Lesbians -- Fiction; Psychological fiction; Women teachers -- Fiction
Henrietta Vigers was forty-seven when she left. She had spent youth and
prime at the school, and had nothing more to sell. She had neither
certificates nor recommendations behind her. She was hampered by her
aggressive gentility. Out of a £50 salary she had scraped together £500.
Invested daringly it yielded her £25 a year. She had no friends outside
the school. She left none within it.
Miss Marsham presented her with a gold watch, decorously inscribed; the
school with a handsomely bound edition of Shakespeare.
Heaven knows what became of her.
CHAPTER XXVIII
Said Clare to Elsbeth at their next meeting--
"I found out what the trouble was. Henrietta Vigers has been
slave-driving her. I should have guessed before, but you know that sort
of thing can go on in a school unnoticed."
"Oh, yes," said Elsbeth.
Clare shot a suspicious glance at her, but Elsbeth's face was impassive.
"But she'll be all right now. Miss Vigers is leaving us at half-term."
"So I hear."
Their eyes met. Clare flushed faintly.
"I couldn't have Alwynne bullied."
"I know exactly how you feel," said Elsbeth quietly. Then, with a direct
glance, "Has Miss Vigers got another post?"
"I haven't enquired."
"You're a bad enemy," Elsbeth's tone was quaintly reflective, almost
admiring.
"But a good friend, I hope?" Clare laughed.
"I hope so," said Elsbeth doubtfully, and Clare laughed again. It amused
her to cross swords with Elsbeth. At times she felt, that had it not
been for Alwynne--that bone of contention she could have liked her.
"You can't be one without the other," she instructed her. "I don't
pretend to be a saint. And you'll see how much better Alwynne will be
next term."
But the spring term came, and Alwynne was no better. She flagged like a
transplanted tree. She went about her business as usual, but even
Clare, not too willing to acknowledge what interfered with her scheme of
things, realised that her efficiency was laborious, that her high
spirits were forced, her comicalities not spontaneous, that she was in
fact, not herself, but merely an elaborate imitation.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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