Dolores (11 page)

“We shall have to warn people to be wary in conversing with Miss Greenlow,” said Miss Cliff.

“She always has told us that all things can be reduced to mathematics, if enough is known about them,” said Miss Butler.

“Well, perhaps we are abusing flippancy,” said Miss Cliff, observing Miss Adam's silence. “I suppose it is true, after all, that the youngest-natured people are those who keep their beliefs in things; and we should try to keep youthful in nature, I suppose.”

“Youthfulness of nature does not depend upon convictions, surely, speaking seriously,” said Miss Lemaître. “Convictions are a matter of intellect; and our intellects have little to do with our characters.”

“That is a little dogmatic, is it not? “said Miss Butler, who was not very fond of Miss Lemaître. “Our intellects must influence our ways of looking at things and people, and our apprehension of them.”

“Yes, yes; I think they must,” said Miss Cliff; “and our ways of looking at people especially. In our dealings with each other, faith is often another word for charity.”

“Yes, very often,” said Miss Adam; “and charity for faith.”

“That is coming rather near to heresy, I am
afraid,” said Miss Lemaître. “Is not the relative value of those qualities settled for us? I am not sure that their interchangeability is doctrinal.”

“No,” said Miss Greenlow, shaking her head; “it smells badly of schism.”

“Miss Adam meant the word ‘faith' to be understood in a general, not a particular sense,” said Miss Butler.

“I should not have supposed that any of us
meant
anything,” said Miss Lemaître.

“It is rather a philosophic subject for so soon after luncheon,” said Miss Dorrington.

“I know that the time of day is said to breed mental inertia,” said Miss Cliff; “but I am constrained to the dubious course of spending it in reading essays. You must excuse my desertion of my post: my pupils have increased. Miss Dorrington, you will succeed me, I am sure?”

“Deplorable irregularity on the part of one in office!” said Miss Butler, as Miss Dorrington changed her position willingly and clumsily.

“The students are increasing very quickly,” said Miss Greenlow. “I don't know what the opponents of women's higher education would say to it.”

“I imagine that class has resigned its delusion, that anything can be said for its view,” said Miss Butler, with the casual manner which covers
strong feeling; while Miss Cliff, arrested by the subject, paused with her hand on the door.

“Oh no, they cling to it,” said Miss Lemaître, carelessly. “I was listening to two old clergymen talking the other day; and they were agreeing that learning unfitted women for the sphere for which they were fitted by nature and their life through the centuries, with all things included—I believe to the corroboration of Genesis.”

“It is such a quaint argument—that women must not do a thing, because they have not done it before,” said Miss Dorrington, who had yet to take of a subject an other than genial view.

“We are not to try the water till we have learned to swim,” Miss Butler said, in a slightly different spirit.

“Oh, well, they were old,” said Miss Adam. “People can hardly be expected to give up the notions they were bred up in, at the end of their lives.”

“And parsons as well,” said Miss Lemaître; which further light upon the insufficiency shown, Miss Adam gave no sign of accepting.

“But I suppose there is something in the argument, that women must be what the development of ages has made them,” she resumed.

“I think very little,” said Miss Butler. “You
see, women are not descended only from women. Their heritage is from their fathers as much as their mothers. The development of one sex does not bear only upon that sex.”

“A very good point,” said Miss Cliff from the door; “and one that is not made enough of.”

“Yes, there is truth in that,” said Miss Adam. “But does not the life of one sex, carried on through generations, influence that sex? Do not some qualities go down in the female line and others in the male? In the evolution of any creature, is not that so?”

“The historian looks across the ages, as the heir of all of them,” said Miss Butler, taking refuge in jest where she found it hard to keep cool. “Now I think of it, the lioness does not carry a mane in spite of her shaggy forefathers.”

