My own life at school was uneventful. I was not unhappy, nor
unkindly treated. I think it was rather a good school, but I
did not learn much, and it never mattered to me one way or another.
It was time to be lived through, and that was all; and I lived
through it without much trouble or distress.
I was not naughty, so far as I can remember. I did not get into
scrapes or mischief. But I was not clever at all. Arithmetic
I have never been able to do, or the things connected with Arithmetic,
and subjects like Literature and Poetry were badly taught. I
had learned much more of them from Cousin Delia and from Hugo.
The only friend I made at school was Sophia Lane Watson. She
was two years younger than me, and came to school when she was
thirteen, so I had been there nearly three years when she came.
But I was struck by her as soon as I saw her, and we made friends
in a kind of way, almost at once.
She was standing in the ‘girls’ hall when I saw her first. It
was the first day of the summer term, and everything was in a
bustle: the noise and uncomfortableness of arrivals; girls rushing
about everywhere and shouting to each other, and slapping each
other on the back or kissing, according to the ‘set’ they belonged
to. How I did hate those ‘first days’ at school!
I had come by a different train from most of the others—I don’t
remember why—and drove up from the station alone. They had taken
my luggage in, and I walked in by myself; and there I saw Sophia
Lane Watson, standing quite still by the fireplace in the ‘girls’
hall.’ She was quite alone, not talking to anyone, nor reading;
just standing still and watching all the hurrying about, quite
impassively, with a perfectly expressionless face. She did not
look shy or frightened or unhappy—just quite detached—and that
interested me. She was a striking-looking child too, with her
very big eyes and her straight black hair, and her very white
face. Her eyes always looked so dark, much darker than mine or
even Hugo’s; but they were not black or brown when you saw them
close, only grey, sometimes almost green. She was medium height
and very thin, and her hands and feet were too big; but rather
beautifully made. Her clothes always looked as though they were
falling off her; her skirt was always crooked, sagging down in
a tail, either behind or at one side. She was certainly not pretty,
though I still think she was prettier at that time than afterwards.
Perhaps it was only that her queerness was more attractive in
a child.
She certainly did attract me. I know I stopped then, on my way
through the hall, and looked at her, and she looked at me perfectly
stonily, without any change of expression. Then I went upstairs
to my room and found the three other girls in it, all talking
and sitting on their beds, and I had to stay and talk to them
a few minutes while I took off my things; but when I came downstairs
again, I went straight up to Sophia and asked her her name. She
was still standing exactly as I had left her.
She answered rather slowly:
‘Sophia Lane Watson.’ Her voice was rather deep; a curious voice.
Then I asked her age, and she told me she was thirteen. She was
not very easy to talk to, for she merely answered my questions
and volunteered nothing. But I persevered, and offered to take
her round the school, and show her the classrooms, and afterwards
we went into the garden and walked round the playing field, and
we sat together at tea.
She told me that she lived at Salchester, that her father was
a Canon of the Cathedral, that she had two brothers and one sister,
and that she had never been at school before.
I don’t know why, but I felt curiously consoled by her having
come. The utter blankness of that first day, the blocks of bread
at tea, the noise and hurry and ugliness, seemed less unbearable
than usual, and I had a feeling when I went to bed that evening
that something important, pleasantly important, had happened.