FRIENDS
EASTER examinations, although a month away, were already looming darkly
on the horizon and Judith settled down to a long and hard pull.
"So much to learn and so little time," she groaned to Nancy. "I'd like
to spend all my time on my essay for Miss Marlowe, but there are French
and geometry tests next week, which need every minute of study time I
have. Why can't the days be forty hours long?"
However, most of the school thought the days quite long enough, and in
fact some happy souls had already counted up the number of hours until
the holidays began and were ticking them off with great glee.
Judith's delight in lesson hours was steadily increasing. Even in
mathematics classes which she disliked, she was beginning to feel the
joy of triumphing over difficulties, and she looked forward to her
literature lessons as the happiest hours of the week. Loving Nancy as
she did, Judith was always trying to share her enjoyment of some
beautiful lines of poetry or an interesting scene in the play they were
studying, and not always with pronounced success. Nancy's mind was of a
practical turn; she was very lukewarm about poetry.
"Listen to this," Judith had commanded one day as she sat waiting for
Nancy to finish dressing for dinner:
"How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank:
Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music
Creep in our ears; soft stillness and the night
Become the touches of sweet harmony.
Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold;
There's not the smallest orb which thou beholdest
But in his motion like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubims;
"Isn't that beautiful?"
"Y-e-s," said Nancy, "I suppose it is. The words sound nice when you
read them, but I'm sure I haven't a ghost of an idea what it means. Why
does he put his ideas into poetry? Why doesn't he say it out plainly so
we could all understand it without studying? It's an interesting play,
though I believe it is Miss Marlowe who has made it so interesting," she
added shrewdly; "I mean if any one had given me the 'Merchant of
Venice' to read just like any other book, I'd never have gotten through
it. Why can't Shakespeare say things right out plain?"
This was a poser for Judith. "But," she stammered, "it's like--like
music. Music isn't right out plain; it's _meant_ to be beautiful."
"Nancy must be joking," thought Judith as she tried to decide why the
cherubims were "young-eyed." But no; a few days later Nancy was quite
pettish about the preparation Miss Marlowe had set them.
"Find three stanzas of poetry which you could say are 'A joy forever.'"
"How do I know whether they are a joy forever?" she demanded irately of
Judith; "I've been hunting for an hour and I can't find any. I don't
know what it's all about most of the time."
"But didn't you like 'The Skylark,' and 'The Forsaken Merman,' and 'The
Lotus-Eaters,' and 'Ulysses,' and 'The Lady of Shalott' and--oh, Nancy,
there are lots to choose from. Let's find some that sound nice and some
that have beautiful pictures in them."
They spent a happy hour together, for Judith loved poetry, and it was
nice to share it with Nancy.
Looking back afterwards that seemed to Judith to be the last happy hour
she had with Nancy for some time. Judith hardly noticed just when it
began, but for some reason or other Nancy and Sally May were together
now a great deal of their time.
"Choosing partners" was a sacred rite at York Hill, and now it seemed
that Nancy and Sally May were always partners for walks, for church, for
the symphony concert, and for Miss Meredith's dinner-party.
This last was a great disappointment to Judith. Miss Meredith's
dinner-parties were very special treats; about once a fortnight she
entertained half a dozen girls at her own dinner-table and, when Nancy
had told Judith about these parties, Judith had taken it for granted
that they would be partners if they happened to be invited together. And
now Sally May was going with Nancy! An ugly little spirit of jealousy
began to whisper in Judith's mind. Top Self listened to his hints and
surmises: "Nancy doesn't care about you any more; she and Sally May have
secrets from you; perhaps they were laughing at you last night when you
heard them whispering." Deep-Down Self made protests, "Why couldn't
Nancy have two good friends? Of course she still loves you; you can't
expect her to be always with you."
But Judith's heart was sore, and a teasing remark of Sally May's as they
were dressing for the dinner entirely spoilt the evening for her. Sally
May came in to ask Judith to help her with a difficult fastener, and she
surveyed Judith's reflection in the mirror while Judith snapped the
refractory dome.
"You look stunning, Judy; I'm sure that if Tim could see you he would
return the compliment and say that you looked 'just lovely,'" she added
wickedly.