“She may owe much to her forefathers, nevertheless,” said Miss Cliff. “We must not confuse the physical attributes of one sex, with the mental and moral part which is transmitted from both to both, and which the others hardly bear upon. We have known women like their fathers, though they did not carry beards. But to leave the sphere of science—to our brothers, if Miss Adam wills,—and take a practical view; the women of civilised countries outnumber the men; and as a proportion cannot marry, there must be a class of self-supporting women.”

“Unless polygamy becomes an institution,” said Miss Greenlow, the union of her manner and matter producing general hilarity.

“And even if they do marry,” said Miss Butler, “why should learning unfit them for domestic duties? I suppose people think, if we heard a child screaming, we should wait to rub up Aristotle on the training of the young, before going to see what was troubling it. I have never seen evidence that learning has that effect. I am sure my cousin, Professor Butler, is the most erudite person, in mind and appearance, I have known; but to see his antics before his baby daughter, when she is at the point of decision between crying and not crying, is to lose faith for ever in the theory, that learning is prejudicial to domestic ability.”

There was a general moving amid the laughter; and the little band dispersed down the corridor.

In her first treading of the same corridor, unpitiedly silent in a chattering stream, Dolores met the old, youthful experience of the earnest academic novice. On the brink of the student world, where the schooling was no longer a childhood's need, she felt the sense of her child's achievements fade into an older humbleness before better of her kind—saw it of a sudden a world of rushing generations, and quailed under youth's clear knowledge of the transience
of things. The principal's greeting—the welcome accorded as part of another's duty, strengthened in its formal well-wishing the sense of being a one where the many only was significant. The next hours passed as a dream—the setting in order of the narrow student chambers, the wandering in the corridors barren of the messages of memory. It was only the awakening that lingered. Returning from the evening meal, in the common hall, which seemed a sea of voices, she came upon a student standing in the corridor alone—turning from right to left with an air which marked her a novice.

“Are you perplexed about anything?” said Dolores, pausing. “You are a newcomer, as I am, I suppose?”

“Yes, that is what I am,” said the other; “and an unfortunate thing it seems to be. I am sure I wish I had arranged to be something else.”

Dolores looked at the short, plump figure; and met an expression on the face, which brought a smile to her own.

“Is there anything you want to find?” she said.

“Nothing to matter. Only the rooms where I live. I do not know why you should trouble. I had come to the conclusion, that I was not a thing to be taken into account.”

“I had come to the same conclusion,” smiled
Dolores. “Perhaps we could find your rooms between us.”

“Thank you very much,” said the other, following with a rollicking gait, which seemed to fit her. “It must seem presumptuous in me to feel a need. But it is embarrassing to odds and ends to be left about.”

“Were they on this corridor?” said Dolores, as the short, quick sentences ceased. “I suppose your name will be on the doors.”

“Why, yes, now I think of it, there are names on all the doors. But I am sure it was natural, if I expected to be known simply by a number. My name is Murray—Felicia Murray; if I am worthy of such an appendage.”

“Felicia?” said Dolores, smiling. “Your meaning is the opposite of mine. And it fits you, does it not?”

“I have not thought. I am ashamed that I have ever felt interest in myself. Oh, here is the name on a door. This is where I am kept, then. Will you tell me your name before you go? Do you know, I believe all the people here have names? Is it not thoughtless, when there are a hundred? May I look out for you in the morning?”

Dolores found that the word with a fellow had somehow cleared her path. Her own rooms, with their narrow bareness, already had a certain welcome. The sense of living and working
amongst many with her life and work was gathering a charm. The academic spirit was weaving its toils.

It was not till the morning that she took a real survey of the hundred student - maidens. The nicety of the novice drew her with the earliest in the direction of the chapel bell; and as she stood with those, who followed her in promptness in coming and eagerness of glance, the faces that were appearing around her drew her eyes. Young faces she saw them, not carrying less of youth that they carried things hardly youthful. Here and there, in signs of waning girlhood, she read of the teacher whose early way had been vexed.

