotine with such easy grace, the girl felt herself protected—oh, Marjorie, from what dim vision of a sin could that white soul need protection? She began the story of her days, and of her intercourse with Geff Arbuthnot, bravely.
‘I feel half way towards Little Go, Miss Tighe. I get my six hours’ teaching a week, and——’
‘You have always had teaching in abundance,’ remarked Cassandra, wilfully misinterpreting her. ‘Since you were twelve, you have had Madame Briquebec six hours a week.’
‘Madame Briquebec—a music mistress!’
‘Six hours’ lessons, and twelve hours’ practice. It would require a Cambridge mathematician,’ observed Cassandra, ‘to reckon how many years’ solid capital, out of a lifetime, are given by young women to such an instrument as the piano!’