CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHAPTER XXIV.
CHAPTER XXV.
CHAPTER XXVI.
CHAPTER XXVII.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
CHAPTER XXIX.
CHAPTER XXX.
CHAPTER XXXI.
CHAPTER XXXII.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
CHAPTER XXXV.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
CHAPTER XL.
CHAPTER XLI.
CHAPTER XLII.
CHAPTER XLIII.
CHAPTER XLIV.
CHAPTER XLV.
CHAPTER XLVI.
“So many gods, so many creeds,
So many paths that wind and wind,
And just the art of being kind
Is all the sad world needs.”
WINDING PATHS
CHAPTER I
There were several interesting points about Hal Pritchard and Lorraine
Vivian, but perhaps the most striking was their friendship for each
other. From two wide-apart extremes they had somehow gravitated
together, and commenced at boarding-school a friendship which only
deepened and strengthened after their exit from the wise supervision of
the Misses Walton, and their entrance as “finished” young women into
the wide area of the world at large.
Lorraine went first. She was six years older than Hal, and under
ordinary circumstances would hardly have been at school with her at
all. As it was, she went at nineteen because she was not very strong,
and sea air was considered good for her. She was a sort of
parlour-boarder, sent to study languages and accomplishments while she
inhaled the sea air of Eastgate. Why, among all the scholars, who for
the most part regarded her as a resplendent, beautifully dressed being
outside their sphere, she should have quickly developed an ardent
affection for Hal, the rough-and-ready tomboy, remained a mystery; but
far from being a passing fancy, it ripened steadily into a deep and
lasting attachment.
When Hal was fifteen, Lorraine left; and it has to be admitted that the
anxious, motherly hearts of the Misses Walton drew a deep breath of
relief, and hoped the friendship would now cease, unfed by daily
contact and daily mutual interests. But there they under-estimated the
depth of affection already in the hearts of the girls, and their
natural loyalty, which scorned a mere question of separation, and
entered into one another’s interests just as eagerly as when they were
together.
Not that they, the Misses Walton, had anything actually against
Lorraine, beyond the fact that she promised a degree of beauty likely,
they felt, coupled as it was with a charming wit and a fascinating
personality, to open out some striking career for her, and possibly
become a snare and a temptation.
On the other hand, Hal was just a homely, nondescript, untidy, riotous
type of schoolgirl, with a very strong capacity for affection, and an
unmanageable predilection for scrapes and adventures, that made her
more likely to fall under the sway of Lorraine, should it promise any
chance of excitement.
And one had only to view Lorraine among the other “young ladies” of the
seminary to fear the worst. Miss Emily Walton would never have admitted
it; but even she, fondly clinging to the old tradition that the terms
“girls” or “women” are less impressive than “young ladies”, felt
somehow that the orthodox nomenclature did not successfully fit her two
most remarkable pupils. Of course they were ladies by birth and
education, else they would certainly not have been admitted to so
select a seminary; but whereas the rest of the pupils might be said
more or less to study, and improve, and have their being in a milk and
biscuit atmosphere, Hal and Lorraine were quite uncomfortably more like
champagne and good, honest, frothing beer.
No amount of prunes and prism advice and surroundings seemed to dull
the sparkle in Lorraine, nor daunt nor suppress fearless, outspoken,
unmanageable Hal. In separate camps, with a nice little following each,
to keep an even balance, they might merely have livened the free hours;
but as a combination it soon became apparent they would waken up the
embryo young ladies quite alarmingly, and initiate a new atmosphere of
gaiety that might become beyond the restraining, select influence even
of the Misses Walton.
The first scare came with the new French mistress, who had a perfect
Parisian accent, but knew very little English. Of course Lorraine
easily divined this, and, being something of a French scholar already,
she soon won Mademoiselle’s confidence by one or two charmingly
expressed, lucid French explanations.
Then came the translation lesson, and choosing a fable that would
specially lend itself, she started the class off translating it into an
English fabrication that convulsed both pupils and mistress. Hal, of
course, followed suit, and the merriment grew fast and furious after a
few positively rowdy lessons.
Mademoiselle herself gave the fun away at the governesses’ dinner, a
very precise and formal meal, which took place at seven o’clock, to be
followed at eight by the pupils’ supper of bread-and-butter with
occasional sardines. She related in broken English what an amusing book
they had to read, repeating a few slang terms, that would certainly
not, under any circumstances, have been allowed to pass the lips of the
young ladies.
After that it was deemed advisable Lorraine should translate French
alone, and Hal be severely admonished.
