CHAPTER XXI STAR'S PURSE
When Star ceased speaking she took out her purse, opened it, and produced the bill. It was folded into very minute compass, but it was there, thin and aggravating, with its items quite perceptible even in the somewhat dim light of the attic.
As she turned to go she put the bill back into her purse, and slipped the purse into her pocket; then she left the room. Christian followed her, feeling very much as though she were beaten all over. When they arrived in the corridor which led to the white rooms, Star turned and spoke.
"I believe," she said—and there was a kind tone in her voice—"that I have misunderstood you. I shall know better to-morrow night. You made a vast mistake in confiding your secret, whatever it may happen to be, to those girls. You should have told me. I am not immaculate, and I can understand even if a girl has got into a little scrape. Don't cry, Christian; I won't be hard on you—I promise that—only don't take up with that lot; they are, I assure you, beneath you. If I were a girl like you, and had a father such as I hear yours is, to say nothing of your pretty mother—for I have heard of her too—I wouldn't touch that sort of girl; I'd let her go by; I'd say to myself, 'She's not for me; she's not the sort I want to know.' Now go to bed and to sleep. Good-night."
Christian said nothing; she felt absolutely tongue-tied. She entered her little room. It was late—very late; the whole school was supposed to be sunk in slumber. She did not even dare to light her candle. She slipped off her clothes and got into bed. A chink of light from the moon came through the curtain of the window. The light lay in two very bright bars on the bed, and as the solitary moon went on her majestic way the bars of light moved, until presently they reached the young girl's shoulder, and then her ear, and then fell across her face. She gave a smothered cry, for once in her home she had read about a woman who was supposed to go mad when the moonlight covered her. Christian felt almost mad that night. She could not sleep; she lay and tossed from side to side until the morning.
The next day happened to be very wet; the sky was covered with a heavy curtain of cloud. There was a sea-fog, too, so that even the beautiful, fresh, sparkling Atlantic could not be seen. But the muffled roar of the waves broke on the stillness; otherwise there was no sound.
As Christian dressed she noticed people, looking large and indistinct in the fog, coming to the house and leaving it. Life at Penwerne Manor would go on just the same whether the outside world was foggy or full of sunshine, and whether young girls were happy or miserable. The school was a strict one, and the hours were rigorously employed; the rules were insisted on no matter whether Christian had a headache or not. Nothing short of absolute illness could excuse lessons not being performed.
She rose and went downstairs, feeling as though the weight of centuries were resting on her shoulders. She entered the long preparation-hall where the girls usually assembled when they first went downstairs. There she stood disconsolately near the door. Presently Star, looking bright and breezy and independent, passed her. She went up to Angela Goring, and standing near her, took her hand with an affectionate squeeze. Susan Marsh had not put in appearance.