# Quicksand (Larsen)/Part 2

Two
She woke in the morning unrefreshed and with that feeling of half-terrified apprehension peculiar to Christmas and birthday mornings. A long moment she lay puzzling under the sun streaming in a golden flow through the yellow curtains. Then her mind returned to the night before. She had decided to leave Naxos. That was it.
Sharply she began to probe her decision. Reviewing the situation carefully, frankly, she felt no wish to change her resolution. Except that it would be inconvenient. Much as she wanted to shake the dust of the place from her feet forever, she realized that there would be difficulties. Red tape. James Vayle. Money, Other work. Regretfully she was forced to acknowledge that it would be vastly better to wait until June, the close of the school year. Not so ​long, really. Half of March, April, May, some of June. Surely she could endure for that much longer conditions which she had borne for nearly two years. By an effort of will, her will, it could be done.
But this reflection, sensible, expedient, though it was, did not reconcile her. To remain seemed too hard. Could she do it? Was it possible in the present rebellious state of her feelings? The uneasy sense of being engaged with some formidable antagonist, nameless and ununderstood, startled her. It wasn‘t, she was suddenly aware, merely the school and its ways and its decorous stupid people that oppressed her. There was something else, some other more ruthless force, a quality within herself, which was frustrating her, had always frustrated her, kept her from getting the things she had wanted. Still wanted.
But just what did she want? Barring a desire for material security, gracious ways of living, a profusion of lovely clothes, and a ​goodly share of envious admiration, Helga Crane didn‘t know, couldn‘t tell. But there was, she knew, something else. Happiness, she supposed. Whatever that might be. What, exactly, she wondered, was happiness. Very positively she wanted it. Yet her conception of it had no tangibility. She couldn‘t define it, isolate it, and contemplate it as she could some other abstract things. Hatred, for instance. Or kindness.
The strident ringing of a bell somewhere in the building brought back the fierce resentment of the night. It crystallized her wavering determination.
From long habit her biscuit-coloured feet had slipped mechanically out from under the covers at the bell‘s first unkind jangle. Leisurely she drew them back and her cold anger vanished as she decided that, now, it didn‘t at all matter if she failed to appear at the monotonous distasteful breakfast which was provided for her by the school as part of her wages.
​In the corridor beyond her door was a medley of noises incident to the rising and preparing for the day at the same hour of many schoolgirls—foolish giggling, indistinguishable snatches of merry conversation, distant gurgle of running water, patter of slippered feet, low-pitched singing, good-natured admonitions to hurry, slamming of doors, clatter of various unnamable articles, and—suddenly—calamitous silence.
Helga ducked her head under the covers in the vain attempt to shut out what she knew would fill the pregnant silence-the sharp sarcastic voice of the dormitory matron. It came. “Well! Even if every last one of you did come from homes where you weren‘t taught any manners, you might at least try to pretend that you‘re capable of learning some here, now that you have the opportunity. Who slammed the shower-baths door?”
Silence.
“Well, you needn‘t trouble to answer. ​It‘s rude, as all of you know. But it‘s just as well, because none of you can tell the truth. Now hurry up. Don‘t let me hear of a single one of you being late for breakfast. If I do there‘ll be extra work for everybody on Saturday. And please at least try to act like ladies and not like savages from the backwoods.”
On her side of the door, Helga was wondering if it had ever occurred to the lean and desiccated Miss MacGooden that most of her charges had actually come from the backwoods. Quite recently too. Miss MacGooden, humorless, prim, ugly, with a face like dried leather, prided herself on being a "lady" from one of the best families—an uncle had been a congressman in the period of the Reconstruction. She was therefore, Helga Crane reflected, perhaps unable to perceive that the inducement to act like a lady, her own acrimonious example, was slight, if not altogether negative. And thinking on Miss MacGooden‘s “ladyness,” Helga grinned a little as she remembered that ​one‘s expressed reason for never having married, or intending to marry. There were, so she had been given to understand, things in the matrimonial state that were of necessity enentirely too repulsive for a lady of delicate and sensitive nature to submit to.
Soon the forcibly shut-off noises began to be heard again, as the evidently vanishing image of Miss MacGooden evaporated from the short memories of the ladies-in-making. Preparations for the intake of the day‘s quota of learning went on again. Almost naturally.
“So much for that!” said Helga, getting herself out of bed.