The colour flowed over Judith's face and then receded leaving her quite
white. So Nancy had told Sally May about her foolish speech in the
Christmas holidays! How horrid of her! How mean! Judith had almost
forgotten about Tim by this time, but her love for Nancy had steadily
grown, and Nancy had been making fun of her behind her back! Judith gave
herself up to angry thoughts; almost she hated Nancy; she wanted to go
away, to be alone, to hide some place; and instead she must go to this
miserable dinner and perhaps sit just across the table from Nancy. The
thought of Nancy's disloyalty hurt; it hurt horribly.
Judith finished dressing, put on her wraps, and went down to the
sitting-room to wait for the others. To her disgust she found Georgia
Fiske there, Georgia whom she positively disliked for no reason at all
and who looked up at her now with a beaming smile.
"I was just thinking about you, Judy," she said, "and wondering if you
had a partner. Do sit beside me. I'd have asked you before, but I didn't
know you were going till just a few minutes ago."
Poor Judith!--there was apparently no escape; she must sit beside
Georgia, and listen to her silly remarks. Judith was in no mood to be
fair to any one; she hated Georgia, she hated Sally May, she hated
Nancy.
The dinner-party was a failure as far as Judith was concerned. Miss
Meredith, stately and dignified in black velvet and beautiful old lace,
was a charming hostess, and the girls were soon talking naturally and
easily. Judith looked down the table at Nancy; she didn't want to look
at her and yet she must. Nancy, radiating friendliness and good-humor,
smiled at Judith as much as to say, "Isn't it jolly?" But Judith
hardened her heart and pretended that she didn't see her. The ice-cream
was delicious and the tiny cups of black coffee afterwards made them
feel very grown-up, and every one but Judith seemed perfectly happy.
"What's the matter, Judy?" whispered Nancy, as they went into the
drawing-room, for Judith not only felt miserable, she looked
miserable--so much so that Miss Meredith made a mental note to ask Miss
Marlowe to keep an eye on her and find out if anything were troubling
her.
"Nothing's the matter," said Judith coldly, turning away and calling out
to Frances to wait for her.
Nancy felt rebuffed, but loyally sought to find excuses for her friend.
"She's been working too hard over that Jessica essay," she said to
herself; "she looks awfully tired."
Then followed a miserable week. Judith was both jealous and angry; she
felt that in telling Sally May what she had said about Tim, Nancy had
betrayed their friendship. It was true that Nancy and Sally May were
much together; they were making scenery for the Studio Play and were
spending many spare hours upstairs working under Miss Ashwell's
direction. Judith knew about the play, but she was too angry to be
reasonable, so she shut herself up in her books and avoided Nancy as
much as possible.
Nancy knew quite well now that something had come between Judith and
her, and she made two more attempts to find out what was wrong so that
if possible things might be righted, but each time Judith rebuffed her,
and Nancy was too busy to spend much time coaxing. Sally May, who was
held to be a wise little person, told Nancy not to worry.
"Judy'll be all right; she is just cross and tired. I really can't see
why she works so hard."
Sally May, it may be remarked, would never work very hard as long as she
lived: she wasn't that kind.
"Did you hear Judith give Jane what-for the other day?" she continued.
"Jane went into Judy's cubicle with an orange peel and an old piece of
rubber cut in the shape of a heart, and called out, 'What price for
these personal relics of our beloved Captain Catherine? Her pretty foot
has pressed this piece of rubber; it can be conveniently sewed to the
camisole and worn next the heart. Her pretty lips once touched this
piece of peel'--and she dangled the peel right in front of Judy's eyes.
'Get out of my room quick,' said our polite little Judy, 'and take your
garbage with you!' Jane said it gave her a nasty turn. It's my belief
that Judy wants to come first in history or something, and she wants to
be left alone to study."
Nancy was only half-convinced, but the easiest thing was to accept Sally
May's explanation. Nancy had many friends and she was able to love them
all. She found it hard to understand Judith's exclusive attitude. Judith
wanted but one friend at a time; she might admire Josephine and Sally
May and enjoy Jane's pertness and Joyce's cleverness and adore
Catherine's beauty, but Nancy was her friend, her pal, and she wanted
Nancy to feel the same about her. But Nancy was differently made, and
although Judith had come to be perhaps her best friend in the school,
she was able to feel genuine affection for many other girls and would
have been incapable of Judith's passionate jealousy because of her
affection for some one else.
