CHAPTER XI
Madame Bertier
"When the bitter north wind blows, Very red is Baba's nose, Very cold are Baba's toes: When the north wind's blowing. When the north wind's blowing!"
So sang Monica, rather out of tune, as she reached home, in a scratchymood, on the first afternoon of the January term, and hurried up to thefire.
"I don't like school! I _don't_ like it!" she proclaimed to asympathetic audience of Rosemary, Cousin Elsie, and Richard (who washome on leave). "I call it cruelty to send me every single day to sitfor five whole hours at a horrid little desk, stuffing my head withthings I don't want to know, and never _shall_ want to know, if I liveto be a hundred. _Why_ must I go?"
"Poor kiddie!" laughed Richard. "You've got it badly! It's a disease Iused to suffer from myself. They called it 'schoolophobia' when I wasyoung. They cured it with a medicine called 'spinkum-spankum', if Iremember rightly--one of those good old-fashioned remedies, don't youknow, that our grandmothers always went by."
"You're making fun of me!" chafed Monica. "And I do really mean what Isay. It's cold at school, and horrid, and Miss Davis is always down onme, and I hate it. Why must I go?"
"And _why_ must I go back to the trenches?"
"_Don't!_"
"All serene! You and I'll find a desert island together somewhere, andlive upon it for the rest of our lives. You see, they'd never have usback again if we deserted. We'd have to stop on our island forevermore!"
"I thought you liked The Gables?" yawned Elsie. "Vivien does. I'm sureit's a very nice school."
"Oh, Vivien! I dare say! It's all very fine for monitresses. But whenyou're in the Third Form, and your desk's on the cold side of the room,it's the limit. Yes, I dare say I _shall_ get chilblains if I sit closeto the fire, _but I don't care_!"
"The first day's always a little grizzly," agreed Lorraine, who hadfollowed Monica to the hearth-rug and joined the circle offire-worshippers. "One hates getting into harness again after theholidays. I believe Rosemary's the only one of us who really enthuses.You'll be gone, too, by next week, Quavers! But I suppose you really_enjoy_ singing exercises, and having professors storming at you."
"Of course I do," said Rosemary, with a rather unconvincing note in hervoice.
Lorraine glanced at her quickly, but the little brown head was lowered,and shadows hid the sweet face. Lorraine could not understand Rosemarythese holidays. She had returned from her first term at the College ofMusic seemingly as full of enthusiasm as ever, and yet there was "asomething". She gave rapturous accounts of pupils' concerts, of singingclasses, of fellow-students, of rising stars in the musical world, offavourite teachers, of fun at the College and at the hostel where sheboarded. She had made many new friendships, and was apparently havingthe time of her life.
"From her accounts you'd think it was all skittles, but I'm sure there'sa hitch somewhere!" mused Lorraine.
Rosemary, with her big eyes and bigger aspirations, had always beenmore or less of a problem. The family had decided emphatically that shewas its genius. They looked for great things from her when her course atthe College should be finished. They all experienced a sort ofsecond-hand credit in her anticipated achievements. It is so nice tohave someone else to do the clever things while we ourselves wear areflected glory thereby. Mrs. Forrester, mother-proud of her musicalchick, could not refrain from a little gentle boasting about herdaughter's talents. She told everybody that she liked girls to havecareers, and that parents ought to make every effort to let a giftedchild have a chance. In Lorraine's estimation Rosemary's future was tobe one round of triumph, ending possibly in a peal of wedding bells.Lorraine was fond of making up romances, and had evolved ahighly-satisfactory hero for her sister. He was always tall, but hiseyes varied in colour, and he sometimes had a moustache and sometimeswas clean-shaven. Though his personal appearance varied from day to day,his general qualities persisted, and he invariably possessed ashooting-box in Scotland, where he would be prepared to extend a warmwelcome to his bride's younger sister.
Meantime, though Rosemary had been a whole term at the college, herfamily had no means of judging her progress. She had diligentlypractised scales, exercises and arpeggios, but had steadfastly refusedto sing any songs to them. Vainly they had begged for old favourites;she was obdurate to the point of obstinacy.
"Signor Arezzo doesn't want me to! I'm studying on his special method,and he's most particular about it. He keeps everybody at exercises forthe first term. When I go back he says perhaps he'll let me have just_one_ song."
