A letter came from Paul, just before Christmas, to say that he was
going to remain at Monte Carlo for another month. Knowing his passion
for warmth and sunshine, she was not surprised; she was hardly even
disappointed. She began to wonder what her feelings would have been if
he had decided to remain another year instead of another month; and
again she was obliged to own that the solution of her own state of
mind was beyond her. The Keeleys went abroad about the same time,
which took away her chief centre of amusement; and her former mood of
satisfaction was succeeded by one of serene indifference, in which she
continued until she went home for the holidays. At Ivingdon the
dulness of four weeks, passed almost entirely in the company of her
father and Miss Esther, caused the old unsatisfied feeling to return
to her; and she longed for a vent for the restless energy that wore
her out as long as there was no work to be done. She grew impatient
once more for a glimpse of Paul Wilton, for the touch of his thin,
nervous hand, and the sound of his quiet, unemotional voice; and she
acted over and over again, in her mind, how they would meet once more
in the little room overlooking Fountain Court, what he would be sure
to say to her, and what she knew she would say to him. No letter came
from Paul all through those weary days, and she only wrote to him
once. The pathetic note was very prominent in that one letter, and she
consoled herself with her own unhappiness while she awaited the answer
to it; but when no answer came her pride revolted, and she wished
passionately that she had never sent it.
"Can't you stay another week, child?" said Miss Esther, as the end of
the holidays drew near. "You don't look much better than when you
came, though it's not to be expected you should, working away as you
do. I never heard such nonsense, and all to no purpose! When I was a
girl-- But there, what's the use?"
And Katharine, who had heard it all before, explained over again with
increasing impatience that her work was a definite thing and required
her presence on a certain day. She had never felt less pleased with
herself than on the day of her departure, when she left the home that
had once been the whole world to her, and took leave of the people who
no longer believed in her. But as she neared London a sensation of
coming events dispelled the atmosphere of disapproval which had been
stifling her for a whole month, and she once more felt the mistress of
her own situation and her own future. Here was life and activity, work
and success, and some of it was going to be hers. And Paul Wilton
would soon be coming home again. They told her at Queen's Crescent how
well she was looking, when she appeared in the dining-room at
tea-time; and she laughed back in reply as she contrasted their
greeting with her aunt's farewell words.
"Just a year since I first came," she said to Phyllis. "What a lot has
happened since then! I don't believe it was myself at all; it must
have been somebody else. Oh, I am glad I am different now!"
"I remember," said Phyllis, who never rhapsodised. "Your face was
smutty after your journey, and you looked as though you would kill any
one who spoke to you."
"And you were eating bread and treacle," retorted Katharine. "Let's
have some now, shall we?"
"By the way," said Phyllis presently, "there's a letter for you
upstairs. It came about a week ago, and I clean forgot to forward it.
I'm awfully sorry, but I don't suppose it matters much because it's
got a foreign post-mark."
The laughter died out of Katharine's face, as she put down her teacup
and stared speechlessly at her friend.
"Shall I go and fetch it?" continued the unconscious Phyllis, as she
deluged her last morsel of bread with more treacle than any force of
cohesion would allow it to hold. "Perhaps you're ready to come up
yourself, though? I've prepared a glorification for you--Hullo! what
are you in such a desperate hurry about?"
When she arrived breathless at the top of the house, Katharine was
already in her cubicle, turning everything over in a wild and
fruitless search.
"Go away!" she said shortly, when Phyllis came in. "It was the only
thing I asked you to do, and I thought I could trust you. I shall know
better another time. What are all these things doing here?"
She knocked her head, as she spoke, against a string of Chinese
lanterns. There were flowers on the mantel-shelf, and a look of
festivity in the dingy little room; but it was all lost on Katharine,
who continued to open and shut the drawers with trembling hands, and
to search in every likely place for her letter, until Phyllis put an
end to her aimless task by bringing it to her in eloquent silence.