Meanwhile Judith's hurt decreased not at all. It may take a poet to sing
adequately of "the wounds by friendship made," but a sixteen-year-old
schoolgirl, if she be blessed or cursed by her fairy godmothers with a
sensitive soul, can feel those wounds and feel them bitterly.
The after-dinner half-hour of rest had been a time when the crew of the
"Jolly Susan" had shut their door on the outside world and had taken
their ease. Visiting without permission at this hour was not usually
allowed, but Catherine was often quite willing that Judith and Nancy
should be in each other's rooms, for they could talk quite quietly and
made no disturbance. Now Judith could hear Nancy in Sally's room, and
this was more than she could bear. Instead of coming up to her room
directly after lunch, she asked to have a practising period put on her
time-table from two to two-thirty, and the odd fifteen minutes before
the two o'clock bell rang, which was legitimate time for visiting, she
was spending in other girls' rooms; in fact Judith was beginning to find
out that there were other interesting and lovable girls in the school
besides those select few in the "Jolly Susan."
There was Rosamond, for instance, whom Judith had at first regarded with
mild contempt because she was greedy, but Rosamond, she found out, was
aware of her besetting sin and this Lenten season was disciplining
herself strictly, and no one could be more sympathetic if one were in
trouble than the same Rosamond; and there was Joyce Hewson whom Judith
had thought proud, but who seemed unapproachable because she was really
shy and very conscious of her unusual height; and then there was
Florence Newman who had seemed at the beginning of the term so
unresponsive and dull. Florence and Josephine had become friends, drawn
together by love for their far-away Western homes, and dropping into
Florence's room one day with Josephine, Judith had been entranced by the
tales of mountain climbing and hunting which Florence had to tell.
Florence had scarcely seen a girl of her own age until she dropped
suddenly into the hurly-burly of York Hill, and it was no wonder that a
painful shyness had made her seem ungracious and almost rude. She simply
hadn't known how to meet the advances of these kind, jolly girls.
And then there was Miss Ashwell. Miss Ashwell had slipped on the ice a
couple of months before and had sprained her ankle so badly that,
although she was able now to get up and down to the studio, she walked
slowly and with a cane. Judith got into the way of knocking at Miss
Ashwell's door after lunch to see if she could do any errand for her.
Sometimes she carried her books up to the studio, or ran downstairs to
see if there were any word of the model who was to come for the
two-thirty class, and sometimes she went in and sat in Miss Ashwell's
comfortable chair and felt rested and happy, for Miss Ashwell seemed to
possess some curious secret of healing.
Judith was a beauty-lover, and if any one had asked her why she liked
Miss Ashwell, she would probably have replied promptly, "Because she is
so pretty." Miss Ashwell _was_ pretty, with her clear blue eyes,
gold-brown hair, and a skin so fair and soft, that it made one think of
apple-blossoms; and she had charm, that indefinable something, which
like a magnet drew others to her.
The week after the miserable dinner-party was rainy and cold, and
something of the grey dulness out-of-doors seemed to have penetrated
within. For Judith, at least, the mornings dragged heavily; everything
seemed to have lost its flavour. At recess she would look over at Nancy,
who seemed to be having a jolly time with Sally May and Joyce, and want
to join them and laugh, too. There wasn't any reason in the world why
she shouldn't do so except the nasty little spirit which had taken
possession of her. But she hardened her heart--and was quite miserable
in consequence.
Towards the end of the week, one day after lunch she stood hesitating
for a moment at the head of the stairs. Should she go down to the "Jolly
Susan," or visit with Florence or Miss Ashwell. The thought of Miss
Ashwell was comforting, her room was the "homiest" place Judith knew, so
she tapped at the door of the pleasant little brown room at the end of
the corridor.
Miss Ashwell was knitting to-day. She was nearly always knitting for
some one else, thought Judith, as she idly watched the needles flashing.