"But surely it couldn't spoil your voice to sing 'My Happy Garden'?"demanded her father, much disappointed.
"He forbade it _entirely_!" declared Rosemary emphatically.
This new attitude of Rosemary's of hiding her light under a bushel wastrying to Lorraine. She had been looking forward to showing off herclever musical sister to Morland. She had expected the two to becomechums at once, but they did nothing of the sort. Rosemary treatedMorland with the airy patronage that a girl, who has just begun to mixwith older men, sometimes metes out to a boy of seventeen. She was notnearly as much impressed by his playing as Lorraine had anticipated.
"He ought to learn from Signor Rassuli!" she commented. "Nobody whohasn't studied on _his_ method can possibly have a touch!"
"But Morland's exquisite touch is his great point!" persisted Lorraineindignantly.
"I can't stand the boy!" yawned Rosemary.
It is always most amazing, when we like a person exceedingly ourselves,to find that somebody else has formed a different opinion. With all hisshortcomings, Lorraine appreciated Morland. He often missed hisappointments, and was generally late for everything, but when he turnedup he played her accompaniments as no one else ever played them.Moreover, he was a very pleasant companion, and full of fun in a mildartistic sort of fashion of his own. He was certainly one of the centralfigures in the beautiful, shiftless, Bohemian household on the hill.Lorraine had a sense that, when he went, the Castleton family would loseits corner stone. Yet some day he would be bound to go.
"I expect to be called up in March!" he announced one day.
"EVERYTHING'S GONE WRONG!" DECLARED LORRAINE TRAGICALLY]
Lorraine looked at him critically. Morland, with his ripply hair and thefeatures of a Fra Angelico angel, would seem out of place in khaki. Hisdreamy, unpunctual ways and general lack of concentration would behighly exasperating to his drill-sergeant. She wondered what wouldhappen when, as usual, he turned up late. Artistic temperaments did notfit in well with the stern realities of life. She had a feeling thatthey ought to be exempted.
Music, this term, was more to the fore than usual in Lorraine's horizon.After Christmas a fresh teacher had come to the school, who gave lessonsin French, violin, and piano. Her name was Madame Bertier, and she was aRussian by birth, though her husband was a Belgian at present internedin Germany.
She was a new arrival at Porthkeverne, and had rooms in the artists'quarter of the town. She spent her mornings at The Gables, and filled upher afternoons by taking private pupils. Like most Russians, she had acharming manner, and was brimming over with talent. She was astriking-looking woman, with a clear, pale complexion, flashing hazeleyes, and carefully arranged coiffure. Her delicate hands wereexquisitely manicured. She dressed becomingly, and wore handsome rings.Her foreign accent was decidedly pretty.
Most of the school, and the Sixth Form in particular, went crazy overher. They admired her frocks, her hair, her earrings, and the wholecharming air of "finish" about her. It became the fashion of the momentto adore her. Those girls who took private music lessons from her werecounted lucky. The members of the French class vied with one another inpresenting offerings of violets or early snowdrops. She accepted thelittle bouquets as gracefully as a prima donna.
"She's _the_ most absolutely topping person I've ever met!" affirmedVivien, who was one of her most ardent worshippers.
"Um--well enough!" said Lorraine, whose head was not turned by th
e newidol. "She's not quite my style, somehow. I always feel she's out foradmiration."
"Well, she deserves to be admired."
"Not so consciously, though."
"I think she's too precious for words. It's something even to be in thesame room with her!" gushed Audrey. "I've scored over you, Vivien,because she's written two verses in my album, and she only wrote one inyours!"
"Yes, but it was original poetry in mine!"
"How do you know, when it's in Russian?"
"She said so, at any rate."
"Oh! I must ask her to put in an original one for me."
"She's coming to tea with us to-morrow."
"You lucker!"
There seemed no lengths to which the girls would not go. Several of themkept sentimental diaries in which were recorded the doings and sayingsof their deity. Audrey's ran as follows:--
_Jan. 15th._--A new sun rose in the sky, and the world of school has changed for me. I could do nothing but gaze.
_Jan. 16th._--Her name is Madame Bertier.
_Jan. 17th._--Her Christian name is Olga Petrovna.