She walked to the window and stood looking down into the great quadrangle below, at the multitude of students streaming from the six big dormitories which, two each, flanked three of its sides, and assembling into neat phalanxes preparatory to marching in military order to the sorry breakfast in Jones Hall on the fourth side. Here and there a male member of ​the faculty, important and resplendent in the regalia of an army officer, would pause in his prancing or strutting, to jerk a negligent or offending student into the proper attitude or place. The massed phalanxes increased in size and number, blotting out pavements, bare earth, and grass. And about it all was a depressing silence, a sullenness almost, until with a horrible abruptness the waiting band blared into “The Star Spangled Banner.” The goose-step began. Left, right. Left, right. Forward! March! The automatons moved. The squares disintegrated into fours. Into twos. Disappeared into the gaping doors of Jones Hall. After the last pair of marchers had entered, the huge doors were closed. A few unlucky late-comers, apparently already discouraged, tugged half-heartedly at the knobs, and finding, as they had evidently expected, that they were indeed barred out, turned resignedly away.
Helga Crane turned away from the window, a shadow dimming the pale amber ​loveliness of her face. Seven o‘clock it was now. At twelve those children who by some accident had been a little minute or two late would have their first meal after five hours of work and so-called education. Discipline, it was called.
There came a light knocking on her door.
“Come in,” invited Helga unenthusiastically. The door opened to admit Margaret Creighton, another teacher in the English department and to Helga the most congenial member of the whole Naxos faculty. Margaret, she felt, appreciated her. Seeing Helga still in night robe seated on the bedside in a mass of cushions, idly dangling a mule across bare toes like one with all the time in the world before her, she exclaimed in dismay: “Helga Crane, do you know what time it is? Why, it's long after half past seven. The students—”
“Yes, I know,” said Helga defiantly, “the students are coming out from breakfast, ​Well, let them. I, for one, wish that there was some way that they could forever stay out from the poisonous stuff thrown at them, literally thrown at them, Margaret Creighton, for food. Poor things.”
Margaret laughed. “That‘s just ridiculous sentiment, Helga, and you know it. But you haven‘t had any breakfast, yourself. Jim Vayle asked if you were sick. Of course nobody knew. You never tell anybody anything about yourself. I said I‘d look in on you.”
“Thanks awfully,” Helga responded, indifferently. She was watching the sunlight dissolve from thick orange into pale yellow. Slowly it crept across the room, wiping out in its path the morning shadows. She wasn‘t interested in what the other was saying.
“If you don‘t hurry, you‘ll be late to your first class. Can I help you?” Margaret offered uncertainly. She was a little afraid of Helga. Nearly everyone was.
“No. Thanks all the same.” Then ​quickly in another, warmer tone: “I do mean it. Thanks, a thousand times, Margaret. I‘m really awfully grateful, but-you see, it‘s like this, I‘m not going to be late to my class. I‘m not going to be there at all.”
The visiting girl, standing in relief, like old walnut against the buff-colored wall, darted a quick glance at Helga. Plainly she was curious. But she only said formally: “Oh, then you are sick.” For something there was about Helga which discouraged questionings.
No, Helga wasn‘t sick. Not physically. She was merely disgusted. Fed up with Naxos. If that could be called sickness. The truth was that she, had made up her mind to leave. That very day. She could no longer abide being connected with a place of shame, lies, hypocrisy, cruelty, servility, and snobbishness. “It ought,” she concluded, “to be shut down by law.”
"But, Helga, you can‘t go now. Not in the middle of the term." The kindly Margaret was distressed.
​“But I can. And I am. Today.”
“They‘ll never let you,” prophesied Margaret.
“They can‘t stop me. Trains leave here for civilization every day. All that‘s needed is money,” Helga pointed out.
“Yes, of course. Everybody knows that. "What I mean is that you‘ll only hurt yourself in your profession. They won‘t give you a reference if you jump up and leave like this now. At this time of the year. You‘ll be put on the black list. And you‘ll find it hard to get another teaching job. Naxos has enormous influence in the South. Better wait till school closes.”
“Heaven forbid,” answered Helga fervently, “that I should ever again want work anywhere in the South! I hate it.” And fell silent, wondering for the hundredth time just what form of vanity it was that had induced an intelligent girl like Margaret Creighton to turn what was probably nice live crinkly hair, perfectly suited to her smooth dark skin and ​agreeable round features, into a dead straight, greasy, ugly mass.
Looking up from her watch, Margaret said: “Well, I‘ve really got to run, or I‘ll be late myself. And since I‘m staying—Better think it over, Helga. There‘s no place like Naxos, you know. Pretty good salaries, decent rooms, plenty of men, and all that. Ta-ta.” The door slid to behind her.
But in another moment it opened. She was back. “I do wish you‘d stay. It‘s nice having you here, Helga. We all think so. Even the dead ones. We need a few decorations to brighten our sad lives.” And again she was gone.
Helga was unmoved. She was no longer concerned with what anyone in Naxos might think of her, for she was now in love with the piquancy of leaving. Automatically her fingers adjusted the Chinese-looking pillows on the low couch that served for her bed. Her mind was busy with plans for departure. Packing, money, trains, and could she get a berth?