Knitting made her think of Red Cross work, and that led straight to the
awful thought of a Current Events test shortly coming off. While they
were to be examined on the whole term's work, part of the test was the
writing of an essay on a subject chosen from a list of three. Judith
had decided to write on "Red Cross Work in Italy." Her father's brother,
Brian, was a brilliant engineer who had been loaned to Italy by the
British Government, and Judith naturally knew more about the war in
Italy than anywhere else. She would have to get Uncle Brian's letters
out and piece together the bits of information he had given her. She and
her father had read several magazine articles last summer, but she
couldn't even remember what magazines they were. Oh, dear, what a lot of
work it would be! How tired she was! If she could just stay here and
sleep all afternoon! She heaved a big gusty sigh. Miss Ashwell looked up
quickly.
"What's wrong, Judy, dear?" Miss Ashwell never seemed to be in a hurry
herself, a miraculous achievement at York Hill. Judith told her tale of
woe, sure of sympathy.
Miss Ashwell seemed even more interested than usual.
"I believe I can help you, Judy," she said, her cheeks flushing; "just
hand me my despatch-case from the table." She opened it and took out
snapshots, pictures cut from magazines, and several descriptive articles
dealing with the subject in hand.
Judith looked her amazement. It seemed almost too good to be true. Miss
Ashwell smiled and her cheeks grew pinker than ever.
"I'm especially interested in Italian work, Judy--because I had a friend
out there during the war. He sent me these snapshots. I'll show them to
you now and you may take the magazine articles with you. The Red Cross
did such magnificent work there that I don't wonder Miss Kingston chose
that as one of your subjects."
"Oh, Miss Ashwell, it's just like the manna in the wilderness," gasped
Judith,--"I mean I'm so grateful," she explained incoherently, "although
the Jews were not always properly grateful, were they? But I am. I
didn't see _how_ I could hunt up all those references with all I have to
do."
Miss Ashwell showed her the pictures, but Judith's mind was divided
between interest at the skilful ways in which difficulties of transit in
the mountains had been overcome and interest in Miss Ashwell. Was it
possible that Miss Ashwell was interested in a soldier-man the way girls
were? Of course, she wasn't so _very_ old, perhaps twenty-two, and as
Judith ran off with her treasure she kept saying to herself, "Wouldn't
it be funny--he looks awfully nice in the snaps--she's a perfect dear,
anyway, and I'll get at that Current Events prep. right away."
Next day Miss Marlowe handed back the "Jessica" essays to her Five A
class in English composition. Five A looked glum as they read their
marks and the somewhat caustic comments written in their exercise books.
Judith flushed as she read: "Neatly and carefully written, Judith, but
hardly interesting. You were not asked to give a résumé of the play, but
a character sketch of Jessica. What do you know about Jessica now that
you didn't know before you wrote your essay? How have you enlarged your
knowledge of human nature?"
How, indeed? Judith felt distinctly aggrieved. What impossibly hard
things Miss Marlowe expected them to do! She had worked hard over that
essay and had looked for a little praise, but instead here was Miss
Marlowe thumping the desk and telling them they never used their brains.
Five A sat at attention. Miss Marlowe, indignant, was apt to be
interesting, but no one desired to be the luckless offender against whom
her Irish wit might be directed.
She gave them a lively two minutes on the foolishness of not using the
brains they had, and then came down to the subject in hand.
"You didn't try to _understand_ Jessica; you knew that her conduct was
unfilial, to say the least, and don't imagine that I am forgetting the
wrong things she did, or that I want you to approve of her. I _don't_,
but I do want you to try to understand. That's just the reason why you
were assigned this lesson. Only one of you made the effort to re-create
Shylock's home. Read your essay, Florence, please."
The class looked surprised as Florence, white with shyness, began to
read, falteringly at first and then more convincingly. Every one, with
the exception perhaps of Judith, was surprised at the excellence of the
essay. Florence Newman, that quiet, shy, stiff, little thing! They had
expected that Joyce or Phyllis or Judith, or even Frances, would be held
up to them as models, but not Florence.
