“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.”