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diff --git a/40264-8.txt b/40264-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index fe67dc6..0000000 --- a/40264-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,16150 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Regiment of Women, by Clemence Dane - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: Regiment of Women - -Author: Clemence Dane - -Release Date: July 17, 2012 [EBook #40264] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK REGIMENT OF WOMEN *** - - - - -Produced by David Starner, Veronika Redfern and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -book was produced from images made available by the -HathiTrust Digital Library.) - - - - - - - - - - REGIMENT OF WOMEN - - - - - [Illustration: Publisher's Device] - - THE MACMILLAN COMPANY - NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO · DALLAS - ATLANTA · SAN FRANCISCO - - MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED - LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA - MELBOURNE - - THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD. - TORONTO - - - - - REGIMENT OF WOMEN - - - BY - CLEMENCE DANE - - - 'The monstrous empire of a cruell woman we knowe to be the - onlie occasion of all these miseries: and yet with silence - we passe the time as thogh the mater did nothinge appertein - to us.' - JOHN KNOX, _First Blast of the Trumpet against - the Monstrous Regiment of Women_. - - - New York - THE MACMILLAN COMPANY - 1922 - - _All rights reserved_ - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1917, - BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. - - Set up and electrotyped. Published January, 1917. - - Norwood Press: - Berwick & Smith Co., Norwood, Mass., U. S. A. - - - - - To E. A. - - Here's Our Book - As it grew. - But it's Your Book! - For, but for you, - Who'd look - At My Book? - - C. D. - - - - -REGIMENT OF WOMEN - - - - -CHAPTER I - - -The school secretary pattered down the long corridor and turned into a -class-room. - -The room was a big one. There were old-fashioned casement windows and -distempered walls; the modern desks, ranged in double rows, were small -and shallow, scarred, and incredibly inky. In the window-seats stood an -over-populous fish-bowl, two trays of silkworms, and a row of -experimental jam-pots. There were pictures on the walls--_The Infant -Samuel_ was paired with _Cherry Ripe_, and Alfred, in the costume of -Robin Hood, conscientiously ignored a neat row of halfpenny buns. The -form was obviously a low one. - -Through the opening door came the hive-like hum of a school at work, but -the room was empty, save for a mistress sitting at the raised desk, -idle, hands folded, ominously patient. A thin woman, undeveloped, -sallow-skinned, with a sensitive mouth, and eyes that were bold and -shining. - -They narrowed curiously at sight of the new-comer, but she was greeted -with sufficient courtesy. - -"Yes, Miss Vigers?" - -Henrietta Vigers was spare, precise, with pale, twitching eyes and a -high voice. Her manner was self-sufficient, her speech deliberate and -unnecessarily correct: her effect was the colourless obstinacy of an -elderly mule. She stared about her inquisitively. - -"Miss Hartill, I am looking for Milly Fiske. Her mother has -telephoned----Where is the class? I can't be mistaken. It's a quarter -to one. You take the Lower Third from twelve-fifteen, don't you?" - -"Yes," said Clare Hartill. - -"Well, but--where is it?" The secretary frowned suspiciously. She was -instinctively hostile to what she did not understand. - -"I don't know," said Clare sweetly. - -Henrietta gaped. Clare, justly annoyed as she was, could not but be -grateful to the occasion for providing her with amusement. She enjoyed -baiting Henrietta. - -"I should have thought you could tell me. Don't you control the -time-table? I only know"--her anger rose again--"that I have been -waiting here since a quarter past twelve. I have waited quite long -enough, I think. I am going home. Perhaps you will be good enough to -enquire into the matter." - -"But haven't you been to look for them?" began Henrietta perplexedly. - -"No," said Clare. "I don't, you know. I expect people to come to me. And -I don't like wasting my time." Then, with a change of tone, "Really, -Miss Vigers, I don't know whose fault it is, but it has no business to -happen. The class knows perfectly well that it is due here. You must see -that I can't run about looking for it." - -"Of course, of course!" Henrietta was taken aback. "But I assure you -that it's nothing to do with me. I have rearranged nothing. Let me -see--who takes them before you?" - -Clare shrugged her shoulders. - -"How should I know? I hardly have time for my own classes----" - -Henrietta broke in excitedly. - -"It's Miss Durand! I might have known. Miss Durand, naturally. Miss -Hartill, I will see to the matter at once. It shall not happen again. I -will speak to Miss Marsham. I might have known." - -"Miss Durand?" Clare's annoyance vanished. She looked interested and a -trifle amused. "That tall girl with the yellow hair? I've heard about -her. I haven't spoken to her yet, but the children approve, don't they?" -She laughed pointedly and Henrietta flushed. "I rather like the look of -her." - -"Do you?" Henrietta smiled sourly. "I can't agree. A most unsuitable -person. Miss Marsham engaged her without consulting me--or you either, I -suppose? The niece or daughter or something, of an old mistress. I -wonder you didn't hear--but of course you were away the first fortnight. -A terrible young woman--boisterous--undignified--a bad influence on the -children!" - -Clare's eyes narrowed again. - -"Are you sure? The junior classes are working quite as well as -usual--better indeed. I've been surprised. Of course, to-day----" - -"To-day is an example. She has detained them, I suppose. It has happened -before--five minutes here--ten there--every one is complaining. -Really--I shall speak to Miss Marsham." - -"Of course, if that's the case, you had better," said Clare, rather -impatiently, as she moved towards the door. She regretted the impulse -that had induced her to explain matters to Miss Vigers. If it did not -suit her dignity to go in search of her errant pupils, still less did it -accord with a complaint to the fidgety secretary. She should have -managed the affair for herself. However--it could not be helped.... -Henrietta Vigers was looking important.... Henrietta Vigers would enjoy -baiting the new-comer--what was her name--Durand? Miss Durand would -submit, she supposed. Henrietta was a petty tyrant to the younger -mistresses, and Clare Hartill was very much aware of the fact. But the -younger mistresses did not interest her; she was no more than idly -contemptuous of their flabbiness. Why on earth had none of them appealed -to the head mistress? But the new assistant was a spirited-looking -creature.... Clare had noticed her keen nostrils--nothing sheepish -there.... And Henrietta disliked her--distinctly a point in her -favour.... Clare suspected that trouble might yet arise.... She paused -uncertainly. Even now she might herself interfere.... But Miss Durand -had certainly had no right to detain Clare's class.... It was gross -carelessness, if not impertinence.... Let her fight it out with Miss -Vigers.... Nevertheless--she wished her luck.... - -With another glance at her watch, and a cool little nod to her -colleague, she left the class-room, and was shortly setting out for her -walk home. - -Henrietta looked after her with an angry shrug. - -For the hundredth time she assured herself that she was submitting -positively for the last time to the dictates of Clare Hartill; that such -usurpation was not to be borne.... Who, after all, had been Authority's -right hand for the last twenty years? Certainly not Clare Hartill.... -Why, she could recall Clare's first term, a bare eight years ago! She -had disliked her less in those days; had respected her as a woman who -knew her business.... The school had been going through a lean year, -with Miss Marsham, the head mistress, seriously ill; with a weak staff, -and girls growing riotous and indolent. So lean a year, indeed, that -Henrietta, left in charge, had one day taken a train and her troubles to -Bournemouth, and poured them out to Authority's bath-chair. And Edith -Marsham, the old warhorse, had frowned and nodded and chuckled, and sent -her home again, no wiser than she came. But a letter had come for her -later, and the bearer had been a quiet, any-aged woman with disquieting -eyes. They had summed Henrietta up, and Henrietta had resented it. The -new assistant, given, according to instructions, a free hand, had gone -about her business, asking no advice. But there had certainly followed a -peaceful six months. Then had come speech-day and Henrietta's world had -turned upside down. She had not known such a speech-day for years. -Complacent parents had listened to amazingly efficient performances--the -guest of honour had enjoyed herself with obvious, naïve surprise: there -had been the bomb-shell of the lists. Henrietta had nothing to do with -the examinations, but she knew such a standard had not been reached for -many a long term. And the head mistress, restored and rubicund, had -alluded to her, Henrietta's, vice-regency in a neat little speech. She -had received felicitations, and was beginning, albeit confusedly, to -persuade herself that the stirring of the pie had been indeed due to her -own forefinger, when the guests left, and she had that disturbing little -interview with her principal. - -Edith Marsham had greeted her vigorously. She was still in her prime -then, old as she was. She had another six years before senility, -striking late, struck heavily. - -"Well--what do you think of her, eh? I hope you were a good girl--did as -she told you?" - -Henrietta had flushed, resenting it that Miss Marsham, certainly a head -mistress of forty years' standing, should, as she aged, treat her staff -more and more as if it were but a degree removed from the Upper Sixth. -The younger women might like it, but it did not accord with Henrietta's -notions of her own dignity. She was devoutly thankful that Miss Marsham -reserved her freedom for private interviews; had, in public at least, -the grand manner. Yet she had a respect for her; knew her dimly for a -notable dame, who could have coerced a recalcitrant cabinet as easily as -she bullied the school staff. - -She had rubbed her hands together, shrewd eyes a-twinkle. - -"I knew what I was doing! How long have you been with me, Henrietta? -Twelve years ago, eh? Ah, well, it's longer ago than that. Let me -see--she's twenty-eight now, Clare Hartill--and she left me at sixteen. -A responsibility, a great responsibility. An orphan--too much money. A -difficult child--I spent a lot of time on her, and prayer, too, my dear. -Well, I don't regret it now. When I met her at Bournemouth that day--oh, -I wasn't pleased with you, Henrietta! It has taken me forty years to -build up my school, and I can't be ill two months, but----Well, I made -up my mind. I found her at a loose end. I talked to her. She'll take -plain speaking from me. I told her she'd had enough of operas and art -schools, and literary societies (she's been running round Europe for the -last ten years). I told her my difficulty--I told her to come back to me -and do a little honest work. Of course she wouldn't hear of it." - -"Then how did you persuade Miss Hartill?" - -But Henrietta, raising prim brows, had but drawn back a chuckle from the -old woman. - -"How many types of schoolgirl have you met, Henrietta? Here, under me?" - -Henrietta fidgeted. The question was an offence. It was not in her -department. She had no note of it in her memorandum books. - -"Really--I can hardly tell you--blondes and brunettes, do you mean? No -two girls are quite the same, are they?" - -But Miss Marsham had not attended. - -"Just two--that's my experience. The girl from whom you get work by -telling her you are sure she can do it--and the girl from whom you get -work by telling her you are sure she can't. You'll soon find out which I -told Clare Hartill. And now, understand this, Henrietta. There are to be -no dissensions. I want Clare Hartill to stay. If she gets engrossed in -the work, she will. She won't interfere with you, you'll find. She's too -lazy. Get on with her if you can." - -But Henrietta had not got on with her, had resented fiercely Miss -Marsham's preferential treatment of the new-comer. That Miss Marsham was -obviously wise in her generation did not appease her _amour propre_. She -knew that where she had failed, Clare had been uncannily successful. Yet -Clare was not aggressively efficient: indeed it was a grievance that she -was so apparently casual, so gracefully indifferent. But, as if it were -a matter of course, she did whatever she set out to do so much better, -so much more graphically than it had ever been done before, that -inevitably she attracted disciples. But Henrietta's grievance went -deeper. She denied her any vestige of personal charm, and at the same -time insisted fiercely that she was an unscrupulous woman, in that she -used her personal charm to accomplish her aims: her aims, in Henrietta's -eyes, being the ousting of the secretary from her position of trust and -possible succession to the headship. Henrietta did not realise that it -was herself, far more than Clare, who was jeopardising that position. -Though there was no system of prefecture among the staff, she had come -to consider herself responsible for the junior mistresses, encouraging -them to bring complaints to her, rather than to the head of the school. -Old Miss Marsham, little as she liked relaxing her hold on the reins, -dreaded, as old age must, the tussle that would inevitably follow any -insistence on her prerogatives, and had acquiesced; yet with -reservations. Had one of the younger mistresses rebelled and carried her -grievance to the higher court, Miss Vigers' eyes might have been opened; -but as yet no one had challenged her self-assumed supremacy. Clare, who -might have done so, cared little who supervised the boarders or was -supreme in the matter of time-table and commissariat. Her interest lay -in the actual work, in the characters and possibilities of the workers. -There she brooked no interference, and Henrietta attempted little, for -when she did she was neatly and completely routed. - -But the more chary Henrietta grew of interfering with Clare's -activities, the more she realised that it was her duty (she would not -have said pleasure) to supervise the younger women. She had a gift that -was almost genius of appearing among them at awkward moments. If a child -were proving refractory and victory hanging in the balance, Miss Vigers -would surely choose that moment to knock at the class-room door, and, -politely refusing to inconvenience the embarrassed novice, wait, -all-observant, until the scene ended, before explaining her errand. -Later in the day the young mistress would be button-holed, and the i's -and t's of her errors of judgment dotted and crossed. Those who would -not submit to tutelage she contrived to render so uncomfortable that, -sooner or later, they retired in favour of temperaments more sheeplike -or more thick-skinned. - -To Alwynne Durand, at present under grave suspicion of tampering with -Clare Hartill's literature class, she had been from the first inimical. -She had been engaged without Henrietta's sanction; she was young, and -pretty, and already ridiculously popular. And there was the affair of -the nickname. Alwynne had certainly looked out of place at the -mistresses' table, on the day of her arrival, with her yellow hair and -green gown--"like a daffodil stuck into a bunch of everlastings," as an -early adorer had described her. The phrase had appealed and spread, and -within a week she was "Daffy" to the school; but her popularity among -her colleagues had not been heightened by rumours of the collective -nickname the contrast with their junior had evoked. Her obvious shyness -and desire to please were, however, sufficiently disarming, and her -first days had not been made too difficult for her by any save -Henrietta. But Henrietta was sure she was incompetent--called to witness -her joyous, casual manner, her unorthodox methods, her way of submerging -the mistress in the fellow-creature. She had labelled her -undisciplined--which Alwynne certainly was--lax and undignified; had -prophesied that she would be unable to maintain order; had been annoyed -to find that, inspiring neither fear nor awe, she was yet quite capable -of making herself respected. Alwynne's jolliness never seemed to expose -her to familiarities, ready as she was to join in the laugh against -herself when, new to the ways of the school, she outraged Media, or -reduced Persia to hysterical giggles. She was soon reckoned up by the -shrewd children as "mad, but a perfect dear," and she managed to make -her governance so enjoyable that it would have been considered bad form, -as well as bad policy, to make her unconventionality an excuse for -ragging. She had, indeed, easily assimilated the school atmosphere. She -was humble and anxious to learn, had no notions of her own importance. -But she was quick-tempered, and though she could be meek and grateful to -experience backed by good manners, she reared at patronage. Inevitably -she made mistakes, the mistakes of her age and temperament, but common -sense and good humour saved her from any serious blunders. - -Miss Vigers had, nevertheless, noted each insignificant slip, and -carried the tale, less insignificant in bulk, in her mind, ready to -produce at a favourable opportunity. - -And now the opportunity had arisen. Miss Hartill had delivered Miss -Durand into her hand. Miss Hartill, she was glad to note, had not shown -any interest in the new-comer.... Miss Hartill had a way of taking any -one young and attractive under her protection.... That it was with Miss -Hartill that the girl had come into conflict, however, did away with any -need of caution.... Miss Durand needed putting in her place.... -Henrietta, in all speed, would reconduct her thither. - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -Miss Vigers hurried along to the Upper Third class-room. She -straightened her jersey, and patted her netted hair as she went, much in -the manner of a countryman squaring for a fight, opened the door, after -a tap so rudimentary as to be inaudible to those within, and entered -aggressively, the light of battle in her eye. - -To her amazement and annoyance her entry was entirely unnoticed. The -entire class had deserted its desks and was clustered round the rostrum, -where Alwynne Durand, looking flushed and excited and prettier than a -school-mistress had any business to be, was talking fast and eagerly. -She had a little stick in her hand which she was using as a conductor's -baton, emphasising with it the points of the story she was evidently -telling. A map and some portraits were pinned to the blackboard beside -her, and the children's heads were grouped, three and four together, -over pictures apparently taken from the open portfolio lying before her -on the desk. But their eyes were on Miss Durand, and the varying yet -intent attitudes gave the collective effect of an audience at a -melodrama. They were obviously and breathlessly interested, and the -occasional quick crackle of question and answer merely accentuated the -tension. Once, as Alwynne paused a moment, her stick hovering -uncertainly over the map, a child, with a little wriggle of impatience, -piped up-- - -"We'll find it afterwards. Oh, go on, Miss Durand! Please, go on!" - -And Alwynne, equally absorbed, went on and the class hung upon her -words. - -The listener was outraged. Children were to be allowed to give -orders--to leave their places--to be obviously and hugely enjoying -themselves--in school hours--and the whole pack of them due elsewhere! -She had never witnessed so disgraceful a scene. - -Her dry precision shivered at Alwynne's coruscating adjectives. (It is -not to be denied that Alwynne, at that period of her career, was lax and -lavish in speech, altogether too fond of conceits and superlatives.) She -cut aridly into the lecture. - -"Miss Durand! Are you aware of the time?" - -Alwynne jumped, and the class jumped with her. - -It was curious to watch that which but a moment before had been one -absorbed, collective personality suddenly disintegrating into Lotties -and Maries and Sylvias, shy, curious, impish or indifferent, after their -kind. Miss Vigers's presence intimidated: each peeping personality -retired, snail-like, into its schoolgirl shell. With a curious yet -distinct consciousness of guilt, they edged away from the two women, -huddling sheepishly together, watching and waiting, inimical to the -disturber of their enjoyment, but distinctly doubtful as to whether -"Daffy," in the encounter that they knew quite well was imminent, would -be able to hold her own. - -But Miss Durand was self-possessed. She looked down at Miss Vigers from -her high seat and gave a natural little laugh. - -"Oh, Miss Vigers! How you startled me!" - -"I'm sorry. I have been endeavouring to attract your attention for some -moments. Are you aware of the time?" - -Alwynne glanced at the clock. The hands stood at an impossible hour. - -"There!" she remarked penitently, "it's stopped again!" - -She smiled at the class, all ears and interest. - -"One of you children will just have to remind me. Helen? No, you do the -chalks already. Millicent!" She singled out a dreamy child, who was -taking surreptitious advantage of the interruption to pore over the -pictures that had slid from the desk to the floor of the rostrum. - -"Milly! Your head's a sieve too! Will you undertake to remind me? Each -time I have to be reminded--in goes a penny to the mission--and each -time you forget to remind me, you do the same. It'll do us both good! -And if we both forget--the rest of the class must pull us up." - -The little girl nodded, serious and important. - -Alwynne turned to Henrietta. - -"Excuse me, Miss Vigers, were you wanting to speak to me? I'm afraid -we're in rather a muddle. Children--pick up those pictures: at -least--Helen and Milly! Go back to your desks, the rest of you." And -then, to Henrietta again, "I suppose the gong will go in a minute?" - -She was being courteous, but she was implying quite clearly that she -considered the interruption of her lesson unnecessary. - -Henrietta's eyes snapped. - -"The twelve-fifteen gong went a long time ago, Miss Durand. It's nearly -one. Miss Hartill wishes to know what has happened to her class." - -"My hat!" murmured Alwynne, appalled. - -It was the most rudimentary murmur--a mere movement of the lips; but -Henrietta caught it. Justifiably, she detested slang. She stiffened yet -more, but Alwynne was continuing with deprecating gestures. - -"This is dreadful! I'm awfully sorry, Miss Vigers, but, you know, we -never heard the gong! Not a sound! Are you sure it rang?" (This to -Henrietta, who never slackened her supervision of the relays of prefects -responsible for the ever-punctual gong. But Alwynne had no eye for -detail.) She continued agitatedly, unconscious of offence-- - -"But of course I must go and explain to Miss Hartill at once. -Children--get your things together, and go straight to the Lower Second. -I'll come with you. Miss Vigers, I am so sorry--it was entirely my -fault, of course, but we none of us heard the gong." - -But as she spoke, and the girls, attentive and curious, obediently -gathered up their belongings and filed into the passage, the gong, -audible enough to any one less absorbed than Alwynne and her class had -been, boomed for its last time that morning, the prolonged boom that was -the signal for the day-girls to go home. The children dispersed -hurriedly, and Alwynne was left alone with Henrietta. - -Alwynne was grave--distinctly distressed. - -"I must go and explain to Miss Hartill at once," she repeated, making -for the door. - -"You needn't trouble yourself," Henrietta called after her. "Miss -Hartill went home half-an-hour-ago." - -The irrepressible note of gratification in her voice startled Alwynne. -She turned and faced her. - -"I don't understand! You said she was waiting." - -"When I left her, she had been waiting over half-an-hour. She told me -that she should do so no longer. Miss Hartill is not accustomed to be -kept waiting while the junior mistresses amuse themselves." - -Alwynne raised her eyebrows and regarded her carefully. - -"Did Miss Hartill ask you to tell me that? Are you her messenger?" she -asked blandly. - -The last sentence had enlightened her, at any rate, as to Miss Vigers's -personal attitude to herself. She was perfectly aware that she had been -guilty of gross carelessness; that, if Miss Hartill chose, she could -make it a serious matter for her; but for the moment her apprehensive -regrets, as well as her profound sense of the apology due to the -formidable Miss Hartill, were shrivelled in the white heat of her anger -at the tone Henrietta Vigers was permitting herself. She was as much -hurt as horrified by the revelation of an antipathy she had been -unconscious of exciting; it was her first experience of gratuitous -ill-will. She rebelled hotly, incapable of analysing her emotion, -indifferent to the probable consequences of a defiance of the older -woman, but passionately resolved that she would not allow any one alive -to be rude to her. - -And Henrietta, amazed at the veiled rebuke of her manner, also lost her -temper. - -"Miss Hartill and I were overwhelmed by such an occurrence. Do you -realise what you are doing, Miss Durand? You keep the children away from -their lesson--you alter the school time-table to suit your -convenience--without a remark, or warning, or apology." - -"I've told you already that I didn't hear the gong," interrupted -Alwynne, between courtesy and impatience. She was trying hard to control -herself. - -"That is nonsense. Everybody hears the gong. You didn't choose to hear -it, I suppose. Anyhow, I feel it my duty to tell you that such behaviour -will not be tolerated, Miss Durand, in this, or any school. It is not -your place to make innovations. I was horrified just now when I came in. -The class-room littered about with pictures and papers--the children not -in their places--allowed to interrupt and argue. I never heard of such a -thing." - -Alwynne's chin went up. - -"Excuse me, Miss Vigers, but I hardly see that it is your business to -criticise my way of teaching." - -"I am speaking to you for your own good," said Henrietta. - -"That is kind of you; but if you speak to me in such a tone, you cannot -expect me to listen." - -Henrietta hesitated. - -"Miss Durand, you are new to the school----" - -"That gives you no right to be rude to me!" - -Henrietta took a step towards her. - -"Rude? And you? I consider you insolent. Ever since you came to the -school you have been impossible. You go your own way, teach in your own -way----" - -"I do as I'm told," said Alwynne sharply. - -"In your own way. You neither ask nor take advice----" - -"At any rate, Miss Marsham is satisfied with me--she told me so last -week." She felt it undignified to be justifying herself, but she feared -that silent contempt would be lost on Miss Vigers. Also, such an -attitude was not easy to Alwynne; she had a tongue; when she was angry, -the brutal effectiveness of Billingsgate must always tempt her. - -Henrietta countered coldly-- - -"I am sorry that I shall be obliged to undeceive her; that is, unless -you apologise----" - -"To Miss Hartill? Certainly! I intend to. I hope I know when I'm in the -wrong." - -"To me----" - -"To you?" cried Alwynne, with a little high-pitched laugh. "If you tell -me what for?" - -"In Miss Marsham's absence I take her place," began Henrietta. - -"Miss Hartill, I was told, did that." - -"You are mistaken. The younger mistresses come to me for orders." - -"I shall be the exception, then. I am not a housemaid. Will you let me -get to my desk, please, Miss Vigers? I want my books." - -She brushed past Henrietta, cheeks flaming, chin in air, and opened her -desk. - -The secretary, for all her anger, hesitated uncertainly. She was unused -to opposition, and had been accustomed to allow herself a greater -licence of speech than she knew. Alwynne's instant resentment, for all -its crude young insolence, was, she realised, to some extent justified. -She had, she knew, exceeded her powers, but she had not stopped to -consider whether Alwynne would know that she had done so, or, knowing, -have the courage to act upon that knowledge. She had been staggered by -the girl's swift counter-attack and was soon wishing that she had left -her alone; but she had gone too far to retreat with dignity; also, she -had by no means regained control of her temper. - -"I can only report you to Miss Marsham," she remarked lamely, to -Alwynne's back. - -Alwynne turned. - -"You needn't trouble. If Miss Hartill doesn't, I shall go to her -myself." - -"You?" said Henrietta uneasily. - -"Why," cried Alwynne, flaming out at her, "d'you think I'm afraid of -you? D'you think I am going to stand this sort of thing? I know I was -careless, and I'm sorry. I'm going straight down to Miss Hartill to tell -her so. And if she slangs me--it's all right. And if Miss Marsham slangs -me--it's all right. She's the head of the school. But I won't be slanged -by you. You are rude and interfering and I shall tell Miss Marsham so." - -Shaking with indignation she slammed down the lid of her desk: and with -her head held high, and a dignity that a friendly word would have -dissolved into tears, walked out of the class-room. - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -Alwynne Durand was quite aware that she was an arrant coward. The -cronies of her not remote schooldays would have exclaimed at the label, -have cited this or that memorable audacity in confutation, but Alwynne -herself knew better. When her impulsiveness had jockeyed her into an -uncomfortable situation, pure pride could always be trusted to sustain -her, strengthen her shoulders and sharpen her wits; but she triumphed -with shaking knees. Alwynne, touchy with the touchiness of eighteen, was -bound to fling down her glove before Henrietta Vigers, and be -ostentatiously ready to face cornet, flute, harp, sackbut, psaltery, and -all kinds of music. But Alwynne, half-an-hour later, on her way to Miss -Hartill and her overdue apology, was bound also to be feeling more like -a naughty schoolgirl than a mistress of six weeks' standing has any -business to feel, to be uneasily wondering what she should say, how she -should say it, and why on earth she had been fool enough to get herself -into the mess. - -If it had been any one but Miss Hartill, with whom she had not exchanged -five words, but whom she had heard discussed, nevertheless, from every -conceivable and inconceivable point of view, with that accompanying -profusion of anecdote of which only schoolgirl memory, so traditional as -well as personal, is capable. - -Miss Marsham, she had been given to understand might be head mistress, -but Miss Hartill was Miss Hartill. Alwynne, accustomed as she was to the -cults of a boarding-school, had ended by growing exceedingly curious. -Yet when Miss Hartill had returned, a week or two late, to her post, -Alwynne could not, as she phrased it, for the life of her see what all -the fuss was about. Miss Hartill was ordinary enough. Alwynne had looked -up one morning, from an obscure corner of the Common-room, at the sound -of a clicking latch, had had an impression of a tall woman, harshly -outlined by the white panelled door, against which she leaned lazily as -she quizzed the roomful of women. Alwynne told herself that she was not -at all impressed.... This the Miss Hartill of a hundred legends? This -the Olympian to whom three-fourths of the school said its prayers? Who -had split the staff into an enthusiastic majority and a minority that -concealed its dislike? Queer! Alwynne, shrugging her shoulders over the -intricacies of a school's enthusiasms, had leaned back in her chair to -watch, between amusement and contempt, the commotion that had broken -out. There was a babble of welcome, a cross-fire of question and answer. -And then, over the heads of the little group that had gathered about the -door, a pair of keen, roving eyes had settled on herself, coolly -appraising. Alwynne had been annoyed with herself for flushing under the -stare. She had a swift impression of being summed up, all raw and -youthful and ambitious as she was, her attitude of unwilling curiosity -detected, expected even. There had been a flicker of a smile, amused, -faintly insolent.... - -But it had all been merest impression. Miss Hartill, who had been, -indeed, surrounded, inaccessible, from the instant of her entrance until -the prayer bell rang, did not look her way a second time. But the -impression had remained, and Alwynne, obscure in her newness and her -corner, found herself reconsidering this Miss Hartill, more roused than -she would confess. If she were not the Hypatia-Helen of the class-rooms, -she was none the less a personality! Whether Alwynne would like her was -another matter. - -Alwynne, in the next few days, had not come into direct contact with -Miss Hartill. She had noticed, however, a certain stirring of the school -atmosphere, a something of briskness and tension that affected her -pleasantly. The children, she supposed, were getting into their -stride.... But she began to see that the classes chiefly affected were -the classes with which Miss Hartill had most to do, that the mistresses, -too, were working with unusual energy, and that Miss Vigers was less in -evidence than heretofore; that, in short, Miss Hartill's return was -making a difference. Insensibly she slipped into the fashion of being -slightly in awe of her--was daily and undeniably relieved that her work -had as yet escaped the swift eyes and lazy criticism. But she was also -aware that she would be distinctly gratified if Miss Hartill should at -any time express satisfaction with her and her efforts. Miss Hartill was -certainly interesting. She had wondered if she should ever get to know -her; had hoped so. - -And now Napoleon Buonaparte and a stopped clock had between them managed -the business for her effectually. She was going to know Miss Hartill--a -justifiably, and, according to Miss Vigers, excessively indignant Miss -Hartill. She looked forward without enthusiasm to that acquaintance. She -did not know what she should say to Miss Hartill.... But Miss Hartill -would do the talking, she imagined.... She was extremely sorry for -herself as she knocked at Miss Hartill's door. - -The maid left her stranded in the hall, and she waited, uncomfortably -conscious of voices in the next room. - -"Brand? But I don't know any----Drand! Oh, Durand! What an -extraordinary time to----All right Bagot. No. Lunch as usual." - -The maid slipped across the hall again to her kitchen as Miss Hartill -came forward, polite, unsmiling. She did not offer her hand, but stood -waiting for Alwynne to deliver herself of her errand. - -But Alwynne was embarrassed. The exordium she had so carefully prepared -during her walk was eluding her. It had been easy to arrange the -conversation beforehand, but Miss Hartill in the flesh was -disconcerting. She jumbled her opening sentences, flushed, floundered, -and was silent. Ensued a pause. - -Clare surveyed her visitor quizzically, enjoying her discomfort. Alwynne -was at her prettiest at a disadvantage. She had an air of shedding eight -of her eighteen years, of recognising in her opponent a long-lost nurse. - -Clare repressed a chuckle. - -"Try again, Miss Durand," she said solemnly. - -"I came," said Alwynne blankly. "You see, I came----" She paused again. - -"Yes, I think I see that," said Clare, as one enlightened. - -Alwynne eyed her dubiously. There might or might not have been a twinkle -in her colleague's eye. She took heart of grace and began again. - -"Miss Hartill, I'm awfully sorry! It was me--I, I mean, I kept the -girls. I didn't hear the gong. Really and truly I didn't. Honestly, it -was an accident. I thought I ought to come and apologise. Truly, I'm -most awfully sorry, quite apart from avoiding getting into a row. -Because I've got into that already." - -Clare's lips twitched. Alwynne was built on generous lines. She had a -good carriage, could enter a room effectively. Clare had not been -unaware of her secure manner. Her present collapse was the more amusing. -Clare was beginning to guess that what Miss Durand did, she did -wholeheartedly. - -"I expect you're simply wild with me. Miss Vigers said you would be," -said Alwynne hopelessly. - -"Miss Vigers ought to know," said Clare. - -There was another pause. - -"I'm frightfully sorry," said Alwynne suggestively. - -"Are you, Miss Durand?" - -"I mean, apart from upsetting you, I'm so savage with myself. One -doesn't exactly enjoy making a fool of oneself, does one, Miss Hartill? -You know how it feels. And it's my first post, and I did mean to do it -well, and I've only been here six weeks, and I'm in a row with three -people already." - -"How--three?" said Clare with interest. - -"Well--there's you----" - -"I think we're settling that," said Clare, with her sudden smile. - -"Are we?" Alwynne looked up so warily that Clare laughed outright. - -"But the other two, Miss Durand--the other two? This grows interesting." - -"Well, you see," Alwynne expanded, "I had an awful row with Miss -Vigers--and she's sure to tell Miss Marsham. I suppose I was rude, but -she did make me so mad. I don't see that it was her business to come and -slang me before my class." - -"My class," corrected Clare. - -"I wouldn't have minded you," said Alwynne, lifting ingenuous eyes. - -"I'm flattered," murmured Clare. - -"Well--you would have understood," said Alwynne with conviction. "But -Miss Vigers----I ask you, Miss Hartill, what would be the use of -talking about Napoleon to Miss Vigers?" - -"I give it up," said Clare promptly. - -"There you are!" Alwynne waved her hand triumphantly. - -"But, excuse me"--Clare was elaborately respectful--"has Napoleon any -traceable connection with the kidnapping of my class?" - -"Oh, I thought I explained." Alwynne plunged into her story. "You see, I -was giving them Elocution--they're learning the _Incident in the French -Camp_--you know?" - -Clare nodded. - -"Well, I thought they were rather more wooden than usual, and -I found out that they knew practically nothing about Napoleon! -Marengo--Talleyrand--never heard of 'em! Waterloo, and that he behaved -badly to his wife--that's all they knew!" - -"The English in a nutshell!" murmured Clare. - -"So, of course, I told them all about him, and his life, and tit-bits -like the Sèvres tea-things, and Madame Sans-gêne. They loved it. And I -was showing them pictures and I suppose we got absorbed. You can't help -it with Napoleon, somehow. Oh, Miss Hartill, doesn't it seem crazy, -though, to keep those children at Latin exercises, and the exports of -Lower Tooting, and Bills of Attainder in the reign of Queen Anne, before -they know about things like Napoleon, and Homer, and the Panama Canal? -Wouldn't you rather know about the life of Buddha than the war of -Jenkins's ear? Not that I ever got to the Georges myself! Oh, it makes -me so wild! It's like stuffing them with pea-nuts, when one has got a -basket of peaches on one's arm. It isn't education! It's goose-cramming! -I can't explain properly what I mean. I expect you think I'm a fool!" - -"An enthusiast. It's much the same," said Clare absently. "You'll get -over it." Then, with a twinkle: "Reform's an excellent thing, of -course--but why annex my class to experiment with?" - -Alwynne defervesced. - -There was an unhappy pause. - -"You know, I'm most awfully sorry," said Alwynne at last, as one making -a brilliant and original contribution to the discussion. - -A piercing shriek from the kitchen interrupted them. Alwynne jumped, but -Clare was undisturbed. - -"It's only Bagot. She's always having accidents. But she's an excellent -cook. After all, what's a shilling's worth of crockery a week compared -with a good cook? But to return to Napoleon and the Lower Third----" - -"You don't think she's hurt herself?" Alwynne ventured to interrupt. -"She did squeal." - -Clare looked suddenly concerned. - -"I hope not. I haven't had lunch yet." - -She went to the kitchen door, reappearing with a slightly harried air. - -"Miss Durand, I wish you'd come here a minute. She's cut her hand. Oh, -lavishly! Most careless! What is one to do? I suppose one must bandage -it?" - -Her tone of helpless disgust was so genuine that Alwynne was inclined to -laugh. So there were circumstances that could be too much even for Miss -Hartill! How reassuring! And how it warmed the cockles of one's heart to -her! Her lips twitched mischievously as she looked from the disconcerted -mistress to the sniffing maid, but she lost no time in stripping off her -gloves and setting to work, issuing orders the while that Clare obeyed -with a meekness that surprised herself. - -"Linen, please, Miss Hartill, or old rags! It's rather a bad cut." Then, -to the maid, "How on earth did you do it? A tin-opener? No, no, Miss -Hartill! a duster's no good. An old handkerchief or something." She was -achieving complicated effects with a fork and a knotted scarf as she -spoke, and Clare, obediently tearing linen into strips, considered her -critically. The girl was capable then, as well as amusing.... That -tourniquet might not be professional, but it was at least effective.... -The bleeding was stopping.... Very good of her to toil over Bagot's -unappetising hand.... Clare marvelled at her unconcern, for she was -dainty enough in her own person to please even Clare's fastidious eye. -Clare supposed that it was a good thing that some people had the nursing -instinct.... She thanked her stars that she herself had not.... - -Alwynne, unconscious of scrutiny, put in her final safety-pin, settled -the sling and stepped back at last, surveying her handiwork with some -pride. - -"It'll want a stitch, though. She'd better go to the doctor, I think," -she said decisively. "Shall I come with you?" This to the maid, -complacently the centre of attention. - -But the maid preferred to fetch her mother. "Her mother lived quite -close, miss. If Miss 'Artill could get on----" - -"She can't do any cooking with that hand," said Alwynne to Clare, more -in decision than appeal, and Clare acquiescing, she fetched hat and -coat, manipulated hatpins, and bundled the girl forth. - -She returned to the kitchen to find Miss Hartill, skirts clutched high, -eyeing the crowded table with distaste, and prodding with a -toasting-fork at the half-prepared meal. - -"Isn't it disgusting? How these people bleed! I can't stand a mess! -Really, I'm very much obliged to you, Miss Durand for seeing to Bagot. -I'm no good at that sort of thing. I hate touching people. You don't -think it was a bad cut, though?" - -"It must have hurt! She won't be able to use her hand for a day or two." - -Clare rubbed her nose peevishly. She had a comical air of resenting the -necessity for concerning herself with her own domestic arrangements. - -"Well, what am I to do? And I loathe charwomen. She might at least have -got lunch first!" - -"The meat's cooked, anyhow," said Alwynne hopefully, drawing forth a -congealing dishful. - -Clare shivered. - -"Take it away! It's all over Bagot." - -"I don't think it is." Alwynne examined it cautiously. - -Clare gave her a short laugh. - -"Anyhow, it doesn't appeal any more. Never mind, Miss Durand, I shall -manage--I mustn't keep you." - -Alwynne disregarded the hint. She seemed preoccupied. - -"There aren't any eggs, I suppose," she ventured diffidently. - -Clare flung out vague hands. - -"Heaven knows! It's Bagot's business. Why?" - -"Because," Alwynne had crossed the room and was struggling with a stiff -cupboard door, "Elsbeth says I'm a fool at cooking (Elsbeth's my aunt, -you know), but I can make omelets----" The door gave suddenly and -Alwynne fell forward into the dark pantry. There was a clatter as of -scattered bread-pans. She soon emerged, however, floury but serene. - -"Yes! There are some! It wouldn't take ten minutes, Miss Hartill. That -is--if----" she sought delicately for a tactful phrase: "if you would -perhaps like to go away and read. If any one stands about and -watches--you know what I mean----" - -"Are you proposing to cook my lunch?" Clare demanded. - -"Of course, if you don't like omelets," said Alwynne demurely. - -Clare laughed outright. - -"I do--I do. All right, Miss Durand, I'm too hungry to refuse. But I see -through it, you know. It's to cry quits!" - -Alwynne broke in indignantly-- - -"It isn't! It's the _amende honorable_--at least, if it doesn't scorch." - -"All right, I accept it!" Clare pacified her; then, as she left the -kitchen, "Miss Durand?" - -"Yes, Miss Hartill?" - -"Are you going to make one for Miss Vigers?" - -Alwynne's face fell. - -"I'd forgotten Miss Vigers." - -Clare twinkled. - -"Perhaps--if it doesn't scorch--I'll see what I can do," she promised -her. - -The lunch was a success. Alwynne, dishing up, had her hat ordered off -her head, and was soon sharing the omelet and marvelling at herself for -being where she was, and Clare, for her part, found herself enjoying her -visitor as much as her meal. - -Clare Hartill led a sufficiently solitary life. She was a woman of -feverish friendships and sudden ruptures. Always the cleverest and most -restless of her circle, she usually found her affinities as unable to -satisfy her demands on their intellect as on their emotions. -Disillusionment would be swift and final: Clare never forgave a bore. -Gradually it came to pass that intercourse she so carefully fostered -with her elder pupils became her absorbing and satisfying interest. She -plumed herself on her independence of social amenities, did not guess, -would not have admitted, that her pleasure in a chance table companion -had its flavour of pathos. It was enough to acknowledge to herself that -Alwynne Durand, with her enthusiasms, her incoherencies, and her -capacities had certainly caught her difficult fancy. She liked the -girl's manner; its compound of shyness and audacity, deference and -independence pleased her sophisticated taste. She found her racy and -original, and, in the exertion of drawing her out, was herself at her -best. A brilliant talker, she chose to listen, and soon heard all there -was to hear of Alwynne's short history; of her mother's sister, Elsbeth -Loveday (Clare pricked up her ears at the name), who had reared her from -babyhood; of her schooldays; her crude young likes and dislikes; her -hero-worships and passionate, vague ambitions. Clare knew it all by -heart, had heard the tale from more pairs of lips than she could -remember, for more years than she cared to count. But Alwynne, -nevertheless, told it in a way of her own that appealed to Clare and -interested her anew. She told herself that the girl was worth -cultivating; and what with apt comments, apter silences, and the -half-finished phrases and abrupt noddings of perfect comprehension, -contrived to make Alwynne think her the most sympathetic person she had -ever had the fortune to meet. Indeed, they pleased each other so well -that when Alwynne, towards tea-time, made an unwilling move, Clare was -as unwilling, for her part, to let her go. - -"It was certainly a most excellent omelet," she said, as she sped her -from the door. "I suppose you won't come and cook me another to-night?" - -Alwynne took her at her word. - -"I will! Of course I will! Would you like me to, really? I will! I'd -love to!" - -Clare laughed. - -"Oh, I was only in fun. Whatever would your aunt say?" - -"She wouldn't mind," began Alwynne eagerly. - -Clare temporised. - -"But your work? Haven't you any work?" - -Alwynne overwhelmed her. - -"That's all right! It isn't much! I'll sit up. I wish you'd let me. I -would love to. You must have some one to cook your supper for you, -mustn't you?" - -"Well, of course, if you'd really like to----" Clare hesitated between -jest and earnest. - -But Alwynne was wholly in earnest. - -"I'll come. Thank you very much indeed," said Alwynne, eyes sparkling. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -In the months that followed the eating of the omelet, Alwynne would have -agreed that the cynic who said that "an entirely successful love-affair -can only be achieved by foundlings" should have included friendship in -his dictum. For relations ... well, everybody knew what everybody meant -when relations were mentioned in that particular tone; and Elsbeth, -dearest of maiden aunts, was nevertheless at times aggressively a -relation: privileged to wet-blanket enthusiasms. - -Elsbeth made, indeed, no stand against the alliance that had sprung -mushroom-like into existence; was courteous, in her sweet silent -fashion, to Clare Hartill at their occasional meetings; but she remained -subtly uninterested. But when, again, had that suppressed and -self-effacing personality shown interest in any living thing save -Alwynne herself? - -Alwynne, shrugging her shoulders, and ignoring, as youth must, the -affectionate prevision that had lapped her all her life, supposed that -she must not expect too much of poor, dear Elsbeth.... (It was -characteristic of their relationship that she never called her guardian -"Aunt.") Elsbeth, darling Elsbeth--but a little limited, perhaps? Hardly -to be expected that she should appreciate a Miss Hartill.... - -Elsbeth, though Alwynne never guessed it, quite understood what went on -in her niece's mind: was resigned to it. She knew that she was not a -clever woman. She had been too much occupied, all her life, in smoothing -the way for other people, to have had leisure for her own cultivation, -physical or mental. Her two years of teaching, in the uncertificated -'eighties, had but served to reveal to herself her ingrained incapacity -for government. She had never forgotten the humiliation of those months -when Clare Hartill, a pitiless fourteen-year-old girl, had headed one -successful revolt after another against her. It had been an episode; -with the advent of Alwynne she had returned to domesticity; but the -experience had intensified her innate lack of self-esteem. There were -times when she seriously debated whether, in bringing up her orphaned -niece, she were indulging herself at the expense of her duty. She knew -quite well, and rejoiced shamefacedly in the knowledge, that Alwynne, -her beautiful, brilliant, headstrong girl, could twist the old aunt -round her little finger. And that, of course, could not be good for -Alwynne. - -Alwynne was, to do her justice, extremely fond of her aunt. Till the -advent of Clare Hartill, Elsbeth had been the pole-star of her world. -All the more disconcerting of Elsbeth, receiver of confidences, -therefore, to be so entirely uninterested in the comet that was -deflecting Alwynne from her accustomed orbit. - -She wondered occasionally what her aunt's history had been. Elsbeth was -reticent: never a woman of reminiscences. Her relations were distant -ones, whom she rarely mentioned and apparently more rarely missed. -Alwynne was the more surprised one breakfast, when, retailing the -school's latest scandal, she was interrupted by an exclamation of -pleasure. - -"Alwynne! The Lumsdens are coming back!" Elsbeth rustled foreign paper -delightedly. - -Alwynne wrinkled her brows. - -"The Lumsdens? Oh--those cousins of yours?" - -"Yes. The youngest, Rosemary, only died last year. Don't you remember? -They've lived abroad for years on account of her health, and her son -Roger always went out to her for his holidays." - -"Roger? Is that the velveteen boy in the big album?" - -Elsbeth laughed. - -"He must be thirty by now. The estate went to him. It was let, you know, -and the Great House at Dene--to a school, I believe. They had lost -money. And Rosemary was always extravagant. Roger went to America for a -time. But still he's well enough off. He came home when his mother died -last year, and now, it seems, he's taken a house close to their old -home, and settled down as a market-gardener. The Lumsdens are to come -and keep house for him. He's very fond of his aunts, I know. Well! To -think of seeing Jean and Alicia again after all these years. They want -us to come and stay when they've settled down." - -"You'll enjoy that?" Alwynne eyed her aunt curiously. Elsbeth's pale -cheeks were pink, her faded eyes dreamy. Her unconscious hand was -rapping out its tune upon the tablecloth--the only symptom of excitement -that Elsbeth ever showed. "Were you fond of them? Why haven't you ever -been to see them, Elsbeth?" - -"Time flies. And I certainly can't afford to gad about the Riviera. And -there was you, you know. Besides----" she hesitated. - -"Besides what?" - -Elsbeth did not seem to hear. - -"You'll like Dene, Alwynne. Oh, yes, I know it well. I used to stay with -them--before the Great House was let. Years ago. And Roger--I hope -you'll get on with Roger. I haven't seen him since he was five. A jolly -little fellow. And from what Alicia says----" - -But Alwynne would not take any interest in Roger. He had a snub nose in -the photograph; and besides, she hated men. So dull. As Clare -said----Indeed, she wasn't always quoting Clare! She didn't always set -up Clare's judgment against Elsbeth's! Elsbeth needn't get huffy! She -would like to go down to Dene very much, if Elsbeth wanted to, some time -or other. - -But when the holidays came and the formal invitation, Alwynne was less -amenable. - -Why couldn't Elsbeth go alone? Elsbeth couldn't expect her to go and -stay with utter strangers. She hated strangers. Besides, there was -Clare. (It was "Clare" and "Alwynne" by that time.) She and Clare had -planned out every day of the holidays. Everything fixed. She really -couldn't ask Clare to upset all her arrangements. It wouldn't be fair. -Awfully sorry, of course, but why couldn't Alwynne's dear Elsbeth go by -herself? She, Alwynne, could keep house. Oh, perfectly well! She wasn't -a fool! She wouldn't dream of spoiling Elsbeth's holiday, but Elsbeth -must see that there was no need for Alwynne to share it. - -But Elsbeth was unusually obstinate. Elsbeth, it appeared, wanted -Alwynne with her; wanted to show Alwynne to these old friends; wanted to -show these old friends to Alwynne; wouldn't enjoy the visit without -Alwynne at her elbow; refused utterly to be convinced of -unreasonableness. Alwynne would enjoy the change, the country--didn't -Alwynne love the country?--and if she herself, and Alicia, and Jean, -were not of Alwynne's generation, there was always Roger! By all -accounts Roger was very nice; witness the aunts who adored him. - -Alwynne snorted. - -She argued the matter mercilessly, length, breadth, depth and back -again, and ended, as Elsbeth knew she would, by getting her own way. But -Elsbeth did not go to Dene by herself. There she was mulish. Go visiting -and leave the housekeeping to Alwynne's tender mercies? Heaven forbid! -There was more in housekeeping than dusting a bedroom, making peppermint -creams, or wasting four eggs on an omelet. - -So Alwynne spent her pleasant holidays in and out of Clare Hartill's -pocket and Elsbeth stayed at home. But Elsbeth had learned her lesson. -It was many a long day before she again suggested a visit to Dene. - - - - -CHAPTER V - - -One of Alwynne's duties was the conduct of a small "extra" class, -consisting of girls, who, for reasons of stupidity, ill-health or -defective grounding, fell too far below the average of knowledge in -their respective classes. She devoted certain afternoons in the week to -coaching them, and was considered to be unusually successful in her -methods. She could be extremely patient, and had quaint and unorthodox -ways of insinuating facts into her pupils' minds. As she told Elsbeth, -she invented their memories for them. She was sufficiently imaginative -to realise their difficulties, yet sufficiently young to dream of -developing, in due course, all her lame ducks into swans. She was -intensely interested in hearing how her coaching had succeeded; her -pleasure at an amended place in class was so genuine, her disappointment -at a collapse so comically real, yet so devoid of contempt, so tinged -with conviction that it was anybody's fault but the culprit's, that -either attitude was an incentive to real effort. Like Clare, she did not -suffer fools gladly, but unlike Clare, she had not the moral courage to -be ruthless. Stupidity seemed as terrible to her as physical deformity; -she treated it with the same touch of motherliness, the same instinctive -desire to spare it realisation of its own unsightliness. - -Her rather lovable cowardice brought a mixed reward; she stifled in -sick-rooms, yet invalids liked her well; she was frankly envious of -Clare's circle of brilliant girls and as inevitably surrounded by -inarticulate adorers, who bored her mightily, but whose clumsy affection -she was too kindhearted to suppress. - -It had been well for Alwynne, however, that her following was of the -duller portion of the school. This Clare could endure, could -countenance; such boy-bishopry could not affect her own sovereignty, and -her subject's consequence increased her own. But to see Alwynne swaying, -however unconsciously, minds of a finer type, would not have been easy -for Clare. She had grown very fond of Alwynne; but the sentiment was -proprietary; she could derive no pleasure from her that was not -personal, and, in its most literal sense, selfish. She was unmaternal to -the core. She could not see human property admired by others with any -sensation but that of a double jealousy; she was subtly angered that -Alwynne could attract, yet was caught herself in the net of those -attractions, and unable to endure to watch them spread for any but -herself. - -Alwynne, quite unconscious of the trait, had at first done herself harm -by her unfeigned interest in Clare's circle. It took the elder woman -some suspicious weeks to realise that Alwynne lacked completely her own -_dompteuse_ instinct, her craving for power; that she was as innocent of -knowledge of her own charm as unwedded Eve; that her impulse to Clare -was an impulse of the freshest, sweetest hero-worship; but the -realisation came at last, and Clare opened her hungry heart to her, and, -warmed by Alwynne's affection, wondered that she had hesitated so long. - -Alwynne never guessed that she had been doubted. Clare was proud of her -genuine skill as a character reader--had been a little pleased to give -Alwynne proof of her penetration when occasion arose; and Alwynne, less -trained, less critical, thought her omniscient, and never dreamed that -the motives of her obscurest actions, the sources of her most veiled -references were not plain to Clare. Secure of comprehension, she went -her way: any one in whom Clare was interested must needs attract her: so -she took pains to become intimate with Clare's adorers, from a very real -sympathy with their appreciation of Clare, whom she no more grudged to -them than a priestess would grudge the unveiling of her goddess to the -initiate. She received their confidences, learned their secrets, fanned -the flame of their enthusiasms. Too lately a schoolgirl herself, too -innocent and ignorant to dream of danger, she did her loyal utmost in -furtherance of the cult, measuring the artificial and unbalanced -emotions she encountered by the rule of her own saner affection, and, in -her desire to see her friend appreciated, in all good faith utilised her -degree of authority to encourage what an older woman would have -recognised and combated as incipient hysteria. - -Gradually she became, through her frank sympathy, combined with her -slightly indeterminate official position, the intermediary, the -interpreter of Clare to the feverish school. Clare herself, her initial -distrust over, found this useful. She could afford to be moody, erratic, -whimsical; to be extravagant in her praises and reproofs; to -deteriorate, at times, into a caricature of her own bizarre personality, -with the comfortable assurance that there was ever a magician in her -wake to steady her tottering shrines, mix oil with her vitriol, and -prove her pinchbeck gold. - -Fatal, this relaxation of effort, to a woman of Clare's type. Love of -some sort was vital to her. Of this her surface personality was dimly, -ashamedly aware, and would, if challenged, have frigidly denied; but the -whole of her larger self knew its need, and saw to it that that need was -satisfied. Clare, unconscious, had taught Clare, conscious, that there -must be effort--constant, straining effort at cultivation of all her -alluring qualities, at concealment of all in her that could -repulse--effort that all appearances of complete success must never -allow her to relax. She knew well the evanescent character of a -schoolgirl's affection; so well that when her pupils left the school she -seldom tried to retain her hold upon them. Their letters would come -thick as autumn leaves at first; she rarely answered, or after long -intervals; and the letters dwindled and ceased. She knew that, in the -nature of things, it must be so, and had no wish to prolong the -farewells. - -Also, her interest in her correspondents usually died first; to sustain -it required their physical nearness. But every new year filled the gaps -left by the old, stimulated Clare to fresh exertion. - -So the lean years went by. Then came vehement Alwynne--no -schoolgirl--yet more youthful and ingenuous than any mistress had right -to be, loving with all the discrimination of a fine mind, and all the -ardour of an affectionate child. Here was no question of a fleeting -devotion that must end as the schooldays ended. Here was love for Clare -at last, a widow's cruse to last her for all time. Clare thanked the -gods of her unbelief, and, relaxing all effort, settled herself to enjoy -to the full the cushioning sense of security; the mock despot of their -pleasant, earlier intercourse becoming, as she bound Alwynne ever more -closely to her, albeit unconsciously, a very real tyrant indeed. - -Yet she had no intention of weakening her hold on any lesser member of -her chosen coterie. Alwynne was too ingenuous, too obviously subject -through her own free impulse, to entirely satisfy: Clare's love of power -had its morbid moments, when a struggling victim, head averted, pleased -her. There was never, among the new-comers, a child, self-absorbed, -nonchalant or rebellious, who passed a term unmolested by Miss Hartill. -Egoism aroused her curiosity, her suspicion of hidden lands, virgin, -ripe for exploration; indifference piqued her; a flung gauntlet she -welcomed with frank amusement. She had been a rebel in her own time, and -had ever a thrill of sympathy for the mutinies she relentlessly crushed. -War, personal war, delighted her; she was a mistress of tactics, and the -certainty of eventual victory gave zest to her campaigns. She did not -realise that the strain upon her childish opponents was very great. The -finer, the more sensitive the character, the more complete the eventual -defeat, the more permanent its effects. Clare was pitiless after -victory: not till then did she examine into the nature thus enslaved, -seldom did she find it worth the trouble of the skirmish. In most cases -she gave semi-liberty; enough of smiles to keep the children feverishly -at work to please her (the average of achievement in her classes was -astounding), and enough of indifference to prevent them from becoming a -nuisance. To the few that pleased her fastidious taste, she gave of her -best, lavishly, as she had given to Alwynne. There are women to-day, old -girls of the school, who owe Clare Hartill the best things of their -lives, their wide knowledge, their original ideas, their hopeful futures -and happy memories: to whom she was an inspiration incarnate. The Clare -they remember is not the Clare that Elsbeth knew, that Alwynne learned -to know, that Clare herself, one bitter night, faced and blanched at. -But which of them had knowledge of the true Clare, who shall say? - - * * * * * - -In Clare's favourite class was a certain Louise Denny. She was -thirteen--nearly three years below the average of the class in age. How -far beyond it in all else, not even Clare realised. - -Clare had discovered her, as she phrased it, in the limbo of the Lower -Third. She had been paying one of her surprise visits to the afternoon -extra needlework classes--(the possibility of her occasional appearance, -book in hand, was responsible for the school's un-English proficiency in -hemming, darning and kindred mysteries), to read aloud to the children -carefully edited excerpts from Poe's _Tales_, had forgotten her copy and -had been shyly offered another, private property from Louise Denny's -desk. Thereon must Alwynne, for a week or two, resign perforce her Lower -Third literature classes to Clare, intent on her blue rose. Louise's -compositions had been read--Clare and Alwynne spent a long evening over -them, weighing, comparing, discussing. Clare could be exquisitely -tender, could keep all-patient vigil over an unfolding mind, provided -that the calyx concealed a rare enough blossom. Louise was encouraged, -her shyness swept aside, her ideas developed, her knowledge tested; she -was fed, too, cautiously, on richer and richer food--stray evening -lectures, picture galleries with Alwynne, headiest of cicerones; the -freedom of the library and long talks with Clare. Finally Clare, bearing -down all opposition, transplanted her to the Lower Fifth, containing at -that time some brilliantly clever girls. Louise justified her by -speedily capturing, and doggedly retaining, the highest place in the -class. - -Clare was delighted. Her critics--there were some mistresses who vaguely -disapproved of the experiment--were refuted, and the class, already -needing no spur, outdoing itself in its efforts to compete with the -intruder, swept the board at an important public examination. - -On the morning of the announcement of results, Clare entered her -form-room radiant. It was a low, many-windowed room, with desks ranged -single-file along the walls. The class being a small one, the girls were -accustomed to sit for their lessons at a large oval table at the upper -end of the room. Beside the passage doorway, there was a smaller one, -that led into the studio, and was never used by the children. Clare, -however, would sometimes enter by it, but so seldom that they invariably -forgot to keep watch. Clare enjoyed the occasional view she thus -obtained of her unconscious and relaxed subjects, and the piquancy of -their uncensored conversation; she enjoyed still more the sudden hush, -the crisp thrill, that ran through their groups, when they became aware -of her, observant in the doorway. - -On the morning in question she had watched them for some little while. -Before each girl lay her open exercise-book and school edition of -Browning. They were deep in discussion of their work, very eager upon -some question. By the empty chair at the head of the table sat Marion -Hughes, blonde and placid, a rounded elbow on her neatly written theme, -that her neighbour was trying to pull away, to compare with her own -well-inked manuscript. This neighbour, one Agatha Middleton, was dark, -gaunt, with restless eyes and restless tongue. She was old for her -fifteen years, and had been original until she discovered that her -originality appealed to Miss Hartill. Since then she had imitated her -own mannerisms, and was rapidly degenerating into an eccentric. The law -of opposites had decreed that the sedate Marion should be her bosom -friend. They went up the school together, an incongruous, yet -well-suited pair, for they were so unlike that there could be no -rivalry. Marion was alternately amused and dazzled by the pyrotechnic -Agatha. Agatha's respect for Marion's common sense was pleasantly -tempered by a conviction of superior mental agility. Finally, they were -united by their common devotion to their form-mistress. Whether it would -have occurred to Marion, unprompted, to admire Miss Hartill, is -uncertain. Her affections were domestic and calm. But adoration was in -the air, and she had not sufficient originality to be unfashionable. She -was caught, too, in Agatha's whirlwind emotions, and ended by -worshipping Clare conscientiously and sincerely. Clare, on her side, -respected her, as she told Alwynne, for her "painstaking and intelligent -stupidity," and, recognising a nature too worthy for neglect, yet too -lymphatic to be suitable for experiments, was uniformly kind to her. -Agatha, she had revelled in for six weeks, and had since more or less -ignored as a bore. Below the pair sat a spectacled student, predestined -to scholarships and a junior mistress-ship; opposite, between giggling -twins, a vivid little Jewess, whose showy work was due to the same -vanity that tied her curls with giant bows, and over-corsetted her -matured figure. At the foot of the oval, directly opposite Clare's -vacant chair, stood Louise, flushed and excited, chanting low-voicedly a -snatch of verse. - -During a lull in the hubbub Marion called to her down the table-- - -"How many pages?" - -Louise flushed. She was still a little in awe of these elders whom she -had outstripped. She rapidly counted the leaves of her essay, and held -up both hands, smiling shyly. - -Marion exclaimed. - -"Ten? You marvel! I only got to seven. I simply didn't understand it. -Whatever did you find to say?" - -Agatha fell upon the query. - -"That's nothing! I've done twenty-two!" she cried triumphantly, and -turned to face the shower of comments. - -"Miss Hartill will bless you. She said last time that you thought ink -and ideas were synonyms." - -"Agatha only writes three words to a line anyway." - -They liked her, but she was of the type whose imperiousness provokes -snubs. - -"Well, I thought I shouldn't get it done under forty--an essay on _The -Dark Tower_. It's the beastliest yet. _The Ancient Mariner_ was nothing -to it. I've made an awful hash--didn't you?" - -"I understood all right when she read it, and explained. It's so absurd -not to let one take notes. I've been years at it. Fortunately she said -we needn't learn it--Louise and I--with all our extra work." An -unimaginative hockey captain fluttered her pages distractedly. - -"Oh, but I have!" Louise looked up quickly. - -"Why?" The hockey captain opened her eyes and mouth. - -"Oh, I rather wanted to." - -The little Jewess giggled. - -"'_Déjà?_'" she murmured. She did not love Clare. - -Marion returned to the subject with her usual perseverance. - -"Did you understand it, kid?" - -Louise stammered a little. - -"When she reads it, and when I say it aloud, I think I do. It was -impossible to write it down." - -"Let's see what you have put." Agatha, by a quick movement, possessed -herself of Louise's exercise-book. Louise, shy and desperate, strove -silently with her neighbours, who, curious, held her back, while Agatha, -holding the book at arm's length, recited from it in a high mocking -voice. - -"_Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came._ Description! Description! -Description! for three--five--seven pages! You've let yourself go, -Louise! Ah, here we are--_The meaning of the poem_. Now we're getting to -it. _Shakespeare and Browning may have known all the real history of -Childe Roland; the reason of his quest, the secret of the horror of the -Tower; but we are left in ignorance. That does not matter, for, as we -read, the inner meaning of the terrible poem kills all curiosity. -Shuddering we close the book, and pray to God that Childe Roland's -journey may never be ours; that for our adventurous souls, -knight-erranting through this queer life, there may never come a choice -of ways, a turning from the pleasant high-road, to go upon a hideous -journey; till, crossing the Plains of Loneliness, Fear and Sorrow, we -face the Hills of Madness, and enter the Dark Tower of that Despair -which is our soul's death._ With capital letters galore! What a -sentence! Here, shut up, you spit-fire!" Louise had wrenched herself -free and flung herself upon Agatha, in a white heat of anger. - -"Give it me! You've no right! You've no right!" she gasped. Her shyness -had gone, she was blazing with indignation. - -Agatha, the book held teasingly out of reach, affected to search for her -place. Louise raised her clenched fist desperately. - -A cool hand caught her wrist in a firm yet kindly grip. A hush fell on -the voluble group and Agatha collapsed into an apologetic nonentity. - -Clare, who had entered in her usual noiseless fashion, stood a moment -between the combatants, watching the effect of her appearance. Her hand -shifted to Louise's bony little shoulder; through the thin blouse she -could feel the driven blood pulsing. She did not move till she felt the -child regaining comparative calm, when, giving her a gentle push towards -her place, she walked slowly to the head of the table and seated -herself. The class watched her furtively. It was quite aware that all -rules of decorum had been transgressed--that pains and penalties would -be in order with any other mistress. But with Miss Hartill there was -always glorious uncertainty--and Miss Hartill did not look annoyed. -Little gestures began to break the tension and Agatha, relieved, smiled -a shade too broadly. Instantly Clare closed with her. - -She began blandly-- - -"Agatha, I thought you could read aloud better than that. You are not -doing your work justice. Pass me your essay." - -"It's Louise's," said Agatha helplessly. - -"Ah, I see. And you kindly read it to us for her? It's a pity you didn't -understand what you read--but an excuse, of course. Louise must not -expect too much." - -Agatha flung up her head angrily. - -"Oh, I understood it all right. I thought it was silly." - -"You did? Read me your own." - -"Now?" - -"Certainly." - -Now Clare, as she corrected and commented upon the weekly essays, did -occasionally, if the mood took her, read extracts, humorous chiefly, -therefrom; but it had never been customary for a pupil to read her own -work aloud. Agatha had the pioneer spirit--but she was no fool. She -comprehended that, with Clare inimical, she could climb no higher than -the pillory. She fell back upon the tradition of the school. - -"Oh, Miss Hartill--I can't!" - -"Why not?" - -"No one ever does----" - -Clare waited. - -Agatha protested redly, her fear of ridicule outweighing her fear of -Clare. - -"Miss Hartill, I simply couldn't. Before everybody--all this tosh--I -mean all this stuff I wrote. It's a written essay. I couldn't make it -sound right aloud." - -Clare waited. - -"It's not good enough, Miss Hartill. Honestly! And we never have. You've -never made us. I couldn't." - -Clare waited. - -Agatha twisted her hands uneasily. The schoolgirl shyness that is -physical misery was upon her. - -"I--don't want to, Miss Hartill. I can't. It's not fair to have one's -stuff--to be laughed at--to be----" she subsided just in time. - -The class sat, breathless, all eyes on Clare. - -And Clare waited; waited till defiance faded to unease--unease to -helplessness, till the girl, overborne by the utter silence, gave way, -and dropping her eyes to her exercise, fluttering its pages in angry -embarrassment, finally, with a giggle of pure nervousness, embarked on -the opening sentence. - -Clare cut through the clustering adjectives. - -"Stand up, please." - -Resistance was over. She rose sullenly. - -She had been proud of her essay, had worked at it sincerely, knew its -periods by heart. But her pleasure in it was destroyed, as completely, -she realised, as she had destroyed that of little Louise. More--for -Louise had found a champion. That, she recognised jealously. Unjust! Her -essay was no worse, read soberly--yet she was forced to render it -ridiculous. She read a couple of pages in hurried jerks, stumbling over -the illegibilities of her own handwriting, baulked by Clare's -interpolations. She heard her own voice, high-pitched and out of -control, perverting her meaning, felt the laden sentences breaking up -into chaos on her lips. In her flurry she pronounced familiar words -amiss, Clare's calm voice carefully correcting. Once she heard a -chuckle. Two pages ... three ... only that ... she remembered that she -had boasted of twenty ... seventeen to be read yet and they were all -laughing. To have to stand there ... three pages.... "_But as Childe -Roland turned round_----" - -"Louder, please," said Clare. - -"_But as Childe Roland turned round_----" and even Marion was -laughing.... "_Turned round to look once more back to the high -road_----" - -"And slower." - -"_To the high road_----" She stopped suddenly, a lump in her throat. - -"Go on, Agatha." - -"_To the high road_----" The letters danced up and down mistily. "_To -the high road where the cripple--where the cripple_----Oh, Miss -Hartill," she cried imploringly, "isn't it enough?" - -It was surrender. Clare nodded. - -"Yes, you may sit down now. Your essay, please: thank you. And now I'll -read you, once more, what Louise has to say on the same subject. I dare -say you'll find, Agatha, that you were almost as unfair to her essay, as -you were to--your own." And she smiled her sudden dazzling smile. -Agatha, against her will, smiled tremulously back. - -Clare, with a glance at the little figure, huddling at the foot of the -table, began to read. The essay, for all its schoolgirl slips and -extravagances, was unusual. The thought embodied in it, though tinged -with morbidity, striking and matured. Clare did it more than justice. -Her beautiful voice made music of the crude sentences, revealed, -embellished, glorified. Her own interest growing as she read, infected -the class; she swept them along with her, mutually enthusiastic. She -ended abruptly, her voice like the echoes of a deep bell. - -Marion broke the little pause. - -"I liked that," she said, as if surprised at herself. - -"So did I," Clare was pleased. - -She dipped her pen in red ink and initialled the foot of the essay. - -"That was good work, Louise. Now, the others." - -But Louise, shy and glowing, broke in-- - -"But it wasn't all mine, Miss Hartill, not a bit." - -Clare looked at her, half frowning. - -"Not yours? Your handwriting----?" - -"Oh, I wrote it. But you've made it different. I hadn't meant it like -that." - -Clare raised a quizzical eyebrow. - -"I have misinterpreted----?" - -Louise was too much in earnest to be fluttered. - -"I only mean--you made it sound so beautiful that it was like listening -to--to an organ. I didn't bother about the words while you read. It was -all colours and gold--like the things in the Venetian room. You know. -The meaning didn't matter. But I did mean something, not half so good, -of course, only quite different. Horrid and grizzly like the plain he -travelled through, Childe Roland. It ought to have sounded harsh and -starved, like rats pattering--what I meant--not beautiful." - -"I see." Clare was interested. She was quite aware that she had used her -magnificent voice to impress arbitrarily her opinion of Louise's work -upon the class. That Louise, impressionable as she knew her to be, -should have yet detected the trick, amused her greatly. - -"So you think I didn't understand your essay?" - -Louise's shy laugh was very pleasant. - -"Oh, Miss Hartill. I'm not so stupid. It's only that I can't have got -the--the----" - -"Atmosphere!" The girl in spectacles helped her. - -"The atmosphere that I meant to; so you put in a different one to help -it. And it did. But it wasn't what I meant." - -Clare glanced at her inscrutably, and began to score the other essays. -She would get at Louise's meaning in her own way. She skimmed a couple, -Agatha, be it recorded, receiving the coveted initials, before she spoke -again. - -"Didn't I tell you to learn _Childe Roland_, too? Ah, I thought so. -Begin, Marion, while I finish these. Two verses." - -Her pen scratched on, as Marion's expressionless voice rose, fell and -finished. Agatha continued, jarringly dramatic. Two more followed her. -Then Clare put down her pen. - - "'For mark!'..." - -There was a warning undertone in Louise's colourless voice, that crept -across the room like a shadow. Clare lifted her head and stared at her. - - "For mark! no sooner was I fairly found - Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two, - Than, pausing to throw backward a last view - O'er the safe road, 'twas gone; grey plain all round: - Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound. - I might go on; nought else remained to do." - -There was horror in the whispering voice: the accents of one bowed -beneath intolerable burdens, sick with the knowledge of nearing doom, -gay with the flippancy of despair. Louise was looking straight before -her, vacant as a medium, her hands lying laxly in her lap. Clare made a -quick sign to her neighbour to be silent, and the strained voice rose -anew. - -Clare listened perplexedly. She told herself that this was sheer -technique--some trick had been played, she was harbouring some child -actress of parts--only to be convinced of folly. She knew all about -Louise. Besides, she had heard the child read aloud before. Good, clean, -intelligent delivery. But nothing like this--this was uncanny. Uncanny, -yet magnificent. The artist in her settled down to enjoyment; yet she -was uneasy, too. - - "And just as far as ever from the end!" - -The creeping voice toiled on across the haunted plain, growing louder, -clearer, nearer. - -Vision was forced upon Clare, serene in her form-room, swift and sudden -vision. She not only heard, every sense responded. At her feet lay the -waste land of the poem, she smelt the dank air, shrank from the clammy -undergrowth, watched the bowed figure of the wandering knight, -stumbling forwards doggedly. It was coming towards her, the outline -blurred in the evening mist, the face hidden. The voice was surely his? - - "Not hear? when noise was everywhere! it tolled - Increasing like a bell." - -She heard it alive with warning. - -Nearer, ever nearer; the bowed form was at her very feet, as the voice -rose anew in despairing defiance. - - "To view the last of me----" - -The helmeted head was flung back; the voice echoed from hill to hill-- - - "I saw them and I knew them all. And yet - Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set, - And blew. Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came." - -The figure fell, face upwards, at her feet. Clare tore at the visor with -desperate hands, for at the last line, the strong voice had broken, -quavering into the pitiful treble of a frightened child. The bars melted -under her touch, as dream things will, and she was staring down at no -bearded face, but at Louise. Louise herself, with blank, dead eyes in a -broken, blood-flecked face. The dead mouth smiled. - -"You see, that was what I meant, Miss Hartill. That atmosphere." - -Clare roused herself with a start. Louise, rosily alive, and quivering -with eagerness, was waiting for her comments. She got none. - -"Begin again," said Clare mechanically, to the next girl. - -The brightness died out of Louise's face, as she subsided in her seat. -Clare, dazed as she was, saw it, and was touched. The child deserved -praise--should not be punished for the vagaries of Clare's own phantasy. -And the monkey could recite! She shook off the impression of that -recital as best she could. Curious, the freaks of the imagination! She -must tell Alwynne of the adventure--Alwynne, dreamer of dreams.... And -Alwynne was interested in Louise; was coaching her.... Perhaps she was -responsible ... had coached her in that very poem? She hoped not ... it -would be interference.... She did not like interference. But no--that -performance was entirely original, she felt sure. There was genius in -the child--sheer genius ... and but for Clare herself, she would yet be -rotting undeveloped in the Lower Third. She was pleased with herself, -pleased with Louise too; ready to tell her so, to see the child's face -light up again delightedly; she was less attractive in repose.... - -Clare's chance came. - -It was the turn of the hockey captain to recite. She appealed to Clare. - -"Oh, Miss Hartill! You said I needn't, Louise and I--because of all our -extra work. Not the poem." - -Clare considered. - -"I remember. Very well. But Louise?" She looked at her questioningly, -half smiling. "When did you find the time?" - -Louise laughed. - -"I don't know, Miss Hartill. It found itself." - -"Ah! And how much extra work have you, Louise?" - -Louise reflected. - -"All the afternoons, I think. And three evenings when I go to lectures. -And, of course, gallery days, when I make up in the evenings." - -"And homework?" - -"Oh, there's heaps of time at night always." - -Clare smiled upon her class. - -"Well, Lower Fifth--what do you think of it?" - -The class opened its mouth. - -"Louise is moved up four forms. She's thirteen. She's top of the class -and first in to-day's results. You hear what her extra work is. And she -finds time to learn _Childe Roland_--optional. What do you think of it?" - -Agatha bit down her envy. - -"It's pretty good," she said. - -Clare's glance approved her. - -"Yes. So I think. It's so good that I'm more than pleased. -I'm--impressed. Rather proud of my youngest pupil. For next time you -will learn----" And with one of her quick transitions, she began to -dictate her homework. - -The gong clanged as she finished. Alwynne's voice was heard in the -passage, inquiring for Miss Hartill, and Clare hurried out. Followed a -confused banging of books and desk-lids, a tangle of fragmentary -remarks, and much trampling of boots on uncarpeted boards, as one after -another followed her. Within five minutes the room was bare, save for -Clare's forgotten satchel at the upper end of the big table, and Louise, -motionless in her chair at the foot. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - - -Louise was tasting happiness. - -Happiness was a new and absorbing experience to Louise. The only child -of a former marriage, she had grown up among boisterous half-brothers -with whom she had little fellowship. Her father, a driving, thriving -merchant, was prouder of his second brood of apple-cheeked youngsters -than of his first-born, who fitted into the scheme of life as ill as her -mother had done. He had imagined himself in love with his first wife, -had married her, piqued by her elusive ways, charmed by her pale, -wood-sorrel beauty; and she, shy and unawakened, had taken his six feet -of bone and muscle for outward and visible sign of the matured spiritual -strength her nature needed. The disappointment was mutual as swift; it -had taken no longer than the honeymoon to convince the one that he had -burdened himself with a phantast, the other that she was tied to a -philistine. For a year they shared bed and board, severed and -inseparable as earth and moon; then the wife having passed on to a -daughter the heritage of a nature rare and impracticable as a sensitive -plant, died and was forgotten. - -The widower's speedy re-marriage proved an unqualified success. Indeed, -the worthy man's after life was so uniformly and deservedly prosperous -(he was as shrewd and industrious in his business as he was genial and -domesticated in his home), that he might be forgiven if his affection -for his eldest child were tepid; for, apart from her likeness to his -first wife, she was, in existing, a constant reminder of the one mistake -of a prosperous career. He was kind to her, however, in his fashion; -gave her plenty of pocket-money (he was fond of giving); saw to it that -she had a sufficiency of toys and sweets, though it piqued him that she -had never been known to ask for any. Otherwise was content to leave her -to his wife. - -The second Mrs. Denny, kindly, capable and unimaginative as her husband, -had her sense of duty to her step-daughter; but she was too much -occupied in bearing and rearing her own family, whose numbers were -augmented with Victorian regularity, to consider more than the physical -well-being of the child. Louise was well fed and warmly clad, her share -was accorded her in the pleasures of the nursery. What more could a busy -woman do! - -Louise, docile and reserved, was not unhappy. Until she went to school, -however, her mental outlook resembled that of a person suffering from -myopia. Her elders, her half-brothers, all the persons of her small -world, were indefinite figures among whom she moved, confused and -blundering. She knew of their existence, but to focus them seemed as -impossible as to establish communication. She did not try over hard; she -was sensitive to ridicule; it was easier to retire within her childish -self, be her own confidante and questioner. - -She had an intricate imagination and before she learned to read had -created for herself a fantastically complete inner world, in which she -moved, absorbed and satisfied. Indeed, her outward surroundings became -at last so dangerously shadowy that her manner began to show how entire -was her abstraction, and Mrs. Denny, sworn foe to "sulks" and "moping," -saw fit to engage a governess as an antidote. - -The governess, a colourless lady, achieved little, though she was useful -in taking the little boys for walks. But she taught Louise to read, and -thereafter the child assumed entire charge of her own education. - -The mother's books, velvety with dust that had sifted down upon them -since the day, six years back, when they had been tumbled in piles on an -attic floor by busy maids preparing for the advent of the second Mrs. -Denny, were discovered, one rainy day, by a pinafored Siegfried, alert -for treasure. Contented years were passed in consuming the trove. - -Her mother's choice of books was so completely to her taste that they -gave the lonely child her first experience of mental companionship; -suggesting to her that there might be other intelligences in the world -about her than the kindly, stolid folk who cherished her growing body -and ignored her growing mind. She was almost startled at times to -realise how completely this vague mother of hers would have understood -her. Each new volume, fanciful or quizzical or gracious, seemed a direct -gift from an invisible yet human personality, that concerned itself with -her as no other had ever done; that was never occupied with the -dustiness of the attic, or a forgotten tea-hour, but was astonishingly -sensitive to the needs of a little soul, struggling unaided to birth. -The pile of books, to her hungry affections, became the temple, the -veritable dwelling-place of her mother's spirit. - -Seated on the sun-baked floor, book on knee, the noises of the high road -floating up to her, distance-dulled and soothing, she would shake her -thick hair across her face, and see through its veil a melting, shifting -shadow of a hand that helped to turn her pages. The warm floor was a -soft lap; the battered trunk a shoulder that supported; the faint breeze -a kiss upon her lips. The fantastic qualities the mother had bequeathed, -recreated her in the mind of her child, bringing vague comfort (who -knows?) alike to the dead and the living Louise. - -Yet the impalpable intercourse, compact of make-believe and yearnings, -was, at its sweetest, no safe substitute for the human companionships -that were lacking in the life of Louise. Half consciously she desired an -elder sister, a friend, on whom to lavish the stores of her ardent, -reticent nature. - -At twelve she was sent to school. At first it did little for her. She -was unaccustomed to companions of her own age and sex and, quite simply, -did not know how to make friends with many who would have been willing -enough, if she could have contributed her share, the small change of -joke and quarrel and confidence, towards intimacy. But Louise was too -inured to the solitude of crowds to be troubled by her continued -loneliness. She met the complaints of Mrs. Denny, that she made no -friends like other children, with a shrug of resignation. What could she -do? She supposed that she was not nice enough; people didn't like her. - -Secretly her step-mother agreed. She was kind to Louise, but she, too, -did not like her. She found her irritating. Her dreamy, absent manner, -her very docility and absence of self-assertion were annoying to a -hearty woman who was braced rather than distressed by an occasional -battle of wills. She thought her shyness foolish, doubted the -insincerity of her humility, and looked upon her shrinking from -publicity, noise and rough caresses, her love of books and solitude, as -a morbid pose. Yet she was just a woman and did not let the child guess -at her dislike, though she made no pretence of actual affection. She -knew perfectly well that Louise's mother (they had been schoolgirls -together), had irritated her in exactly the same way. - -Educationally, too, the first year at school affected Louise but -slightly. Her brothers' governesses had done their best for the shy, -intelligent girl, and her wide reading had trained, her awkwardness and -childish appearance obscured, a personality in some respects dangerously -matured. But her dreaminess and total ignorance of the routine of -lesson-learning hampered her curiously; she learnt mechanically, using -her brain but little for her easy tasks, and she was not considered -particularly promising. - -With Clare's intervention the world was changed for Louise; she had her -first taste of active pleasure. - -It is difficult to realise what an effect a woman of Clare's temperament -must have had on the impressionable child. In her knowledge, her -enthusiasms, her delicate intuition and her keen intellectual sympathy, -she must have seemed the embodiment of all dreams, the fulfilment of -every longing, the ideal made flesh. A wanderer in an alien land, -homesick, hungry, for whom, after weary days, a queen descends from her -throne, speaking his language, supplying his unvoiced wants, might feel -something of the adoring gratitude that possessed Louise. She rejoiced -in Clare as a vault-bred flower in sunlight. - -On all human beings, child or adult, emotional adventure entails, sooner -or later, physical exhaustion; the deeper, the more novel the -experience, the greater the drain on the bodily strength. To Louise, -involved in the first passionate experience of her short life, in an -affection as violent and undisciplined as a child's must be, an -affection in itself completely occupying her mind and exhausting her -energies, the amount of work made necessary by the position to which -Clare and her own ambition had assigned her, was more of a burden than -either realised. Only Alwynne, sympathetic coach (for Louise had two -years' back work to condense and assimilate), guessed how great were the -efforts the child was making. Clare, who always affected unconsciousness -of her own effect on the ambitions of the children, had persuaded -herself that Louise was entirely in her right place; and Louise herself -was too young, and too feverishly happy, to consider the occasional -headaches, fits of lassitude and nights cinematographed with dreams, as -anything but irritating pebbles in her path to success--and Clare. - -The weeks in her new class had been spread with happiness--a happiness -that had grown like Elijah's cloud, till, on the day of the Browning -lesson, as she listened to the beloved voice making music of her halting -sentences, to the words of praise, of affection even, that followed, it -stretched from horizon to horizon. - -As she sat in the deserted class-room, her neat packet of sandwiches -untasted in the satchel at her elbow, she re-lived that golden hour, -dwelling on its incidents as a miser counts money. There was the stormy -beginning; Agatha's mockery; her own raging helplessness; Clare's -entrance; the exquisite thrill she had felt at her touch, that was not -only gratitude for championship.... Never before had Clare been so near -to her, so gentle, so protecting.... And afterwards, facing Louise at -the foot of the table, how beautiful she had been.... Yet some of the -girls could not see it.... They were fools.... Her head had been framed -in the small, square window, so darkened and cobwebbed by crimson vines -that only the merest blur of white clouds and blue hills was visible.... -She had worn a gown of duller blue that lay in stiff folds: the bowl of -Christmas roses, that mirrored themselves on the dark, polished table, -had hidden the papers and the smeared ink-pot. Suddenly Louise -remembered some austere Dutch Madonnas over whom delightful, but erratic -Miss Durand had lingered, on their last visit to a picture gallery. She -called them beautiful. Louise, with fascinated eyes sidling past a -wallful of riotous Rubens, to fix on the soap and gentian of a -Sasseferato, had wondered if Miss Durand were trying to be funny. She -remembered, too, how some of the younger girls, comparing favourites, -had called Miss Hartill ugly. She had raged loyally--yet, secretly, all -but agreed. With her child's love of pink and white prettiness she had -had no eyes for Clare's irregular features. But to-day something in -Clare's pose had recalled the Dutch pictures, and in a flash she had -understood, and wondered at her blindness. Miss Durand was right: the -drawn, grey faces and rigid outlines had beauty, had charm--the charm of -her stern smile.... The saints were hedged with lilies, and she, too, -had had white flowers before her, that filled the air with the smell of -the marvellous Roman church at Westminster.... The painted ladies were -Madonnas--mothers--and Miss Hartill, too, had worn for a moment their -protective look, half fierce, half tender.... - -Why was it? What has made her so kind? Not only to-day, but always? The -girls feared her, some of them; those that she did not like talked of -her temper and her tongue; Rose Levy hated her; even Agatha and Marion, -and all of them, were a little frightened, though they adored.... -Louise was never frightened.... How could one be frightened of one so -kind and wonderful? She could say what she liked to Miss Hartill, and be -sure that she would understand.... It was like being in the attic, -talking aloud.... Mother would have been like that.... If it could -be.... - -Louise, her chin in her doubled fists, launched out upon her sea of -make-believe. - -If it could be.... If it were possible, that Mother--not Mamma, cheery, -obtuse Mamma of nursery and parlour--but Mother, the shadow of the -attic--had come back? All things are possible to him that believeth: and -Mr. Chesterton had said there was no real reason why tulips should not -grow on oaks.... Heaps of people--all India--believed in reincarnation, -and there was _The Gateless Barrier_ and _The Dead Leman_ for proof.... -Might it not be? - -The idea was intoxicating. She did not actually believe in it, but she -played with it, wistfully, letting her imagination run riot. She wove -fantastic variations on the themes "why not," "perhaps," "who knows." - -She was but thirteen and very lonely. - -She was in far too exalted a mood to have an appetite for her -sandwiches, or time for the books beside her. She was due for extra work -with Alwynne at three, and the intervening hour should have been used -for preparation. Wasting her time meant sitting up at night, as Louise -was well aware, and a tussle with Mrs. Denny, concerned for the waste of -gas. But for all that, she would not and could not rouse herself from -the trance of pleasure that was upon her. Her mind was contemplating -Clare as a mystic contemplates his divinity; rapt in an ecstasy of -adoration, oblivious alike of place and time. She did not hear the -luncheon gong, or the gong for afternoon school, or a door, opening and -shutting behind her. Yet it did not startle her, when, turning dreamily -to tap on her shoulder, she found herself facing Miss Hartill herself. -Miss Hartill should have left the school before lunch, she knew, but it -was all in order. What could surprise one on this miraculous day? She -did not even rise, as etiquette demanded; but she smiled up at Clare -with an expression of welcoming delight that disarmed comment. - -Clare, too, could ignore conventions. She was merely touched and amused -by the child's expression. - -"Well, Louise? Very busy?" - -Louise glanced vaguely at her books. - -"Yes. I ought to be, I mean. I don't believe I've touched anything. I -was thinking----" - -"Two hours on end? Do you know the time? I heard Miss Durand clamouring -for you just now." Clare looked mischievous. She could forgive -forgetfulness of other people's classes. - -Louise was serene. - -"I'm sorry. I'm very sorry. I'd forgotten. I must go." - -But she made no movement. She sat looking at Miss Hartill as if nothing -else existed for her. The intent, fearless adoration in her eyes was -very pleasant to Clare; novel, too, after the more sophisticated glances -of the older girls. - -With an odd little impulse of motherliness she picked up Louise's books, -stacked them neatly and fitted them into the satchel. Louise watched -her. Miss Hartill buckled the strap and handed her the bundle. - -"There you are, Louise! Run along, my child, I'm afraid you'll get a -scolding." She stooped to her, bright-eyed, laughing. "And what were you -thinking of, Louise, for two long hours?" - -"You," said Louise simply. - -A touch of colour stole into Clare's thin cheeks. She took the small -face between her hands and kissed it lightly. - -"Silly child!" said Miss Hartill. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - - -Alwynne, drumming with her fingers on the window-sill, as she stood by -Louise's desk, was distinctly annoyed. Louise, for the first time since -she had known her, was late. It was, indeed, not one of her assigned -classes; but she and Louise had found their hours together so -insufficient for all the work that they were trying to make good, that -Alwynne had good-naturedly arranged to give her a daily extra lesson. It -bit into Alwynne's meagre free time; but she was fond of Louise; proud -of her, too; and there was Clare! Clare was so anxious for Louise's -success. Clare had been so pleased with the plan.... - -Perhaps it was natural that Alwynne, as she made the arrangement, forgot -to consult Elsbeth. She told her about it afterwards, and Elsbeth -praised her for her unselfishness, and was anxious lest she should be -overtired. She did not remind Alwynne that she was alone all day; that -she had been accustomed to look forward to the gay tea-hour, when -Alwynne returned, full of news and nonsense. She resigned herself -cheerfully to a solitary meal, and to keeping the muffins hot against -Alwynne's uncertain home-coming. - -The extra lessons had been a real boon to Louise, and she had grown -attached to Alwynne and intimate with her. Alwynne's elder-sisterly -attitude to the children she taught, although it horrified the older -women, was seldom abused; it merely made her the recipient of quaint -confidences, and gave her an insight into the characters of her pupils -that was invaluable to girls and governess alike. To developing girls a -confidante is a necessity. The present boarding-school system of -education ousts the mother from that, her natural position; renders her, -to the daughter steeped in an alien atmosphere, an outsider, lacking -all understanding. Invaluable years pass before the artificial gulf that -boarding-school creates between them, is spanned. And the substitute for -the only form of sympathy and interest that is entirely untainted by -selfish impulses is usually the chance acquaintance, the neighbour of -desk and bedroom; occasionally, very occasionally, for the girl's -feverish admiration usually precludes sane acquaintanceship, a mistress -of more than average insight. Such a mistress, Alwynne, in spite of, or -perhaps because of, her youthful indiscretions of manner, was in a fair -way to become. - -And of all the children who had opened their affairs to her, none had -experienced more completely the tonic effect of a kind heart and a sense -of humour, than Louise. - -She would come to her lesson, overtired from the strain of the morning -classes, over-stimulated from the contact with Clare, over-hopeful or -utterly depressed, as the mood took her. Alwynne's cheerful interest was -balm to the child's overwrought nerves. Alwynne let her spend a quarter -of an hour or more in confiding the worries and excitements of the day, -after which, Louise, curiously revived, contrived to get through an -amazing amount of work. There was no doubt as to Louise's capacity for -advanced work, but her state of mind affected her output; she was, as -Alwynne once phrased it to Clare, "like a violin--you had to tune her up -before she was fit for use." And Alwynne's "tuning" had done more than -she or Clare or even Louise herself had guessed, towards her success in -her new class. - -Bit by bit, Alwynne had heard all about Louise; the details of her -meagre home-life; her attitude to the busy world of school, that -frightened while it attracted her; her difficulties with her fellows; -her delight in her work. Finally, there was Clare. Louise was very shy -about Clare; inclined to scent mockery, to be on the defensive; but -Alwynne's own matter-of-fact enthusiasm had its effect. Also Alwynne's -interest, though it invited, never demanded confidences. It took Louise -some time to realise that it arose from simple friendliness of soul; -that there was neither curiosity nor pedagogic zeal behind it; that, -though she was teased and laughed at, she was respected, and, out of -school hours, treated as an equal; that she and her schoolgirl secrets -were safe with Miss Durand. It was, indeed, in the light of after -events, pathetic that Louise, dazzled by Clare's will-o'-the-wisp -brilliance, never realised how close to her for a season the friend, the -elder sister she had longed for, really stood. With the egoism of a -child, and a child in love, she was humbly and passionately grateful for -Clare's least sign of interest, yet accepted all the many little -kindnesses that Alwynne showed her, as a matter of course. She scarcely -realised, absorbed as she was in Clare, that she was even fond of Miss -Durand, yet she relied on her implicitly: and Alwynne, innocent of the -jealous, acquisitive impulse that tainted Clare's intercourse with any -girl who caught her fancy, was not at all disturbed or hurt by Louise's -attitude. She looked after the child as she would have looked after a -starving cat or a fugitive emperor, if they had come her way, as a -matter of course, and as instinctively as she ate her dinner. - -She was thinking of Louise, as she sat waiting, and a little curious as -to what the child would say to her. She had heard all about the Browning -lesson, at lunch, from Rose Levy, whose veiled, epigrammatic malice was -usually amusing. Agatha had been on her other side, and she had -anticipated equally amusing protests and contradictions and a highly -coloured and totally different version. But Agatha had been unusually -subdued that morning. Both had made it apparent, however, that Clare had -been more than a little pleased with Louise. - -But, however triumphant Louise's morning might have been, she had no -business to be late now. What did she mean by keeping her waiting? Twice -had Alwynne been down to the preparation room, searching for her: she -did not mean to be impertinent of course, but it was, at least, casual. -Alwynne, with easy, evanescent indignation, resolved to give Louise a -taste of her tongue. - -Here the child herself burst in upon her meditations, flushed to her -glowing eyes, that were bright as if with drugs, excited as Alwynne had -never yet guessed that she could be, charged with some indefinable -quality as a live wire is charged with electricity. She stammered her -apologies mechanically, sure of pardon, and, the formality complied -with, was eager, touchingly eager for questions and the relief of -communication. - -But Alwynne, at nineteen, could not be expected to forego a legitimate -grievance. - -She read Louise a little lecture on punctuality and politeness, and -settled at once to the work in hand. She said, with intention, that they -must not waste any more time. - -Louise submitted with her usual meekness, and did, Alwynne could see, do -her utmost to apply herself to her work. But her answers were -ludicrously vague and _mal à propos_, and she met Alwynne's comments, -momentarily sharper, with an abstracted smile. - -Suddenly Alwynne lost patience with her. - -"I don't know what's the matter with you to-day, Louise," she said -sharply. "I don't believe you've taken in a word of what I've said. If -you can't take a little more trouble, I'd better go home." - -Louise, obviously and pathetically jerked back to consciousness from -some dreamer's Paradise, looked up at her with scared, apologetic eyes. -The radiance dimmed slowly from her face. She made no answer, only to -put up her hand to her head, with a queer little gesture of -helplessness. - -"What's the matter with you?" demanded Alwynne, but already more gently. -Her anger was always fleeting as a puff of smoke. - -But Louise merely shrugged her shoulders and looked vaguely at her -again. Then she returned to her work. - -Alwynne, walking up and down the room watched her intently as she bent -over the Latin grammar. She was wrinkling her brows over a piece of -prose that she had already construed at the previous lesson, and with an -ease that had astonished Alwynne. She looked bewildered and put her hand -to her head again. Her efforts to recall her wandering thoughts were -patent and almost physical in their intensity; her small hand hovered, -contracting and relaxing, like a baby catching at butterflies. - -Alwynne was puzzled by her. The child was sincere: but obviously -something momentous had happened, and was still occupying her, to the -exclusion of all else. Alwynne wished that she had been less hasty: she -felt that she should not have checked her. - -She stood a moment beside her, reading what she had written. It was -scarcely legible, and made no sense. She put a hand on her shoulder-- - -"Louise, you are writing nonsense. What is it? Tell me what the matter -is?" - -Louise laid down her pen, gave her a quick, shy smile, hesitated -uncertainly, then, to Alwynne's dismay, collapsed on the low desk in a -fit of wild, hysterical crying. - -Alwynne always shed the mistress in emergency. - -She whipped her arms about the child, and, sitting down, gathered her -into her lap. She felt how the little, thin body was wrenched and shaken -by the sobs it did not attempt to control, but she said nothing, only -held it comfortingly tight. - -Slowly the paroxysm subsided, and the words came, jerky, fragmentary, -faint. Alwynne bent close to catch them. - -Louise was so sorry ... she was all right now ... Miss Durand must think -her crazy. No--no--nothing wrong ... it was the other way round ... she -was so happy that it frightened her ... she was madly happy ... she had -been in heaven all day ... it was too wonderful to tell any one -about ... even Miss Durand.... Miss Hartill--no one could ever know what -Miss Hartill was.... She had been so good to her--so wonderful.... She -had made Louise so happy that she was frightened ... she couldn't -believe it was possible to be so madly happy.... That was all.... Yes, -it had made her cry--the pure happiness.... Wasn't it silly? Only she -was so dreadfully tired.... It had hurt her head trying to do the -Latin--because she was so tired.... Yes, she had had headaches -lately.... But she didn't care--it was worth it, to please Miss -Hartill.... It was queer that being so happy should make her want to -cry; it was comical, wasn't it? - -She began to laugh as she spoke, with tears brimming over her lashes, -and for a few moments was inclined to be hysterical again. - -But Alwynne's firm grasp and calm voice was too much for Louise's will, -weakened by emotion and fatigue; she was soon coaxed and hushed into -quiet again, and after lying passively for a while in Alwynne's arms, -fell into the sudden light sleep of utter exhaustion. - -Alwynne, rocking her gently, sat on in the darkening room, without a -thought of the passage of time; puzzling over the problem in her arms. - -She was too ignorant and inexperienced to understand Louise's outburst, -or to realise the dangerous strain that the child's sensibilities were -undergoing but the touch of the little figure, clinging, nestling to -her, stirred her. She was vaguely aware that something--somehow--was -amiss. Innocently she rejoiced that Clare was being kind to Louise, that -the child was so happy and content; but the complaint of fatigue, the -frequent headaches, troubled her. She would speak to Elsbeth.... Perhaps -the child needed a tonic? Elsbeth would know.... - -She glanced down. How different people looked asleep.... She had never -before realised how young Louise was. What was she? Thirteen? But what a -baby she looked, with her thin, child's shape and small, clutching -hands.... It was the long-lashed lids that did it, hiding the beautiful -eyes that were so much older, as she saw now, than the rest of Louise. -With her soul asleep, Louise looked ten, and a frail little ghost of -ten, at that. - -Alwynne frowned. She supposed Clare Hartill realised how young Louise -was, was right in allowing her to work so hard? But Clare knew all about -girls, and what did she, Alwynne, know? After all Louise had never -flagged before.... It was probably the usual end of term fatigue--and of -course it was necessarily an unusually stiff three months for her.... -She needed a holiday.... Next term would come more easily to her, poor -little impetuous Louise.... Alwynne realised that she was growing fond -of the child. - -Suddenly she heard footsteps in the corridor, and her own name in -Clare's impatient accents. Louise, too, roused at the sound, and, -jerking herself upright, slid from Alwynne's lap to her feet, as the -door opened and the light was switched on with a snap. Clare stood in -the doorway. - -Serenely Alwynne rose, smoothing the creases in her dress, while with -the other hand she steadied Louise, swaying and blinking in the strong -light. Clare's sharp eyes appreciated her calm no less than the -tear-stains on Louise's cheek; she guessed distortedly at the situation. -She bit her lip. She found nothing to be annoyed at, yet she was not -pleased. - -"Alwynne! I've been hunting for you high and low. I thought you were -coming home to tea with me." - -Alwynne beamed at her. - -"Of course! And do you know, I forgot to tell Elsbeth. Isn't it -disgraceful? But I'm coming." - -She turned to Louise. - -"My dear, run along home, and get to bed early; you look dreadfully -tired. Doesn't she, Miss Hartill?" - -But Clare was already in the passage. - -Alwynne hurried after her, with a last cheerful nod, and Louise heard -the echo of their footsteps die away in the distance. - -Still dazed and heavy with sleep, her thoughts obscured and chaotic, -she sat down again stupidly at her desk in the alcove of the window. She -leaned her forehead against the cold pane and looked out. - -It was a wild night. The wind soughed and shrieked in the bare trees: -the rain tore past in gusts; the lamp-post at the corner was mirrored in -the wet pavement, like a moon on an oily sea. - -Louise pushed open the casement. The wind lulled as she did so, and she -lent out. The air, at least, was mild, and a faint back-wash of rain -sprayed soothingly upon her hot cheeks and swollen eyes. - -Slowly her thoughts shaped themselves. So the day was over--the happiest -day she had ever had.... She thought God was very wonderful to have made -such a woman as Miss Hartill. She sent Him a hasty little prayer of -thanks. But she had been very foolish that afternoon.... She could not -understand it now.... She hoped Miss Durand would not tell Miss -Hartill.... Miss Hartill had been in a great hurry! Was that why she had -not said good-night to her? But such a little word. She wondered why -Miss Hartill had not said good-night to her.... - -The front door below the window creaked and opened. Louise peered -downwards. Miss Durand and Miss Hartill came down the steps sheltering -under one umbrella, talking. Their voices floated up. - -"I hope you don't spoil her, Alwynne? Yes, I know----" Alwynne was -murmuring friendly adjectives. "But a mistress is in a peculiar -position. You should not let yourself be too familiar----" A gust of -wind and rain whirling down the road bore away the rest of the sentence. - -Louise shut the window. She shivered a little as she gathered up her -books. - -Her happiest day was over. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - - -A week before Christmas Alwynne began to wonder how the day itself -should be spent, or rather, if her plans for the spending would ever -pass Elsbeth's censorship. She was doubtful. For the last two or three -years Christmas had been to them a rock of collision. - -"The pity of it!" thought Alwynne. Once it had been the event, the -crowning glory, the very reason of the ending year. A year, indeed, had -always presented itself to her in advance as a wide country through -which she must make her way, to reach the hostel, Christmas, hidden in -the mists of time, on its further border. She had the whole map of the -land in her mind, curiously vivid and distinct. She had never -consciously devised the picture; it had, from the first, presented -itself complete and unalterable. She stood, on New Year's Day, at the -entrance of a country lane which ran between uneven hedges through a -varying countryside of fields and woods and heatherland. Each change in -the surroundings represented a month, the smaller differences the weeks -and days. She went down this winding lane as the days went by, in slow -content. January was a silent expanse of high tableland, snow-bound to -the horizon. Winding down hill through the sodden grassland of the bare -February country, where she lighted on nothing but early parsnip fronds -and sleepy celandine buds in the dripping wickery hedges, she passed at -last into the wood of March, a wood of pollard hazels and greening oaks -and bramble-guarded dingles, where the anemones grew, and the first -primroses. She slipped and slithered in and out of mossy leaf-pits, and -the briars clawed her hair and pinafore, as she robbed the primrose -clumps with wet, reddened fingers. The wind shrieked overhead and -wrestled wildly with the bare branches, but beyond there was blue sky -and a drift of cloud. But, unawares, she would always head through the -wood to where the trees grew thinner and dash out at last, through a -mist of pale cuckoo-pint, into the cowslip field that was April. - -The path ran on through May and June between fields of ox-eye daisies -and garden roses, always down hill, till she tumbled into August, the -deep hot valley. There she found the sea. - -With September the road lifted steadily, growing stony and ever steeper. -It wound on ahead of her like a silver thread through a brocade of red -and gold and purple, that was heather and bracken and beech. But the -beech blossoms could never be gathered; they fell apart into a shower of -dull leaves, and left her with a branch of bare twigs in her hand. The -briony berries that she twisted into wreaths stained her straw hat with -their black, evil juice; even the manna-like old-man's-beard smelled -sour and rotten. The decaying, witchlike beauty of the season tricked -and frightened her; autumn was a hard hill to climb. - -But far away, on the summit of that difficult hill, stood a house. An -old house, gaily bricked, dressed in ivy, with a belfry from which -carols rang out unceasingly. It was always night-time where it stood and -cheerful lights were set in every window. Alwynne never saw the house -till she had turned the bend of the road into November; then it faced -her suddenly and she would wave to the distant windows with a thrill of -excitement, and quicken her steps, with the goal of the journey in sight -at last. There was yet a weary climb before it was reached; every day of -December was a boulder, painfully beclambered. But she would come to the -gates at last, and tear up the frosty drive, from the shadow of whose -shrubberies Jacob Marley peered and clanked at her and ghosts of -Christmas turkeys gobbled horribly, to the open holly-hung doorway where -Santa Claus, authentic in beard and dressing-gown, welcomed her with -Elsbeth's voice. Followed stay-at-home days of delirious merry-making, -from which she awoke a week later, to find herself, her back to a closed -door, a spent cracker in her hand, looking out again, eager and a little -wistful, across the white untrodden plain of yet another January. - -But ever the next Christmas beckoned her anew. - -To Elsbeth, too, Christmas was the day of delights, and Alwynne the -queen of it. To Elsbeth, too, the pleasure of it began many weeks -earlier in the secret fashioning of quaint gifts and surprises, and the -anticipation of the small niece's delight in them. Elsbeth would have -cheerfully cut off one of her slim fingers if Alwynne had happened to -covet it. The childless woman loved Alwynne--the child in Alwynne she -worshipped. - -But though the delight of actual motherhood was denied Elsbeth, she was -spared none of its chagrins. - -Stooping for years to a child's level, she was cruelly shaken when -Alwynne, suddenly and inexplicably, as it always seems, grew up. It took -Elsbeth almost as many years to straighten herself again. Years when -Alwynne, in the arrogance of her enterprising youth, thought that -Elsbeth was sometimes awfully childish. She supposed that she was -growing old; she used not to be like that.... - -Thereafter, each Christmas, challenging comparison as it did with the -memory-mellowed charm of its forerunners, emphasised the change that had -taken place. Yearly the ideal Christmas lured them to the old -observances; yearly the reality satisfied them less. - -Elsbeth still sat up half the night on Christmas Eve, at work upon the -little tree. Alwynne still planned gorgeous and laborious presents for -her aunt. Elsbeth still filled a stocking (out-size) with tip-toe -secrecy, and Alwynne, at sixteen, still ran across in her dressing-gown, -and curled up on Elsbeth's bed to unpack it. - -But at sixteen one is too old and too young to be a child any more. The -tree was a fir-tree, pure and simple; the fairy lights stank of tallow; -and not even for the sake of a new bright sixpence, would Alwynne, in -the thick of a vegetarian fad, devour a slice of the evil-coloured -Christmas pudding. - -Elsbeth, as she saw her old-time jokes and small surprises that could no -longer surprise, fall utterly flat, thought that school had altered -Alwynne altogether; that she was assuming airs of maturity ridiculous in -a child of her age, ("Sixteen? She's a mere baby still," affirmed poor -Elsbeth,) that she was growing indifferent, superior, heartless. And -Alwynne, trying to appear amused, wondered why Christmas was so -different from what it used to be and wished heartily that Elsbeth would -not try to be skittish. It didn't suit her--made her seem undignified. -Each, longing for the old days, when the other had conjured up so easily -the true spirit of the festival, tried her affectionate best to do so -still; each, failing inevitably, inevitably blamed the other. Neither -realised, that Dan Christmas is the god of very little children, and -that where they are not, he, too, does not linger. - -But the last restless, unsatisfactory day had settled the matter for -them finally. Alwynne had fidgeted through morning service, and pained -her aunt, on the walk home, with her sceptical young comments; had -omitted to kiss her under the mistletoe; had sat through the ceremonious -meal, answering Elsbeth's cheerful pleasantries in monosyllables; and -finally, after an unguarded remark, and the inevitable reproving -comment, had flung out of the room in a fever of irritation. She came -near thinking Elsbeth a foolish and intolerable old maid. And Elsbeth, -sitting sadly over the fire all the lonely afternoon, puzzled meekly -over Alwynne's hardness of heart, and cried a little, in pure longing, -for the baby of a few years back, to whom she had been as God. - -They were reconciled, of course, by tea-time. Alwynne, quieted by -solitude, was soon bewildered at her own ill-humour, shocked at the -sentiments she had been able to entertain, remorseful at hurting -Elsbeth's feelings and spoiling her Christmas Day. They were able to -send each other to bed happy again. - -But they had no more snap-dragons and early stockings. The next -Christmas, shorn of its splendours, was a strange day to them both, but, -at least, a peaceful one, with Alwynne at her gentlest, and Elsbeth, -forgiving her as best she could, for her long skirts and her seventeen -years. - -With the passing of yet another year, however, Alwynne's last scruple as -to the sacrosanct privacy of Christmas celebrations vanished utterly. -The ideal day, she saw at last, and clearly, should be neither a -children's carnival, nor a symposium of relatives. (Alwynne knew of none -but Elsbeth, but she dearly loved a phrase.) Christmas should be a time -of social intercourse, of peace and goodwill towards men--the human -race--neighbours and friends--not merely relations.... One should not -shut oneself up.... It would be a sound idea, for instance, to ask some -one to dinner.... A friend of Elsbeth's--or there was Clare! It would be -very jolly if Clare could come to dinner.... Clare was delightful when -she was in holiday mood; she could keep the table in a roar.... A little -fun would do Elsbeth good.... Surely Elsbeth would enjoy having Clare to -dinner? - -She found herself, however, experiencing considerable difficulty in -opening up the project to her aunt. Elsbeth, to whom the possibility of -such a request had long ago presented itself, who could have told you by -sheer intuition at what exact moment the idea occurred to her niece, -gave her no help. Alwynne had contrived to put her in the position of -appearing to approve Clare Hartill. Clare, she felt, had had something -to do with that. She knew that it would be unwise to lose the advantage -of her apparent tolerance; knew that Clare expected her to lose it by -some impulsive expression of mistrust or dislike, and intended to -utilise the lapse for her own ends. It would be easy for Clare to pose -as the generous victim of unreasoning hostility. But Clare should not, -she resolved, have the opportunity. She, Elsbeth, would never be so far -lacking in cordiality as to give her any sort of handle. But Clare -Hartill should not eat her Christmas dinner with them, vowed Elsbeth, -for all that. - -So for a couple of days, Alwynne, approaching Elsbeth from all possible -angles, found no crack in her armour, and somewhat puzzled, but entirely -unsuspicious, thought it hard that Elsbeth should be, at times, so -curiously unresponsive. She would not have scrupled to ask her aunt -outright to invite Clare, but she quite genuinely wished to find out -first if Elsbeth would mind, and never guessed that the difficulty she -found in opening the matter was the answer to that question. - -The arrival of the turkey was her opportunity. - -Sailing into the kitchen in search of raisins (the more maturely -dignified Alwynne's deportment, the more likely her detection in some -absurd child's habit or predilection), she found Elsbeth raging -low-voiced, and the small maid gaping admiration over the brobdingnagian -proportions of their Christmas dinner. - -"Look at it, Alwynne! What am I to do? Twenty pounds! And we shan't get -through ten! Really, it's too bad--I wrote so distinctly. It's -impossible to return it--to Devonshire! No time. It's the twenty-second -already. How shall we ever get through it?" - -"We might get some one in to help us," began Alwynne delightedly. But -Elsbeth, very busy all of a sudden, with basin and egg-beater, whisked -and bustled her out of the kitchen. - -Alwynne returned to the matter, however, later in the day. - -"Elsbeth, we shall never manage that turkey alone." - -"Of course, I must send some over to Mrs. Marpler," began Elsbeth -hastily. - -Mrs. Marpler was a charwoman. Alwynne contrived to make their succession -of little maids adore her, but she and Mrs. Marpler detested one another -cordially. Mrs. Marpler's offences, according to Alwynne, were that she -was torpid, inefficient, breathed heavily, smelled of cats, and, by the -complicated and judicious recital of the authentic calamities which -regularly befell her, lured from Elsbeth more than her share of the -broken meats and old clothes of the establishment, perquisites which -Alwynne, entirely incredulous, coveted for pet dependents of her own. -Alwynne's offences, according to Mrs. Marpler, were, the aforementioned -incredulity, her hostile influence on Miss Loveday, a certain crispness -of manner and a tendency to open all windows in Mrs. Marpler's -neighbourhood. The feud distressed Elsbeth, and Alwynne's diagnosis of -Mrs. Marpler's character; for she liked to believe the best of every -one. Alwynne forced her to agree, but secretly she sympathised with her -feckless char-lady. - -"Marpler has been out of work three weeks, and as poor Mrs. Marpler -says, where their Christmas dinner is to come from----" - -"How much extra did you pay her this week?" demanded Alwynne -remorselessly. "And last week--and the week before--and the week before -that? Of course he's out of work. Who wouldn't be?" - -"My dear Alwynne, if you think they can buy a Christmas dinner on what I -gave them--" retorted Elsbeth heatedly. "But it's absurd to argue with -you. What do you know of what food costs?" - -"Anyhow, Mrs. Baker, with six children----" began Alwynne, who also had -been primed by a protégée. But she recollected that she did not wish to -annoy Elsbeth at this juncture. Clare must take precedence of Mrs. -Baker. "Well, you can send them the legs and the carcase," she conceded; -"even then there will be more than we can possibly manage. Couldn't we -ask some one to spend the day with us?" - -"I hardly think," said Elsbeth, with a touch of severity, "that you -would find any one. Most people like to keep Christmas with their -Relations." - -"Well, I haven't got any. But by all accounts I think I should hate 'em -in the plural as much as I love 'em in the singular." She blew Elsbeth a -kiss. "But if we could find some one--to help us eat up the turkey--and -spend the evening--it would be rather jolly, don't you think? It was -dullish last year, wasn't it?" - -"Was it?" said Elsbeth, with careful brightness. "I'm sorry. I had -thought you enjoyed it." - -"Oh, why is she so touchy? I didn't mean anything," cried Alwynne within -herself. And aloud-- - -"Oh, I only meant without a tree or anything specially Christmassy----" - -"Alwynne," said Elsbeth, with scrupulous patience, "it was you who -suggested not having one." - -"I know, I know, I know, I know!" cried Alwynne, in a fever. - -Elsbeth sighed. - -Alwynne repented. - -"Elsbeth darling, I didn't mean to be rude; I'm a beast. And I didn't -mean it wasn't nice last year. I only meant--it would be--be a change to -have some one--because of the turkey--and I thought, perhaps Clare----" - -"Can't you exist for a day without seeing Clare Hartill?" asked Elsbeth, -with a wry smile. - -Alwynne dimpled. - -"Not very well," she said. - -Elsbeth stared at her plate. Alwynne edged her chair along the table, -till she sat at Elsbeth's elbow. She slid an arm round her neck. - -"Elsbeth! Elsbeth, dear! You're not cross, Elsbeth? It's a very big -turkey. Do, Elsbeth!" - -"Do what?" - -"Ask Clare. You like her, don't you?" - -No answer. - -"Don't you, Elsbeth?" Alwynne's tone was a little anxious. - -"Would you care if I didn't?" The pattern of her plate still interested -Elsbeth. She was tracing its windings with her fork. - -"You silly--it would just spoil everything. That's just it--I would like -to get you two fond of each other, only with Clare so busy there's never -a chance of your really getting acquainted." - -"I knew Clare Hartill long before you did, Alwynne. I knew her as a -schoolgirl." - -"But not well--not as I know her." - -"No, not as you know her." - -"There you are," said Alwynne, with satisfaction. "That's why--you don't -know her properly. Oh, Elsbeth, you must share all my good things, and -Clare's the very best of them. Do let her come." - -"She may be engaged; she probably is." - -"Oh, no--Clare will be alone--I know, because----" she stopped herself. - -Elsbeth questioned her with her eyes. - -"Oh, nothing--only I happen to know," said Alwynne. - -"Because?" - -Alwynne shook her head mischievously. - -"Oh, well, if you won't tell me----" began Elsbeth. - -"Oh, I will, I will," cried Alwynne hastily. - -"My dear, I don't want to know Miss Hartill's secrets, or yours either," -said Elsbeth huffily. But to herself, "Why am I losing my temper over -these silly trifles?" - -"Elsbeth dear, it was nothing. Only Clare did ask me to spend Christmas -Day with her." - -"Well?" said Elsbeth jealously. - -"What?" asked Alwynne's ingenuous eyes. - -"Are you going?" - -Alwynne nestled up to her, humming with careful flatness the final bars -of _Home, sweet home_. - -"Elsbeth, you old darling--I do believe you're jealous! Are you, -Elsbeth? Are you?" - -"Are you going?" repeated Elsbeth. - -Alwynne was sobered by her tone. - -"I'm going to spend my Christmas Day in my own home, with my own -Elsbeth," she said, "and I think you needn't have asked me." - -Elsbeth melted. - -"My dear, I'm a silly old woman----" - -"Yes, you tell me that once a week." - -"One day you'll believe it.