Then she stole away again; and Katharine sat down in the midst of the
confusion she had created, and became absorbed in its contents. It was
very short, and there was hardly any news in it that could not have
been extracted from a guide-book; but she spent quite half an hour in
reading it and pondering over it, until she knew every one of its
stilted phrases by heart. He was very well and it was very hot, and he
was sitting by the open window looking down on the orange groves, and
the sea was a splendid colour, and there were some very decent people
in the hotel, and amongst them her relations the Keeleys. It was hard
to look up at last, with dazed eyes, and to discover that she was in
Queen's Crescent, Marylebone, instead of being where her thoughts
were, in the sunny South of France.
"Hullo," said Phyllis, who was standing at the end of the bed.
"Yes?" said Katharine, smiling. "Do you want anything?"
"Oh, no," said Phyllis, and crept away again. Katharine sat and
pondered a little while longer. Presently, she shivered and made the
discovery that she was cold, and she jumped up and stretched herself.
"I suppose I must unpack," she said, still smiling contentedly. "Where
has Phyllis gone, I wonder?"
She went to the door and made the passage ring with her voice, until
Phyllis hurried out of a neighbouring room and apologised for not
being there when she was wanted.
"I believe you were there when I didn't want you," said Katharine
candidly. "Wasn't I cross to you or something?" Her foot touched one
of the discarded Chinese lanterns.
"Hullo! I thought there were some lanterns somewhere. Where are they
gone?"
"Oh, no!" said Phyllis, going down on her knees before the box. "You
must have been dreaming."
"I wasn't dreaming, and you're a foolish old dear, and I am a selfish
pig," cried Katharine penitently.
"Oh, no!" said Phyllis again. "I was the pig, you see, because I
forgot your letter. You'll rumple my hair, if you do that again."
Katharine did hug her again, nevertheless, and accused herself of all
the offences she could remember, whether they related to the present
occasion or not; and Phyllis silenced her in a gruff voice, and the
unpacking proceeded by degrees.
"Don't you think," said Katharine irrelevantly, "that women are much
more selfish than men, in some ways?"
"What ways?"
"I mean when they are absorbed in anything. Now, a man wouldn't behave
like a cad to his best friend, just because he happened to be in love
with a girl, would he? But a woman would. She would betray her nearest
and dearest for the sake of a man. I am certain I should. Women are so
wolfish, directly they feel things; and they seem to lose their sense
of honour when they fall in love. Don't they?"
"Where do the stockings go?" was all Phyllis said.
"Perhaps," continued Katharine, "it is because a woman really has
stronger feelings than a man."
"I shouldn't wonder," said Phyllis. "Who packed the sponge bag next
to your best hat?"
"I don't think it matters," said Katharine mildly. "I was saying--
What are you laughing at?"
"Nothing. Only, it is so delightful to have you back again, moralising
away while I do all the work," laughed Phyllis.
Katharine owned humbly that Phyllis always did all the work, and
Phyllis bluntly repudiated the charge, and insisted that Katharine was
the most unselfish person in the world, and Katharine ended in
allowing herself to be persuaded that she was; and the rest of the
evening passed in an amicable exchange of news. Even the "cat in the
pie dish" seemed appetising that evening.
Her feeling of satisfaction was increased when she arrived at school
the next morning and found that Mrs. Downing was anxious to speak to
her. An interview with the lady principal at the beginning of term
generally foreboded some good.
"I want you to give up the junior teaching this term, my dear Miss
Austen," she began, after greeting her warmly. "You are really too
good for it, far too good. Mr. Wilton was quite right when he told me
how cultured you were, quite right. At the time, I must confess to
feeling very doubtful; you seemed so inexperienced,--so very young, in
fact. But I have come to think that in your case it is no drawback to
be young; indeed, the dear children seem to prefer it. Their
attachment for you is extraordinary; pardon me, I should have said
phenomenal. And the way you manage them is perfect, quite
perfect,--just the touch of firmness to show that your kindness is not
weakness. Admirable! I am most grateful to Mr. Wilton for introducing
you to me, most grateful. Such a charming man, is he not? So
distinguished!"
She paused for breath, and Katharine murmured an acknowledgment of Mr.
Wilton's distinction.
"To come to the point, my dear Miss Austen, I should be charmed, quite
charmed, if you would take the senior work this term,--English in all
its branches, French translation, Latin, and drawing. I think you know
the curriculum, do you not? Thank you very much; that is so good of
you! Did you have a pleasant holiday? There is no need to ask how you
are,--the very picture of health, I am sure! And the architecture
lectures, too; I should be more than grateful if you would continue
them as before. Thank you so much-- Ah, I beg your pardon?"