_Jan. 18th._--She looked directly at me, and I blushed.
_Jan. 19th._--To-day she smiled upon me.
_Jan. 22nd._--To-day she accepted my flowers.
_Jan. 23rd._--A black day. Vivien has engrossed her entirely.
_Jan. 24th._--I have asked Mother to call upon her.
_Jan. 25th._--The world dark. Mother too busy to call.
_Jan. 30th._--Mother called to-day. Hooray!
_Feb. 1st._--She is coming to tea. I feel I am treading on air.
_Feb. 2nd._--She has been to our house. It was the happiest day of my life.
Though she came as a stranger to Porthkeverne, Madame Bertier very soonfound friends. Her attractive personality and her musical talent gainedher the entree into the artistic and literary circles of the town. Twoprincipal figure-painters asked her to sit for her portrait, and herviolin was much in demand for concerts at the Arts Club. Like most ofthe Bohemian residents of the place, she found her way to the studio atWindy Howe, and a pastel drawing of her profile soon stood on Mr.Castleton's easel. She did not win universal favour, however, at thehouse on the hill. Claudia, walking from school one day with Lorraine,exploded upon the subject.
"I can't bear the woman! I don't know what Vivien and the others see inher. I call it very flashy to wear all that jewellery at school. She'salways up at our house, and Morland's fearfully taken with her. Theyplay duets by the hour together. Father's going to paint her as 'TheAngel of Victory' in that huge cartoon he's designing for the ChagsteadTown Hall. I don't think she's a scrap like an angel! She pats Lilithand Constable on the head, just for show, but she looks terrified ifthey come near her smart frocks. Violet detests her. It's the one thingViolet and I agree about. We've been squabbling over everything elselately. It's a weary world!"
"Madame's fascinating enough on the surface," agreed Lorrainethoughtfully, "but she's not the kind of woman I admire. Somehow I don'tquite trust her. Do you believe in first impressions? So do I. Well, myfirst feeling about her was distinctly non-attractive. We ran away fromeach other mentally, like two pieces of magnetized steel. She's verysweet to me at my music lessons; but I'm sure it's all put on, and shedoesn't care an atom. It's an entirely different thing from my Saturdaylessons."
One great reason why Lorraine had not, with the rest of the school,fallen under the spell of the fascinating Russian lady, was the intenseaffection she had formed for her art teacher. She could not worship atboth shrines, and she felt strongly that Margaret Lindsay was infinitelymore worthy of admiration. The studio down by the harbour was still herartistic Mecca. She had a carte blanche invitation to go whenever sheliked. She turned in there one Friday afternoon on her way from school.
"Carina," she said, flopping into a basket-chair by the fireside, "I'mjust fed up to-day!"
The friendship, which had begun conventionally with the orthodox "MissLindsay", now expressed itself by "Margaret", "Peggy", or such pet termsas "Carina" and "Love-Angel".
"What's the matter?" asked her friend, squeezing a little extraflake-white on to her palette, and putting the cap on the tube again."It isn't often _you're_ fed up with life!"
"Everything's gone wrong!" declared Lorraine tragically. "My head aches,and I didn't know my literature, and Miss Janet glared at me, and maths.were a failure this morning too, and I felt scratchy and squabbled witheverybody. I'm afraid I was rather hard on some of those kids, thoughthey were the limit! Carina, when _you_ were at school, did yousometimes have a fling out all round, or were you always good?"
"I confess," said Carina humorously, "that, when I trod the slipperypaths of youth, I often flopped flat, and made an exhibition of myself.I don't think I was a nice child at all!"
"I call you a saint now! I wonder what most saints were like when theywere young."
"Many of them began as sinners. I expect even St. Francis of Assisihowled when he was a baby, and smacked his nurse. We all feel more orless scratchy sometimes. What you want, child, is a good blow on thehills. If it should be as fine and mild to-morrow as it was thismorning, we'll have our painting lesson out of doors. Bring your thickcoat and a wrap and we'll go right up towards Tangy Point, take ourlunch and our sketch-books with us, find a sheltered place in the sun,and paint some pretty little bit on the cliffs. You'll go back to schoolon Monday feeling at peace with all mankind, or rather girlkind. Do youlike my prescription?"