--All right--you can ask your Miss -Hartill--or shall I write?" - -Alwynne hugged her. - -"Elsbeth, you're an angel! I'll go round at once. Oh, it will be jolly." - -"If she comes." - -Alwynne turned, on the way to her bedroom. Elsbeth's intonation was -peculiar. - -"What do you mean?" - -"I don't think she'll come, Alwynne." - -"But I know she'll be alone----" - -"Well, you go and ask her." - -"But why do you say that--in that tone?" - -"I may be wrong. But I've known her longer than you have. But run along -and ask her." - -"But why? Why?" - -"Oh, don't bother me, child," cried Elsbeth impatiently. "Run along and -ask her." - - - - -CHAPTER IX - - -"I had a letter from Louise yesterday," announced Clare. - -She was curled up in a saddle-bag before the roaring golden fire, and -was busy with paper and pencil. Alwynne, big with her as yet unissued -invitation, sat cross-legged on the white bearskin at her feet. The -floor was littered with papers and book-catalogues. At Christmas-time -Clare ordered books as a housewife orders groceries, and she and Alwynne -had spent a luxurious evening over her lists. The vivid flames lit up -Clare's thin, lazy length, and turned the hand she held up against their -heat into transparent carnelian. Her face was in shadow, but there were -dancing specks of light in her sombre eyes that kept time with the -leaping blaze. Clare was a sybarite over her fires. She would not endure -coal or gas or stove--wood, and wood only, must be used; and she would -pay any price for apple-wood, ostensibly for the quality of its flame, -secretly for the mere pleasure of burning fuel with so pleasant a name; -for she liked beautiful words as a child likes chocolate--a sober, -acquisitive liking. She had, too, though she would not own it, a delight -in destruction, costly destruction; she enjoyed the sensation of -reckless power that it gave her. The trait might be morbid, but there -was not a trace of pose in it; she could have enjoyed a Whittington -bonfire, without needing a king to gasp applause. Yet she shivered -nightly as she undressed in her cold bedroom, rather than commit the -extravagance of an extra fire. She never realised the comicality of her -contradictoriness, or even its existence in her character, though it -qualified every act and impulse of her daily life. Her soul was, indeed, -a hybrid, combining the temper of a Calvinist with the tastes of a -Renascence bishop. - -At the moment she was in gala mood. The autumn term was but four days -dead, she had not had time to tire of holidays, though, within a week, -she would be bored again, and restless for the heavy work under which -she affected to groan. Her chafing mind seldom allowed her indolent body -much of the peace it delighted in--was ever the American in lotus-land. -It was fidgeted at the moment by Alwynne's absorption in a lavishly -illustrated catalogue. - -"Did you hear, Alwynne? A letter from Louise." - -Alwynne's "Oh?" was absent. It was in the years of the Rackham craze, -and she had just discovered a reproduction of the _Midsummer_ Helen. - -"Any message?" Clare knew how to prod Alwynne. - -The girl glanced up amused but a little indignant. - -"You've answered it already? Well! And the weeks I've had to wait -sometimes." - -"This was such a charming letter," said Clare smoothly. "It deserved an -answer. She really has the quaintest style. And Alwynne--never a blot or -a flourish! It's a pleasure to read." - -Alwynne laughed ruefully. She would always squirm good-humouredly under -Clare's pin-pricks, with such amusement at her own discomfiture that -Clare never knew whether to fling away her needle for good, or, for the -mere experiment's sake, to stab hard and savagely. At that stage of -their intimacy, Alwynne's guilelessness invariably charmed and disarmed -her--she knew that it would take a very crude display of cruelty to make -Alwynne believe that she was being hurt intentionally. Clare was amused -by the novel pedestal upon which she had been placed; she was accustomed -to the panoply of Minerva, or the bow of Diana Huntress, but she had -never before been hailed as Bona Dea. It tickled her to be endowed with -every domestic virtue, to be loved, as Alwynne loved her, with the -secure and fearless affection of a daughter for a newly-discovered and -adorable young mother. She appreciated Alwynne's determination of their -relationship, her nice sense of the difference in age, her modesty in -reserving any claim to an equality in their friendship, her frank and -affectionate admiration--yet, while it pleased her, it could pique. Calm -comradeship or surrendering adoration she could cope with, but the -subtle admixture of such alien states of mind was puzzling. She had -acquired a lover with a sense of humour and she felt that she had her -hands full. Her imperious will would, in time, she knew, eliminate -either the lover or the humour--it annoyed her that she was not as yet -quite convinced that it would be the humour. She intended to master -Alwynne, but she realised that it would be a question of time, that she -would give her more trouble than the children to whom she was -accustomed. Alwynne's utter unrealisation of the fact that a trial of -strength was in progress, was disconcerting: yet Clare, jaded and -super-subtle, found her innocence endearing. Without relaxing in her -purpose, she yet caught herself wondering if an ally were not better -than a slave. But the desire for domination was never entirely shaken -off, and Alwynne's free bearing was in itself an ever-present challenge. -Clare loved her for it, but her pride was in arms. It was her misfortune -not to realise that, for all her Olympian poses, she had come to love -Alwynne deeply and enduringly. - -Alwynne, meanwhile, laughing and pouting on the hearth, the firelight -revealing every change of expression in her piquant face, was declining -to be classed with Agatha Middleton; her handwriting may be bad, but it -wasn't a beetle-track; anyhow, Queen Elizabeth had a vile fist--Clare -admired Queen Elizabeth, didn't she? She had always so much to say to -Clare, that if she stopped to bother about handwriting----! Had Clare -never got into a row for untidiness in her own young days? Elsbeth had -hinted.... But of course she reserved judgment till she had heard -Clare's version! She settled to attention and Clare, inveigled into -reminiscences, found herself recounting quaint and forgotten incidents -to her own credit and discredit, till, before the evening was over, -Alwynne knew almost as much of Clare's schooldays as Clare did herself. -She could never resist telling Alwynne stories, Alwynne was always so -genuinely breathless with interest. - -They returned to Louise at last, and Alwynne read the letter, chuckling -over the odd phrases, and dainty marginal drawings. She would have -dearly liked to see Clare's answer. She was glad, for all her protests, -that Clare had been moved to answer; she knew so well the delight it -would give Louise. The child would need cheering up. For, quite -resignedly and by the way, Louise had mentioned that the Denny family -had developed whooping-cough, and emigrated to Torquay, and she, in -quarantine, though it was hoped she had escaped infection, was preparing -for a solitary Christmas. - -Alwynne looked up at Clare with wrinkled brows. - -"Poor child! But what can I do? I haven't had whooping-cough, and -Elsbeth is always so afraid of infection; or else she could have come to -us. I know Elsbeth wouldn't have minded." - -"You are going to leave me to myself then? You've quite made up your -mind?" - -Alwynne's eyes lighted up. - -"Oh, Clare, it's all right. You are coming! At least--I mean--Elsbeth -sends her kindest regards, and she would be so pleased if you will come -to dinner with us on Christmas Day," she finished politely. - -Clare laughed. - -"It's very kind of your aunt." - -"Yes, isn't it?" said Alwynne, with ingenuous enthusiasm. - -"I'm afraid I can't come, Alwynne." - -Alwynne's face lengthened. - -"Oh, Clare! Why ever not?" - -Clare hesitated. She had no valid reason, save that she preferred the -comfort of her own fireside and that she had intended Alwynne to come to -her. Alwynne's regretful refusal when she first mooted the arrangement, -she had not considered final, but this invitation upset her plans. -Elsbeth's influence was opposing her. She hated opposition. Also she did -not care for Elsbeth. It would not be amiss to make Elsbeth (not her -dislike of Elsbeth) the reason for her refusal. It would have its effect -on Alwynne sooner or later. - -She considered Alwynne narrowly, as she answered-- - -"My dear, I had arranged to be at home, for one thing." - -Alwynne looked hurt. - -"Of course, if you don't care about it--" she began. - -Clare rallied her. - -"Be sensible, my child. It is most kind of Miss Loveday; but--wasn't it -chiefly your doing, Alwynne? Imagine her dismay if I accepted. A -stranger in the gate! On Christmas Day! One must make allowances for -little prejudices, you know." - -"She'll be awfully disappointed," cried Alwynne, so eager for Clare that -she believed it. - -"Will she?" Clare laughed pleasantly. "Every one doesn't wear your -spectacles. What would she do with me, for a whole day?" - -"We shouldn't see her much," began Alwynne. "She spends most of her time -in church. I go in the morning--(yes, I'm very good!) but I've drawn the -line at turning out after lunch." - -"Then why shouldn't you come to me instead? It would be so much better. -I shall be alone, you know." Clare's wistful intonation was not entirely -artificial. - -Alwynne was distressed. - -"Oh, Clare, I'd love to--you know I'd love to--but how could I? Elsbeth -would be dreadfully hurt. I couldn't leave her alone on Christmas Day." - -"But you can me?" - -"Clare, don't put it like that. You know I shall want to be with you all -the time. But Elsbeth's like my mother. It would be beastly of me. You -must put relations first at Christmas-time, even if they're not first -really." - -She smiled at Clare, but she felt disloyal as she said it, and hated -herself. Yet wasn't it true? Clare came first, though Elsbeth must never -guess it. Dear old Elsbeth was pretty dense, thank goodness! Where -ignorance is bliss, etcetera! Yet she, Alwynne, felt extraordinarily -mean.... - -Clare watched her jealously. She had set her heart on securing Alwynne -for Christmas Day, and had thought, ten minutes since, with a secret, -confident smile, that there would not be much difficulty. And here was -Alwynne holding out--refusing categorically! It was incredible! Yet she -could not be angry: Alwynne so obviously was longing to be with her.... -Equally obviously prepared to risk her displeasure (a heavy penalty -already, Clare guessed, to Alwynne), rather than ignore the older claim. -Clare thought that an affection that could be so loyal to a tedious old -maid was better worth deflecting than many a more ardent, unscrupulous -enthusiasm. Alwynne was showing strength of character. - -She persisted nevertheless-- - -"Well, it's a pity. I must eat my Christmas dinner alone, I suppose." - -"Oh, Clare, you might come to us," cried Alwynne. "I can't see why you -won't." - -Clare shrugged her shoulders. - -"If you can't see why, my dear Alwynne, there's no more to be said." - -Alwynne most certainly did not see; but Clare's delicately reproachful -tone convicted her, and incidentally Elsbeth, of some failure in tact. -She supposed she had blundered ... she often did.... But Elsbeth, at -least, must be exonerated ... she did so want Clare to think well of -Elsbeth.... - -She perjured herself in hasty propitiation. - -"Yes. Yes--I do see. I ought to have known, of course. Elsbeth was quite -right. She said you wouldn't, all along." - -"Oh?" Clare sat up. "Oh? Your aunt said that, did she?" She spoke with -detachment, but inwardly she was alert, on guard. Elsbeth had suddenly -become worth attention. - -"Oh, yes." Alwynne's voice was rueful. "She was quite sure of it. She -said I might ask you, with pleasure, if I didn't believe her--you see, -she'd love you to come--but she didn't think you would." - -"I wonder," said Clare, laughing naturally, "what made her say that?" - -"She said she knew you better than I did," confided Alwynne, with one of -her spurts of indignation. "As if----" - -"Yes, it's rather unlikely, isn't it?" said Clare, with an intimate -smile. "But you're not going?" - -"I must. Look at the time! Elsbeth will be having fits!" Alwynne called -from the hall where she was hastily slipping on her coat and hat. - -Clare stood a moment--thinking. - -So the duel had been with Elsbeth! So that negligible and mouse-like -woman had been aware--all along ... had prepared, with a thoroughness -worthy of Clare herself, for the inevitable encounter ... had worsted -Clare completely.... It was amazing.... Clare was compelled to -admiration. It was clear to her now that Elsbeth must have distrusted -her from the beginning. It had been Elsbeth's doing, not hers, that -their intercourse had been so slight.... Yet she had never restrained -Alwynne; she had risked giving her her head.... She was subtle! This -affair of the Christmas dinner for instance--Clare appreciated its -cleverness. Elsbeth had not wanted her, Clare now saw clearly; had been -anxious to avoid the intimacy that such an invitation would imply; -equally anxious, surely, that Alwynne should not guess her uneasy -jealousy: so she had risked the invitation, counting on her knowledge of -Clare's character (Clare stamped with vexation--that the woman should -have such a memory!) secure that Clare, unsuspicious of her motives, -would, by refusing, do exactly as Elsbeth wished. It had been the -neatest of gossamer traps--and Clare had walked straight into it.... -She was furious. If Alwynne, maddeningly unsuspicious Alwynne, had but -enlightened her earlier in the evening! Now she was caught, committed by -her own decision of manner to the course of action she most would have -wished to avoid.... She could not change her mind now without appearing -foolishly vacillating.... It would not do.... She had been bluffed, -successfully, gorgeously bluffed.... And Elsbeth was sitting at home -enjoying the situation ... too sure of herself and Clare even to be -curious as to the outcome of it all. She knew. Clare stamped again. Oh, -but she would pay Elsbeth for this.... The _casus belli_ was infinitely -trivial, but the campaign should be Homeric.... And this preliminary -engagement could not affect the final issues.... She always won in the -end.... But, after all, Elsbeth could not be blamed, though she must be -crushed; Alwynne was worth fighting for! Elsbeth was a fool.... If she -had treated Clare decently, Clare might--possibly--have shared Alwynne -with her.... She believed she would have had scruples.... Now they were -dispelled.... Alwynne, by fair means or foul, should be detached ... -should become Clare's property ... should be given up to no living woman -or man. - -She followed Alwynne into the hall and lit the staircase candle. She -would see Alwynne out. She would have liked to keep Alwynne with her for -a month. She was a delightful companion; it was extraordinary how -indispensable she made herself. Clare knew that her flat would strike -her as a dreary place to return to, when she had shut the door on -Alwynne. She would sit and read and feel restless and lonely. Yet she -did not allow herself to feel lonely as a rule; she scouted the -weakness. But Alwynne wound herself about you, thought Clare, and you -never knew, till she had gone, what a difference she made to you. - -She wished she could keep Alwynne another couple of hours.... But it was -eleven already ... her hold was not yet strong enough to warrant -innovations to which Elsbeth could object.... Her time would come -later.... How much later would depend on whether it were affection that -swayed Alwynne, or only a sense of duty.... She believed, because she -hoped, that it was duty--a sense of duty was more easily suborned than -an affection.... For the present, however, Alwynne must be allowed to do -as she thought right. Clare knew when she was beaten, and, with her -capacity for wry admiration of virtues that she had not the faintest -intention of incorporating in her own character, she was able to applaud -Alwynne heartily. Yet she did not intend to make victory easy to her. - -They went down the flights of stairs silently, side by side. Alwynne -opened the entrance doors and stood a moment, fascinated. - -"Look, Clare! What a night!" - -The moon was full and flooded earth and sky with bright, cold light. The -garden, roadway, roofs, trees and fences glittered like powdered -diamonds, white with frost and moonshine. The silence was exquisite. - -They stood awhile, enjoying it. - -Suddenly Clare shivered. Alwynne became instantly and anxiously -practical. - -"Clare, what am I thinking of? Go in at once--you'll catch a dreadful -cold." - -With unusual passivity Clare allowed herself to be hurried in. At the -staircase Alwynne said good-bye, handing her her candle, and waiting -till she should have passed out of sight. On the fourth step Clare -hesitated, and turned-- - -"Alwynne--come to me for Christmas?" - -Alwynne flung out her hands. - -"Clare! I mustn't." - -"Alwynne--come to me for Christmas?" - -"You know I mustn't! You know you'd think me a pig if I did, now -wouldn't you?" - -"I expect so." - -"But I'll come in for a peep at you," cried Alwynne, brightening, -"while Elsbeth's at afternoon service. I could do that. And to say Merry -Christmas!" - -"Come to dinner?" - -"I can't." - -"Then you needn't come at all." Clare turned away. - -Alwynne caught her hand, as it leaned on the balustrade. In the other -the candle shook a little. - -"Lady Macbeth! Dear Lady Macbeth! Miss Hartill of the Upper Sixth, whom -I'm scared to death of, really--you're behaving like a very naughty -small child. Now, aren't you? Honestly? Oh, do turn round and crush me -with a look for being impudent, and then tell me that I'm only doing -what you really approve. I don't want to, Clare, but you know you hate -selfishness." - -Clare looked down at her. - -"All right, Alwynne. You must do as you like." - -"Say good-night to me," demanded Alwynne. "Nicely, Clare, very nicely! -It's Christmas-time." - -Carefully Clare deposited her candlestick on the stair above. Leaning -over the banisters, she put her arms round Alwynne and kissed her -passionately and repeatedly. - -"Good-night, my darling," said Clare. - -Then, recoiling, she caught up her candlestick, and without another word -or look, hurried up the stairs. - -Alwynne walked home on air. - - - - -CHAPTER X - - -Elsbeth bore the news of Clare's defection with stoicism; but her -motherly soul was disturbed by Alwynne's disappointment, though she -could not stifle her pleasure in its cause. She felt, indeed, somewhat -guilty, and was eager to atone by acquiescing in Alwynne's plan of -visiting Clare while she went to church; and met her more than half way -over the question of an altered tea-hour. - -Alwynne, who from the first had been fretted, though but half -consciously, by the faintly repellent manner assumed by each of the two -women at mention of the other, was soothed by Elsbeth's advances. -Elsbeth was a dear, after all: there was no one quite like Elsbeth.... -For all her obstinacies and unreasonableness, she never really failed -you.... She could be depended on to love you at your worst; you could -quarrel with her with never a fear of real alienation.... Elsbeth might -not be exciting, but she was as indispensable as food.... She was, after -all, the starting-point and ultimate goal of all one's adventures.... -Clare would lose some of her delightfulness, if there were no Elsbeth to -whom to en-sky on her.... Alwynne did not see what she wanted with a -mother, so long as she had Elsbeth.... She had said so once to her aunt -and had never guessed, as she was chidden for sacrilege against the -picture over her bed, at the exquisite pleasure she had given. - -After the little coolness of the past few days (her aunt's fault -entirely, Alwynne knew, and so could be unruffled) Elsbeth's renewal of -sympathetic interest was very soothing. Alwynne was glad to foster it by -talking of Clare, and Clare, and nothing but Clare, for the rest of the -week. In church on Christmas morning, poor Elsbeth, settling her -spiritual accounts, begging forgiveness for uncharitable thoughts, and -assuring her Maker that she wished Clare no evil, could yet sigh for the -useful age of miracles, and patron saints, and devils, when a prayer in -the right quarter could transport your enemy to inaccessible islands of -the Antipodes. She would have been magnanimous, have bargained for every -comfort--Eden's climate and hot and cold water laid on--but the island -must be definitely inaccessible and Antipodean. - -Clare, too, had spent her morning, if not in prayer, at least in -profound meditation. She felt stranded, and was wishing for Alwynne, and -anathematising the superfluous and intriguing aunt. - -Clare made the mistake of all tortuous intelligences in being unable to -credit appearances. She was being, as usual, unjust to Elsbeth, Alwynne, -and the world at large. She could not believe in simplicity combined -with brains: a simple soul was necessarily a simpleton in her eyes. -Because her own words were ever two edged, her meaning flavoured by -reservations and implications, she literally could not accept a speech -as expressing no more and no less than its plain dictionary meaning. -With any one of her own type of mind she was at her ease; her mistake -lay in not recognising how rare that type was; in detecting subtleties -where none existed, and wasting hint, suggestion and innuendo on minds -that drove as heartily through them as an ox walks through a spider -thread stretched from post to gatepost of the meadow he means to enter. - -Elsbeth, whom she had considered a negligible fool, had yesterday -startled her into respect--not for the kindly and selfless pleasure in -Alwynne's pleasure, that had, for all her little jealous anxieties, -prompted the invitation to Clare, but for the totally imaginary cunning -with which, in Clare's eyes, it had invested her. Alwynne's repetition -of Elsbeth's remark had enlightened Clare: enlightened her to qualities -in Elsbeth which Elsbeth herself would have been horrified to possess. - -Clare saw, in the manner of the invitation, a gauntlet flung down, the -preliminaries to a conflict, with Alwynne herself for the prize; and the -first warning of an antagonist sufficiently like herself to be -considered dangerous, the more dangerous, indeed, for the apparently -uninteresting harmlessness that could mask a mind in reality so scheming -and so complex. She did not realise that if she did finally close with -Elsbeth, with the intention of robbing her of Alwynne, she would have -far more to fear from her simple, affectionate goodness of heart than -from any subtlety of intellect with which Clare was choosing to invest -her. - -She wondered, as she frittered away the morning, how she should best -counter Elsbeth's attack. She would call, of course--in state; it would -be due; she would not be judged deficient in courtesies. Alwynne should -be there (she would ensure that), and she, Clare, would be exceedingly -charming, and very delicately emphasise the contrast between Elsbeth and -herself. It would be quite easy, with Alwynne already biassed. Her eyes -sparkled with anticipation. It would be amusing. She should enjoy -routing Elsbeth. - -And there was the case of Alwynne to be considered. She had been -excessively nice to Alwynne lately, had, in fact, allowed her, for a -moment, to see how necessary she was becoming to Clare.... That was a -mistake.... One must never let people feel secure of their hold upon -one.... That little speech of Alwynne's last night, mocking and -tender--she had thrilled to it at the time--did it not, ever so faintly, -shadow forth a readjustment of attitudes, sound a note of equality? -That, though it had pleased her at the moment, must not be.... Alwynne -must be checked.... It would not hurt her.... She was subdued as easily -as a child, and as easily revived.... She never bore malice. Clare, who -never forgot or forgave a pinprick, had often marvelled at her, could -even now scarcely believe in the spontaneity of her good temper. But -Alwynne, certainly, had been going too far lately; was absurdly popular -in the school; could, Clare guessed, have annexed more than one of her -own special worshippers, if she had chosen. Louise, she knew, confided -in her: she thought with a double stab of jealousy of the scene she had -witnessed but a few days since; of Louise, fresh from her commendations, -from her kiss even (that rare impulse, regretted as soon as gratified), -at rest in Alwynne's arms. She recalled Louise's startled look and -Alwynne's contrasting serenity. She had not enquired what it all -meant--that was not her way. But she had not forgotten it. Alwynne was -hers. Louise was hers. But they had nothing to seek from one another! -Alwynne, undoubtedly, as the elder, the dearer, required the check; not -little Louise. Louise's letter had genuinely touched her--she thought -she would go and see the child, spend her Christmas Day charitably, in -amusing her. And if (in after-thought) Alwynne came round in the -afternoon, and found her gone--it couldn't be helped! It wouldn't hurt -Alwynne to be disappointed.... It wouldn't hurt Alwynne to spend a day -of undiluted Elsbeth.... And Louise would be amusingly charmed to see -Clare.... It was pleasant to please a child--a clever, appreciative -child.... She would go round directly after lunch.... The maid should go -home for the afternoon.... She laughed mischievously as she imagined the -blankness of Alwynne's face, when she should be confronted by silence -and a closed door. Poor, dear Alwynne! Well, it wouldn't hurt her. - -But Alwynne set out gaily on Christmas afternoon, and, first escorting -Elsbeth to the lych-gate of her favourite church, walked on as quickly -as her narrow fur-edged skirt would let her. - -The clocks were striking three as she turned into Friar's Lane. - -It was a cold, still day, and Alwynne shivered a little, and drew her -furs closely about her, as she stood outside the door of Clare's flat. -She had rung, but the maid was usually slow in answering. - -The passage was damply cold. It would be all the jollier to toast -oneself before one of Clare's imperial fires.... She wished the maid -would hurry up. She waited a moment and then rang again. - -There was no answer. - -It struck her that the maid might have been given the afternoon off; but -it was funny that Clare did not hear. - -She rang again. She could hear the bell tinging shrilly within, but -there was no other sound save the tick of the solemn little grandmother -on the inner side of the wall. - -Suddenly it occurred to her that Clare might be dozing. Clare never -slept in the afternoons, but she did occasionally doze in her chair for -a few minutes. She denied that she did so as strenuously as people -always and unaccountably do; but Alwynne knew better. It always -delighted her when Clare succumbed to drowsiness; a good sleeper -herself, she had been appalled by Clare's acquiescence in four wakeful -nights out of seven, and after a casual description that Clare had once -given her of the arid miseries of insomnia, ten minutes' unexpected -slumber did not give Clare herself more ease than it gave Alwynne. - -The possibility of such an explanation of the silence, therefore, had to -be considered respectfully: if Clare slept, far be it from Alwynne to -wake her! Yet she could not go away.... Clare, after that unlucky clash -of wills, would be doubly hurt if Alwynne left without seeing her -first.... But if Clare were asleep.... - -Resignedly Alwynne sat herself down on Clare's doorstep to wait until a -movement within should be the signal to ring again. - -She was not annoyed; she always had plenty to think about; and it would -be very pleasant, when Clare did at last open the door, to be received -with open arms, and pitied, and scolded, and warmed.... It was certainly -very cold.... All the draughts of the town seemed to have their home on -the staircase, and to come sliding and slithering and undulating past, -like a brood of invisible snakes. - -She shifted her position. The doorstep was icy. She got up, and placed -her muff, her chinchilla muff (shades of Elsbeth! her beautiful, new -chinchilla muff) on the whitened doorstep. Then she sat on it. - -"Ah! That's better," murmured Alwynne appreciatively. She was grateful -to Elsbeth for reminding her to wear her muff. - -But it did not get any warmer, and the daylight was beginning to fade. -She glanced at her watch--twenty minutes past three. Surely Clare was -awake again now. But she would wait another five minutes. She watched -the hands--marvelled at the interminable length of a minute, and was -drifting off on her favourite speculation as to the essential unreality -of time, when simultaneously the grandmother struck the half-hour and -she sneezed. She jumped up horrified. A cold would mean a week's absence -from Clare, and a restatement of Elsbeth's thesis "of the advisability -of wearing flannel petticoats and long-sleeved bodices." - -Also, half of her hoarded hour was gone. She rang again impatiently. No -answer. Clare must be out.... Gone to the post? No, Alwynne had been -waiting half-an-hour, she would have returned by now.... Impossible that -Clare should be out on Christmas afternoon, when she had refused an -invitation and was expecting Alwynne herself.... She rang; and waited; -and rang again and again and yet again. - -"If Clare has gone out----" cried Alwynne indignantly; and subjected the -handle to a final series of vicious tugs. The bell within pealed and -rocked and jarred, gave a last hysterical gurgle and was dumb. She had -broken the bell. She had broken Clare Hartill's bell! - -Alwynne looked round about her guiltily; she felt more like nine than -nineteen. The flight of stairs was still empty and silent. No one had -seen her come; no one would see her go.... If she went quietly away, and -said nothing about it? For Clare would be annoyed.... She always got so -annoyed over little things.... What a pity to have a fuss with Clare -over such a little thing as a broken bell! - -She crept on tip-toe down the stairs and out into the road. Then she -paused. - -Was she being mean? After all--there was no earthly use in telling -Clare.... Clare would never let her pay for the mending.... Yet -naturally she would be annoyed to come back and find her bell broken.... -She would think it was the milkman or the paper-boy.... Alwynne hoped -they would not get into trouble.... Perhaps, after all, she had better -tell Clare. Such an absurd thing to confess to, though--that she had -been in such a temper that she had broken the bell! Clare would be -sarcastic.... Yet it was Clare's fault for being out.... That was -unkind.... She would tell Clare so ... she would write and tell her.... -She would write a note now, and tell her about the bell at the same -time.... She retraced her steps, pulled out her note-book and pencil, -and began to scribble-- - - _Dear Clare--I'm awfully sorry but I'm afraid I've broken the bell. - I couldn't make you hear. I thought you were asleep, but I suppose - you are out. I must have rung too hard, but I didn't think you - would be out._ Heavily underlined. _I'm dreadfully sorry about the - bell._ - -She hesitated. If Clare would let her pay for a new one, she wouldn't -feel so bad.... Yet how could she suggest it? It would sound so -crude.... If only Clare would not be angry.... Absurd to be feeling -afraid of Clare--but then she had never done anything so stupid -before.... Angry or not, Clare would never let her pay.... Yet should -she suggest it? She bit her pencil in distracted indecision, till the -lead broke off between her teeth. - -That settled it. The damp stump was barely capable of scoring an -_Alwynne_. - -She pinned the paper to the door with her only hatpin (a present of the -forenoon) and reluctantly departed. - -It was a pity that her best hat blew off twice into the mud. - -Elsbeth was glad to get Alwynne back so early. Had Alwynne enjoyed -herself? - -Alwynne sneezed as she answered. - -Before the evening was over Alwynne reeked of eucalyptus. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - - -Louise was at the nursery window, staring out into the brown, bare -garden. The sky was smooth and a dark yellow, the naked trees barred it -like a tiger's hide. The gathering dusk had swallowed up the wind. Not a -twig stirred, not a sparrow's chirp broke the thick stillness. -Spellbound, the world awaited the imminent snow. - -Louise, sitting motionless in the window-seat, with her little pink nose -flattening itself against the panes in dreary expectation of a stray -unlikely postman, looked, with her peaked, ivory face and dark, -unwinking eyes, her colourless clothes, and the sprig of holly with -never a scarlet berry pinned to her flat little chest, like the mood of -the December day made flesh. - -Clare, at least, thought so. Dispensing with the indifferent maid, she -had found her own way to the nursery, and pushing open the unlatched -door, stood an instant, appraising the child and her surroundings. She -noted with distaste the remains of the barely tasted lunch, still -encumbering the table, and impingeing on the little pile of austere -Christmas presents, so carefully arranged: the gloves and stockings and -the prim Prayer Book a mere background for a dainty calendar that she -recognised. She smiled, with a touch of irritation--did Alwynne ever -forget any one, she wondered? But it was not suitable for a mistress to -send her pupils presents.... She wished she had thought of sending -Louise something herself ... something more original than that obviously -over-prized calendar.... It was not much of a Christmas table, she -thought ... not much of a Christmas Day for a child.... - -She marvelled that a well-furnished room could look so dreary. Louise's -huddled pose, the neglected fire, the book crushed face downwards on -the floor, combined to touch her. With her incurable feeling for the -effective attitude, she remained straight and stiff in the shadows of -the doorway, but her gesture was beautiful in its awkward tenderness as -she stretched out her hand to the window. - -"Merry Christmas, Louise!" - -For an instant the child was silent, rigid, incredulous: then came a -whirl of petticoats and a flash of black legs. Louise, wild with -excitement, dropped to the floor and dashed across the room. - -"Oh, Miss Hartill! Oh, Miss Hartill! You?" - -"Well, are you pleased to see me?" - -"Please, won't you sit down?" Louise, between delight and embarrassment, -did curious things with the big arm-chair. "I can't believe it's you. -And on Christmas Day! Won't you please sit down? Is the room too warm -for you? Will you take off your furs? Would you like some tea? I'll make -up the fire--it's cold in here. Will you take this chair? Oh, Miss -Hartill! It's like the Queen calling on one. I don't know what to do." -She looked up at Clare, blushing. Her pleasure and excitement were -pretty enough. - -Clare laughed. - -"I'll tell you what to do. Run and put on your coat and hat. Would you -like to come and spend the rest of the day with me?" - -"With you?" Louise's eyes opened. "But it's Christmas Day?" - -"Well?" - -"I shan't be in the way?" - -"I don't think so," said Clare coolly. "I'll send you home if you are." - -She twinkled, but Louise was serious. - -"You could do that, couldn't you?" she remarked with relief. "Oh, Miss -Hartill, you are good! And I was hating my Christmas Day so. Won't you -sit down while I get my things on?" - -"Hurry up!" said Clare. And Louise fled to her bedroom. - -Their walk back to Friar's Lane was a silent one. The snow was at last -beginning to fall. Clare, half hypnotised by the steady silent motion, -tramped forward, keeping time to some fragment of tune within her head. -She was warmed by the pleasant consciousness of a kindly action -performed, but its object, trotting beside her, was half forgotten. - -Louise, very shy at encountering Miss Hartill unofficially, was far too -timid to speak unless she were addressed. But she was perfectly happy; -marvelling and rejoicing at her situation (Miss Hartill's guest, bound -for her home!), overflowing with dog-like devotion to the Olympian who -had actually remembered her existence. She was glad of the silent walk. -It gave her time to realise her own happiness; to learn by heart that -picture of Clare, against the background of the empty nursery, to get -her every sentence by rote, and store all safely in her memory before -turning to the contemplation of the incredible adventure upon which she -was now embarking. - -Clare, preceding Louise up the staircase, found Alwynne's note awaiting -her. She frowned as she read it and felt for her latch-key. It was just -like Alwynne to leave a note like that for any one to read.... And the -hatpin for any one to steal.... She wished it had been stolen before it -had scratched her paint.... And the bell! It was really annoying of -Alwynne! It would cost her five shillings to put right.... She, Clare, -was not mean, but she did begrudge money for that sort of thing.... -Really, Alwynne might offer to pay for it.... But that, of course, would -never occur to Alwynne.... She was altogether too reckless about other -people's belongings.... Her own were her own affair.... But to break -Clare's bell.... She must have been quite comprehensively annoyed to -have actually broken it.... Clare laughed. She had had a sudden vision -of Alwynne's blank face and indignant pealings. Poor old Alwynne! -Well--it wouldn't hurt her.... If she were careful to let Alwynne know -to whom she had been sacrificed, Alwynne might not be quite so partisan -over Louise next term.... That wouldn't be a bad thing.... She did not -approve of intimacies between the girls and the mistresses.... But she, -Clare, would make it up to both of them.... She would begin now, with -Louise.... She would devote herself to amusing Louise.... She would give -Louise the time of her life.... Louise would be sure to tell Alwynne -about it afterwards.... - - - - -CHAPTER XII - - -"What are you going to do with yourself all the holidays?" asked Clare, -with a touch of curiosity. Louise had slipped off her chair on to the -soft hearthrug, and sat, hugging her knees and staring up at Clare. - -"Read," she said briefly, and gave a little gurgle of anticipation. - -"All day long?" - -"Oh, yes, Miss Hartill. I never get a chance in term time. There's such -heaps to read. I'd like to live in a library." - -"Yet a peep at the world outside beats all the books that were ever -written." - -"I wonder." Louise rubbed her chin meditatively against her knees before -she delivered herself. "You know--I think the way things strike people -is much more interesting than the things themselves. I like exploring -people's minds. Do you know?" - -"I know," said Clare. She laughed mischievously. "You mean--that what -you think I am, for instance, is much more interesting than what I -really am." - -Louise protested mutely. Her black eyes glowed. - -"I daresay you're right, Louise. You wear pink spectacles, you see. I'm -quite sure you would be appalled if any one took them off. I'm a horrid -person really." - -Louise looked puzzled; then the twinkle in Miss Hartill's eyes -enlightened her. Miss Hartill was teasing. She laughed merrily. - -Clare shook her head. - -"It's quite true. I'm an egoist, Louise!" - -"It's not true," said Louise passionately. She was on guard in an -instant, ready to justify Miss Hartill to herself and the world. - -It amused Clare to excite her. - -"My good child--what do you know about it?" - -"Lots," said Louise, with a catch in her voice. "You're not! You're -not!" - -"I am." Clare leaned forward, much tickled. She could afford to attempt -to disillusion Louise.... Louise would not believe her, but she could -not say later that she had not been warned. But at the same time, Clare -warmed her cold and cynical self in the pure flame of affection her -self-criticism was fanning. "I am," she repeated. "Why do you think I -came round to see you to-day?" - -Louise looked up at her shyly, dwelling on her answer as if it gave her -exquisite pleasure. - -"Because--because you knew I was alone, and you hated me to be miserable -on Christmas Day." - -"You?" Clare's eyebrows lifted for a second, but a glance into the -child's candid eyes dispelled the vague suspicion.... Louise and conceit -were incompatible. She listened with a touch of compunction to the -innocent answer. - -"Not me specially, of course. Any one who was down. Only it happened to -be me. I think you can't help being good to people: you're made that -way." Her eyes were full of wondering admiration. - -Clare was touched. She sighed as she answered-- - -"I wish I were. You shouldn't believe in people, Louise. I came round -because--yes, you were a lonely scrap of a schoolgirl, certainly--but -there were lots of other reasons. I wanted a walk and I wanted to be -amused, and I wanted--and I wanted----" she moved restlessly in her -chair, "All pure egoism, anyhow." - -"But you came," said Louise. - -"To please you, or to punish some one else? I don't know!" - -Louise enjoyed her incomprehensibility. She stored up her remarks to -puzzle over later. Yet she would ask questions if Miss Hartill were in a -talking mood. - -"Do I know them?" (She had an odd habit of using the plural when she -wished to be discreet.) She wondered who had been punished, and why, and -thrilled deliciously, as she did to a ghost story. She thought that it -would be terrible to have offended Miss Hartill: yet immensely -exciting.... She wondered if all her courage would go if Miss Hartill -were angry? She had always despised poor Jeanne du Barrie: but Miss -Hartill raging would be harder to face than a mob.... - -"What have they done?" asked Louise eagerly. - -"They? It's your dear Miss Durand," said Clare, with a grim smile. "I'm -very angry with her, Louise. She's been behaving badly." - -Louise's eyes widened: she looked alarmed and distressed. - -"Oh, but Miss Hartill--she hasn't! She couldn't! What has she done?" - -"Shall I tell you?" Clare leaned forward mysteriously. - -Louise nodded breathlessly. - -"She wouldn't copy me and be an egoist. And I wanted her to, rather -badly, Louise. There, that's all! You're none the wiser, are you? Never -mind, you will be, some day. Don't look so worried, you funny child." - -"Why do you call yourself such names? You're not an egoist? You can't -be," cried Louise desperately. - -Clare laughed. - -"Can't I? Most people are. It's not a synonym for murderess! Stop -frowning, child. Why, I don't believe you know what it means even. Do -you know what an egoist is, Louise?" - -"Sir Willoughby Patterne!" said Louise promptly. - -Clare threw up her hands. - -"What next? I wish I'd had charge of you earlier. You shouldn't try so -hard to say 'Humph,' little pig." - -"I don't." Louise was indignant. - -"Then what possesses you to steer your cockle-boat on to Meredith? -Well--what do you think of him? What have you read?" - -"About all. He's queer. He's not Dickens or Scott, of course----" Her -tone deprecated. - -"Of course not," said Clare, with grave sympathy. - -"But I like him. I like Chloe. I like the sisters--you know--'Fine -Shades and Nice Feeling'----" - -"Why?" Clare shot it at her. - -"I don't know. They made me laugh. They're awfully real people. And I -liked that book where the two gentlemen drink wine. 