Parties in Oxford always break up early, and Milly had a good excuse for
carrying her aching, disappointed heart back to Ascham at ten o'clock,
for every one knew she was working hard. Too hard, Mr. Fletcher said,
looking concernedly at her heavy eyes, mottled complexion, and the
little crumples which were beginning to come in her low white forehead.
Her cousins, however, had more than a suspicion that these marks of care
and woe were not altogether due to her work, but that Ian Stewart was
accountable for most of them.
The Professor escorted her to the gates of the Ladies' College; but she
walked down the dark drive alone, mindful of familiar puddles, and
hearing nothing of those mysterious whispers of night which in Ian
Stewart's ears had breathed a "ground" to his troubled thoughts of her.
She mounted the stairs to her room at the top of the house. It was an
extremely neat room, and by day, when the bed was disguised as a sofa,
and the washstand closed, there was nothing to reveal that it served as
a bedroom, although a tarnished old mirror hung in a dark corner. The
oak table and pair of brass candlesticks upon it were kept in shining
order by Milly's own zealous hands.
Milly found her books open at the right place and her writing materials
ready to hand. In a very few minutes her outer garments and simple
ornaments were put away, and clothed in a clean but shrunk and faded
blue dressing-gown, she sat down to work. The work was Aristotle's
_Ethics_, and she was going through it for the second time, amplifying
her notes. But this second time the Greek seemed more difficult, the
philosophic argument more intricate than ever. She had had very little
sleep for weeks, and her head ached in a queer way as though something
inside it were strained very tight. It was plain that she had come to
the end of her powers of work for the present--and she had calculated
that only by not wasting a day, except for a week's holiday at Easter,
could she get through all that had to be done before the Schools!
She put Aristotle away and opened Mommsen, but even to that she could
not give her attention. Her thoughts returned to the bitter
disappointment which the evening had brought. Ian Stewart had been next
her at dinner, but even then he had talked to her rather less than to
Mrs. Shaw. Afterwards--well, perhaps it was only what she deserved for
not making it plain to poor Mr. Toovey that she could never return his
feelings. And now the First, which she had looked to as a thing that
would set her nearer the level of her idol, was dropping below the
horizon of the possible. Aunt Beatrice always said--and she was
right--that tears were not, as people pretended, a help and solace in
trouble. They merely took the starch out of you and left you a poor
soaked, limp creature, unfit to face the hard facts of life. But
sometimes tears will lie heavy and scalding as molten lead in the brain,
until at length they force their way through to the light. And Milly
after blowing her nose a good deal, as she mechanically turned the pages
of Mommsen, at length laid her arms on the book and transferred her
handkerchief to her eyes. But she tried to look as though she were
reading when Flora Timson came in.
"At it again, M.! You know you're simply working yourself stupid."
Thus speaking, Miss Timson, known to her intimates at Ascham as "Tims,"
wagged sagely her very peculiar head. A crimson silk handkerchief was
tied around it, turban-wise, and no vestige of hair escaped from
beneath. There was in fact none to escape. Tims's sallow, comic little
face had neither eyebrows nor eyelashes on it, and her small figure was
not of a quality to triumph over the obvious disadvantages of a tight
black cloth dress with bright buttons, reminiscent of a page's suit.
Milly pushed the candles farther away and looked up.
"I was wanting to see you, Tims. Do tell me whether you managed to get
out of Miss Walker what Mr. Stewart said about my chances of a First."
Tims pushed her silk turban still higher up on her forehead.
"I can always humbug Miss Walker and make her say lots of indiscreet
things," Tims returned, with labored diplomacy. "But I don't repeat
them--at least, not invariably."
There was a further argument on the point, which ended by Milly shedding
tears and imploring to be told the worst.
Tims yielded.
"Stewart said your scholarship was A 1, but he was afraid you wouldn't
get your First in Greats. He said you had a lot of difficulty in
expressing yourself and didn't seem to get the lead of their philosophy
and stuff--and--and generally wanted cleverness."
"He said that?" asked Milly, in a low, sombre voice, speaking as though
to herself. "Well, I suppose it's better for me to know--not to go on
hoping, and hoping, and hoping. It means less misery in the end, no
doubt."
There was such a depth of despair in her face and voice that Tims was
appalled at the consequence of her own revelation. She paced the room in
agitation, alternately uttering incoherent abuse of her friend's folly
and suggesting that she should at once abandon the ungrateful School of
_Literæ Humaniores_ and devote herself like Tims, to the joys of
experimental chemistry and the pleasures of practical anatomy.