Katharine here made a desperate inroad into the torrent of words, and
mentioned that she knew no Latin and had never taught any drawing.
"Indeed? But you are too modest, my dear Miss Austen; it is your one
failing, if I may say so. Of course, if you wish--then let it be so.
But I am convinced you would do both as well as Miss Smithson, quite
convinced. However, that can easily be arranged. The salary I think
you know, and the lectures will be as before. Indeed, we are most
fortunate to have so delightful a lecturer, most fortunate. Ah, there
is one more thing," continued Mrs. Downing, leading her towards the
door. The rest of her speech was said on the landing which happened,
fortunately, to be empty. "This is between ourselves, my dear Miss
Austen,--quite between ourselves. I should be more than grateful if
you would act as chaperon to the music master this term. It may appear
strange that I should ask you to do this,--indeed, I may say peculiar;
but I do so in the conviction that I can trust you better than any one
else. Of course you will not mention what I have said! I am sure you
understand what I mean. That is so charming of you! Thank you so
much!"
And the lady principal returned to say very much the same thing over
again to the next teacher whom she summoned. But Katharine, who had
long since learnt to regard her insincerity as inevitable, merely
congratulated herself on the practical results of her interview, and
thoroughly enjoyed the contest that ensued when her new pupils found
they were going to be taught by a junior mistress. She felt very
elated when she came out of it victorious; and for the next week or
two everything seemed to go well with her. She had made a position for
herself, although every one had told her it would be impossible; there
were people who believed in her thoroughly, and there were others,
like Ted and Phyllis Hyam, who did not understand her but worshipped
her blindly. It was all very gratifying to her, after the dull month
she had spent at home; and for the first time she threw off the
reserve she usually showed, though unconsciously, towards the working
gentlewomen of Queen's Crescent, and talked about herself in a way
that astonished them not a little. Work to them was a sordid
necessity, and they were a little jealous of this brilliant girl, with
the youth and the talent, who found no difficulty in winning success
where they had barely earned a living, and who seemed to enjoy her
life into the bargain.
"Who is that girl with the jolly laugh and the untidy hair?" she
overheard a stranger asking Polly Newland one day.
"That one?" was the reply, given in a contemptuous tone. "Oh, she's a
caution, I can tell you! Nice? Oh, I dare say! She's a prig, though.
Phyllis Hyam--that's the other girl in our room--thinks all the world
of her; but I can't stand prigs, myself."
It was a little shock to her self-esteem to hear herself described so
baldly, though she consoled herself by the reflection that Polly had
never liked her, and there was consequently very little value to be
attached to her opinion. But she was careful to remain silent about
her own affairs for the next day or two; and she startled Ted, one
evening, by asking him suddenly, between the acts of a melodrama, what
was meant by a "prig."
"A prig? Oh, I don't know! It's the same thing as a smug, isn't it?"
"But what is a smug?"
"Well, of course, a smug is--well, he's a smug, I suppose. He hasn't
got to be anything else, has he? He's a played-out sort of bounder,
who wants to have a good time and hasn't the pluck, don't you know?"
"Are all prigs bounders?" asked Katharine, in a voice of dismay.
"Oh, I expect so! It doesn't matter, does it? At least, there's a chap
in our office who is a bit of a prig, and he isn't a bounder exactly.
He's a very decent sort of chap, really; I don't half mind him,
myself. But they always call him a prig because he goes in for being
so mighty saintly; at least, that's what they say. I don't think he is
so bad as all that, myself."
"Is it priggish to be good, then? I thought one ought to try."
"My dear Kit, of course you are a girl; don't worry yourself about it.
It's altogether different for a girl, don't you see?"
"Then girls are never prigs?" said Katharine eagerly.
"Bless their hearts," said Ted vaguely; and she did not get any
further definition from him that evening.
And so the days grew into weeks, and her life became filled with new
interests, and she told herself she was learning to live at last. But
she had her bad days, as well; and on these she felt that something
was still wanting in her life. And the end of February came, and Paul
Wilton had not yet returned to his chambers in Essex Court.