"Rather! You're the best doctor out! It'll be glorious to get away fromeverybody for a day. I have too much of Monica on Saturdays as a rule.I've an instinct it's going to be fine to-morrow!"
Porthkeverne had its share of sea-fog in winter, but it also had itsquota of sunshine, and this particular February day turned out aforetaste of spring. Birds were singing everywhere as teacher and pupil,with lunch and sketching materials in their satchels, set off on theirtramp over the moors. They crossed the common, where Lorraine had stoodamong the thistles for "Kilmeny", and came to "the little grey church onthe windy hill", which Mr. Castleton had chosen as the scene for hisillustrations to "The Forsaken Merman". The sound of the organ camethrough the open door, and, peeping in, Lorraine could see Morland'sgolden hair gleaming like a saint's halo in the chancel, and caught aglimpse of Landry's perfect profile as he sat listening in the dustygallery.
"Shall we go and speak to them?" asked Margaret Lindsay.
"No," said Lorraine emphatically. "I'm not friends with Morland to-day.He promised to practise an accompaniment with me last night, and henever turned up. I shall just leave him to himself. He's a bad boy!"
"He has his limitations!" agreed Margaret.
The breath of early spring was in the air as they walked through thecluster of houses termed by courtesy "the village", and, climbing astile, took the path along the cliffs. On such days the sap seems torise in human beings as well as in the vegetable world. Lorraineliterally danced along. Margaret Lindsay's artist eyes were busyregistering impressions of sunlight on pearly stretches of sea, oreffects of green sward and grey rock in shadow.
"The Cornish coast in February is perfect," she decided, "and it's sodelightfully quiet. Heaven defend me from the 'fashionable resort',which is some people's idea of the seaside. I read the most deliciouspoem once. It began--
She was a lady of high degree, A poor and unknown artist he. 'Paint me,' she said, 'a view of the sea.' So he painted the sea as it looked the day When Aphrodite arose from its spray, And as she gazed on its face the while, It broke in its countless dimpled smile. 'What a poky, stupid picture!' said she. 'It isn't anything like the sea!'
The wretched artist, in several more verses of poetry which I forget,paints the sea in every possible effect of storm and calm, all to thescorn of the lady, who decides--
'I don't believe he _can_ paint the sea!'
But in desperation he makes a final dash for her patronage, proba
bly,poor man, being hard up.
So he painted a stretch of hot brown sand, With a big hotel on either hand, And a handsome pavilion for the band. Not a trace of the water to be seen, Except one faint little streak of green. 'What a perfectly _exquisite_ picture!' said she, 'The very _image_ of the sea!'"
Lorraine laughed.
"No one can accuse Tangy Point of pavilions and big hotels! We seemquite alone in the world, up on these cliffs. I haven't seen a solitaryperson since we left the village."
"Which remark has instantly conjured up somebody. Look on the shorebelow us--no, to the left, down there. I see the flutter of a feminineskirt--yes, and masculine trousers too! He's getting out of a boat, andgoing to speak to her. Actually a kiss! How touching! They don't knowthat there are spectators on the cliffs. We must be hundreds of feetabove them. They look like specks!"
"I brought the field-glasses," said Lorraine, opening her satchel. "Itbrings that couple as close and clear as possible. Why, I know that greycostume and that crimson toque. It's Madame Bertier, as large as life!Look for yourself. Carina!"
Margaret Lindsay readjusted the glasses to her sight and focused them onthe figures below.
"There's not a doubt about it!" she pronounced. "I can almost hear herbroken English! Who's the man?"
Lorraine stood frowning with concentrated thought.
"That's what is puzzling me! His face is so absolutely familiar. I_know_ I've seen him before, somewhere, and yet, for the life of me, Ican't remember where. It's one of those aggravating half-memories thathaunt one. I'd like to try throwing down a stone to attract theirattention."
"I shouldn't on any account. Let's leave them to it, and go and find aplace to take our sketch. We shall lose this effect of sunshine, ifwe're not quick. Madame Bertier doesn't interest me enough to make mewaste valuable time in watching her flirtations."
"But I wish I could remember who the man is!" ruminated Lorraine, withknitted brows.
"He's certainly not worth bothering your head about! Come along andsketch!"
The Head Girl at the Gables Page 12