Then there was the dreadful affair of the Boys’ College. It was not
unusual for them to walk past the school on Sunday afternoons; but it
was only after Lorraine came that a system was instituted by which, if
the four front boys all blew their noses as they passed, it was a
signal that a note, or possibly several, had been slipped under the
loose brick at the school entrance.
Further, it was only Lorraine who could have sent the answers, because
none of the other girls had an uncle often running down for a breath of
sea air, when, of course, he needed his dear niece’s company. He was
certainly a very attentive uncle, and a very generous one too, judging
by the Buszard’s cakes and De Brei’s chocolates, and Miss Walton could
not help eyeing him a little askance.
But then, as Miss Emily said, he was such a very striking,
distinguished-looking gentleman, people had already been interested to
learn he had a niece at the Misses Walton’s seminary. Besides, one
could not reasonably object to a relative calling, and he had seemed so
devoted to Lorraine’s handsome mother when they had together brought
her to school.
But of course, after the disgraceful episode of the notes that blew
into the road, the windows had to be dulled at once, so that no one
could see the boys pass. It was a mercy the thing had been discovered
so soon.
Then shortly after came the breaking-up dances, one for the
governesses, when the masters from the college were invited, and one
the next night for the girls, when the remains of the same supper did
duty again, and with reference to which Miss Walton gently told them
she had not been able to ask any of the boys from the school, as she
was afraid their parents would not approve; she hoped they were not
disappointed, and that the big girls would dance with the little ones,
as it pleased them so.
Lorraine immediately replied sweetly that none of them cared about
dancing with boys, and some of the children would be much more amusing.
She made herself spokeswoman, because Miss Walton had
half-unconsciously glanced at her at the mere mention of the word boys,
fondly believing that the other well-brought-up pupils would prefer
their room to their company, whereas Lorraine might think the party
very tame. Her answer was a pleasant surprise.
But then, who was to know that the night of the governesses’ dance she
had bribed the three girls in the small dormitory to silence, and after
some half-dozen of them had gone to bed with their night-gowns over
their dresses, had given the signal to arise directly the dance was in
full swing. After that they adjourned to the small dormitory and spread
out a repast of sweets and cakes, to which such of the younger masters
as were brave enough to risk detection slipped away up the school
staircase at intervals, to be more than rewarded by Lorraine’s
inimitable mimicry.
“There will be no boys for you to dance with, dear girls,” she told
them gently, “as your parents might not approve,” then added, with
roguish lights in her splendid eyes: “No boys, dear girls, only a few
masters to supper in the small dormitory.”
Hal’s misdemeanours were of a less subtle kind. Neither boys nor
masters interested her particularly as yet; but there were a
thousand-and-one other ways of livening things up, and she tried them
all, sometimes getting off scot free, and sometimes finding herself
uncomfortably pilloried before the rest of the school, to be
cross-questioned and severely admonished at great lenght before being
“sent to Coventry” for a stated period.
But, had she only known it, there were many chicken-hearted girls who
envied her even her disgrace, for the sake of the dauntless, shining
spirit of her that nothing ever crushed. And as for being “sent to
Coventry”, well, Hal and Lorraine easily coped with that through the
twopennyworth system.
If an offender was sent to Coventry, any other girl who spoke to her
had to pay a fine of twopence, and if either of these two gay spirits
found themselves doomed to silence, they persuaded such of the others
as were “game” enough, to have occasional “twopennyworths”.
Of the two, Hal was far the greater favourite; she was in fact the
popular idol; for though the girls were full of admiration for
Lorraine, and not a little proud of her, they were also a little afraid
of a wit that could be sharp-edged, and perhaps resentful too of that
nameless something about her striking personality that made them feel
their inferiority.
Hal was quite different, and her unfailing spirits, her vigorous
championing of the oppressed, or scathing denunciation of anything
sneaky and mean, made them all look up to her, and love her, whether
she knew or not.
Even the governess felt her compelling attraction, and would often, by
a timely word, save her from the consequences of some forgetful moment.
At the same time, the one who warned Miss Walton against the possible
ill results of the girl’s growing love for Lorraine little understood
the nature she had to deal with.
When Hal found herself in the private sanctum, being gently admonished
concerning a friendship that was thought to be growing too strong, she
was quick instantly to resent the slur on her chum. She had been sent
for immediately after “evening prep.,” and having, as usual, inked her
fingers generously, and rubbed an ink-smudge across her face, to say
nothing of really disgracefully tumbled hair, she looked a comical
enough object standing before the impressive presence of the head
mistress.
“Really, Hal,” Miss Walton remonstrated, “can’t you even keep tidy for
an hour in the evening?”
“Not when it’s German night,” answered outspoken Hal; “where to put the
verbs, and how to split them, makes my hair stand on end, and the ink
squirm out of the pot.”
