Sophie twisted her head this way and that, her lips pursed in warning.
“S–sh! Be careful! You never know who is about. I am rather stiff to-day. This raw fog has been the last straw. I shall be all right when we get through this month. I hate March! It finds out all the weak spots. Please, Claire, don’t take any notice. A Gym. mistress has no business to have rheumatism. It’s really very good for me to be obliged to keep going. It is always worse at the beginning of the day.”
Claire went away with a pain in her heart, and the pain grew steadily as she watched Sophie throughout the week. The pretty face was often drawn with pain, she rose and sat down with an obvious effort; and still the rain poured, and the dark fog enveloped the city, and Sophie struggled to and from her work in a thin blue serge suit which had already seen three winters’ wear.
One day the subject came up for discussion in the staff-room, and Claire was shocked and surprised at the attitude of the other teachers. They were sorry for Sophie, they sympathised, to a certain extent they were even anxious on her account, but the prevailing sentiment seemed to be that the kindest thing was to take no notice of her sufferings. No use pitying her; that would only make her more sorry for herself. No use suggesting cures; cures take time, not to speak of money. The Easter holidays would soon be here; perhaps she might try something then. In the meantime—tant pis! she must get along as best she could. There was simply no time to be ill.
“I’ve a churchyard cough myself,” declared the Arts mistress. “I stayed in bed all Saturday and Sunday, and it was really a little better, but it was as bad as ever after a day in this big draughty hole.”
“And I am racked with neuralgia,” chimed in Miss Bates. The subject of Sophie was lost in a general lamentation.
Friday evening came, and after the girls had departed Claire went in search of Sophie, hoping tactfully to be able to suggest remedial methods over the week-end. She peeped into several rooms before at last, in one of the smallest and most out-of-the-way, she caught sight of a figure crouched with buried head at the far end of the table. It was Sophie, and she was crying, and catching her breath in a weak exhausted fashion, pitiful to hear. Claire shut the door tightly, and put her arms round the shaking form.
“Miss Blake—Sophie! You poor, dear girl! You are tired out. You have been struggling all the week, but it’s Friday night, dear, remember that! You can go home and just tumble into bed. Don’t give way when you’ve been so brave.”
But for the moment Sophie’s bravery had deserted her.
“It’s raining! It’s raining! It always rains. I can’t face it. The pain’s all over me, and the omnibuses won’t stop! They expect you to jump in, and I can’t jump! I don’t know how to get home.”