Transformation of Cecil.
In the days to come when Claire looked back and reviewed the course of events which followed, she realised that Mrs Willoughby’s invitation had been a starting-point from which to date happenings to others as well as herself. It was, for instance, on the morning after its arrival that Cecil’s chronic discontent reached an acute stage. She appeared at breakfast with a clouded face, grumbled incessantly throughout the meal, and snapped at everything Claire said, until the latter was provoked into snapping in return. In the old days of idleness Claire had been noted for the sunny sweetness of her disposition, but she was already discovering that teaching lays a severe strain on the nerves, and at the end of a week’s work endurance seemed at its lowest ebb. So, when her soft answers met rebuff after rebuff, she began to grumble in her turn, and to give back as good as she got.
“Really, Cecil, I am exceedingly sorry that your form is so stupid, and your work so hard, but I am neither a pupil nor a chief, so I fail to see where my responsibility comes in. Wouldn’t it be better if you interviewed Miss Farnborough instead of me?”
It was the first time that Claire had answered sharply, and for the moment surprise held Cecil dumb. Then the colour flamed into her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled with anger. Though forbearance had failed to soothe her, opposition evidently added fuel to the fire.
“Miss Farnborough!” she repeated jeeringly. “What does Miss Farnborough care for the welfare of her mistresses, so long as they grind through their daily tasks? It is the pupils she thinks about, not us. The pupils who are to be pampered and considered, and studied, and amused in school and out. They have to have games in summer, and a mistress has to give up her spare time to watch the pretty dears to see that they don’t get into trouble; and they must have parties, and concerts, and silly entertainments in winter, with some poor wretch of a mistress to do all the work so that they may enjoy the fun. Miss Farnborough is an exemplary Head so far as her scholars are concerned, but what does she do for her mistresses? I ask you, does she do anything at all?”
Claire considered, and was silent. Her first term was nearly over, and she could not truthfully say that the Head had taken any concern for her as an individual who might be expected to feel some interest in life beyond the school door. It is true that almost every day brought the two in contact for the exchange of a few words which, if strictly on business, were always pleasant and kindly, but except for the one invitation to tea on the day before work began, they had never met out of school hours. Claire was a stranger in London, yet the Head had never inquired as to her leisure hours, never invited her to her house, or offered, her an introduction to friends, never even engaged the sympathies of other mistresses on her behalf. Claire had expected a very different treatment, and had struggled against a sense of injury, but she would not acknowledge as much in words.
“I suppose Miss Farnborough is even more tired than we are. She has a tremendous amount of responsibility. And she has a brother and sister at home. Perhaps they object to an incursion of school in free hours.”
“Then she ought to leave them, and live where she can do her duty without interference. After all mistresses are girls, too, not very much older than some of the pupils when we begin work; it’s inhuman to take no interest in our welfare. It wouldn’t kill a Head to give up a night a month to ask us to meet possible friends, or to write a few letters of introduction. You agree with me in your heart, so it’s no use pretending. It’s a moral obligation, if it isn’t legal, and I say part of the responsibility is hers if things go wrong. It’s inhuman to leave a young girl alone in lodgings without even troubling to inquire if she has anywhere to go in her leisure hours. But it’s the same tale all round. Nobody thinks. Nobody cares. I’ve gone to the same church for three years, and not a soul has spoken to me all that time. I’ve no time to give to Church work, and the seats are free, so there’s no way of getting into touch. I don’t suppose any one has ever noticed the shabby school-mistress in her shabby blue serge.”
Suddenly Mary Rhodes thrust back her chair, and rising impetuously began to storm up and down the room.
“Oh, I’m tired, I’m tired of this second-hand life. Living in other people’s houses, teaching other people’s children, obeying other people’s orders. I’m sick of it. I can’t stand it a moment longer. I’d rather take any risk to be out of it. After all, what could be worse? Any sort of life lived on one’s own must be better than this. Nearly twelve years of it—and if I have twenty more, what’s the end? What is there to look forward to? Slow starvation in a bed-sitting-room, for perhaps thirty years. I won’t do it, I won’t! I’ve had enough. Now I shall choose for myself!”