Miss Walton tried to look severe, remarking: “Don’t be frivolous here,
my dear”; but, as Hal described it later, “she looked as if having so
often to be sedate was beginning to make her tired.”
But when she proceeded to explain to Hal that neither she nor her
sister were easy in their minds about her growing devotion to Lorraine,
Hal’s expressive mouth began to look rather stern, and neither the
ink-smudges nor the tousled hair could rob her of a certain naïve
dignity as she asked, “Are you implying anything against Lorraine?”
“No, no, my dear, certainly not,” Miss Walton replied, feeling slightly
at a loss to express herself, “but I have never encouraged a violent
friendship between two girls that is apt to make them hold aloof from
the others, and be continually in one another’s society. And in this
instance, Lorraine being so much older than you, and of a temperament
hardly likely to appeal to your brother, as a desirable one in your
great friend—”
“I am not asking Dudley to make her his great friend—”
“Don’t interrupt me, dear. I am only speaking of what I am perfectly
aware are your brother’s feeling concerning you; and seeing you have
neither father nor mother, I feel my responsibility and his the
greater.”
“But what is the matter with Lorraine?” Hal cried, growing a little
exasperated. “She is not nearly so frivolous as I am, and works far
harder.”
Miss Walton hesitated a little. “We feel she is naturally rather
worldly-minded and ambitious, whereas you—” She paused.
“Whereas I am a simpleton,” suggested Hal, with a mischievous light in
her eyes. “Well, then, dear Miss Walton, how fortunate for me that some
one clever and briljant is willing to give me her friendship and help
to lift me out of my slough of simpletondom!”
Miss Walton looked up with a reproof on her lips, but it died away, and
a new expression came into her eyes as she seemed to see something in
this unruly pupil she had not before suspected. Hal still looked as if
a smothered sense of injustice might presently explode into hot words;
but in the meantime the air of dignity stood its ground in spite of
smudges and untidiness.
Neither spoke for a moment, and then Miss Walton remarked: “You do not
mean to be guided by me in this matter?”
“Lorraine is my friend,” Hal answered. “I cannot let myself listen to
anything that suggests a slur upon her.”
“Not even if your brother expressed a wish on the subject?”
“I do not ask Dudley to let me choose his friends.”
“That is quite a different matter. He is fifteen years your senior.”
Hal was silent. She stood with her hands behind her, and her head held
high, and her clear eyes very straight to the front; well-knit,
well-built, with a promise of that vague something which is so much
stronger a factor in the world than mere beauty.
Miss Walton, who necessarily saw much of the mediocre and commonplace
in her life-work of turning growing girls into presentable young women,
felt her feelings undergo a further change. She also had the tact to
see an appeal would go farther than mere advice.
“I was only thinking of you, Hal,” she said, a trifle tiredly. “I have
nothing against Lorraine, except that she is dangerously attractive if
she likes, and her love of admiration and excitement does not make her
a very wise friend for a girl of your age. You are different, and your
paths are likely to lead far apart in the future. It did not seem to me
desirable you should grow too fond of each other.”
Even as she spoke she found herself wondering what Hal would say, and
in an unlooked-for way interested.
Hal answered promptly:
“I do not think our lives will lie apart. Both of us will have to be
breadwinners at any rate, and that will be a bond.”
Her mobile face seemed to change. “Miss Walton, I’m devoted to
Lorraine. I always shall be. But you needn’t be anxious. The stronger
influence is not where you think. I can bend Lorraine’s will, but she
cannot bend mine. It will always be so. And nothing that you nor any
one can say will make me change to her.”
They said little more, but when she was alone the head mistress stood
silently for some minutes looking into the dying embers of her fire.
Then she uttered to herself an enigmatical sentence:
“Beauty will give to Lorraine the great career; but the greater woman
will be Hal.”
Shortly after that Lorraine departed, and about a year later embarked
in the theatrical world.
No one was surprised, but very adverse opinions were expressed among
the girls concerning her success or otherwise; those who were jealous,
or who had felt slighted during her short reign as school beauty,
condemning any possible likelihood of a hit.
Hal said very little. She was already reaching out tentacles to the
wider world, where schoolgirl criticisms would be mere prattle; and it
was far more serious to her to wonder what Brother Dudley would think
of her having an actress for her greatest friend.
She foresaw rocks ahead, but smiled humorously to herself in spite of
them.
“What a tussle there’ll be!” was her thought, “and how in the world am
I to convince Dudley that Lorraine does not represent a receptacle for
all the deadly sins? Heigho! The mere fact of my disagreeing will
persuade him I am already contaminated, and he will see us both
heading, like fire-engines, for the nethermost hell.”