When the hundred in the order of their standing had filed from the chapel, the hall laid out for the morning meal was the stage of an intricate drama. Silent, except for response to courtesy or question, but watching the easy actions of all, as they passed in and out at will, she felt the pervading spirit of effective freedom. When the hall was deserted, and she followed in the general wake, she found herself standing in a corner of the corridor, where written notices covered the walls; and a voice struck strangely on her ear as familiar.

“Oh, here you are! I had lost you. Not that that is a thing to call attention to. I have lost myself three times this morning. I see by
the lists that you are to read classics. You are short-sighted? How proud you must be! I read it was a mark of high civilisation. We are to interview Miss Butler at twelve. Advantages are already to be ours. You know she has edited a Greek play. It is easy to see in her face that she has. She looks at you as if she could read your soul. I hope she will not read my soul; and know that I better my mind simply because I must earn my bread, or go to the workhouse. I have an old nurse there. She told me she felt in her heart we should meet again. Do you suppose Miss Butler will ask us what classics we have read? I will go and decide what I have read. Have you such a book as ‘Ideal synopsis of works to form a basis for classical scholarship'?”

Dolores knew, as she watched the little round figure rollick away, that the ground was laid for a student friendship. Three hours later she learned the meaning of Felicia's judgment of Miss Butler. The eyes under which the new-coming students dispersed to desks, had certainly no lack of insight. The little waste of manners and minutes seemed in keeping with their survey. The words to be said were said with precision and clearness, and said but once. The nature and hours of lectures were given; and a word of general advice was offered, in whose hinted severity of tone Dolores detected a tempering of nervousness. A student stammering a doubt
was gently answered; another disposed to quibble on a point that was passed, quelled with a touch of sharpness as marked as courtesy permitted.

“I always thought souls were private,” said Felicia with a sigh, as they mingled in the stream that poured to the hall for the midday meal. “It was all a waste of time, preparing that ideal synopsis. There is no good in precautions with people who can read souls.”

The meal in the common hall was what was already familiar. The students entered and left at will; easiness of action was the feature of the whole. But to Dolores, no longer silent and alone amongst many, the sameness was less than the difference. Felicia found a place at her side, and poured out prattle; and Miss Butler passed to her seat with a smile already accepted as a thing of price. The remaining hours of the day were hours as those before them. But the comprehension of their spirit of striving self-government was not all that they carried. They were filling with the human interest, which to Dolores was the greatest thing the hours could give. As other days followed, bringing other such hours, she found herself with a place and purposes in a passionless, ardent little world—a world of women's friendships; where there lived in a strange harmony the spirits of the mediaeval convent and modern growth.

Walking one day in the cloisters of the college, she came upon a figure standing in the shadow of a pillar, which arrested her scrutiny. It was the figure of a man—a visiting professor, as she knew from his gown, and the trencher lying at his feet,—in seeming buried in pondering; for he stood unmoving, with his eyes gazing before him, and his hands folded in his garments. His aspect was grotesque at a glance; for his massive body and arms were at variance with stunted lower limbs, and his shoulders were twisted. His face was dark and rugged of feature; his eyes piercing, but unevenly set, and so small and buried in rising flesh beneath them as hardly to be seen; his clothes and hair unkempt. An uncomely figure Dolores confessed him, as she left him to his musings. On reaching the doorway, and turning for a further glance, she was startled by the sight. He was standing with his feet set apart, his body swaying and his head and limbs working to contortion. She stood and watched him; and was startled anew when he ceased his gestures, picked up his cap with a lightning-like movement, and went his way. That evening, seated at table next to Miss Cliff, she spoke of the experience.

“Oh,” said Miss Cliff, “that was Mr Claverhouse. Have you been startled? You will soon get used to seeing him about.”

“Claverhouse?” said Dolores, with a sudden
awakening of thoughts. “Any relation of Claverhouse, the dramatist?”

“The dramatist himself,” said Miss Cliff. “It is pleasant to hear his name so ready. He comes here to lecture.”