Meantime, Milly sat silent, one hand supporting her chin, the other
playing with a pencil.
At length Tims, taking hold of Milly under the arms, advised her to "go
to bed and sleep it off."
Milly rose dully and sat on the edge of her bed, while Tims awkwardly
removed the hair-pins which Mrs. Shaw had so deftly put in. But as she
was laying them on the little dressing-table, Milly suddenly flung
herself down on the bed and lay there a twisted heap of blue flannel,
her face buried in the pillows, her whole body shaken by a paroxysm of
sobs. Tims supposed that this might be a good thing for Milly; but for
herself it created an awkward situation. Her soothing remarks fell flat,
while to go away and leave her friend in this condition would seem
brutal. She sat down to "wait till the clouds rolled by," as she phrased
it. But twenty minutes passed and still the clouds did not roll by.
"Look here, M." she said, argumentatively, standing by the bed. "You're
in hysterics. That's what's the matter with you."
"I know I am," came in tones of muffled despair from the pillow.
"Well!" Tims was very stern and accented her words heavily,
"then--pull--yourself--together--dear girl. Sit up!"
Milly sat up, pressed her handkerchief over her face, and held her
breath. For a minute all was quiet; then another violent sob forced a
passage.
"It's no use, Tims," she gasped. "I cannot--cannot--stop. Oh, what
would--!" She was going to say, "What would Aunt Beatrice think of me if
she knew how I was giving way!" but a fresh flood of tears suppressed
her speech. "My head's so bad! Such a splitting headache!"
Tims tried scolding, slapping, a cold sponge, every remedy inexperience
could suggest, but the hysterical weeping could not be checked.
"Look here, old girl," she said at length, "I know how I can stop you,
but I don't believe you'll let me do it."
"No, not that, Tims! You know Miss Burt doesn't--"
"Doesn't approve. Of course not. Perhaps you think old B. would approve
of the way you're going on now. Ha! Would she!"
The sarcasm caused a new and alarming outburst. But finally, past all
respect for Miss Burt, and even for Lady Thomson herself, Milly
consented to submit to any remedy that Tims might choose to try.
She was assisted hurriedly to undress and put to bed. Tims knew the
whereabouts of the prize-medal which Milly had won at school, and
placing the bright silver disk in her hand, directed her to fix her eyes
upon it. Seated on her heels on the patient's bed, her crimson turban
low on her forehead, her face screwed into intent wrinkles, Tims began
passing her slight hands slowly before Milly's face.
The long slender fingers played about the girl's fair head, sometimes
pressed lightly upon her forehead, sometimes passed through her fluffy
hair, as it lay spread on the pillow about her like an amber cloud.
"Don't cry, M.," Tims began repeating in a soft, monotonous voice.
"You've got nothing to cry about; your head doesn't ache now. Don't
cry."
At first it was only by a strong effort that Milly could keep her
tear-blinded eyes fixed on the bright medal before her; but soon they
became chained to it, as by some attractive force. The shining disk
seemed to grow smaller, brighter, to recede imperceptibly till it was a
point of light somewhere a long way off, and with it all the sorrows and
agitations of her mind seemed also to recede into a dim distance, where
she was still aware of them, yet as though they were some one else's
sorrows and agitations, hardly at all concerning her. The aching tension
of her brain was relaxed and she felt as though she were drowning
without pain or struggle, gently floating down, down through a green
abyss of water, always seeing that distant light, showing as the sun
might show, seen from the depths of the sea.
Before a quarter of an hour had passed, her sobs ceased in sighing
breaths, the breaths became regular and normal, the whole face slackened
and smoothed itself out. Tims changed the burden of her song.
"Go to sleep, Milly. What you want is a good long sleep. Go to sleep,
Milly."
Milly was sinking down upon the pillow, breathing the calm breath of
deep, refreshing slumber. Tims still crouched upon the bed, chanting her
monotonous song and contemplating her work. At length she slipped off,
conscious of pins-and-needles in her legs, and as she withdrew, Milly
with a sudden motion stretched her body out in the white bed, as
straight and still almost as that of the dead. The movement was
mechanical, but it gave a momentary check to Tims's triumph. She leaned
over her patient and began once more the crooning song.
"Go to sleep, M.! What you want is a good long sleep. Go to sleep,
Milly!"
But presently she ceased her song, for it was evident that Milly Flaxman
had indeed gone very sound asleep.