"Run down to the common room, Nancy. You're nearest the door; and bring
me Lamb's 'Life and Letters,' a big red book lying on my table." And
then, turning to the class, "Now, never mind about Jessica, though I
hope you see the difference between your way of approach and
Florence's, but remember this, it's far, far easier to criticize, to
judge, and to condemn, than it is to sympathize and to understand; it's
the little people of the world who do the judging; it's the big people
who do the understanding.
"Thank you, Nancy. Now listen to the words of a wise woman, Mary Lamb.
What do you know about Mary Lamb, Frances? Yes, she wrote many of the
'Tales from Shakespeare,' and she lived with her brother Charles and was
his greatest friend, and the friend of his friends. She is writing to a
friend of hers who has been confessing to actions which Mary might just
as easily have condemned as you condemned Jessica's. But this is what
she writes:
You will smile when I tell you I think myself
the only woman in the world who could live with
a brother's wife and make a real friend of
her--partly from a knack I know I have of
looking into people's real characters and never
expecting them to act out of it. Never
expecting another to do as I would in the same
case. I do not expect you or want you to be
otherwise than you are. I love you for the good
that is in you.
"There's wisdom," concluded Miss Marlowe, "and next time you find
yourselves saying, '_I_ wouldn't have been so mean or horrid or
selfish,' just ask yourself, how do you know you wouldn't, and what has
that got to do with it, and what do you know about it, anyway? Are you
showing sympathetic insight or merely conceit? You'll meet plenty of
Jessicas who are easier to condemn than to understand. Don't lose your
friends by a lack of loving understanding. Be grateful for them; they
are your most precious possessions. Love them for the best that is in
them.
"There, that's a longer sermon than usual. Take your pens now and write
that sentence from Mary Lamb's letter at the bottom of your essay, and
after I have dictated it make your corrections and jot down the new
things about Jessica that you haven't noted before."
Five A heaved a sigh of relief. Miss Marlowe was through with them once
more. There was the usual clattering of inkwells and requests for new
pens, and then Miss Marlowe went to her desk, and according to custom
one by one the class brought up their books to receive her suggestions
and criticisms.
Judith wrote her corrections mechanically and slowly, but her mind was
working swiftly. That's what she had been doing, judging Nancy, saying,
'_I_ wouldn't have done it'; criticizing, not trying to understand, and
she had judged herself, condemned herself to do without Nancy and the
precious possession of Nancy's friendship. Darling Nancy! She might have
been loving her all this time for the good in her, her sweetness, her
unfailing kindness, her absolute squareness, her dearness.
Judith's eyes were shining as she carried up her book to Miss Marlowe,
and the fervency with which she said, "Thank you," when Miss Marlowe had
finished her criticism, brought a happy smile to Miss Marlowe's own
eyes.
"That child's got the idea," she said to herself; "Well, if _one_ seed
falls into good ground it's worth while--splendidly worth while."
The recess bell rang and Five A lost no time filing out to the corridor
and thence to tuck shop and gymnasium, but Judith was delayed by her
duties as monitress and Nancy was not to be seen when she reached the
corridor. Down to the tuck shop sped Judith.
"Seen Nancy?" she asked Jane who was rapidly consuming two large buns
and an ice-cream cone.
"Gone up to her room, I think," said Jane.
Upstairs fled Judith without waiting for permission and found Nancy
just leaving the "Jolly Susan."
"Oh, Nancy, I have been hunting for you everywhere."
"Oh, Judy, I was just looking for you. After what Miss Marlowe
said--about our friends--I didn't want to wait another minute feeling
that you were still angry with me. Do tell me what I did and let me tell
you how sorry I am."
"And I was looking for you, Nancy, dear--to tell you how horrid I'd
been. It was just a little thing not worth mentioning now, but I didn't
wait to try to understand. Oh, Nancy, I've missed you so!"
And they kissed and were friends.
"I wouldn't teach English composition for all the world," said Miss
Hilton, eyeing the big pile of sixth-form books which Miss Marlowe was
attacking late that evening.
"And _I_ wouldn't take all the world _not_ to teach English
composition," retorted Miss Marlowe proudly. "Besides," she added with
true Irish lucidity, "it isn't English composition I'm teaching. It's
Life, and it's the biggest job in the world."