'Veuve' something." - -"What on earth did you see in that?" Clare was amused. - -"I don't know. I just liked them. Of course, I adore Shagpat." - -"That I understand. It's a fairy tale to you, isn't it?" - -"Not a proper one--only Arabian Nightsy." - -"What's a proper one, Louise?" - -Louise hesitated. - -"Well, heaps that one loves aren't. Grimm's and Hans Andersen's aren't, -or even _The Wondrous Isles_. And, of course, none of the Lang books. I -hate those. You know, proper fairy stories aren't easy to get. You have -to dig. You get bits out of the notes in the Waverley Novels, and -there's _Kilmeny_, and _The Celtic Twilight_, and _The Lore of -Proserpine_, and Lemprière. Do you believe in fairies, Miss Hartill?" - -"It depends on the mood I'm in," said Clare seriously, "and the place. -Elves and electric railways are incompatible." - -Louise flung herself upon the axiom. - -"Do you think so? Now I don't, Miss Hartill--I don't. If they are--they -can stand railways. But you just believe in them literaturily----" - -"Literally," Clare corrected. - -"No, no--literaturily--just as a pretty piece of writing. You'll never -see them if you think of them like that, Miss Hartill. The Greeks -didn't--they just believed in Pan, and the Oreads, and the Dryads, and -all those delicious people; and the consequence was that the country -was simply crammed with them. You just read Lemprière! I wish I'd lived -then. Miss Hartill, did you ever see a Good Person?" - -"I'm afraid not, Louise. But I had a nurse who used to tell me about her -grand-aunt: she was supposed to be a changeling." - -Louise wriggled with delight. - -"Oh, tell about her, Miss Hartill. What was she like?" - -"Tiny and black, with a very white skin. They were a fair family. Nurse -said they all disliked her, though she never did them any harm. She used -to be out in the woods all day--and she ate strange food." - -"What?" - -"Fungi, and nettle-tops, and young bracken, and blackberries, my nurse -said." - -"Blackberries?" - -"She was Irish; the Irish peasants won't touch blackberries, you know. -We're just as bad, Louise. Heaps of fungi are delicious--wait till -you've been in Germany. They know what's good: but, then, they won't -touch rabbits, so there you are! I expect my nurse's aunt thought us an -odd lot, us humans." - -"Was she really a fairy?" Louise was breathless. - -"How do I know? A witch perhaps. I should think a young witch, by all -accounts." - -"What happened to her?" - -"She was 'swept' on her wedding-day." - -"Crossing water?" - -"No. She was to marry an old farmer. She went into the woods at dawn to -wash in dew, and gather bindweed for her wreath----" She paused -dramatically, her eyes dancing with fun; but Louise was wholly in -earnest. - -"Go on! Oh, go on!" - -"She was never seen again." - -"Oh, how lovely!" Louise shivered ecstatically. "I wish I'd been her. -What did her foster people do?" - -"What could they? I think they were glad to be rid of her." (Clare -suppressed a certain tall young gipsy, who had figured suspiciously in -the original narrative.) "Fairy blood is ill to live with, Louise. I -don't envy Mrs. Blake, or Mrs. Thomas Rhymer." - -"No. But it's so difficult to live in two worlds at once." - -"Shouldering the wise man's burden already?" - -"You get absent-minded, and forget--ink-stains, you know, and messages." - -"I know," said Clare. - -"You see, I have such a gorgeous world inside my head, Miss Hartill: I -go there when I'm rather down, here. It's a sort of Garden of the -Hesperides, and you are there, and Mother, and all my special friends." - -"Who, for instance?" Clare was curious; it was the first she had heard -of Louise with friends of her own. - -"Well--Elizabeth Bennett, and the Little Women, and Garm, and Amadis of -Gaul----" - -"Oh--not real people?" Clare was amused at herself for being relieved. - -"Oh, but Miss Hartill--they are real." Louise was indignant. "Ever so -much more than--oh, most people! Look at Mrs. Bennett and Mamma! Nobody -will think of Mamma in a hundred years--but who'd ever forget Mrs. -Bennett?" - -"Mrs Bennett in the Garden of the Hesperides, Louise?" Clare began to -chuckle. "I can't swallow that." - -Louise pealed with laughter. - -"You should have seen her the other day, with the dragon after her. -She'd been trying to sneak some apples, because Bingley was coming to -tea." - -"Who came to the rescue?" - -"Oh, I did." Louise was revelling in her sympathetic listener. "I have -to keep order, you know. She was awfully blown, though. Siegfried helped -me." - -"I wish I could get to fairyland as easily as you do." - -Louise considered. - -"I don't. My country is only in my head. Fairyland must be somewhere, -mustn't it? Do you know what I think, Miss Hartill?" - -"In patches, Louise." - -Louise blushed. - -"No, but seriously--don't laugh. You know you explained the fourth -dimension to us the other day?" - -"That I'm sure I never did." Clare was lying back in her chair, her arms -behind her head, smiling inscrutably. - -"Oh, but Miss Hartill----" - -"Never, Louise!" - -"Oh, but honestly--I'm not contradicting you, of course--but you did. -Last Thursday fortnight, in second lesson." - -"I wish you were as accurate over all your dates, Louise! Your History -paper was not all that it should be." - -"It's holidays, Miss Hartill! But don't you remember?" - -"I explained to you that the fourth dimension was inexplicable--a very -different thing." - -"_The Plattner Story_ explains it--clearly." Louise's tone was -distinctly reproachful. - -"Oh no, it doesn't, Louise. Mr. Wells only deludes you into thinking it -does." - -"Well, anyhow, I think--don't you think that it's rather likely that -fairyland is the fourth dimension? It would all fit in so beautifully -with all the old stories of enchantment and disappearances. Then there -was another book I read about it. _The Inheritors_----" - -"Have done, Louise! You make me dizzy. Don't try to live exclusively on -truffles. If you could continue to confine your attention to books you -have some slight chance of understanding, for the next few years, it -would be an excellent thing. Neither Meredith nor the fourth dimension -is meat for babes, you know." - -"I like what I don't understand. It's the finding out is the fun." -Louise looked mutinous. - -"And having found out?" - -"Then I start on something else." - -Clare considered her. - -"Louise, I don't know if it's a compliment to either of us--but I -believe we're very much alike." - -Louise gave a child's delighted chuckle, but she showed no surprise. - -"That's nice, Miss Hartill." She hesitated. "Miss Hartill, did you know -my Mother?" - -"Mrs. Denny?" Clare hesitated. - -Louise gave an impatient gesture. - -"Not Mamma. My very own Mother." - -"No, my dear." Clare's voice was soft. - -Louise sighed. - -"No one does. There are no pictures. Father was angry when I asked about -her once: and Miss Murgatroyd--she was our governess--she said I had no -tact. I miss her, you know, though I don't remember her. I had a nurse: -she told me a little. Mother had grey eyes too, you know," said Louise, -gazing into Clare's. "I expect she was rather like you." - -She watched Clare a little breathlessly. There was more of tenderness in -her face than many who thought they knew Clare Hartill would have -credited, but no hint of awakening memory, of the recognition the child -sought. She went on-- - -"People never come back when they're dead, do they?" She had no idea of -the longing in her voice. - -"No, you poor baby!" Clare rose hastily and began to walk up and down -the room, as her fashion was when she was stirred. - -"Never?" - -"'_Stieg je ein Freund Dir aus dem Grabe wieder?_'" murmured Clare. - -"What, Miss Hartill?" - -"Never, Louise." - -Louise's thistledown fancies were scattered by her tone. Impossible to -discredit any statement of Miss Hartill's. Yet she protested timidly. - -"There was the Witch of Endor, Miss Hartill. Samuel, you know." - -"Is that Meredith?" said Clare absently. Then she caught Louise's -expression. "What's the matter?" - -"But it's the Bible!" cried Louise horrified. - -Clare sat down again and began to laugh pleasantly. - -"What am I to do with you, Louise? Are you five or fifty? You want to -discuss Meredith with me--(not that I shall let you, my child--don't -think I approve of all this reading--I did it myself at your age, you -see) and five minutes later you look at me round-eyed because I've -forgotten my Joshua or my Judges! Kings? I beg your pardon; Kings be it! -Never mind, Louise. Tell me about the Witch of Endor." - -"Only that she called up Samuel, I meant, from the dead." - -Louise was evidently abstracted; she was picking her words. - -"Don't you believe it, Miss Hartill, quite?" - -"It's the Old Testament, after all," temporised Clare. She began to see -Louise's difficulty. She had no beliefs herself but she thought she -would find out how fourteen handled the problem. - -"Then the New is different? There was Dorcas, you know, and the widow's -son. That is all true, Miss Hartill?" - -Clare fenced. - -"Many people think so." - -"I want to know the truth," said Louise tensely. "I want to know what -you think." She spoke as if the two things were synonymous. - -Clare shook her head. - -"I won't help you, Louise. You must find out for yourself. Leave it -alone, if you're wise." - -"How can I? I've been reading----" - -"Ah?" - -"The _Origin of Species_--and _We Two_." - -Clare's gravity fled. She lay back shaking with laughter. - -"Louise, you're delightful! Anything else?" - -Louise pulled up her footstool to Clare's knee. - -"Miss Hartill, I've been reading a play. It's horrible. I can't bear it, -though it was thrilling to read----" - -Clare interrupted. - -"Where do you get all these books, Louise?" - -"They are all Mother's, you know. Nobody else wants them. And then -there's the Free Library." - -Clare shuddered. She would sooner have drunk from the tin cup of a -public fountain than have handled the greasy volumes of a public -library. - -"How can you?" she said disgustedly. "Dirt and dog-ears!" - -Louise opened her eyes. She was too young to be squeamish. - -"'A book's a book for a' that,'" she laughed. "How else am I to get hold -of any--that I like?" - -Clare jerked her head to the lined walls. - -"Help yourself," she said. - -Louise was radiant. - -"May I? Oh, you are good! I will take such care. I'll cover them in -brown paper." - -She jumped up and, running across the room, flung herself on her knees -before the wide shelves. Timidly, at first, but with growing -forgetfulness of Clare, she pulled out here a volume and there a volume, -handling them tenderly, yet barely opening each, so eager was she for -fresh discoveries. She reminded Clare of _Alice_ with the scented -rushes. Clare was amused by her absorption, and a little touched. The -child's attitude to books hinted at the solitariness of her life: she -relaxed to them, greeting them as intimates and companions; there was a -new appearance on her; she was obviously at home, welcomed by her -friends; a very different person to the shy-eyed, prim little prodigy -her school-fellows knew. - -Clare, glancing at her now and then, sympathised benevolently, and left -her to herself; she understood that side of the child; her remark to -Louise about the resemblance between them had not been made at random; -she was constantly detecting traits and tastes in her similar to her -own. She was interested; she had thought herself unique. Their histories -were not dissimilar; she, too, different as her environment had been, -could look back on a lonely, self-absorbed childhood; she, too, had had -forced and premature successes. They had not been empty ones, she -reflected complacently; she had used those schoolgirl triumphs as -stepping-stones. She doubted if Louise could do the same: there was -something unpractical about Louise--a hint of the visionary in her air. -She had at present none of Clare's passion for power and the incense of -success. Clare, quite aware of her failing, aware that it was a failing -and perversely proud of it, yet hoped that she should not see it -sprouting in the character of Louise. She hated to see her own defects -reproduced (ineffably vulgarised) in others; it jarred her pride. The -discovery of the resemblance between herself and Louise amused and -charmed her, as long as it was confined to the qualities that Clare -admired; but if the girl began to reflect her faults, Clare knew that -she should be irritated. - -She considered these things as she sat and sewed. She was an exquisite -needlewoman. The frieze of tapestry that ran round the low-ceilinged -room was her own work. Alwynne had designed it--a history of the loves -of Deirdre and Naismi some months before, when she and Clare had -discovered Yeats together; and Clare had adapted the rough, clever -sketches, working with her usual amazing speed. The foot-deep strips of -needlework and painted silk, with their golden skies and dark -foregrounds, along which the dim, rainbow figures moved, were just what -Clare had wanted to complete her panelled room; for she was -beauty-loving and house-proud, though her love of originality, or more -correctly her tendency to be superior and aloof, often enticed her into -bizarrerie. But the Deirdre frieze was as harmonious as it was unusual; -and Clare, as she daily feasted her eyes on the rich, mellow colours, -was only annoyed that the idea of it had been Alwynne's. That fact, -though she would not own it, was able, though imperceptibly, to taint -Clare's pleasure. She was quite unnecessarily scrupulous in mentioning -Alwynne's share in the work to any one who admired it; but it piqued her -to do so, none the less. If any one had told her that it piqued her she -would have been extremely amused at the absurdity of the idea. - -She was at the time working out a medallion of her own design, and -growing interested, she soon forgot all about Louise, sitting Turkish -fashion at the big book-case. The light had long since faded and the -enormous fire, gilding walls and furniture, rendered the candles' steady -light almost superfluous. Candlelight was another predilection of -Clare's--there was neither electricity nor gas in her tiny, perfect -flat. The tick of the clock in the hall and the flutter of turning pages -alone broke the silence. Outside, the snow fell steadily. - -Half-a-mile away Alwynne Durand, drumming on the window-pane, while her -aunt dozed in her chair, thought incessantly of Clare, and was filled -with restless longing to be with her. She tried to count the snowflakes -till her brain reeled. She felt cold and dreary, but she would not rouse -Elsbeth by making up the fire. She wished she had something new to read. -She thought it the longest Christmas Day she had ever spent. - -The neat maid, bringing in the tea-tray, roused Clare. She pushed aside -her work and began to pour out; but Louise in her corner, made no sign. - -Clare laughed. - -"Louise, wake up! Don't you want any tea?" - -Louise, as if the conversation had not ceased for an instant, scrambled -to her feet and came to the table, a load of books in her arms, saying -as she did so-- - -"I'll be awfully careful. May I take these, perhaps?" - -Clare nodded. - -"Presently. I'll look them over first. Muffins?" - -She gave Louise a delightful meal and taught her to take tea with a -slice of lemon. She was particular, Louise noticed; some of the muffins -were not toasted to her liking, and were instantly banished; she -criticised the cakes and the flavouring of the dainty sandwiches; then -she laughed wickedly at Louise for her round eyes. - -"What's the matter, child?" - -"Nothing," said Louise, embarrassed. - -"I believe you're shocked because I talked so much about food?" - -Louise blushed scarlet. - -"I like eating, Louise." - -"Yes--yes, of course," she concurred hastily. - -Clare was entertained. She knew quite well that Louise, like all -children, considered a display of interest in food, if not indelicate, -at least extremely human. She knew, too, that in Louise's eyes she was -too entirely compounded of ideals and noble qualities to be more than -officially human. She enjoyed upsetting her ideas. - -"If you come to actual values, I'd rather do without Shakespeare than -Mrs. Beeton," she remarked blandly. - -"Oh, Miss Hartill!" Louise was protesting--suspecting a trap--ready to -ripple into laughter. "You do say queer things." - -"I?" - -"Yes. As if you meant that!" - -"But I do! Eating's an art, Louise, like painting or writing. I had a -pheasant last Sunday----" She gave the entire menu, and enlarged on the -etceteras with enthusiasm. - -Louise looked bewildered. - -"I never thought you thought about that sort of thing," she remarked. "I -thought you just didn't notice--I thought you would always be thinking -of poetry and pictures----" She subsided, blushing. - -Clare laughed at her pleasantly. - -"I thought, I thought, I think, I thought! What a lot of thoughts. I'm -sorry, Louise! Is all my star-dust gone?" - -Louise shook her head vigorously, but she was still embarrassed. She -changed the subject with agility. - -"I've read that!" - -"What?" - -"The star-dust book--but I've picked out two others of his. May I? All -these?" - -Clare ran her finger along the titles. - -"Yes--yes--Fiona Mcleod--yes--_Peer Gynt_--yes, if you like, you won't -understand it, or Yeats--but all right. No, not Nietzsche! Not on any -account, Louise." - -Louise protested. - -"Oh, why not, Miss Hartill? I'm nearly fourteen." - -"Are you really?" said Clare, with respect. - -"He looks so jolly--Old Testamenty----" - -"He does, Louise! That's his little way. But he's not for the Upper -Fifth." - -"He's in the Free Library," said Louise, with a twinkle. Clare turned. - -"You can have all the books you want, if you come to me. But no more -Free Library, Louise. You understand? I don't wish it." - -Louise tingled like a bather under a cold spray. She liked and disliked -the autocratic tone. - -Clare went on. - -"I detest trash--and there's a good deal, even in a Carnegie collection. -There's no need for you to dull your imagination on melodrama like--what -was it?" - -"What, Miss Hartill?" - -"The play you began to tell me about--you thought it horrible, you -said." - -Louise opened her eyes. - -"Miss Hartill, it wasn't melodrama--it was good stuff. That's why it -worried me. It's by a Norwegian or a Dane or some one. _Pastor Sang_ -it's called." - -"That? I don't follow. I should have thought the theology would have -bored you, but there's nothing horrible in it." - -"It worried me. Oh, Miss Hartill, what does it all mean? Darwin says, we -just grew--doesn't he? and that the Bible's all wrong. But you say that -doesn't matter--it's just Old Testament? And this play says--do you -remember? the wife is ill--and the husband, who cures people by -praying--he can't cure her----" - -"Well?" said Clare impatiently. - -"And he says, if the apostles did miracles, we ought to be able to--he -kills his wife, trying. He can't, you see. But the point is, if he -couldn't, with all his faith--could the apostles? And if the apostles -couldn't, could Christ Himself? The miracles are just only a tale, -perhaps?" - -"Perhaps," said Clare. "You're not clear, Louise, but I know what you -mean." - -"It frightened me, that play," said the child in a low voice. "If there -were no miracles--and everything one reads makes one sure there -weren't--why, then, the Bible's not true! Jesus was just a man! He -didn't rise? Perhaps there isn't an afterwards? Perhaps there isn't -God?" - -"Perhaps," said Clare. - -The child's eyes were wide and frightened. She put her hand timidly on -Clare's knee. - -"Miss Hartill--you believe in God?" - -Clare looked at her, weighing her. - -Louise spoke again; her voice had grown curiously apprehensive. - -"Miss Hartill--you do believe in God?" - -Clare shrugged her shoulders. - -Louise stared at her appalled. - -"If _you_ don't believe in God----" she began slowly, and then stopped. - -They sat a long while in silence. - -Clare felt uncomfortable. She had not intended to express any opinion, -to let her own attitude to religion appear. But Louise, with her sudden -question, had forced one from her. After all, if Louise had begun to -doubt and to inquire, no silence on Clare's part would stop her.... -Every girl went through the phase--with Louise it had begun early, that -was all.... Yet in her heart she knew that Louise, with her already -overworked mind, should have been kept from the mental distress of -religious doubt.... She knew that for some years she could have been so -kept; that, as the mouth can eat what the body will not absorb, so, -though her intelligence might have assimilated all the books she chose -to read, her soul need not necessarily have been disturbed by them. Her -acquired knowledge that the world is round need not have jostled her -rule of thumb conviction that it is flat. Her interest in 'ologies and -'osophies could have lived comfortably enough, with her child's belief -in four angels round her head, for another two or three -years--strengthening, maturing years. - -Clare knew her power. At a soothing word from her, Louise would have -shelved her speculations, or at least have continued them impersonally. -Clare could have guaranteed God to her. But Clare had shrugged her -shoulders, and Louise had grown white--and she had felt like a -murderess. Do children really take their religion so seriously?... After -all, what real difference could it make to Louise?... She, Clare, had -been glad to be rid of her clogging and irrational beliefs.... Louise, -too, when she recovered from the shock, would enjoy the sense of freedom -and self-respect.... If Louise talked like a girl of eighteen she could -not be expected to receive the careful handling you gave a child of -twelve.... Anyhow, it was done now.... - -Suddenly and persuasively she began to talk to Louise. She touched -gently on the history, the growth and inevitable decay of all -religions--the contrasting immutability of the underlying code of -ethics, upon which they, one and all, were founded. She told her vivid -little stories of the religious struggles of the centuries, had her -breathless over the death of Socrates, nailed up for her anew the -ninety-five theses to the Wittenberg church door. Exerting all her -powers, all her knowledge, all her descriptive and dramatic skill, to -charm away one child's distress, Clare was, for an hour, a woman -transformed, sound and honey-sweet. Against all that happened later, she -could at least put the one hour, when, remorsefully, she had given -Louise of the best that was in her. - -Incidentally, she delivered to her audience of one the most brilliant -lecture of her career. Later she wrote down what she remembered of it, -and it became the foundation for her monograph on religions that was to -become a minor classic. Its success was immediate--that was typical of -Clare--but she never wrote another line. That also was typical of Clare. -It bored her to repeat a triumph. - -She soon had Louise happy again: it was not in Louise to stick to the -high-road of her own thoughts, with Miss Hartill opening gates to -fairyland at every sentence. Clare kept her for the rest of the evening, -and took her home at last, weighed down by her parcel of books, sleepy -from the effects of excitement and happiness. She poured out her -incoherent thanks as they waited on the doorstep of her home. There had -never been such a Christmas--she had never had such a glorious time--she -couldn't thank Miss Hartill properly if she talked till next Christmas -came. - -Clare, nodding and laughing, handed her over to the maid, and went home, -not ill-pleased with her Christmas either. She thought of the child as -she walked down the snowy, star-lighted streets, and wondered -whimsically what she was doing at the moment. Would she say her prayers -on her way to bed still, or had Clare's little, calculated shrug stopped -that sort of thing for many a long day? She rather thought so. She shook -off her uneasy sense of compunction and laughed aloud. The cold night -air was like wine to her. After all, for an insignificant spinster, she -had a fair share of power--real power--not the mere authority of kings -and policemen. Her mind, not her office, ruled a hundred other minds, -and in one heart, at least, a shrug of her shoulders had toppled God off -His throne; and the vacant seat was hers, to fill or flout as she -chose. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - - -With the opening of the spring term began the final and most arduous -preparations for the Easter examinations. - -The school had been endowed, some years before, under the will of a -former pupil, with a scholarship, a valuable one, ensuring not only the -freedom of the school, but substantial help in the subsequent college -career, that the winning of it entailed. - -The rules were strict. The papers were set and corrected by persons -chosen by the trustees of the bequest. The scholarship was open to the -school, but no girl over seventeen might enter: and though an -unsuccessful candidate might compete a second time, she must gain a -percentage of marks in the first attempt. Total failure debarred her -from making a second. This last rule limited in effect, the entries to -members of the Sixths and Fifths, for the scholarship was too valuable -for a chance of it to be risked through insufficient training. The -standard, too, was high, and the rules so strictly enforced that -withheld the grant if it were not attained, that Miss Marsham was -accustomed to make special arrangements for those competing. They were -called the "Scholarship Class," and had certain privileges and a great -amount of extra work. To most of them the particular privilege that -compensated for six months' drudgery was the fact that they were almost -entirely under Miss Hartill's supervision. She considered their training -her special task and spared neither time nor pains. She loved the -business. She understood the art of rousing their excitement, pitting -ambition against ambition. She worked them like slaves, weeding out -remorselessly the useless members. Theoretically all had the right to -enter; but none remained against Miss Hartill's wishes. - -In spite of the work, the members of the Scholarship Class had an envied -position in the school. Clare saw to that. Without attackable bias, she -differentiated subtly between them and the majority. Each of the group -was given to understand, without words, impalpably, yet very definitely, -that if Miss Hartill, the inexorable, could have a preference, one had -but to look in the glass to find it; and that to outstrip the rest of -the class, to be listed an easy first, would be the most exquisite -justification that preference could have. And as the type of girl who -succumbed the most surely to Clare's witchcraft was also usually of the -type to whom intellectual work was in itself attractive, it was not -surprising if her favourite class were a hot-bed of emulation and -enthusiasm--enthusiasm that was justified of its origin, for not even -Henrietta Vigers denied that Clare contributed her full share to the -earning of the scholarship, Miss Marsham, towards the end of the spring, -was wont to declare, with her usual kindly concern, that she was -thankful that the examination was not an annual affair.... Their good -Miss Hartill was too anxious, too conscientious.... Miss Marsham must -really forbid her to make herself ill. And, indeed, when the class was a -large one, Clare was as reckless of her own strength as of that of her -pupils, and suffered more from its expenditure. Where they were -responsible, each for herself, Clare toiled early and late for them all. -She fed them, moreover, from her own resources of energy, was entirely -willing to devitalise herself on their behalf. The strain once over, she -appeared slack, gaunt, debilitated. She had, however, her own methods of -recuperation. Her ends gained, she could take back what she had -given--take back more than ever she had given. Moreover, the supply of -child-life never slackened. Old scholars might go--but ever the new ones -came. Was it not Clare who gave the school its latter-day reputation? By -the end of the summer term Clare would be once more in excellent -condition. - -When the promotion of Louise to the Upper School had first been mooted, -Miss Hartill had not forgotten that the scholarship examination was once -more drawing near. She saw no reason why Louise should not compete. That -Louise, the whilom dullard of the Third, the youngest girl in the Upper -School, should snatch the prize from the expectants of the Sixths and -Fifths, would be an effective retort on Clare's critics, would redound -very pleasantly to Clare's credit. - -If she let the opportunity pass, Louise must wait two years: at thirteen -it would be a triumph for Louise and Clare; at fifteen there would be -nothing notable in her success. And the baby herself would be delighted. -Clare was already sufficiently taken with Louise to enjoy the -anticipation of her delight. - -She was quite aware that it would entail special efforts on her own -part, as well as on the child's, and that she had a large class already -on her hands, and in need of coaching. But there was always Alwynne. -Alwynne was so reliable; she could safely leave Louise's routine work in -Alwynne's hands. It remained to consult Louise and incidentally the -parent Dennys. - -Louise was awestruck, overwhelmed by the honour of being allowed to -compete, absurdly and touchingly delighted. No doubt as to Louise's -sentiments. No doubt as to the sincerity of her efforts. No doubt, until -the spring term began, of the certainty of her success. - -The spring term opened with Clare in Miss Marsham's carved seat at -morning prayers. The school had grown accustomed to its head-mistress's -occasional absence. Miss Marsham, who had for some time felt the strain -of school routine too much for her advanced years, was only able to -sustain the fiction of her unimpaired powers by taking holidays, as a -morphineuse takes her drug, in ever-increasing doses. She was confident -in the discretion alike of Clare Hartill and Henrietta Vigers, and, -indeed, but for their efficiency, the school would have suffered more -quickly than it actually did. Nevertheless, the absence of supreme -authority had, though but slightly, the usual disintegrating effect. -There was always, naturally, an increase of friction between the two -women, especially when the absence of the directress occurred at the -beginning of a term. There would be the usual agitations--problems of -housing and classification. There would arrive parents to be interviewed -and impressed, new girls to be gracefully and graciously welcomed. Clare -(to whom Henrietta, for all her hostility, invariably turned in -emergencies), showing delicately yet unmistakably that she considered -herself unwarrantably hampered in her own work, would submit to being on -show with an air of bored acquiescence, tempered with modest surprise at -the necessity for her presence. It was sufficiently irritating to -Henrietta, under strict, if indirect, orders to leave the decorative -side of the vice-regency to her rival. She was quite aware of Clare's -greater effectiveness. She did not believe that it weighed with Miss -Marsham against her own solid qualities. She affected to despise it. Yet -despising, she envied. - -She was unjust to Clare, however, in believing the latter's reluctance -entirely assumed. Clare enjoyed ruffling the susceptibilities of -Henrietta, but she was none the less genuinely annoyed at being even -partially withdrawn from her classes and was relieved when, at the end -of a fortnight, Miss Marsham returned to her post. Clare had been forced -to neglect her special work. Classes had been curtailed and interrupted, -the many extra lessons postponed or turned over to Alwynne, whom more -than any other mistress she had trained and could trust. - -It was Alwynne who, reporting to her at the end of the first fortnight, -had made her more than ever eager to be rid of her deputyship. - -There were new girls in the Fifth in whom Alwynne was interested. One, -at least, she prophesied, would be found to have stuff in her. It was a -pity she was not in the Scholarship Class.... She was too good for the -Lower Fifth.... Alwynne supposed it would be quite impossible to let -her enter? - -"At this time of day? Impossible! Do you realise that we've only another -three months?" - -"I don't suppose she'd want to, anyhow," said Alwynne. "She's a quaint -person! Talk about independence! She informed me to-day that she -shouldn't stay longer than half-term, unless she liked us." - -"Oho! Young America!" Clare was alert. "I didn't know you referred to -Cynthia Griffiths. I interviewed the parents last week. Immensely rich! -She was demure enough, but I gathered even then that she ruled the -roost. Her mother was quite tearful--implored me to keep her happy for -three months anyhow, while they both indulged in a rest cure abroad. She -seemed doubtful of our capacities. But she was not explicit." - -"Cynthia is. I've heard the whole story while I tried to find out how -much she knew. She's a new type. Her French and her German are -perfect--and her clothes. Her bedroom is a pig-sty and she gets up when -she chooses. I gather that she has reduced Miss Vigers to a nervous -wreck already. Thank goodness I'm a visiting mistress! I wonder what the -girls will make of her!" - -"Or she of them." - -"That won't be the question," surmised Alwynne shrewdly. "Clare, she has -five schools behind her, American and foreign--and she's fifteen! We are -an incident. I know. There were two Americans at my school." - -"It remains to be seen." Clare's eyes narrowed. "Well, what else?" - -Alwynne fidgeted. - -"I'm glad you're taking over everything again. I prefer my small kids." - -"Why?" - -"Easier to understand--and manage." - -Clare looked amused. - -"Been getting into difficulties? Who's the problem? Agatha?" - -"That wind-bag! She only needs pricking to collapse," said Alwynne -contemptuously. Then, with a frown: "I wish poor little Mademoiselle -Charette would realise it. Have you ever seen a Lower Fifth French -lesson? But, of course, you haven't. It's a farce." - -Clare frowned. - -"If she can't keep order----" - -"She can teach anyhow," said Alwynne quickly. "I was at the other end of -the room once, working. I listened a little. It's only Agatha. -Mademoiselle can tackle the others. She's effective in a delicate way; -but senseless, noisy rotting--it breaks her up. She loses her temper. Of -course, it's funny to watch. But I hate that sort of thing. I did when I -was a schoolgirl even, didn't you?" - -"I don't remember." But in the back of Clare's mind was a class-room and -herself, contemptuously impertinent to a certain ineffective Miss -Loveday. - -Alwynne continued, frowning-- - -"Anyhow, I wish you'd do something." - -Clare yawned. - -"One mustn't interfere with other departments--unasked." - -"Well, I ask you." Alwynne was in earnest. - -"Why?" - -"I want you to." - -"Why?" - -Alwynne blushed. - -"Why this championship? I didn't know you and Mademoiselle Charette were -such intimates?" - -"It's just because we aren't. I like her, but----" - -"But what?" - -"Well--we had a row. You see--You won't tell, Clare?" - -Clare smiled. - -"She doesn't like you," blurted out Alwynne indignantly. "And I just -want to show her how altogether wrong----" - -"What a crime! How did you find it out?" Clare was amused. - -"She was telling me about Agatha. And I said--why on earth didn't she -complain to you? And she said--nothing on earth would induce her to. I -said--I was sure you would be only too glad for her to ask you. And she -said----" Alwynne paused dramatically: "She said--she hadn't the -faintest doubt you would, and that I was a charming child, but that she -happened to understand you. Then we had a row of course." - -Clare pealed with laughter. - -"She's quite right, Alwynne. You are a charming child. So that is -Mademoiselle Charette, is it? And I never guessed." She mused, a curious -little smile on her lips. - -"She's a dear, really," said Alwynne apologetically. "Only she's what -Mrs. Marpler calls ''aughty.' I can't think why her knife's into you." - -"Suppose----" Clare's eyes lit up, she showed the tip of her -tongue--sure sign of mischief afloat. "Suppose I pull it out? What do -you bet me, Alwynne?" - -Alwynne laughed. - -"I wish you would. I don't like it when people don't appreciate you. -Anyhow, I wish you'd settle Agatha. You know, it's not doing the -scholarship French any good. The class slacks. Mademoiselle is worried, -I know." - -Clare was serious at once. - -"That must stop. The standard's too high for trifling. And one or two of -them are weak as it is. Especially Louise. Isn't she? Don't you coach -her for the grammar? How is her extra work getting on, by the way? Like -a house on fire, I suppose?" - -"Not altogether." Alwynne looked uneasy. - -"What?" Clare looked incredulous. - -"She's the problem," said Alwynne. - -She had a piece of paper on the table before her and was drawing -fantastic profiles as she spoke, sure sign of perturbation with Alwynne, -as Clare knew. - -"Well?" demanded Clare, after an interval. - -Alwynne paused, pencil hovering over an empty eyesocket. She seemed -nervous, opened her lips once or twice and closed them again. - -"What's wrong?" Clare prompted her. - -"Nothing's wrong exactly." Alwynne flushed uncomfortably. "After all, -you've seen her in class. Her work is as good as usual?" - -"I think so. Her last essay was a little exotic, by the bye, not quite -as natural--but you corrected them. I was so busy." - -"You don't think she's getting too keen, working too hard?" Alwynne's -tone was tentative. - -"Do you think so?" Clare was thoroughly interested. She was tickled at -Alwynne's anxious tones. She always enjoyed her occasional bursts of -responsibility. But she was nevertheless intrigued by Alwynne's hints. -She had certainly not given her class its usual attention lately. To -Louise she had scarcely spoken unofficially since term began; no -opportunity had occurred, and she had been too busy to make one. Louise -had returned a bundle of books to her on the opening day of the term, -and had been bidden to fetch herself as many more as she chose. But -Clare had been out when Louise had called. Clare, to tell the truth, had -not once given a thought to Louise since Christmas Day. She had taken a -trip to London with Alwynne soon after. The two had enjoyed themselves. -The holidays had flown. But she had been glad to find her class -radiantly awaiting her. She had found it much as usual. Alwynne's -perturbation was the more intriguing. - -"Do you think so?" she repeated, with a lift of her eyebrows that -reduced Alwynne's status to that of a Kindergarten pupil teacher. She -enjoyed seeing her grow pink. - -"Of course, it's no affair of mine," said Alwynne aggrievedly. She went -on with her drawing. - -Clare swung herself on to the low table and sat, skirts a-sway, gazing -down at Alwynne's head, bent over its grotesques. There was a curl at -the nape of the neck that fascinated her. It lay fine and shining like a -baby's. She picked up a pencil and ran it through the tendril. Alwynne -jumped. - -"Clare, leave me alone. You only think I'm impertinent." - -"Does she want a finger in the pie, then?" said Clare softly. "Poor old -Alwynne!" The pencil continued its investigations. - -Alwynne tried not to laugh. She could never resist Clare's soft voice, -as Clare very well knew. - -"I don't! I only thought----" - -"That Louise--your precious Louise----" - -"She's trying so awfully hard----" - -"Yes?" - -"She's overdoing it. The work's not so good. She's too keen, I -think----" - -"Yes?" - -"I think----" - -"Yes, Alwynne?" - -"You won't be annoyed?" - -"That depends." - -"Then I can't tell you." - -"I think you can," said Clare levelly. - -Alwynne was silent. Clare took the paper from her and examined it. - -"You've a fantastic imagination, Alwynne. When did you dream those -faces? Well--and what do you think? Be quick." - -"I think she's growing too fond of you," said Alwynne desperately. - -She faced Clare, red and apprehensive. She expected an outburst. But -Clare never did what Alwynne expected her to do. - -"Is that all? Pooh!" said Clare lightly and began to laugh. She swung -backwards, her finger-tips crooked round the edge of the table, her neat -shoes peeping and disappearing beneath her skirts as she rocked herself. -She regarded Alwynne with sly amusement. - -"So I've a bad influence, Alwynne? Is that the idea?" - -Alwynne protested redly. Clare continued unheeding. - -"Well, it's a novel one, anyhow. Could you indicate exactly how my -blighting effect is produced? Don't mind me, you know." Then, with a -chuckle: "Oh, you delicious child!" - -Alwynne was silent. - -"Tell me all about it, Alwynne dear!" cooed Clare. - -Alwynne shrugged her shoulders with a curiously helpless gesture. - -"I can't," she said. "I thought I could--but I can't. You don't help me. -I was worried over Louise. I thought--I think she alters. I think she -gets a strained look. I know she thinks about you all the time. I -thought--but, of course, if you see nothing, it's my fancy. There's -nothing definite, I know. If you don't know what I mean----" - -"I don't!" said Clare shortly. "Do you know yourself?" - -"No!" said Alwynne. She searched Clare's face wistfully. "I just thought -perhaps--she was too fond of you--I can't put it differently. I'm a -fool! I wish I hadn't said anything." - -"So do I," said Clare gravely. - -"I didn't mean to interfere: it wasn't impertinence, Clare," said -Alwynne, her cheeks flaming. - -Clare hesitated. She was annoyed at Alwynne's unnecessary display of -insight, yet tickled by her penetration, not displeased by the jealousy -which, as it seemed to her, must be at the root of the protest. Alwynne -had evidently not forgotten her chilly Christmas afternoon.... Louise, -as obviously, had talked.... There must have been some small degree of -friction for Alwynne to complain of Louise.... Curiously, it never -occurred to Clare that Alwynne's remarks hid no motive, that Alwynne -was genuinely anxious and meant exactly what she had said, or tried to -say. Possibly in Alwynne's simplicity lay her real attraction for Clare. -It made her as much of a sphinx to Clare as Clare was to her. - -As she stood before her, apprehensive of her displeasure, obviously -afraid that she had exceeded those bounds to their intercourse that she, -more than Clare, had laid down, yet withal, a curiously dogged look upon -her face, Clare was puzzled as to her own wisest attitude. She was -inclined to batter her into a retraction; it would have relieved her own -feelings. Clare could not endure criticism. But she was not yet so sure -of Alwynne as to allow herself the relief of invective. She thought that -she might easily reserve her annoyance for Louise. It was Louise, after -all, who had exposed her to criticism.... And if Alwynne chose to be -jealous, it was at least a flattering display.... She supposed she must -placate Alwynne.... After all, fifty Louises and her own dignity could -not weigh against the possession of Alwynne.... She spoke slowly, -choosing her words, - -"As if I could think you impertinent! But, my dear--I'm older than you. -Can't you trust me to understand my girls? After all, I devote my life -to them, Alwynne." Clare's quiet dignity was in itself a reproof. - -"I know." Alwynne lifted distressed eyes. "I didn't mean--I didn't -imply--of course, you know best. I only thought----" - -"That I took more notice of Louise than was wise?" - -"No, no!" protested Alwynne unhappily. - -Clare continued-- - -"If you think I'm to blame for encouraging a lonely child--she has no -mother, Alwynne--lending her a few books--asking her to tea with -me--because I felt rather sorry for her----" - -"I didn't mean that----" Alwynne twisted her fingers helplessly. - -"Then what did you mean?" Clare asked her. She had slipped on to the -floor, and was facing Alwynne, very tall and grave and quiet. "Won't you -tell me just exactly what you did mean?" she allowed a glimmer of -displeasure to appear in her eyes. - -And Alwynne, tongue-tied and cornered, had nothing whatever to say. She -had been filled with vague uneasiness and had come to Clare to have it -dispelled. The uneasiness was still there, formless yet insistent--but -the only effect of her clumsy phrases was to hurt Clare's feelings. -After all, was she not worrying herself unduly? Was she to know better -than Clare? She had felt for some moments that she had made a fool of -herself. There remained to capitulate. Her anxiety over Louise melted -before the pain in Clare's eyes--the reproof of her manner. - -"Would you like me to speak to Louise, before you?" went on Clare -patiently. "Perhaps she could explain what it is that worries you----" - -"No, no! for goodness' sake, Clare!" cried Alwynne, appalled. Then -surrendering, "Clare--I didn't mean anything. I do see--I've been -fussing--impertinent--whatever you like. I didn't mean any harm. Oh, -let's stop talking about it, please." - -"I'd rather you convinced yourself first," said Clare frigidly. "I don't -want the subject re-opened once a week." Then relenting, "Poor old -Alwynne! The trials of a deputy! Has she worried herself to death? But -I'm back now. I think I can manage my class, Alwynne--as long as you -stand by to give me a word of advice now and then." - -Alwynne squirmed. Clare laughed tenderly. - -"My dear--give Louise a little less attention. It won't hurt either of -you. Are you going to let me feel neglected?" Then, with a change of -tone. "Now we've had enough of this nonsense." She curled herself in her -big chair. "Alwynne, there's a box of Fuller's in the cupboard, and an -English Review. Don't you want to hear the new Masefield before you go -home?" - -And Alwynne's eyes grew big, and she forgot all about Louise, as Clare's -"loveliest voice" read out the rhyme of _The River_. - -Yet Clare had a last word as she sent her home to Elsbeth. - -"Sorry?" said Clare whimsically, as Alwynne bade her good-bye. - -"I always was a fool," said Alwynne, and hugged her defiantly. - -But Clare, for once, made no protest. She patted her ruffled hair as she -listened to the noises of the departure. - -"Too fond of me?" she said softly. "Too fond of me? Alwynne--what about -you?" - -But if Alwynne heard, she made no answer. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - - -Miss Marsham was accustomed to recognise that it was the brief career of -Cynthia Griffiths that first induced her to consider the question of her -own retirement. - -It is certain that the school was never again quite as it had been -before her advent. The Cynthia Griffiths term remained a school date -from which to reckon as the nation reckons from the Jubilee. In an -American school Cynthia Griffiths must have been at least a disturbing -element--in the staid English establishment, with its curious mixture of -modern pedagogy and Early Victorian training, she was seismic. - -With their usual adaptability, the new girls, as they accustomed -themselves subduedly to the strange atmosphere, had found nothing to -cavil at in the school arrangements. They had not thought it incongruous -to come from Swedish exercises to prolonged and personal daily prayers, -kneeling for ten minutes at a time while their head mistress wrestled -with Deity. It might have bored girls of sixteen and eighteen to learn -their daily Bible verse, and recite it alternately with the Kindergarten -and Lower School, but it never occurred to them to protest, any more -than they were likely to object to the little note-book which each girl -carried, with its printed list of twenty-five possible crimes, and the -dangling pencil wherewith, at tea-time, to mark herself innocent or -guilty. The hundred and one rules that Edith Marsham had found useful in -the youth of her seminary, forty years before, and that time had -rendered obsolete, irritating, or merely unintelligible, were -nevertheless endured with entire good nature by her successions of -pupils. Alwynne and her contemporaries might fume in private and Clare -shrug her shoulders in languid tolerance, but nobody thought it worth -while to question directly the entire sufficiency of a bygone system to -the needs of the new century's hockey-playing generations. - -But a little leaven leaveneth the whole lump. - -What, if you please, is an old lady to do? An old lady, declining on her -pleasant seventies, owning sixty, not a day more, traditionally -awe-inspiring and unapproachable, whose security lies in the legends -that have grown up of the terrors of her eye and tongue, when Young -America clamours at her intimidating door? Young America, calm-eyed, -courteous, coaxing, squatting confidentially at the feet of Authority, -demanding counsel and comfort. Useless for harried Authority to suggest -consultation with equally harried assistants. Young America, with a -charming smile and the prettiest of gestures, would rather talk it over -quietly with Authority's self. Authority, who is the very twin of her -dear old Grannie at home, will be sure to understand. Such fusses about -nothing all day and every day! Can it be that Authority expects her to -keep her old bureau tidy, when she's had a maid all her life? Young -America will be married as soon as she quits Europe (follows a -confidential sketch of the more promising of Young America's best boys), -and have her own maid right on. Can Authority, as a matter of cold -common-sense, see any use in bothering over cupboards for just three -months or so? If so--right! Young America will worry along somehow, but -it seemed kind of foolish, didn't it? Or could Young America hire a -girl--like she did in Paris? Anyway it was rough luck on the lady in the -glasses to get an apoplexy every day, as Authority might take it was the -case at present. Another point--could Authority, surveying matters -impartially, see any harm in running down town when she was out of -candy? It only meant missing ten minutes French, and if there was one -thing Young America (lapsing suddenly, with bedazing fluency, into that -language) was sure of, it was French. These English-French classes meant -well--but, her God! how they were slow! There had been--Young America -confessed it with candid regret--some difficulties with the cute little -mark-books. Young America had mislaid three in a fortnight. She just put -them down, and they lay around awhile, and then they weren't there. Some -of the ladies had been real annoyed. And once on the subject of -mark-books, did Authority really mean that she was to chalk it up each -time she was late for breakfast, or said "Darn it," or talked in class? -Would, in her place, Authority be able to keep tally? Couldn't Young -America just mark off the whole concern and be done with it? Young -America apologised for worrying Authority with these quaint -matters--but, on her honour, every lady in the school seemed to have -gone plum crazy about them.... They just sat around and yapped at her. -Young America was genuinely scared. She had thought a heart-to-heart -chat with Authority ought to put things right. She would be real -grateful to Authority for fixing things.... - -And so, with the odd curtsey she had learned among "the Dutchies," as -she called her German pensionat, and a hearty kiss on either cheek, -Young America, affable as ever, beamed upon Authority and withdrew. - -Authority felt as if it had been out in a high wind. Instinctively it -clutched at its imposing head-dress. All was in place. Authority lay -back in its chair and gasped fishily. - -But Miss Vigers, frenzied into confession of inability to deal with the -situation--got scant sympathy. - -"What am I to do? I hate troubling you--I am sure, though, it's a relief -to us all to have you back. Of course, if you had been at home she would -never have been admitted.... You would have realised the -unsuitability--but it was not my decision.... Miss Hartill.... But what -am I to do? I flatter myself I can control our English girls--but these -Americans! Open defiance, Miss Marsham! Her room! She refuses to attend -to it. She comes and goes when she chooses. She treats me, positively, -as an equal. Her influence is unspeakable! It must be stopped! Ten -minutes late for breakfast--oh, every day! Once, I could excuse. And on -the top of it all to offer me chocolates! I must ask you to punish her -severely.... Keep her in? Miss Marsham, I did.... I sent her to her -room. Miss Marsham, will you believe me? When I went up to her later, -she was fast asleep! On the bed! In the daytime!! Without taking off the -counterpane!!! Miss Marsham, I leave the matter to you!" - -She paused for the comments her tale deserved. But to outraged -Authority, it had called up a picture--an impudent picture of Young -America, curled kitten-fashion on its austere white pallet--pink cheek -on rounded arm, guileless eyes opening sleepily under a sour and -scandalised gaze. - -Henrietta started. She could not believe her ears. - -Benevolently--unmistakably--Authority had chuckled. - -But the scandal was short-lived. Before the term was over: before -Henrietta had braced herself to her usual resource, a threat of -resignation, or Miss Marsham, hesitating between the devil of her -protesting subordinates and the deep sea of Young America's unshakable -conviction that in her directress she had an enthusiastic partisan, -could allow her maid to suggest to her that she needed a change, the end -had arrived. - -Cynthia, as Alwynne had surmised, found ten weeks of an English private -school more than enough for her; and an imperious telegram had summoned -her docile parents. - -She departed as she had come, in a joyous flurry. The school mourned, -and the Common-room, in its relief, sped the parting guest with a -cordiality that was almost effusive. - -A remark of Henrietta's, as the mistress sat over their coffee on the -afternoon of Cynthia's departure, voiced the attitude of the majority to -its late pupil. - -"I'm thankful," Miss Vigers was unusually talkative, "deeply thankful -that she's gone. An impossible young woman. Oh, no--you couldn't call -her a girl. Would any girl--any English girl--conceivably behave as she -has? They have begun to imitate her, of course. That was to be expected. -She demoralised the school. It will take me a month to get things -straight. I have three children in bed to-day. Headaches? Fiddlesticks! -Over-eating! I suppose you heard that there was a midnight feast last -night?" - -The Common-room opened its eyes. - -"I'm not astonished. A farewell gathering, I suppose! I'm sure it's not -the first," said Clare, her eyes alight with amusement. "But go on. How -did you find it out?" - -"Miss Marsham informed me of it," said Henrietta, with desperate -calmness. "It appears that Cynthia asked her permission. Miss -Marsham--er--contributed a cake. Seed!" - -Clare gurgled. - -"This is priceless. Did she tell you? I wonder she had the face." - -Henrietta grew pink. - -"No. Cynthia herself. She--er--offered me a slice. She had the -impertinence--the entirely American impertinence--to come to my -room--after midnight--to borrow a tooth-glass. To eat ices in. It -appeared that they were short of receptacles." - -"Ices?" came the chorus. - -"Her mother provided them, I believe. In a pail," said Henrietta -stiffly. - -"Did you lend the tooth-glass?" asked Clare. - -Henrietta coughed. - -"It was difficult to refuse. She had bare feet. I did not wish her to -catch cold." - -Clare turned away abruptly. Her shoulders shook. - -"I do not wish to be unjust. I do not think she was intentionally -insubordinate." Henrietta fingered one of the tall pink roses that had -appeared on her desk that morning. "I believe she meant well." - -"She was a dear!" said the little gym mistress. - -"She was an impossible young woman," retorted Henrietta with spirit. "At -the same time----" - -"At the same time?" Clare spoke with unusual friendliness. - -"She certainly had a way with her," said Henrietta. - - - - -CHAPTER XV - - -Cynthia Griffiths had set a fashion. - -Her kewpie hair-ribbons and abbreviated blouses were an unofficial -uniform long after she had ceased, probably, to know that such articles -of dress existed. Her slang phrases incorporated themselves in the -school vocabulary. Her deeds of derring-do were imitated from afar. To -have been on intimate terms with her would have been an impressive -distinction, had not every member of the school been able to lay claim -to it. For Cynthia's jolly temperament laughed at schoolgirl etiquette, -could never be brought to realise the existence of caste and clique. She -darted into their lives and out again, like a dragon-fly through a cloud -of gnats. It was not strange that her beauty, her prodigality, in -conjunction with the all-excusing fact of her nationality, should have -attracted the weather-cock enthusiasm of her companions: should have -made her, short as her career had been, the rage. - -Yet the one person on whom that career was to have a lasting influence -was, to all appearance, the least affected by it. - -Cynthia and Louise Denny were class-mates, for Clare, amused and -interested by the new type, had, after all, arranged for Cynthia to join -the Scholarship Class, though there could be no idea of her entering. -She agreed with Alwynne that there was not much likelihood of Cynthia's -sojourn being a long one. In the meantime, as she had explained to Miss -Marsham, it was better to have the fire-brand under her own eye. Miss -Marsham agreed with alacrity, and contrasted Clare's calmly capable -manner with the protests of Henrietta. She realised joyfully that -Cynthia would not be permitted to appeal from any decision of Miss -Hartill. She recalled, not for the first time, that in all Clare's years -there had never come a crisis for which she had been found unprepared. -Details of a campaign might finally reach the ears of Authority--there -would be always birds of the air to carry the matter--but from Miss -Hartill herself, no word; if pressed, there would be a brief summary, a -laughing comment, never an appeal for help. Miss Marsham had built up -her school by sheer force of personality. She was old now, grown slack -and easy, but instinctively she recognised a ruling spirit, a kindred -mind. One day she must choose her successor.... She was rich. Her school -need not fall to the highest bidder.... There were Henrietta and Clare. -Henrietta had scraped and saved, she knew.... Henrietta was fond of -trying on Authority's shoes.... Of Clare's wishes she was less sure.... -But Clare was a capable girl--a capable girl.... Clare had never let any -one worry her.... - -She read Clare correctly. Clare had no intention of allowing Cynthia -Griffiths to lessen her prestige. But she had her own method of solving -the American problem. She treated her new pupil with the easy good -humour, the mocking friendliness of an equal. She realised the -impossibility of counteracting the effects of a haphazard education, but -recognising equally the inherent kindliness and lawlessness of the -character, played on both qualities in her management of the girl. Her -classes were not demoralised, but stimulated, by the new-comer's -presence: yet Clare had said nothing to Cynthia of rules and -regulations. But Miss Hartill's manner had certainly implied that while -to her, too, they were a folly and a weariness, after all it was easy to -conform. It saved trouble and pleased people. All conveyed without -prejudice to the morals of her other pupils in a shrug, and a twinkle, -and a half-finished phrase. - -Cynthia was charmed. Here was common-sense. For the first time she felt -herself at home. She appalled the classes by her loud encomiums, her -delighted discovery of qualities that it was blasphemy to connect with -Miss Hartill. For Cynthia, with the pitiful shrewdness that her -cosmopolitan years had instilled, admired Clare for reasons that -bewildered the worshippers. To them Clare moved through the school, -apart, Olympian, a goddess, condescending delightfully. To Cynthia, -accustomed to intrigue, she was obviously and admirably Macchiavellian. -It amazed her that the English girls could not perceive Miss Hartill's -cleverness, that they should adore her for qualities as foreign to her -character as they were essentially insipid, and be indignant at -understanding and discriminating praise. - -But Cynthia was above all philosophical. She shrugged her shoulders over -the crazy crew, and reserved her comments for--Louise. For in Louise, -incredible as Alwynne Durand, for instance, would have thought it, she -did find a listener--an antagonist, easily pricked into amusing -indignation, into white-hot denials--nevertheless, a listener. Indeed, -it was the attitude of Cynthia to Clare Hartill rather than her personal -attraction that was responsible for Louise's departure from her original -and sincere attitude of indifference to the advances of the popular -American. - -Louise was less in the foreground than she had been in the previous -term. She had come back to school, less talkative, less brilliant, but -working with a dogged persistence that had on Alwynne, at least, a -depressing effect. But Alwynne, also, was seeing less of the girl. -Cynthia Griffiths obstructed her view--Cynthia, taking one of her -vociferous likings to a sufficiently unresponsive Louise. For the -_rapprochement_ was scarcely a normal, schoolgirl intimacy. Cynthia -Griffiths had been intrigued by Louise's personality. She had been quick -to grasp the importance of the child's position--to guess her there by -reason of her brains and temperament. Yet to Cynthia, judging life, as -she did, chiefly by exterior appearances, Louise, insignificant, timid, -shadowy, was an incessant denial of her nevertheless recognisable -influence in school politics. In the language of Cynthia, she was a dark -horse. Cynthia was charmed--school life was dull--the mildest of -mysteries was better than none. She would devote herself to deciphering -a new type. This little English kid had undoubted influence with girl -and mistress alike. Cynthia had intercepted glances between her and Miss -Hartill, and Miss Durand too, that spoke of mutual understanding. -Perhaps it was money--half the school in her pay? Or secret influences -of the most sinister? Hypnotism, maybe? Cynthia Griffiths, fed on dime -novels and magazine literature, was not ten minutes concocting the -hopefullest of mare's nests. She approached Louise between excitement -and suspicion. - -Cynthia was not scrupulous. She forced her way through the reserves and -defences of the younger girl like a bumble-bee clawing and screwing and -buzzing into the heart of a half-shut flower. - -She found much to puzzle her, more to amuse, but nothing to justify her -gorgeous suspicions. She confessed them one day to Louise, in a burst of -confidence, and Louise was hugely delighted. Cynthia always delighted -her. She liked her jolly ways, and her sense of fun, and was quite -convinced that she had no sense of humour at all. The conviction saved -her some suffering. She was jealous, inevitably jealous, of the -brilliant new-comer, painfully alive to, exaggerating and writhing at -Clare's preoccupation with her; yet the warped shrewdness proper to her -state of mind, she could calculate with painful accuracy how long it -would take Clare to tire of her new toy, what qualities would soonest -induce satiety. She guessed, hoped, prayed, that Miss Hartill would -discover, as she had done, Cynthia's lack of conscious humour, the -obtuseness that underlay her boisterous ease. She was not fine enough to -hold Miss Hartill long: she would grow too fond of Miss Hartill: would, -in the terrible craving to render up her whole soul, expose herself in -all her crudity. Louise did, for a while, soothe the jealousy, the -tearing, clawing beast in her breast, with that comfortable conviction. -That her reasoning was subconscious, that she was unaware of the -process of analysation and deduction that led to her conclusions, is -immaterial; she felt--and as she felt, she acted; her reasons for her -actions were sounder than she dreamed. - -She made mistakes often enough: her profound occupation with Clare -Hartill had induced a spiritual myopia; the rest of the world was out of -focus; and it was her initial misunderstanding of Cynthia Griffiths that -led to their curious, unaffectionate alliance. In all Louise's -ponderings, she had never doubted but that Cynthia would, like the rest -of the world, fall down and worship at the shrine of Clare Hartill. -Cynthia Griffiths, amused spectator of an alien life, did nothing of the -kind. And Louise--amazed, fiercely incredulous, all-suspicious, yet -finally convinced of the inconceivable fact--it had a curious effect. -She should have been indignant, contemptuous of the obtuse creature--as, -indeed, in a sense, she was--but chiefly she was conscious of a lifted -weight--of an enormous and hysterical gratitude. - -Cynthia was a fool--a purblind philistine. But what relief was in her -folly, what immense security! Jealousy could not die out in Louise, but -it entered on a new phase--became passive, enduring resignedly -inevitable pain. But its vigilance, its fierce pugnacity was dead; for -Cynthia--dear fool--did not care. Pearls had been cast before Americans. -Louise was ready enough to be gracious to such exquisite insensibility. -She became friendly. She had guarded her secret jealousy from the world. -She was "keen" on Miss Hartill, certainly, but so was half the school, -at least. She was merely in the fashion. Insignificant and circumspect, -giving no confidences, no one but Clare herself, and Alwynne Durand, -guessed at the intensity of her affection. But with Cynthia Griffiths -she was reckless. Ostrich-like, she trusted to the protection of her -formal disclaimer, while with each new discussion, each half-confidence, -she exposed herself and her feelings more completely. - -And Cynthia, dropping her theories, began to be interested in the -strange, vehement imp, with its alternating fits of frankness and -reticence, wit and childishness, its big brain and its inexplicable yet -obvious unhappiness. She affected Louise, was accustomed to pet and -parade her, long before she had solved the problem of her character; -indeed, it was not until she had confided to the child her plans for an -early departure, that Louise relaxed her self-protective vigilance. She -had begun, in her walks with Cynthia, to realise the relief and healing -of self-expression. If Cynthia were going away to Paris, America, never -to be seen again, what harm in talking--in saying for once what she -felt? There was wry pleasure in it, and, oh, what harm? - -Louise found an odd satisfaction in leading Cynthia--on her side, if you -please, alert for evidence, the amateur detective still--to sit in -judgment on Clare Hartill; would sit, horrified, thrilled, drinking in -blasphemy. She would have allowed no other human being to impeach the -smallest detail of Clare Hartill's conduct, but from Cynthia, though she -raged hotly, she did allow, and in some queer fashion, enjoy it. She -had, perhaps, a vague assurance that Cynthia, being a foreigner, could -not be taken seriously. - -So the pair discussed Clare Hartill from all possible angles till Louise -occasionally forgot to keep up her elaborate pretence of indifference, -to insist on its being understood that the discussion was rhadamanthine -in its impersonality. - -"Yes, I'm off soon," Cynthia had confided. They were sitting together in -her cubicle. "All this is slow--slow. Ne' mind! Wait till this child -gets going!" She stretched herself lazily, and flung back on her little -white bed, arms behind her. Louise studied her magnificent torso. - -"Why did you come?" she demanded. - -Cynthia laughed. - -"Italy--France--Deutschland--I'd done everywhere but England. Now comes -a tour round the world--and so home. I'm Californian, you know. I'll -have great times then. You don't live, over here. You're afraid of your -own shadows. Now an American girl----" - -"How do you mean?" - -"Aren't you? Always afraid of breaking rules? Haven't I asked -you--haven't I begged you to come out with me one day? Oh, Louise, it -would be great! I saw a taxi-man yesterday, outside church, with the -duckiest eyes! Lunch somewhere, and 'phone through for the new show at -Daly's. An American show! Dandy! Only taken you four years to transfer -here! Let's go, Louise? We'd be back to supper." - -Louise twinkled. - -"Rot! We'd be expelled." - -Cynthia opened her china-blue eyes. - -"For a little thing like that? Why? We wouldn't miss a class. Besides, -we'd say you asked me home to tea." - -Louise looked distressed. Their ideas of veracity had clashed before. - -Cynthia, watching mischievously, giggled. - -"Poor kid! Doesn't it want to tell lies, then?" - -"You see--English people don't! Of course, I know it's different -abroad," said Louise delicately. - -"Haven't you ever, Louise?" - -Louise flushed crimson. - -"You have?" Cynthia was amused. "What was it, Louise? Oh, what was it? -Tell! Oh, you needn't mind me--my average is--well, quite average. What -was it?" - -Louise's lips closed. - -"I call you the limit, you know! 'English people don't!' With a red-hot -tarradiddle on your little white conscience all the time. You're a good -pupil, Louise." - -Louise, blushing, turned suspiciously. - -"What are you at now!" she demanded. - -"I was thinking of Clarissa." Cynthia smiled with intention. - -"Clarissa who?" - -"Clare, kid! Clare! Sweet Clare! Sugar-sweet Clare! Our dear Dame -Double!" - -"I wish you wouldn't talk like that," said Louise, in her lowest voice. -"You know I hate it." - -"All right, honey!" Cynthia rolled lazily on to her side and pulled a -box of chocolates from the shelf beside her. - -The room was quiet for a while. - -"Cynthia?" - -"Um?" - -"What did you mean just now?" - -"Have a candy?" - -"No, thanks!" - -Cynthia munched on. - -"About Miss Hartill?" Louise's tone was half defiant, half guilty. She -felt disloyal in re-opening the subject. Yet Cynthia's hints rankled. - -"I don't know. Nothing, I guess." - -"Oh, but you did mean something," said Louise uneasily. - -"Maybe." - -"Tell me." - -"Want to know?" - -"Yes." - -"Badly?" - -"It's not true, of course! But I'd like to know." - -Cynthia's eyes danced. She could be grave enough otherwise, but her eyes -and her dimples could never be kept in order. - -"Tell about the tarradiddle first, and I will." - -But to Louise a lie was a lie and no joking matter. She fidgeted. - -"If you must know----" - -"I must." - -"Well--you know how Miss Hartill hates birthdays?" - -"Why?" - -"At least, school ones. You know, there's such a fuss at Miss -Marsham's--a holiday, presents, and all that. So Miss Hartill won't let -hers be known." - -"'Splendid Isolation' stunt." - -"If you're going to be a hatefully unjust pig, I won't tell you." - -"I apologise. Have a candy?" - -"Well, you know, Agatha found out that Miss Hartill was giving a party -last week, and, of course, every one thought it was for hers. But it -turned out it was Daffy's birthday: Miss Hartill gave it for her. It was -Agatha's fault. She was so dead certain about it." - -"But what did it matter?" - -"Well, you see, I'd got some roses----" - -"Pale pink and yellow? Beauties?" - -"Yes." - -"Oho! So that's where they came from. I did Dame Double an injustice. I -thought it was a best boy." Cynthia gurgled. - -"You saw them?" - -"I went to tea with her--it must have been that day--the eighth?" - -Louise nodded. - -"A party! Agatha is a coon. There was only Daffy there! I wonder she -didn't ask you." - -Louise said nothing. Her face was expressionless. - -"Mean old thing!" Cynthia grew indignant as the situation dawned on her. - -"She can't ask every one. There was no reason whatever to ask me." But -Louise's voice had a suspicious quiver in it, which Cynthia, with -unusual tact, ignored. - -"Well--about the roses? They were beauties, kid!" - -"Oh, I brought 'em round, going to school. I thought she'd started, but -she hadn't. She opened the door. So there I was, stuck." Louise began to -laugh. "I'd meant to leave them, just without any name." - -"I see." Cynthia twinkled. - -"She was rather--rather breakfasty, you know--and I got flustered and -forgot to wish her 'many happy.' Wasn't it lucky? I was thankful -afterwards. I only said they were out of the greenhouse and I thought -she'd like them. She did, too." Louise smiled to herself. - -"Well?" - -"That's all." - -"But where did the lie come in?" - -"Oh! Oh--well--I'd bought them, you see. As if Mamma would let me pick -flowers. Besides, we haven't even got a greenhouse. But I had five -shillings at Christmas, and sixpence in the pudding--and sixpence a week -pocket-money--and I never have anything to buy. I could well afford it," -said Louise, with dignity. - -"That's not a lie," said Cynthia, disappointed. "It's barely an--an -evasion." - -"I didn't mean to--evade. I was only afraid she'd be cross, and yet I -couldn't resist getting them. Do you know the feeling, when you ache to -give people things? But it was a lie, of course." - -"Oh, well! You needn't mind. She tells plenty herself--acts them, at -least----" - -Louise caught her up. - -"There! That's it! That's one of the things! You're always hinting -things! Why do you? I won't have it! Of course, I know you're only in -fun, but if anybody hears you----" - -"I'm not! Oh, but it's no use talking! You think she's a god almighty. -What's the use of my telling you that she's a conceited----" - -"She's not!" - -"Oh, she's a right to be. She'd be a peach if I had the dressing of -her----" - -"She doesn't like American fashions. We don't want her to. We like her -as she is." - -"And she knows it--you bet your bottom dollar! There's not much she -doesn't know. Why, she simply lives for effect! She's the most gorgeous -hypocrite----" - -"You're a beastly one yourself--you pretend you like her----" - -"But I do! I admire her heaps! But I understand her. You don't. She -likes to be top dog. She'll do anything for that. She likes to know -every woman and child in the school is a bit of putty, to knead into -shape. I know! I've met her sort before--only generally it was men they -were after. And yet it bores her too----" parenthesised Cynthia -shrewdly. "That's why she likes me. I don't care two pins for her -tricks. That stings her up a bit. She'll be mighty bored when I go." - -Louise listened, angry, yet fascinated. It gave her a curious pleasure -to hear Miss Hartill belied. She would hug herself for her own superior -discernment. A phrase from a half-digested story often recurred to her: -"One doesn't defend one's god! One's god is a defence in himself." But -Cynthia was going too far--abandoning innuendo for direct assault. She -struck back. - -"It's easy to say things. Just saying so doesn't make it so. And if it -did, I shouldn't believe it." - -"Oh! I can prove it." Cynthia laughed. "Have you noticed the Charette -comedy?" - -"Mademoiselle? Oh, she hates Miss Hartill. But she's French, of course." - -"Does she just? H'm----!" - -"Well, there was a French girl--she left last term--she told Marion that -Mademoiselle had said things to her about Miss Hartill. Agatha told me. -Agatha loathes Mademoiselle. Of course, Mademoiselle is rather down on -her." - -"I don't wonder. You know how Agatha hazes her in class." - -"I can't stand Agatha." Louise shook herself. "Last French Grammar it -was awful--silly, you know, not funny. One simply couldn't work. -Mademoiselle kept her in. I suppose Agatha didn't like that. She's been -a lamb since, anyway. About time too!" - -"Shucks! It wasn't being kept in. It was Clarissa. Oh, my dear, it was -fun! There was poor little Mademoiselle, storming away in her absurd -English, and Agatha cheeking her for all she was worth." - -"How did you hear?" - -"Why, I was in the studio! Agatha didn't know we were there, of course. -The glass doors were open. You know, Daffy gives me extra drawing. And -just when Agatha was in full swing, and Mademoiselle speechless with -rage, Miss Hartill turned up--wanted Daffy." - -"Oh, go on!" Louise cried breathlessly. - -"It really was funny, you know. Miss Hartill was talking to Daffy and -the row going on next door--you couldn't help hearing--and suddenly -Daffy said--Daffy had been fidgeting for some time--'Listen!' and -Clarissa said, 'Oho-o!' You know her way, with about ten o's at the end; -and Daffy said, 'There! Now do you believe me?' kind of crowing. And -Miss Hartill, she just smiled, like a cat with cream, and said, 'All -right, Alwynne! All right, my dear!' and went into the next room. Say, -it was exciting! She didn't raise her voice, but she just let herself -go, and in about two minutes Agatha came out like a ripe -cheese--literally crawling. I wish she hadn't shut the door. I couldn't -hear any more. I could see, of course, and you bet I watched out of the -tail of my eye. Daffy never noticed me." - -"What happened then?" - -"Oh! They stood and talked, and Mademoiselle was scarlet and seemed to -be pitching into Miss Hartill, as far as I could see, and Miss Hartill -was letting her talk herself out, and sometimes she smiled and said -something; that always started Mademoiselle off again. And at last -Mademoiselle went and sat in one of the window-seats, and I couldn't see -her face, but I imagined she was howling. French people always do. -Clarissa went and patted her shoulder." - -"She is a dear!" Loyally Louise bit back her instant jealousy. - -"Oh, she was enjoying herself," said Cynthia coolly. "You should have -seen her face. Sort of smiling at her own thoughts. Have you ever seen a -spider smile?" - -Louise disdained an answer. - -"Nor have I! Have a candy? But I bet I know what it looks like." - -"Well, what happened?" demanded Louise impatiently. - -"Oh, it was annoying! Daffy came and sat down in my place, to correct. I -couldn't see any more. Only when Miss Hartill came out (she didn't -notice me, I was putting away the group), she said to Daffy, 'She's -coming to tea on Friday.' And Daffy said, 'Clare, you're a wonder!' And -Miss Hartill said, 'I didn't do it for her, Alwynne!' And Daffy got -pink. Clarissa did look pleased with herself." - -"Well, so she ought! Wouldn't you be--if you could make people happy?" - -Cynthia threw up her hands. "Happy! Oh, Momma! Are you happy?" - -Louise winced. - -"Is Daffy? Mademoiselle? Any of you fools? Oh, it's no use talking! You -won't believe me when I tell you that she's a cat. Yes, a pussy-cat, -Louise! A silky, purring pussy-cat, pawing you, pat--pat--so softly, -like kisses. But if you wriggle--my! Look out for claws! Have a candy?" - -Louise gathered herself together. She came close to the bed, and leaning -over the older girl, spoke-- - -"I don't understand what you're driving at--but you're wrong. It's you -that's a fool. You misjudge her, utterly. You don't understand -her--you're not fit to." - -"Are you?" Cynthia laughed at her openly. - -"Of course not. No one--Daffy does, of course. But us?--girls? Just -because she's been heavenly to you, you take advantage, to watch her, to -judge, to twist all she says and does. Why do you hate her so?" - -"I don't." Cynthia pulled herself upright. "My dear, you're wrong there. -I like her immensely. She's a real treat. But I don't worship her like -you do." - -"I don't! I--I just love her." Louise glowed. - -Cynthia laughed jollily. - -"Oh, well! You'll get over that. Wait till you get a best boy." - -"If you think I'd look at any silly man, after knowing her----" - -"My dear girl! Has it never occurred to you that you'll marry some day?" - -Louise shook her head. - -"I've thought it all out. I never could love anybody as much as I do -Miss Hartill. I know I couldn't." - -"But it's not the same! Falling in love with a man----" - -"Love's love," said Louise with finality. "Where's the difference?" - -Cynthia sat up. - -"Where's the difference? Where's the----?" She giggled. But something in -the quality of her laughter disturbed. Louise frowned. - -"I didn't say anything funny. You'll love your husband, I suppose, that -you're always talking about having--and I'll stick to Miss Hartill. It's -perfectly simple." - -But Cynthia was still laughing. Louise grew irritable under her amused -glances, and would have turned away, but Cynthia flung her arm about -her. - -"Stop! Don't you really know?" - -"What?" - -"The difference." - -Cynthia's eyes shone oddly. Louise moved uneasily, disconcerted by their -expression. - -Cynthia continued. - -"Hasn't any one told you? Why, with the books you've read----Haven't -you read the Bible ever?" - -"Of course!" Louise was indignant. "I've been right through--four -times." - -"And you've never noticed? Good Lord! That's all I read it for." - -"I haven't an idea what you're driving at," said Louise. Cynthia was -making her thoroughly uncomfortable. - -Cynthia was flushed, laughing, pure devilry in her eyes. Her lips were -pouted, her little teeth gleamed. She looked a child licking its lips -over forbidden dainties. She had pulled Louise into her lap and her -voice had dropped to a whisper. - -"Shall I tell you? Would you like to know? You ought to--you're -fourteen--it's absurd--not knowing about things--shall I tell you?" - -Louise fidgeted. Cynthia's manner had aroused her curiosity, but none -the less she was repelled. Why, she could not have said. She hesitated, -aroused, yet half frightened. - -"I'll tell you," said Cynthia lusciously. - -With a sudden effort Louise freed herself from the encircling arm. She -edged away from the elder girl, stammering a little. - -"I don't think I want to know anything. It's awfully sweet of you. I'd -rather--I always ask Daffy things. Do you mind?" - -Cynthia, good-tempered as ever, laughed aloud. - -"Lord, no! But what a little saint! Aren't you ever curious, Louise? All -right! I won't tease. Have a candy?" - -And Louise, eating chocolates, was not long in forgetting the -conversation and all the curious discomfort it had aroused. If a leaf -had fallen on the white garment of her innocence--a leaf from the tree -of the knowledge of good and evil--she had brushed it aside, all -unconscious, before it could leave a stain. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - - -The spring term was nearly over, holidays and a trip to Italy -deliciously near; yet Clare Hartill sat at breakfast and frowned over a -neatly-written letter. - -Clare Hartill did not encourage the re-entry of old friends into her -life. She did not forget them. She would look back upon the far-off -flaming intimacy with regret, would quote its pleasures to the friend of -the hour with disconcerting enthusiasm; but she was never eager for the -reappearance of any whose ways had once diverged from her own. Pleasant -memories, if you will; but, in the flesh, old friends were tiresome. -They claimed instant intimacy; were free-tongued, fond, familiar; could -not realise that though they might choose to stand still, she, Clare, -had grown out of their knowledge, beyond their fellowship. She, indeed, -would find them terribly unaltered; older, glamourless, yet amazingly, -humiliatingly the same. She would look at them furtively as she -entertained them, and shudder at the lapse from taste that surely must -have explained her former affection. She would be gracious, kind, yet -inimitably distant, and would send them away at last, subdued, vaguely -disquieted, loyal still, yet very sure that they would never trouble her -again. Which was exactly what Clare Hartill intended. Yet she had her -fits of remorse withal, her secret bitter railing at fate and her own -nature, for that she could neither keep a friend nor live without one. -Recovering, she would be complacent at having contrived, without loss of -prestige, to rid herself of bores. - -There was one fly in her ointment. Who knows not that fly, earnest and -well-intentioned, which, when it is dug out with a hairpin, cleanses -itself exhaustively and forthwith returns to the vaseline jar? Such a -fly, optimistic and persistent, was the correspondent who invariably -signed herself, "Ever, dear Clare, your affectionate little friend, -Olivia Pring. P.S. Do you remember...?" There would follow a -reminiscence, at least twenty years old, that Clare never did remember. - -Olivia Pring was a school-mate. There had been a term together in the -Lower Third. For a few weeks she had been Clare's best friend and she -never let Clare forget it. Clare, with removes and double removes, had -disappeared speedily from Olivia's world, but she never quite shook off -Olivia. Olivia, amiable, admiring, impervious to snubs, refused to be -shaken off. She went her placid way, became a governess, and an expert -in the more complicated forms of crochet. She wrote to Clare about twice -a year--dull, affectionate letters. Clare, that involute character, -amazed herself by invariably answering them. At long intervals Olivia -would be passing through London, and would announce herself, if quite -convenient, as intending to visit her dear Clare that afternoon. She -would describe the lengthy tussle between herself and her employer, -before she had wrested the requisite permission to stay the night--and -did Clare remember the last visit but three, and the amusing evening -they had had? And the letter was invariably delayed in the posting, and -its arrival would precede that of Olivia by a bare half-hour. Olivia, -growing even fatter and more placid, would apologise breathlessly -between broad smiles at the sight of Clare and recollections of the dear -old days. And Clare, as one hypnotised, would go to her linen cupboard -and give out sheets for the spare room. There would follow an evening of -interminable small-talk for Clare, of sheer delight for Olivia Pring, -who, consciously and conscientiously commonplace, enjoyed dear Clare's -daring views as a youthful curate might enjoy, strictly as an onlooker, -what he imagines to be the less respectable aspects of an evening in -Paris. - -And Clare would retire to bed at ten-fifteen and sleep as she had not -slept for weeks. Olivia would be regretfully obliged to catch the -eight-eleven, and would depart amid embraces. And Clare would order up a -second breakfast and wonder why she stood it. Yet the pile of unused -doileys in her linen cupboard increased yearly. A doiley was Olivia's -invariable tribute, and arrived, intricate and unlovely, within a week -of her visit. - -Clare fingered her letter in quaint helplessness. She had a sleepless -night behind her, and a big morning's work before, and her usual -end-of-term headache. Olivia was arriving--she glanced at the hopelessly -legible sheets--at three-fifty. No chance of mistake there. Clare -decided that it was quite impossible for her to survive a seven hours' -_tête-à-tête_ with her affectionate friend Olivia Pring. If only Alwynne -could help her out. But Alwynne, she knew, was taking the skimmings of -the Sixths and Fifths to a suitable Shakespeare performance. She had -taken the pick of the classes herself the evening before. No chance of -Alwynne, then. And Cynthia! Alack for Cynthia! who could have been -trusted to amuse Olivia Pring as much as Olivia Pring would have amused -her--Cynthia must be aboard ship by now. Clare, in regretful -parenthesis, hoped Cynthia would send a few compatriots to -Utterbridge.... Americans gave a fillip to one's duties.... Anyhow -Alwynne and Cynthia were out of the question. - -There was Louise! She brightened. Louise, queer little thing, was always -amusing.... Louise would serve her turn.... Louise would be so charmed -to come.... Clare laughed a little consciously. Perhaps she had -neglected Louise a trifle of late, perhaps it was not altogether fair of -her. A happy thought buffered the prick of her yawning conscience. It -was Alwynne's fault.... Alwynne, with her ridiculous, well-meaning -objections.... She, Clare, had given in to them, for peace and quiet -sake.... And now, most probably, Louise was not too content with -life.... One knew what schoolgirls were.... Never mind! Clare would be -very nice to Louise this evening.... Louise should enjoy herself, and, -incidentally, preserve Clare from expiring of boredom at poor Olivia's -large, flat feet. - -The invitation was given during the eleven o'clock break. Clare would -occasionally join the school in Big Hall, and share its milk and -biscuits. Often enough to make it any day's delightful possibility, not -often enough for it to be other than an event. She would sit on the -platform steps, watching the gay promenaders below, informal, -approachable, tossing the ball to the daring few, hedged about, in turn, -by the tentative many. Sometimes she would stroll about the hall with a -girl on either side, or one only. She had a curious little trick of -catching the girl she spoke with by the elbow, and pushing her gently -along as she talked, bending over (she was very tall) and enveloping. -Everybody knew the "Gendarme Stunt" as Cynthia Griffiths irreverently -termed it, and no one would have dreamed of approaching or interrupting -such a _tête-à-tête_. - -Nevertheless, Miss Hartill had not exchanged three sentences with Louise -Denny on the morning of Olivia Pring's arrival, before every girl in Big -Hall knew of it, and twice the number of eyes were following them, with -an elaborately accidental gaze, in their progress. - -Possibly Clare was a little touched by Louise's delight at the -invitation. At any rate she managed, in spite of her headache, to be a -very charming companion. She confessed to the headache, and asked Louise -for advice. And Louise, deeply concerned, could think of nothing but a -recipe she had found in Clare's own Culpeper, in which rhubarb and -powdered dormice figured largely. She suggested it in a doubtful little -voice. The school would have given a good deal to know what made Miss -Hartill laugh so. - -Miss Hartill told Louise all about her visitor, whom, she declared, she -depended on Louise to entertain, and added a couple of comical tales of -their mutual schooldays. Unfortunately Clare's _novelli_ owed their -charm more to her inventive touches and graphic manner than to the -actual underlying fact. Louise was left with the impression of an -Olivia Pring who had been Friar Tuck to Clare's Robin Hood. She -appreciated the honour of being asked to meet her to a degree that would -have tickled Clare, had she guessed it. - -"Miss Olivia Pring!" Louise meditated all day over Miss Olivia Pring. -Evidently Miss Hartill's best friend.... She hoped Miss Olivia Pring -would like her.... How dreadful it would be if she didn't ... for what -might she not say of her to Miss Hartill? Louise must be careful, oh, so -careful, of her manners and her speech.... It was rather hard luck that -she would not have Miss Hartill to herself.... It would be dreadfully -uncomfortable--talking before a stranger.... Except for the -delightfulness of being asked by Miss Hartill, she could have wished -that Miss Hartill had not asked her. Rather an ordeal for a -thirteen-year-old--supper with Miss Hartill and Miss Olivia Pring. - -Now shyness, like any other painful sensation, is inexplicable to such -as have not experienced it, is at once forgotten by such as outgrow it, -but to those at its mercy, to sheer suffering, paralysing, stultifying, -a spiritual Torture of the Pear. - -Clare Hartill should have understood; she had her own furtive childhood -for reference; but Clare Hartill had a headache, and she was very tired -of Olivia Pring. Olivia was so placid, so shapeless, so ridiculous, in -her pink flannel blouse, and the reckless glasses, that were ever on the -point of toppling over the precipice of her abbreviated nose into the -abyss of her half-open mouth. It certainly did not occur to Clare that -Louise could feel the slightest discomfort on account of Olivia Pring. - -But Louise was blind to the flannel blouse, and the foolish face, and -the unmanageable glasses. She was wearing glasses of her own, -rose-coloured affairs, through which Miss Pring appeared, not only as a -"grown-up" and a stranger, but as the intimate of Deity in Undress. -Miss Pring did nothing to dispel the illusion--she had conscientiously -flattened the high spirits out of too many little girls to be interested -in a new specimen. She addressed herself chiefly to Clare--recalling -incessantly, and enlarging upon, trifling incidents of their mutual -past, which every fresh sentence of the badgered hostess contrived to -recall to her elastic memory. Louise, always sensitive, her shyness -growing with every word, could but take each unexplained allusion as a -personal snub, and feeling herself entirely superfluous, began to -imagine that Miss Hartill was already regretting the invitation. -Panic-struck she tried to remedy matters by effacing herself as -completely as possible. It was wonderful what a small and insignificant -person Louise could sometimes look, and did look that evening in one of -Clare's big arm-chairs. Her prim little whisper and deprecatory smile -might have struck Clare as pathetic if Clare had not been so very tired -of the affectionate reminiscences of Olivia Pring. As it was, she was -annoyed. She had asked Louise of the bright eyes and quick stammer and -extravagant imagery, to supper with her--the panther-cub, not the -leveret. She had talked of Louise too--had looked forward to putting the -child through its paces, if only for the benefit of Olivia Pring. She -had even surmised that Louise would take Olivia's measure, and at a nod -from Clare would be delicately, deliciously impertinent. Indeed, she had -thought her capable of it. But it was only a schoolgirl after all--a -silly tongue-tied schoolgirl--that she had for an instant compared with -Alwynne: Alwynne, monstrously absent, a match for ten Olivias. - -She yawned, shrugged her shoulders, and suggested, in fine ironic fit, a -game of "Old Maid." Olivia was extremely pleased. She so much preferred -Old Maid--or Beggar-my-Neighbour, perhaps?--to Bridge. She did not -approve of Bridge. In her position it did not do. Clare would remember -that she had always said.... - -Clare fetched the cards. - -Louise! Louise! You have done yourself no good to-night. Shy? Nonsense! -What is there to be shy about? A few words from Miss Hartill--a -prompting or two--a leading question--could have broken the ice of your -shyness for you, eh? And Miss Hartill knows it, as well as you, if not -better. That shall not avail you. Who are you, to set Miss Hartill's -conscience itching? Miss Hartill has a headache. Pull up your chair, and -deal your cards, and stop Miss Hartill yawning, if you can. Believe me, -it's your only chance of escape. - -Louise was a clumsy dealer. Her careful setting out of cards irritated -Clare to snatching point. Olive triumphed in every game. On principle, -Clare disliked losing, even at Beggar-my-Neighbour. And they played -Beggar-my-Neighbour till ten o'clock. - -Louise grew more cheerful as the evening progressed, ventured a few -sentences now and then. Clare was dangerously suave with both her -guests; but Louise, taking all in good faith, hoped after all, that she -had not appeared as stupid as she felt. It had been dreadful at first, -she reflected, as she put on coat and hat. But it had gone better -afterwards.... She didn't believe Miss Hartill was cross with her.... -That had been a silly idea of her own.... Miss Hartill was just as -usual. - -She made her farewells. Clare came out into the hall and ushered her -forth. - -"Good-bye!" Louise smiled up at her. "It was so kind of you to have me. -I have so much enjoyed myself." Then, the formula off her tongue: "Miss -Hartill, I do hope your head's better?" - -"Thank you!" said Clare inscrutably. "Good-night!" Then, as the maid -went down the stairs: "Louise!" - -"Yes, Miss Hartill?" - -Clare was smiling brilliantly. - -"Don't come again, Louise, until you can be more amusing. At any rate, -natural. Good-night!" - -She shut the door. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - - -Louise spent her Easter holidays among her lesson books. Miss Hartill -and Miss Durand were in Italy, all responsibilities put aside for four -blessed weeks, but for Louise there could be no relaxation. The -examinations were to take place a few days before the summer term began, -and their imminence overshadowed her. Useless for Miss Durand to extract -a promise to rest, to be lazy, to forget all about lessons. Louise -promised readily and broke her promise half-an-hour after she had waved -the train out of the station. Impossible to keep away from one's History -and Latin and Mathematics with examinations three weeks ahead. Miss -Durand might preach; her overtaxed brain cry pax; her cramped body ache -for exercise; but Louise knew herself forced to ignore all protests. She -would rest when the examinations were over. Till then--revision, -repetition--repetition, revision--with as little time as might be -grudged to eating and sleeping and duty walks with Mrs. Denny. - -There was no time to lose. The nights swallowed up the days all too -swiftly. - -Yet, waking one morning with a start to realise that the day of days had -dawned at last, she found it incredible. The morning was exactly like -other mornings, with the sun streaming blindingly in upon her, because -she had forgotten, as usual, to drawn her blind at night, her head -already aching a little, hot and heavy from uneasy sleep. All night long -her brain had been alert, restless, beyond control. All night long it -had tugged and fretted, like a leashed dog, at the surface slumber that -tethered it. She felt confused, burdened with a half-consciousness of -vivid, forgotten dreams. - -She dressed abstractedly, lesson books propped against her -looking-glass, and wedged between soap-dish and pitcher. For the -hundredth time she conned the technicalities of her work, and making no -slips, grew more cheerful for it had been the letter, not the spirit, -that had troubled her--little matters of rules and exceptions, of dates -and derivations, that would surely trip her up. But she was feeling sure -of herself at last, and thrilling as she was with nervous excitement, -could yet be glad that the great day had dawned, and ready to laugh at -all her previous despondencies. Things were turning out better than she -had expected. There was bracing comfort in beginning with her own -subject--Miss Hartill's own subject. She could have no fears for herself -in the Literature examination. French in the afternoon, that was less -pleasant. But she would manage--must, literally. "Miss Hartill -expects----" She laughed. She supposed the sailors felt just the same -about Nelson as she did about Miss Hartill. She wondered if Lady -Hamilton had minded his only having one eye and one arm? Suppose Miss -Hartill had only one eye and one arm? Oh! If anything happened to Miss -Hartill...! She shivered at the idea and instantly witnessed, with all -imaginable detail, the wreck of the train as it entered Utterbridge -station, and she herself rescuing Miss Hartill, armless and blind, from -the blazing carriage. She had her on the sofa, five years later, in the -prettiest of invalid gowns, contentedly reliant on her former pupil. And -Louise, blissfully happy, was her hands and feet and eyes, her nurse, -her servant, her--(hastily Louise deprived her alike of income and -friends) her bread-winner and companion. Here her French Grammar, -slithering over the soap to the floor, woke her from that delicious -reverie. - -She picked it up, and applied herself for a while to its dazing -infinitives. But teeth-brushing is a rhythmic process: her thoughts -wandered again perforce. She had got to be first.... Miss Hartill would -be so pleased.... It would be heavenly to please Miss Hartill again as -she used to do.... Nothing had been the same since Cynthia came.... She -flushed to the eyes at the recollection of her last unlucky -visit----"You needn't come again unless you can be more amusing. You -might at least be natural...." Yet Miss Hartill had been so kind at the -last ... had waved to her from the train.... - -The postman's knock startled her, disturbed her meditations anew. -Letters! Was it possible? Would Miss Hartill have remembered? Have sent -her, perhaps, a postcard? Stranger things had been. She had for weeks -envisaged the possibility. She finished her dressing and tore -downstairs. - -The maid was hovering over the breakfast-table. - -"Are there any letters, Baxter? Are there any letters?" But she had -already caught sight of a foreign postcard on her plate, a postcard with -an unfamiliar stamp. She scurried round the table, her heart thumping. - -But the big, adventurous handwriting was hatefully familiar. The -postcard was from Miss Durand. - -She waited a moment, her lips parted vacantly, as was her fashion when -controlling emotion; waited till the maid had gone. - -Then she crumpled and tore the thin cardboard in her hand and flung it -at last on the floor, in a passion of disappointment. - -"She might have written!" cried Louise. "Oh, she might have written! It -wouldn't have hurt her--a postcard." - -Presently a thought struck her. She groped under the table for the torn -scraps of paper and spread them in her lap, piecing them eagerly, -laboriously. Miss Hartill might have written on Miss Durand's postcard. - -She had the oblong fitted together at last and read the scrawl with -impatient eagerness. Miss Durand was just sending her a line to wish her -all imaginable luck. She and Miss Hartill were having a glorious time. -They were sitting at that moment where she had made a cross on the -picture postcard. She wished Louise could be with them to see the -wonderful view over the valley and with good wishes from them both, was -her Alwynne Durand.... - -Louise's eyes softened--"from them both." That was something! Miss -Hartill had sent her a message. She sighed as she wrapped the scraps -carefully in her handkerchief. Life was queer.... Here was Miss Durand, -so kind, so friendly always--yet her kindness brought no pleasure.... -And Miss Hartill, who could open heaven with a word--was not half so -kind as Miss Durand. Louise marvelled that Miss Hartill could be so -miserly. She was sure that if she, Louise, could make people utterly -happy by kind looks and kind words, stray messages and occasional -postcards, that she would be only too glad to be allowed to do it. To -possess the power of giving happiness.... And with no more trouble to -yourself than the writing of a postcard! Queer that Miss Hartill did not -realise what her mere existence meant to people.... She couldn't realise -it, of course ... that was it.... She thought so little about -herself.... It was her own beautiful selflessness that made her seem, -occasionally, hard--unkind even.... She didn't realise what she meant to -people.... If she had, she would have written.... Of course she would -have written ... just a word ... on Daffy's postcard.... - -Louise sighed again. One didn't ask much.... But it seemed the more -humble one grew--the less one asked--the more unlikely people were to -throw one even that little.... At any rate there was the examination to -tackle.... If she did well--! She lost herself again in speculations as -to the form Miss Hartill's approval might take. - -The family trooped in to breakfast as the brisk maid dumped a steaming -dishful of liver and bacon upon the table. - -Louise occupied her place and began to spread her bread-and-butter, -avoiding her father's eye. But, as she foresaw, she was not permitted to -escape. - -Mr. Denny pounced upon the butter-dish. - -"Not with bacon," he remarked, with reproachful satisfaction, and -removed it. - -Louise said nothing. She was careful not to look at her parent, for she -knew that her expression was not permissible. His harmless tyrannies -irritated her as invariably as her tricks of personality grated upon -him. She thought him smug and petty, and despised him for his submissive -attitude to her step-mother. His noisy interferences with her personal -habits she thought intolerable, though she had learned to endure them -stolidly. But most of all, she hated to see his fat, pudgy hands -touching her food. She was accustomed to cut bread for the family. No -one guessed why she had arrogated to herself that duty. - -And he, good man, would look at his daughter occasionally, and wonder -why she was so unlike his satisfactory sons and their capable mother: -would be vaguely annoyed by her silences, and by a certain expression -that reminded him uncomfortably of his first "fine-lady" wife; would -have an emotion of disquieted responsibility; would hesitate: would end -by presenting his daughter with a five-shilling-piece, or be delivered -from a dawning sense of responsibility by crumbs on the carpet, the -muddy boots of a son and heir, or, as in the present instance, an -unjustifiable predilection for butter. - -"Bread with your meat," he said firmly and handed her a full plate. - -Then he watched her with interest. His conception of the duties of -fatherhood was realised in seeing that his children slightly over-ate -themselves at every meal. He did as he would be done by. - -Louise picked up knife and fork unwillingly. She was dry-mouthed with -excitement and the beginnings of a headache, and the liberal portion of -hot, rich food sickened her. But anything was better than a fuss. She -sliced idly at the slab of liver. - -Opportunity beckoned Mr. Denny. - -"Don't play with your food," said the father sharply. - -She ate a few mouthfuls, conscious of his supervision. Satisfied, he -turned at last to his own breakfast. - -There was a peaceful interval. - -The children talked among themselves. Mrs. Denny, hidden behind her -tea-cosy, was exclusively concerned with the table manners of the -youngest boy. The moment was propitious. - -Softly Louise rose and slipped to the sideboard. Her plate once hidden -behind the biscuit-tin.... - -Mr. Denny looked up. He was ever miraculously alert at breakfast. - -"More bacon, Louise?" - -"No, thank you, Father," said Louise fervently. - -"Have you finished your plate?" - -"Yes, Father." - -Her brothers gave tongue joyously. - -"Oh-h! You whopper!" - -"Oh, Father, she hasn't!" - -"Mother, did you hear? Louise says she's finished her bacon. She -hasn't." - -"Not near!" - -"Not half!" - -"Not a quarter!" - -"Well--of all the whopping lies!" - -Mr. Denny sprang up, his eyes glistening. He, too, enjoyed a scene. The -plate was retrieved from its hiding-place and its guilty burden laid -bare. - -"Emma, do you see this? Emma! Leave that child alone and attend to me! -Flagrant! Flagrant disobedience! Louise, I told you to eat it. Turning -up your nose at good food! There's many a child would be thankful--Emma! -Am I to be disobeyed by my own children? And a lie into the bargain! If -that is the way you are taught at your fine school, I'll take you away. -Disgraceful! Eat it up now. Emma! Are you or are you not going to back -me up? Is all that food to be wasted?" - -Mrs. Denny's calm eyes surveyed the excited table. - -"Don't fuss, Edwin. Louise, eat up your bacon." - -"I can't," said Louise sullenly. - -"Then you shouldn't have taken so much." - -"I didn't. It was Father----" - -"Eat it up at once," said Mrs. Denny peremptorily, as the baby cast his -spoon upon the carpet. The tone of her voice ended the discussion. - -Mr. Denny watched his daughter triumphantly, as she toiled over her -task, called her attention to a piece of bacon she had left on the edge -of her plate, and when she had finished told her she was a good girl and -that it would do her good. After which he gave her a shilling. - -"I don't want it," muttered Louise. - -"You don't want it?" repeated Mr. Denny incredulously. - -Louise looked at him. There was a world of uncomprehending contempt in -the eyes of father and child alike, though the father's were amused, -where the child's were bitter. - -Mr. Denny laughed jollily. - -"I say, kids! Hear that? Your sister here hasn't any use for a shilling. -Bet you haven't either! Eh? I don't think!" - -Ensued clamour, with jostling and laughter and clutching of coins, from -which the head of the house retired to his chair by the fire, chuckling -and content. He enjoyed distributing largesse, especially where there -was no great need for it, though he was liberal enough to famous -charities. He never gave to beggars, on principle. - -Louise slipped out of the room under cover of the noise, and was dressed -and departing when her step-mother called her back. - -"Louise! You stay to lunch to-day, don't you?" - -"At school? Oh no, Mamma. Holidays, you know! They only open a -class-room for the exam." - -"The fifty-pound job, eh?" Her father eyed her over the top of his -paper approvingly. For once his daughter was showing a proper spirit. -"Go in and win, my girl! I've given you the best education money could -buy. If you don't get it, you jolly well ought to. Fifty quid, eh? I -wasn't given the chance of earning fifty quid when I was thirteen. -Shop-boy, I was. Started as shop-boy like me father before me." - -His wife cut in sharply. - -"Isn't there an afternoon examination? I understood----" - -"Yes, Mamma. But no dinners. It's all shut." - -Mrs. Denny frowned. - -"It's annoying. I wanted you out of the way. Nurse is taking the -children for an outing. I've enough to do without providing lunches--you -must take some sandwiches--spring cleaning--maids all busy----" - -"I'd rather take sandwiches!" Louise's face brightened. - -"I thought the cleaning was over--not a comfortable room in the house -for the last fortnight." Mr. Denny was testy. - -His wife answered them thickly, her mouth full of pins as she adjusted -her dusting apron. - -"Very well! Ask cook to--no, she's upstairs. Cut them yourself. There's -plenty of liver. Perfectly absurd! Do you want the house a foot deep in -dust? You leave the household arrangements to me! The top-floor hasn't -been done for years--not thoroughly." - -"The top floor? Not the attics?" said Louise. - -"Yes! I'm re-arranging the rooms. John's getting too big for the -nursery. He needs a room to himself. I'm putting him in cook's old -room." - -Louise paused, the slice of bread half cut. - -"Where's cook going?" said her father. - -She awaited the answer, a fear catching at her breath. - -"Oh, in the lumber-room," said Mrs. Denny easily. "It only wants -papering. A nice, big room! A sloping roof, of course. But with her -wages, if she can't put up with a sloping roof--! But it'll take some -clearing! You wouldn't believe what an amount of rubbish has collected." - -"It's not rubbish," said Louise. Her voice was low with passion. "It's -not rubbish! You shan't touch it." - -Mrs. Denny spun round amazedly: Her step-daughter, the loaf clutched to -her breast with an unconscious gesture, the big knife gleaming, was a -tragi-comic figure. - -"What on earth----?" she began. - -Louise leaned forward, hot-eyed. - -"Mamma! You won't! You can't! You mustn't! Father, don't let her! That's -Mother's room! If you put cook in Mother's room----" She choked. A -priestess defending her altars could have used her accents. - -Mr. Denny put down his paper. - -"What's the matter with the girl?" he demanded. - -Mrs. Denny shrugged her shoulders. - -"I've no idea! I don't know what she means. Put down that knife; -Louise--you'll cut yourself. And mind your own business, please." - -"You don't understand!" Louise fought for calmness, for words that -should enlighten and persuade. "I didn't mean to interfere. But the big -attic! Mamma! Father! That's my room. I always go there--do my lessons -there--I love it! You don't know how I love it. You see----" She paused -helplessly. - -"But you've got the nursery to sit in," said Mrs. Denny, equally -helpless. "I'm sorry, Louise, if you've taken a fancy to the room--but I -want it for cook." - -Louise made her way to the hearth and stood between the pair. - -"Mamma--please! Please! Please! There's the other attic for cook--not -this one!" - -"Now be quiet, Louise!" Mrs. Denny was getting impatient. - -Suddenly Louise lost grip of herself. - -"It's not right! It's not right! You've got all the house! Every room -is yours and you grudge me that one! Nobody's ever wanted it but me! -It's mine! You've got your lovely rooms--drawing-room, and dining-room, -and morning-room, and bedroom, and summerhouse, and the boys have got -the nursery and the maids have got the kitchen, and yet you won't let me -have the attic! It's not fair! It's mean! Why can't cook have the other -attic? Not this one! Not this one!" - -"But why? Why?" Mrs. Denny was more bewildered than angry. She looked -down at her step-daughter as a St. Bernard looks at an aggressive -kitten. Desperately Louise tore off her veils. - -"Because of Mother. Can't you understand? All her things are there. -She's there! So I've always played up there. Oh, won't you understand?" - -Mrs. Denny flushed. - -"You talk a lot of nonsense, Louise. Finish your sandwiches. You'll be -late." - -"Then you will leave it, as it is?" - -"Certainly not. I told you--I need it for cook." - -Louise turned to her father with a frenzied gesture. - -"Father! Don't let her! Don't let her touch it! Oh, how can you let her -touch it?" - -Mr. Denny put down his paper, staring from one to the other. - -"Emma? What's she driving at?" - -"To control the household, apparently. She's a very impertinent child," -said Mrs. Denny impatiently. - -"Father! I'm not! I don't! Father! I only want her to leave my attic -alone! Father----" - -"Don't worry your father now," began Mrs. Denny. - -"He's my father! I can speak to him if I choose," cried Louise shrilly. - -"Now then, now then!" reasoned Mr. Denny heavily. "Can't have you rude -to your mother, you know." - -Louise gave herself up to her passion. - -"She's not my mother! I call her Mamma! She's not my mother! Mother -wouldn't be so cruel! To take away all I've got like that. Her books are -there! Her things! It's always been our room--hers and mine! And to take -it away! To put cook--it's horrible! It's wicked! It's stealing! I hate -her! I hate you--all of you! I'll never forget--never--never--never!" - -She stopped abruptly on a high note, stared blindly at the outraged -countenances that opposed her, and fled from the room. - -They listened to the clatter of umbrellas in the hall stand, to the -furious hands fumbling for mackintosh and satchel, to the bang of the -hall door. - -Mr. Denny whistled. - -"Hot stuff! What? I never knew she had it in her." There was a curious -element of approval in his tone. He respected volubility. - -His wife frowned; then, she, too, began to laugh. She was as incapable -as he of imagining the state of nerves that could lead, in Louise, to -such an outburst. To speak one's mind, noisily and emphatically, was a -daily occurrence for her. Silence was stupidity, and meekness -irritating. This "row" was unusual because Louise had taken part in it, -but she certainly thought no worse of her step-daughter on that account. -The child should be sent to bed early as a punishment, she decided, but -good-humouredly enough. She was too thick-skinned to be pricked by -Louise's repudiation. She dismissed it as "temper." Its underlying -criticism of her character escaped her utterly. - -By the time the attic was cleared and the paperhanger at work, she had -forgotten the matter. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - - -It is not impossible to sympathise with Ahab. - -It must have been difficult for him, with his varied possessions, to -realise the value to Naboth of his vineyard. He had offered -compensation. Naboth would undoubtedly have gained by the exchange. -Ahab, owning half Palestine, must have been genuinely puzzled by this -blind attachment to one miserable half-acre. One wonders what would have -happened if they had met to talk over the matter. Ahab, convinced of the -generosity of his offer, courteously argumentative, carefully repressing -his not unnatural impatience, would have contrasted favourably with the -peasant, black, fierce, dumb, incapable of explaining himself, conscious -only of his own bitter helplessness in the face of oppression and loss. - -The Naboth mood is a dangerous one. Fierce emotions, unable to disperse -themselves in speech, can turn in again upon the mind that bred them, to -work strange havoc. The affair of the attic, outwardly so trivial, shook -the child's nature to its foundation. Though one's house be built of -cards, it is none the less bedazing to have it knocked about one's ears. -To Louise, the loss of her holy place, but yet more the manner of its -loss, was catastrophic. Her nerves, frayed and strained by weeks of -overwork and excitement, snapped under the shock. Her sense of -proportion failed her. Miss Hartill, the examination, all that made up -her life, faded before this monstrous desecration of an ideal. She -suffered as Naboth, forgetting also his greater goods of life and kith -and kin, suffered before her. - -Before she reached the school the violence of her emotion had faded, and -she was in the first stage of the inevitable physical reaction. She felt -weak and shaken. She was going, she knew, to her examination. She -wondered idly why she did not feel nervous. She tried to impress the -importance of the occasion upon herself, but her thoughts eluded -her--sequence had become impossible. She gave up the attempt, and her -mind, released, returned to the scene of the morning in incessant, -miserable rehearsal. - -Mechanically she made her way into the school by the unfamiliar -mistresses' entrance, greeted the little knot of competitors assembled -in the hall. But if she were introspective and distraught, so were they: -her silence was unnoticed. - -The nervous minutes passed jerkily. Louise thought that the clock must -be enjoying himself. He was playing overseer; he wheezed and grunted as -her father did at breakfast; had just such a bland, fat face. Her father -would be a fat, horrible old man in another ten years. She was glad. -Every one would hate him, then, as she hated him, show it as she dared -not do. - -Miss Vigers interrupted her meditations; Miss Vigers, utterly unreal in -holiday smiles and the first hobble-skirt in which her decent limbs had -permitted themselves to be outlined. She marshalled the procession. - -The Lower Fifth class-room, newly scrubbed and reeking of naphthaline, -with naked shelves and treble range of isolated desks, was unfamiliar, -curiously disconcerting. Louise, ever perilously susceptible to outward -conditions, was dismayed by the lack of atmosphere. She wriggled -uneasily in her desk. It was uncomfortable, far too big for her: -Agatha's initials, of an inkiness that had defied the charwoman, stared -at her from the lid. She was at the back of the room. Between Marion's -neat head and the coiffure of the little Jewess, the bored face of the -examiner peered and shifted. He was speaking-- - -"You will find the questions on your desks. Write your names in the top -right-hand corner of each page. Full name. Kindly number the sheets. You -are allowed two and a half hours." - -A pause. Some rustling of papers and the snap and rattle of -pencil-boxes. Then the voice of the examiner again-- - -"You may begin." - -Instantly a furious pen-scratching broke the hush. Louise glanced in the -direction of the sound, and smiled broadly. Agatha had begun. Miss -Hartill would have seen the joke, but the examiner was already absorbed -in the book he had taken from his pocket. Louise gazed idly about her. -So this was what the ordeal was like! There were her clean, blank papers -on the desk before her, and the printed list of questions. She supposed -she had better begin.... But there was plenty of time. She had a curious -sense of detachment. Her body surrounded her, rigid, quiescent, dreading -exertion. Her mind, on the contrary, was bewilderingly active, -consciously alive with thoughts, as she had once, under a microscope, -seen a drop of water alive with animalculi: thoughts, however, that had -no connection with real life as it at the moment presented itself: -thoughts that admitted the fact of the examination with a dreamy -impersonality that precluded any idea of participation. Her mind felt -comfortable in its warm bed of motionless flesh, would not disturb its -repose for all the ultimate gods might offer: but was interested -nevertheless in its surroundings, gazing out into them with the detached -curiosity of an attic-dweller, peering out and down at a dwarfed and -distant street. Yet each trivial object on which her eyes alighted gave -birth to a train of thought that led separately, yet quite inevitably, -to the memories that would shatter her quietude, as conscious and -subconscious self struggled for possession of her mind. - -She stared at the intent backs of her neighbours. One by one they -hunched forward, as each in turn settled to work. Louise considered them -critically. What ugly things backs were! It was funny, but girls with -dark skirts always pinned them to their blouses with white safety-pins, -and _vice versa_. It made them look skewered.... Yet Miss Durand had -said that backs were the most expressive part of the whole body.... That -was the day they had seen the Watts pictures. But then the draperies of -the great white figure in "Love and Death" were not fastened up in the -middle with safety-pins.... That had been a wonderful picture.... She -knew how the boy felt, how he fought.... How long had he been able to -hold the door? she wondered. Characteristically, she never questioned -the ultimate defeat. It was terrible to be so weak.... But the Death was -beautiful.... pitying.... One wouldn't hate it while one resisted it, as -one hated Mamma.... Mamma, forcing her way into an attic.... Louise -writhed as she thought of it. - -The girl in front of her coughed, a hasty, grudging cough, recovered -herself, and bent again to her work. Louise was amused. What a hurry she -was in! What a hurry every one was in! How hot Marion's cheeks were! And -Agatha.... Agatha was up to her wrists in ink.... Like the women in the -French Revolution.... Though that was blood, of course.... They were -steeped in gore.... It would be fascinating to write a story about the -knitting women ... click--click--clicking--like a lot of pens -scraping.... What were they all scribbling like that for? Of course, it -was the examination.... There was a paper on her own desk too.... How -funny! - -"Distinguish between Shelley the poet, and Shelley the politician. -Illustrate your meaning by quotations." - -Shelley? The name was familiar.... She sells sea-shells.... - -"Give a short account of the life of Shakespeare." - -He had a wife, hadn't he? A narrow, grudging woman, who couldn't -understand him.... A woman like Mamma.... Mamma, who was turning out the -attic and laughing at Louise.... Not that that mattered--but to clear -the attic--to take away Mother's things.... What would Mother -do--little, darling Mother...? It was holidays.... Mother would know.... -Mother would be there, waiting for Louise. A hideous picture rose up in -Louise's mind. With photographic clearness she saw the attic and the -faint shadow of her mother wavering from visibility to nothingness as -the sunlight caught and lost her impalpable outlines: there was a sound -of footsteps--Louise heard it: the faint thing held out sweet arms and -Louise strained towards them; but the door opened, and Mrs. Denny and -the maids came in. Mamma pointed, while the maids laughed and took their -brooms and chased the forlorn appearance, and it fled before them about -the room, cowering, afraid, calling in its whisper to Louise. But the -maids closed in, and swept that shrinking nothingness into the dark -corner behind the old trunk: but when they had moved the trunk, there -was nothing to be seen but a delicate cobweb or two. So they swept it -into the dustpan and settled down to the scrubbing of the floor. - -The picture faded. Louise crouched over her desk, her head in her hands. -About her the pens scratched rhythmically. - -For a space she existed merely. She could not have told how long it was -before thoughts began once more to drift across the blankness of her -mind like the first imperceptible flakes that herald a fall of snow. - -She moved stiffly in her seat. The thoughts came thicker--thoughts of -her mother still, of the dream presence that she would not feel -again.... Never again? There was the Last Judgment, of course.... She -would see her then.... And who knew when the Judgment would come.... In -a thousand years? In the next five seconds? She counted slowly, holding -her breath: "One--two--three--four--five----" and stared out expectantly -into space through the lashes of her dropped lids. - -All about her sat forms, bowed like her own, scarcely moving. Of course, -of course--she nodded to herself--satisfied with her own acuteness. -Obviously, the Last Judgment.... They were all waiting for God.... He -hadn't arrived yet, it seemed.... Well, one might look about a little -first.... How queer Heaven smelt! The heart of Louise leapt within -her.... Now was the opportunity to find Mother.... Mother would be -somewhere among the dead.... But they all had ugly backs.... But -Mother.... Of course Mother would be standing on that high platform -place like a throne.... It was her place.... She always stood there.... -Or did she? Was there not some one else? very like her ... with eyes ... -and a smile ... whom Louise knew so well? Wasn't it Mother? With patient -deliberation she strove to disentangle the two personalities, that -combined and divided and blurred again into one. There was Mother--and -the Other--one was shape and one was shadow--but which was real? There -was Mother--and the Other--who was Mother? No, who was--who was--The -Other was not Mother--but if not, who?--who?--who?-- - -A chorus of angels took up the chant: Who? who? who? They had flat, -faint voices, that gritted and whispered, like pens passing over paper. - -Who? who? who? - -The answer came thundering back out of infinite space in the awaited -voice of God.... - -"You have ten minutes more." - -Louise gave a faint gasp. Reality enveloped her once more, licking up -her illusion as instantly and fiercely as an unnoticed candle will -shrivel up a woman's muslins. She stood naked amid the ashes of her -dreams. - -She glanced wildly about her. The girls at her elbows were furiously at -work. The little examiner had put away his book and was staring at her. -Her eyes fell. Before her lay foolscap, fair and blank, save for her -name in the corner, and a close-printed paper that she did not -recognise, clamouring for information anent Shelley, and Carlyle, and -the Mermaid Tavern. Because, of course, she was at the Literature -examination, and there were ten minutes more. - -And she had written nothing. - -An instant she sat appalled. Then she snatched up her pen and wrote.... - -Her pen fled across the paper at Tam o' Shanter speed, leaving its trail -of shapeless, delirious sentences. She never paused to consider--she -wrote. She knew only that she had ten--twelve--fifteen questions to -answer, and ten minutes in which to do it. Ten minutes for a two and a -half hours' paper! No matter--if one stopped to think.... Hurry! hurry! -Shelley was born in 1792--he was the son of Sir Timothy Shelley, of -Field Place, near Horsham---- - -When the examiner collected the papers, she had written exactly two -pages. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - - -The examination had taken place early in May, but the summer term was -nearly over before news of the results arrived. When it came, it made -but a small sensation. The school had tired of waiting. Not only was its -own more intimate examination drawing near, but its many heads were -filled, to the exclusion of all else, with the excitements and rivalries -of the summer theatricals. - -The school play was an institution. Of late years--ever since she had -joined the staff indeed--it had grown into an annual personal triumph -for Miss Hartill. - -Clare was blessed--cursed--with that sixth sense, the _sens du théâtre_. -Her own nature was, in essence, theatrical; her frigid and fastidious -reserve warring incessantly with her irrepressible love of the scene for -its own sake. She was aware of the trait and humiliated by its presence -in her character. Usually she would curb her inclination with a severity -that was in itself histrionic: at times she indulged it with voluptuous -recklessness. - -As a girl, the stage had appealed to her strongly; but her excessive -squeamishness, with her acute sense of personal, bodily dignity, closed -it to her as a career. Also her love of power. Though she knew little of -stage life she had sufficient intuition to gauge correctly what she -might become. Successful necessarily--dominant never. And she required a -dais. But the compelling woman, she knew, is successful through her -combination of intellectual strength with sexual charm. She must not -scruple to use all the weapons at her service. Clare had told herself -that there were some weapons to which she would never condescend. If -sting had lain in the fact that, though she would, they were not hers to -use, she did not acknowledge it, even to herself. Resolutely she put -from her the idea of fostering a useless talent; and the desire to -exploit it, save surreptitiously in social intercourse, dulled as she -grew older. - -Nevertheless, the yearly plays were to Clare a source of excitement and -gratification. She alone was responsible for the production. In five -successful years they had become an event, a festival--not only to the -school, but to the entire neighbourhood. Two, and then three public -performances were given each summer, and the proceeds benefited the -school charities. _As You Like It_, _Twelfth Night_, _Verona_, and _The -Merchant of Venice_, followed upon the _Midsummer Night's Dream_, and -exhausted the list of entirely suitable plays; but after some -hesitation, Clare had devised for her next venture scenes from _King -John_. Several forms were studying the period, the Sixths and Fifths -were reading the play, politically also it was apropos. (Clare had ever -sound reasons to gild her decisions.) Privately she had been slightly -embarrassed by the fact that the classes she supervised had that year -proved themselves unusually poor in dramatic ability. She could depend, -indeed, on a score of keen and capable children, but in Louise Denny -alone had she glimpsed an actress who could do her credit. The child's -physique precluded her from rôles that, otherwise, she could easily have -filled, but as Prince Arthur, she could be made the central, -unforgettable figure of an otherwise trite performance. "_King John_," -quoth Clare; "decidedly, the very play." And _King John_ was chosen. - -Since the beginning of the term, with Clare as generalissimo and Alwynne -most ingenious of adjutants, staff and school had worked -enthusiastically. Costumes were finished, staging painted and planned, -and the various scenes were, at length, receiving their final polish. -Alwynne was responsible for the interpretation of the minor parts, while -Clare, in her spare time, devoted herself to the principals, attacking -alternately the exaggerations of Agatha's "Constance," Marion's stolid -"Hubert," a certain near-sighted amiability in the spectacled "King -John." - -Clare was a born stage-manager, patient, resourceful, compelling. The -children trusted her; she had the habit of success. Her air of authority -cushioned them, denied the possibility of failure. Clare, wholly in -earnest, Clare at usual hours, intimate and relaxed, Clare appealing, -exhorting, inspiring, was irresistible. She got what she wanted from -them and was not ill content. She knew to the last ounce their -capabilities. - -With Louise alone she had difficulties. The child was almost too easily -trained. Responsive, quickly fired or chilled, she was, in fact, too -delicately and completely attuned to Clare herself. Clare could be -crude: she had her gusty moods: the little æolian harp quivered to -snapping point before them. Originally this extreme sensitiveness had -fascinated Clare; she felt like a musician exploring the possibilities -of an unknown instrument; but she tired of it in time. As Louise became -saturated with the stronger personality, she had, in her passionate -desire to satisfy Clare, grown into her mere replica; reproducing her -phraseology, voicing her opinions, reflecting her moods, stifling, in -the exquisite delight of abnegation, all in her that had originally -attracted the older woman. That the effect had been, first to amuse, -then to irritate, finally to bore Clare's fickle humour, was natural -enough. Clare, had she cared, could have guided the child, despite the -great disparity of age, into a pleasant path of affection and -friendship, but that she did not choose. She was disappointed, and -showed it: and there, for her, the matter ended. That she was in any way -responsible, she would not admit. - -She did not, indeed, fully realise the extent of the change in Louise -until the rehearsals began. For all her growing indifference, in spite -of the marked deterioration that automatically it had caused in the -girl's work, she had still a high and just opinion of her capabilities. -She was positive that as Prince Arthur, Louise would give a fine and -original performance, and anticipated with amused interest her initial -rendering of the character. - -At the first rehearsal Louise did not disappoint her. She was neither -stiff nor self-conscious, and her acting, which proved to be entirely -instinctive, carried conviction. Though Clare worked from the head, she -could appreciate the more primitive method, but even then, the character -as portrayed by Louise amazed her. The deliberate pathos, the cloying -charm, did not seem to exist for Louise. She played as in an ecstasy of -terror. The text, Clare knew, could permit the reading, and the -conception interested her; but the temptation to criticise, alter and -improve, was natural. Here and there, as rehearsals progressed, she -pulled and patched and patted--quite genuinely in the interest of the -play as a whole. But the result was discouraging. The Louise of former -days would have defended her own version, delighting Clare with shy -impudences and flashes of insight, naïve parries and counter-attacks, -till between them they had attained notable results. But the sparkle had -been drilled out of Louise. She was humble, anxiously acquiescent, -agreeing with every alteration, accepting every suggestion, however -foreign to her own instinctive convictions, while the vividness faded -slowly from her reading, leaving it lifeless and forced. - -"It's patchwork," said Clare disgustedly to Alwynne, at the end of the -third week, "pure patchwork. She does everything I tell her--and the -result is dire. What it will be like on the night, heaven knows! And -there's nobody else. Yet she _can_ act. That first performance was quite -excellent." - -"And she tries." - -"She slaves! She would be less irritating if she didn't. You know, -Alwynne, I let myself go yesterday. I told her how impossible she was. -And all she did was to look at me like a mournful monkey!" - -"Inarticulate. Exactly." - -Clare lifted her eyebrows. Alwynne looked at her quaintly. - -"You know perfectly well what's wrong. Why on earth don't you leave her -alone?" - -"Uncoached?" - -"That as well, of course. You said yourself she was excellent at first. -Why don't you leave her to herself? It's safe. She's not like the -others. She's a nectarine, not a potato. Give her a free hand till the -dress-rehearsal. It won't be your reading--I prefer yours, too; at least -I think I do----" - -"I'm glad you say 'think.' But think again. There's no question of which -you ought to prefer. But I, my good child, must consider my public! It -wants to enjoy itself! It wants to weep salt tears! Louise's reading -would cheat it of its emotions!" - -"At least it will be a reading, not a repetition. I don't mean that, -though, when I say--leave her alone. Clare--you won't realise what you -mean to people!" - -"I don't follow----" but Clare laughed a little. - -"You do. You know you've made Louise crazy about you." Clare shrugged -impatiently. - -"I dislike these enthusiasms." - -"But you cause them. I think it is rather mean to shirk the -consequences." - -"Really, Alwynne!" But Clare was still smiling. - -"You do. You begin by being heavenly to people--and then you tantalise -them." - -"Does it hurt, Alwynne? Are you going to run away?" - -Alwynne smiled. - -"Oh, you won't get rid of me so easily. I'm a limpet. Do you know, I -couldn't imagine existence without you now. I've never been so -gloriously happy in my life. You wouldn't ever get really tired of me, -would you?" - -"I wonder." - -"I know." - -"I've warned you that I'm changeable. Instance your Louise." - -"Oh, Clare, do be nicer to Louise." - -"Oh, Alwynne, do mind your own business. I'm as nice as is good for her. -But I believe you're right about this acting. I'll wash my hands of her -till the dress-rehearsal, if you like. You can tell her I said so." - -But Alwynne, whispering to Louise that perhaps the old way was better -after all, that Miss Hartill had said she didn't mind, achieved little. - -"Oh, Miss Durand--don't let her think I'm hopeless. I shall get it right -in time. I'd rather stick to the way she showed me. Miss Durand--do you -think she's angry? Honestly, I will get it right. Miss Durand--I suppose -there's no news?" - -The child's face was very drawn; her eyes seemed larger than ever; she -looked like a little old woman! Alwynne was concerned; she felt vaguely -responsible. She, too, wished that the news, good or bad, would come, -and put an end at least to the tension. - -And one morning, all unexpectedly, the news did come. - -The performances were but two days away. The decorous Big Hall was in -confusion. The school sat, picnic-fashion, for its prayers; and the head -mistress, entering between half-hung cloths, mounted a battlemented -rostrum to address it. She carried a sheaf of papers. Louise, sitting -with her class at the further end of the hall, outwardly decorous -enough, was in reality paying little attention. Her vague, unhappy -thoughts were concerned with the coming rehearsal; she could not -remember what Miss Hartill's last directions had been; she was sure she -should stumble. Sometimes the mere words seemed to evade her. Yet the -play was on her shoulders--Miss Durand had said so. She supposed Prince -Arthur was really fond of Hubert? Not pretending, because he was afraid? -But of course it was easy to love a person and yet be terrified of them. -She stole a look at Clare, prominent in the grave group of mistresses. -They were all very intent. It dawned on her that the head mistress had -been speaking for several minutes. - -Suddenly there was an outburst of clapping. The spectacled girl at the -end of the row grew pink and stared at her hands. - -"What is it?" breathed Louise. "Oh, what is it? What is it?" - -A neighbour caught the murmur and looked down at her curiously. - -"Are you asleep? It's the lists. Your exam. You'll be second, I expect." - -But Marion was second. - -The clapping crackled up anew. - -So the news was come! - -It was cruel to let it spring upon you thus.... You would have asked so -little ... ten minutes ... a bare ... in which to brace yourself.... -Surprise was horrible ... it caught you with your soul half-naked ... it -shocked like sudden noise.... - -There came a fresh outburst. - -It was wicked to make such sounds ... like all the policeman's-rattles -in the world.... - -The reading proceeded; it calmed her; it barely stirred the beautiful -silence. But presently the neat voice altered. Old Edith Marsham was a -kindly soul. She had not quite forgotten her own schooldays. She -realised, perfunctorily, as the successful do, the blankness of defeat. -Louise heard her name pronounced, a trifle hurriedly. Louise -Denny--failed. - -She made no sign. She sat erect, listening to the conclusion of that -matter, clapped in due course, stood, kneeled, rose again, as applause, -hymns and prayers buzzed about her, filed with her class from the hall -and added her shy word to the clamour of congratulation in the long -corridors. Inwardly, she was stunned by the evil that was upon her. - -The irregular morning classes (the imminent entertainment had -disorganised the entire system of work) gave her time to rouse, to -review her position. - -She turned helplessly within herself, wondering how she should begin to -think--and where. She wondered idly if this was how soldiers felt, when -a shell had blown them to pieces? She wondered how they collected -themselves afterwards? Where did they begin? Did an arm pick up the legs -and head, or how? - -The picture thus conjured up struck her as excessively funny. She began -to giggle. The mistress's astonished voice roused her to the necessity -for self-control. She picked up her pen. The thoughts flowed more -clearly--yes, like ink in a pen. - -So it had come. - -All along she had known that she must have failed: known it from the day -of the examination itself. The burden of that knowledge had been upon -her for weeks like a secret guilt. Daily she had gone to prayers in cold -fear, thinking: "Now--now--now--they will read it out." Daily she had -studied Clare's face, to each change of expression, each abstraction or -transient sternness, her heart beating out its one thought: "She had -heard! she knows!" And yet behind her academic certainty of failure had -lain a little illogical hope. There was just a chance--an examiner more -kind than just ... a spilled ink-bottle ... an opportune fire. The child -in her could still pray for miracles, for help from fairyland, and half -believe it on the way. - -And now the daily terrors, the daily reliefs, were alike over. Louise, -who had learned, as she thought, to do without hope these many weeks, -realised pitifully her self-deception. This hopelessness, this dead -weight of certainty, was a new burden--a Sisyphus rock which would never -roll for her. She was at the end. - -Her mind, for all its forced and hot-house development, had, in matters -of raw fact, the narrow outlook of the schoolgirl, superimposed upon -the passions, the more intense for their utter innocence, of the child. -Her sense of proportion, that latest developed and most infallible sign -of maturity, was embryonic. The examination, so intrinsically -unimportant, appeared to her a Waterloo. She could not see beyond it. - -Clare, inexplicably altering, daily sterner and more indifferent, save -for stray gleams of whimsical kindness, that stung and maddened the -child by their sweetness and rarity, would, Louise considered, be -effectually alienated. But Louise could not conceive life possible -without Clare. The future was a night of black misery, without a hint of -dawn. - - - - -CHAPTER XX - - -The morning wore to an end. Clare had come in at the mid-morning break -to announce that the dress rehearsal would take place on the afternoon -of the following day. All costumes were to be ready. The day-girls were -to lunch at the school. She was brief and businesslike, inaccessible to -questions. She did not look at Louise. - -Alwynne, later in the morning, supplementing her instructions, paused a -moment at the child's desk. But Louise gave no sign. Alwynne hesitated. -She herself was averse from verbal sympathy. Also she was pressed for -time, and Clare, she knew, wanted her. The one o'clock bell shattered -her indecision. She gave her directions and hurried away. - -Louise packed her books together and went home. - -She endured the cheerful noisy lunch; carried out some small commissions -for her step-mother; shepherded the troop of small boys into the paddock -behind the garden and saw them established at their games. She stayed a -moment with the round two-year-old, sprawling by the pile of coats, but -he, too, had his amusements. Every pocket tempted his enquiring fingers. -He ignored her. - -She went back to the house. Habit brought her for the fiftieth time to -the attic, and she had opened the door before she remembered. She looked -about her. An iron bedstead, covered by a crude quilt, stood where the -trunk of books had lain. A square of unswept carpet lay before it. There -was a deal night-table and a candlestick of blue tin, with matches and a -guttered candle. Across a chair lay a paper-back, face downwards, and a -pair of soiled red corsets. The ivy had been cut away from the window, -and the sunlight cast no fantastic frieze, but a squared, black shadow -on the floor. The air was close, and a little rank. Louise shrank from -it. - -"Mother?" she said; and then: "You've gone away, haven't you? It's no -use calling?" - -She waited. The uneven water-jug rattled in its basin. - -She spoke again-- - -"Mother, I know it's all spoiled here, but couldn't you come? Just for a -little while, Mother? I'm most miserable. Please, Mother?" - -There was no answer. - -"What shall I do?" cried Louise wildly. "What shall I do? Oh, what shall -I do?" - -She turned from that empty place, stumbled to her room, and flung -herself across her bed. She was shaken by her misery, as a dog shakes a -rat. She cried, her head on her arms, till she was sick and blinded. -Loneliness and longing seared her as with irons. - -The clock ticked, and the sunshine poured into the room. The shouts of -the children, the crack of the ball on bat sounded faintly. The house -slept. Two hours passed. - -Somewhere a clock chimed and boomed. Four o'clock. - -Slowly and stiffly Louise roused herself and got off her bed. She was -cramped and shivering. She stood in the middle of the room and held out -her hands to the brassy sunlight, but it did not warm her. She felt -dazed and giddy; her head burned as if there were live coals in it. Her -thoughts flowed sluggishly; she found it impossible to hurry them; they -split apart into fragments that were words and meaningless phrases, or -stuck like cogged wheels. Her mind moved across immense spaces to adjust -these difficulties, but she policed them in vain. There was one -sentence, in particular, that she could not deal with. It would not move -along and make room for other thoughts. It danced before her; its grin -spanned the horizon; it inhabited her mind; it was reversible like a -Liberty satin; it ticked like a clock: "What next? What next? What next? -Next what? Next what? Next what?" - -What next?... Dully she reckoned it up. The tea-bell--homework--bedtime. -Night--and the false dreams. Morning--and the anger of Miss Hartill. Day -and week and month--and the anger of Miss Hartill. The years stretched -out before her in infinite repetition of the afternoon's agony, till her -raw nerves shrank appalled. Kneeling down, she told God that it was -impossible for her to endure this desolation. She implored Him, if He -should in truth exist, not to reckon her doubt against her, but to be -merciful and let her die. It was not the first time that she had prayed -thus, but never before with such fierce insistence. If He existed He -could impossibly refuse.... - -Speaking her thoughts, even to so indefinite a Listener, steadied her. A -ghost of hope had drifted through her mind. A ghost indeed; a messenger -that whispered not of waking but of sleep, not of arduous renewing but -of an end. Death was life upon his lips and life, death; yet he was none -the less a hope. - -The familiar text upon the wall above her bed caught her eye. The -message seemed no more miraculous than the pansies and mistletoe that -wreathed about its gilt and crimson capitals. "God is our Refuge and -Strength, a very present Help in Trouble." "Ask and it shall be given -unto you" confirmed her from the other wall. - -She sat between those tremendous statements and considered them. - -God had never yet answered any prayer of hers.... Not, she supposed, -that He could not, but because He did not choose.... He was rather like -Miss Hartill.... But Miss Hartill would never understand.... At least -one could explain things to God--if God were.... And she asked so little -of Him--just to let her die and be at peace.... She thought He might--if -He had even time for sparrows.... She wondered how He would manage it! -If He would only be quick--because red-hot wires ran through her head -when she tried to think, and she was afraid--afraid--afraid--of -to-morrow and Miss Hartill.... - -The tea-bell pealed across the garden. - -She tidied her hair, and fetching the sponge and towel stood before the -glass, trying to trim her marred face into some semblance of composure. -The boys would be clamouring--and one never knew.... There might be -tainted food--a loose baluster--a tag of carpet.... He had his ways.... -She must not baulk Him.... - -She went downstairs. - -The children were tired and cross and quarrelsome--the heat had soured -even cheerful Mrs. Denny. It was not a pleasant meal. But it could not -oppress Louise. Outwardly docile and attentive, her mind had withdrawn -into itself and sat aloof, inviolate, surveying its surroundings much as -it would have watched the actors in a moving picture. She was impervious -to bickerings and querulous comment. What did it matter? She would never -have tea with them again.... She was going away from it all.... If only -God did not forget.... - -All through the breathless evening she awaited His pleasure. - -Long after the house was quiet, and Mrs. Denny tucking up her children, -had come and gone, Louise lay wakeful--still waiting. - -It was an airless night. Every other moment the little unaccountable -noises of a sleeping building broke the warm silence. Shadows scurried -across the counterpane and over her face like ghostly mice, as the trees -outside her window bent and nodded to a radiant moon. - -She was weary to the point of exhaustion. Momently her body seemed to -shrink away from her into the depths of the bed--warm, fathomless -depths--leaving her essential self to float free and uncontained. She -would resign herself luxuriously to the sensation of disintegration, but -with maddening regularity her next breath clicked body and soul together -anew. Yet, as she drowsed, the space between breath and breath -lengthened slowly, till they lay divided by incredible æons in which her -thoughts wandered and lost themselves, grew hoar and died and were born -again; while the dead-weight of her body sank ever deeper into sleep, -was recalled to consciousness with ever increasing effort. - -She speculated languidly upon her sensations. They recalled a day at the -dentist's, years before. A tube had been placed over her mouth and she -had struggled, remembering a hideous story of a woman--a French -marquise--that she had read in a magazine. The name began with a "B" or -a "V." "Brin--" something. The Funnel--_The Leather Funnel_--that was -the name of the story.... But there came no choking water--only sweet, -buzzing air.... And then her body had dropped away from her, as it was -doing now.... She recalled the sensation of rest and freedom; she had -passed, like a bird planing down warm breezes, into exquisite -oblivion.... She had returned, centuries later, to a dull aching pain, -harsh noises, and lights that were like blows.... But if she had not -returned? She would have been dead.... They would have buried her.... -Such things had happened.... So that was death--that cradling, beautiful -sleep. And God was sending it to her now; flooding her, drowning her in -its warm comfort.... God was very good.... She was sorry--sorry that she -had often not believed in Him.... But Miss Hartill didn't.... But she -would never see Miss Hartill any more.... Perhaps, years after, when she -was tired of sleeping, she would go back and see her again.... There was -All Souls' Night, when you woke up.... But she would not frighten Miss -Hartill.... She laughed a little, to think that she could ever frighten -Miss Hartill.... She would just kiss her, a little ghost's kiss that -would feel like a puff of air ... and then she would go back and sleep -and sleep and sleep ... with only the yew-berries pattering on to her -gravestone to tell her when another year had drifted past.... It was -funny that people could be afraid to die.... She wondered if ghosts -snored, and if you heard them, if your grave were very close? It was her -last thought as she slid into slumber. - -Instantly the breakfast gong came crashing across her peace. She fought -against waking. Her eyelids lifted the weight upon them as violets press -upwards against a clod of rotten leaves. She lay dazedly, her mind -cobwebbed with dreams, her thoughts trickling back into the channels of -the previous night. Slowly she took in her situation. There was the -window, and a shining day without: she could hear the starlings -quarrelling on the lawn, and the squeak of an angry robin.... There was -her room, and the tidy pile of clothes by the bed ... the bed, and she -herself lying in it.... So she was not dead! There was to-day to be -faced, and Miss Hartill's anger, and all the other hundreds and -thousands of days.... - -And she must get up at once. - -Her sick mind shrank from that, as from a culminating terror. She was -desperately tired; her body ached as if it had been beaten. Dressing was -a monstrous and impossible feat.... It could not be.... Yet her -step-mother would come--she was between God and Mrs. Denny--and God had -left her in the lurch. - -She lay shielding her eyes from the strong light. - -The pressure on her eyeballs was causing the usual kaleidoscopic ring of -light to form within her closed lids. The phenomenon had always been a -childish amusement to her; she was adept at the shifting pressure that -could vary colour and pattern. She watched idly. Red changed to green, -purple followed yellow, and the ring narrowed to a pin-point of light on -its background of watered silk; then it broke up as usual into starry -fragments. But they danced no dazzling fire-dance for her ere they -merged again into the yellow ring; to her distracted fancy they were -letters--fiery letters, that formed and broke and formed again. -G--O--D--then an H and a P and an L. She puzzled over them. "God hopes?" -"God helps?" But He hadn't.... "God helps?" A Voice in her ears exactly -like her own took it up--"Those that help themselves." It spoke so -loudly that she shrank. The universe echoed to Its boom: yet she knew -so well that the Voice was only in her own head. - -No wonder her head ached, when it was all full of Lights and Voices.... -And Miss Hartill would be angry if she took Them to school.... If only -she need not go to school.... Why--why had God cheated her? "He helped -those----" Was that what They meant? - -She looked about her, brightening yet uncertain; then her long plait of -hair caught her eye. Lazily she lifted it, disentangled a strand no -thicker than coarse string, and doubling it about her throat, began to -tighten it, using her fingers as a lever, till the blood sang in her -ears. She had sat upright in bed for the greater ease. Suddenly she -caught sight of her face in the wardrobe mirror. It was growing pink and -puffy; the eyes goggled a little. The sensation of choking grew -unendurable. Instinctively her fingers freed themselves and the noose -fell apart. She swung forward, panting, and watched her features grow -normal again. - -"It's no good. Oh, I am a coward," cried Louise, wearily. - -Her mother's old-fashioned travelling clock, chiming the quarter, -answered her, and for a moment forced her thoughts back from those -borderlands where sanity ends. Habit asserted itself; she was filled -with everyday anxieties. She was late, certainly for breakfast, probably -for school. She jumped out of bed, washed and dressed in panic speed, -collected her belongings and hurried from the house. - -Her father, hearing the gate clack, glanced up from his newspaper. - -"Has that child had any breakfast?" he demanded, uneasily. - -There was no answer. He was late himself, and his wife had poured his -coffee and left the room. He could hear her heavy footfall in their -bedroom overhead. - -He returned to his reading. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI - - -Louise ran up the steep hill, her satchel padding at her back, the soft -wind disordering her hair and whipping a colour into her white cheeks. -She gained the deserted cloakroom, flung off her hat, and fled upstairs. -But she was later than she guessed. Racing, against all rules, through -the upper hall and down the long corridor, the drone of voices as she -passed the glass-panelled doors warned her that no hurrying could avail -her. She was definitely late. Her speed slackened. - -The passage ended at right-angles to a small landing, into which her -class-room opened. She paused, sheltering in the curve of the hall, -listening. The class was still. The single voice of a mistress rang -muffled through the walls. She could not distinguish the accents. - -It was Miss Durand's class; but when everything was so upset ... one -never knew ... it might be Miss Hartill herself.... That would be just -Louise's luck.... She hated you to be late.... But there was no point in -hesitating.... - -Yet she hesitated, shifting her weight uneasily from foot to foot, till -a far-off step in the corridor without, ended her uncertainty. Some one -was coming.... That again might be Miss Hartill.... Louise must be in -her place.... Yet surely it was Miss Hartill's voice in the form-room? - -She crept to the door and peered through the glass. - -Miss Durand was standing at the blackboard. - -Louise entered, brazen with relief, and began her apologies. But Alwynne -was no Rhadamanthus, and her official reprobation was marred by a -twinkle. She would have been late herself that morning, but for -Elsbeth--poor dear Elsbeth, who conceded, without remotely -comprehending, the joys of that extra twenty minutes. And when had -Louise been late before? Little, good, frightened Louise! She entered -the name in the defaulters' book, but her manner sent the child to her -desk quieted. - -Alwynne, at sentry-go between blackboard and rostrum, dictating, -supervising, expounding, yet found time to watch her. Louise was always -a little on her motherly young mind. The child's shrinking manner -worried her--and her pain-haunted eyes. Pain was Alwynne's devil. She -was selfish, as youth must be, but at least, unconsciously. Hint -trouble, and all of her was eager to serve and save. She was the -instinctive Samaritan. But her perception was blurred by her profound -belief in Clare. Louise, she knew, was in good hands, in wise hands; -where she had known ten children, Clare had trained a hundred; if -Clare's ways were not hers--so much the worse for hers. - -Yet this disciplining of Louise was a long business; she wished it need -not make the child so wretched. Surely Clare forgot how young she -was.... There would be new trouble over the affair of the papers.... If -Clare would but be commonplace for once, laugh, and say it didn't -matter, and perhaps ask Louise to tea.... The child would be radiant for -another six months--and work better too.... But, of course, it was -absurd for her to dictate to Clare.... Louise had had such a pretty -colour when she came in; it was all gone now.... She looked dreadfully -thin.... Alwynne wondered if it would do any good to speak to Clare -again.... Dear Clare--she was so proud of her girls, so eager to see -them successful.... Louise was a bitter disappointment to her.... Yet, -if she could have been gentler--but, of course, Clare knew best.... -Alwynne only hoped the rehearsal would be a success. If Louise did well, -it might adjust the tension.... - -She watched the child, sitting apparently attentive, noted the moving -lips, the little red volume half hidden in her lap. Shakespeare had no -business in a physiology lesson, but Alwynne let her alone. - -The hour was over all too quickly for Louise. Earlier in the year, when -she had been at her most brilliant, and Miss Hartill's classes the -absorbing joy of her day, she had yet welcomed the hours with Miss -Durand. They alone had not seemed, in comparison, a waste of priceless -time. They were jolly hours, quick-stepping, cheerful, laughter-flecked; -void of excitements, yet never savourless; above all restful. -Unconsciously she had counted on them for their recuperative value. Even -now, exhausted, overwrought, beyond all influence, the kindly atmosphere -could at least soothe her. Wistfully her eyes followed Alwynne, as the -young mistress left the room. - -Clamour arose; slamming of desk-lids, thud of satchels and rattle of -pencil-cases mingling with the babble of tongues. The next lesson was -French Grammar. The little Frenchwoman was invariably late. She dreaded -the lesson as much as her audience enjoyed it. They welcomed it as a -pleasant interlude--the hour for conversation. Agatha did not even -trouble to keep an eye on the door, as she turned to Louise, immobile -beside her. - -"I say, were you late?" - -"Didn't you see?" - -"Why were you late? Weren't you called? Didn't you wake up?" - -"No." - -"Why?" - -"Oh, the housemaid died in the night. Smallpox." Louise stooped over her -book, her shoulders hunched against questions. - -"No, but tell me. Did you get in a row?" - -"You heard what Daffy said. I want to learn, Agatha." - -"Oh, not that. Did you get in a row about the rehearsal?" - -"What rehearsal?" - -"The rehearsal yesterday." - -Louise sat up, her eyes widening. - -"There was no rehearsal yesterday?" she said anxiously. - -"Wasn't there just!" - -"But I never heard; nobody told me." - -"Why, Daffy came in herself, yesterday morning. Every one was there. I -suppose you were moonstruck as usual. Do you mean to say you didn't -hear? I don't envy you." - -"Was she angry?" said Louise, in her smallest voice. - -Agatha began to enjoy herself. - -"Angry? She was raving!" - -"What did she say?" - -"Well, she didn't say much," admitted Agatha. "Just asked where you -were, and if not, why not--you know her way. Then we got started and -went all through it, and had a gorgeous afternoon. She read your part. I -say, she can act, can't she? But she was pretty mad, of course." - -"Was she--" said Louise. But it was not a question. - -"Oh, and you're to go to her at break, this morning. Don't go and -forget, and then say I didn't tell you." And she turned to greet the -entering mistress with a flood of Anglo-French. - -Louise had three parts of an hour in which to assimilate the message. -How unlucky she was! She remembered the previous morning as one -remembers a nightmare.... Miss Durand had certainly drifted through its -dreadfulness--but of what she had said or done, Louise remembered -nothing. But it was certain that she had managed to annoy Miss Hartill -more than ever. To miss a special rehearsal! Now she was to go to her, -and Miss Hartill would be so angry already, that when the question of -the papers arose, the last chance of her leniency was gone.... For, of -course, she would speak of the examination.... What would she say? Her -imagination stubbed; it could not pierce the terror of what Miss Hartill -would say. - -The break was half over before she had wrenched herself out of her desk, -along the length of the school, and up the staircase to Clare's little -sanctum. - -She knocked timidly. Clare's answering bell, that invariably startled -her, rang sharply. She hesitated--the bell rang again, a prolonged, -shrill peal. She pulled herself together, opened the door, and went in. - -The floor was littered with gay costumes. Miss Durand, in a big apron, -laughter-flushed, with her pretty hair tumbling down her back, was -sorting them into neat heaps. - -Clare, at ease in a big arm-chair, directing operations, while her quick -fingers cut and pasted at a tinsel crown, was laughing also. - -"How happy they look," thought Louise. - -Clare glanced up. - -"Well, Louise," she said, not unkindly. - -Louise stammered a little. - -"Miss Hartill--I'm very sorry--I'm most awfully sorry. They said--the -girls said--there was rehearsal yesterday, and you wanted me. I honestly -didn't know. I've only just heard there was one." - -Clare kept her waiting while she clipped at the indentations of the -crown. The scissors clicked and flashed. It seemed an interminable -process. - -Finally she spoke to Alwynne, her eyes on her work. - -"Miss Durand! You gave my message to the Fifths?" - -Yes, Alwynne had told the girls. - -"Wasn't Louise in the room at the time?" - -Alwynne's unwilling eyes took in every detail of the forlorn figure -between them. She lied swiftly, amazing herself-- - -"As a matter of fact--I believe Louise was not in the room at the time. -It was my fault: I should have seen that she was told. I'm so sorry." - -Louise gave a little gasp of relief--more audible than she realised. - -Clare roused at it. She disliked a check. She disliked also the obvious -sympathy between the child and the girl. - -"No, it was my fault. I should have gone myself. It's always wiser. It -saves trouble in the long run. Never mind, Louise. You couldn't help it. -Are you sure of your words?" - -Louise, infinitely relieved, was quite sure of her words. - -"Very well. Shut the door after you--oh, Louise!" - -Louise turned in the doorway. - -"Yes, Miss Hartill." - -"I may as well explain to you now. I am re-arranging the classes." - -Louise questioned her mutely. - -"You will be in the Upper Fourth next term." - -Louise stood petrified. She had never thought of this. - -"You are moving me down? I am third still." - -"We think--Miss Marsham agrees with me--that the work in the Fifth is -too much for you. It is not your fault." - -"Miss Hartill, I have tried--I am trying." - -Clare smiled quite pleasantly. - -"I am quite sure of it. I tell you that I'm not blaming you. I blame -myself. If I expected more of you than you could manage--no one but -myself is to blame. I am sure you will do well in the Fourth." - -Louise broke out passionately-- - -"It is because of the examination." - -Clare held out her crown at arm's length, and eyed it between criticism -and approval as she answered Louise. - -"I think," said Clare smoothly, "we had better not discuss the -examination." - -Louise stood in the doorway, her mouth quivering. - -Alwynne could stand the scene no longer. She jerked herself upright, -and, going to the child, slipped her arm about her and pushed her gently -from the room. - -Clare was still admiring her crown, as Alwynne shut the door again. -Alwynne must try it on. It would suit Alwynne. - -Alwynne peeped at herself in the little mirror, but her thoughts were -with Louise on the other side of the door. - -"Clare," said Alwynne uneasily, "you hurt that child." - -Clare looked at her oddly. - -"Do her good," she said. "Do you think no one has ever hurt me?" - -Alwynne was silent. At times her goddess puzzled her. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII - - -To the schoolgirls the dress rehearsal was, if possible, more of an -ordeal than the performances themselves. The head mistress attended in -state with the entire staff and such of the girls as were not themselves -acting. Stray relatives, unable to be present at the play proper, dotted -the more distant benches, or were bestowed in the overhanging galleries, -while the servants, from portly matron to jobbing gardener, clustered at -the back of the hall. - -The platform at the upper end had been built out to form a stage, and -when, late in the afternoon, the final signal had been given and the -improvised curtains drew audibly apart, Clare had fair reason to plume -herself on her stage-management. - -The long blinds of the windows had been let down and shut out the -sceptical sunshine; and the candle footlights, flickering -unprofessionally, mellowed the paintwork and patterned the home-made -scenery with re-echoing lights, pools of unaccountable shadow, and -shaftlike, wavering, prismatic gleams, flinging over the crude -stage-setting a veil of fantastic charm. - -The play opened, however, dully enough. The scenes chosen had had -inevitably to be compressed, run together, mangled, and Clare had not -found it easy work. Faulconbridge, bowdlerised out of all existence, -could not tickle his hearers, and King John, not yet broken in to crown -and mantle, gave him feeble support. But with the entrance of Constance, -Arthur and the French court, actors and audience alike bestirred -themselves. - -Agatha, her dark eyes flashing, her lank figure softened and rounded by -the generous sweep of her geranium-coloured robes, looked an authentic -stage queen. Her exuberant movements and theatrical intonation had been -skilfully utilised by Clare, who, playing on her eager vanity, had -alternately checked and goaded her into a plausible rendering of the -part. She was the reverse of nervous; her voice rolled her opening -speech without a tremor; her impatient, impetuous delivery (she hardly -let her fellow-actors finish their lines) fitted the character and was -effective enough. - -Yet to Clare, note-book in hand, prepared to pounce, cat-like, on -deficiencies, neither she nor her foil dominated the stage, nor the row -of schoolgirl princes. Her critical appreciation was for the little -figure, wavering uncertainly between the shrieking queens, with scared -anxious eyes, that swept the listening circle in faint appeal, quivering -like a sensitive plant at each verbal assault, shrinking beneath the -hail of blandishments and reproaches. The one speech of the scene, the -reproof of Constance, was spoken with un-childlike, weary dignity-- - - "Good my mother, peace! - I would that I were low laid in my grave; - I am not worth this coil that's made for me." - -Yet it was not Arthur that spoke, nor Louise--no frightened boy or -overwrought, precocious girl. It was the voice of childhood itself, -sexless, aloof; childhood the eternal pilgrim, wandering passive and -perplexed, an elf among the giants: childhood, jostled by the uncaring -crowd, swayed by gross energies and seared by alien passions. - -"She's got it," muttered Clare to Alwynne, reporting progress in the -interval; "oh, how she's got it!" She laughed shortly. "So that's her -reading. Impudent monkey! But she's got her atmosphere. Uncanny, isn't -it? It reminds me--do you remember that performance of hers last autumn -with _Childe Roland_? I told you about it. Well, this brings it back, -rather. Clever imp. I wonder how much of my coaching in this act she'll -condescend to leave in?" - -"You gave her a free hand, you know," deprecated Alwynne. - -"I did. But it's impudence----" - -"Inspiration----" - -"Impudence all the same. When the rehearsal is over I must have a little -conversation with Miss Denny." She showed her white teeth in a smile. - -Alwynne caught her up uneasily-- - -"Clare--you're not going to scold? It wouldn't be fair. You know you're -as pleased as Punch, really." - -Clare shot a look at her, but Alwynne's face was innocent and anxious. -She shrugged her shoulders. - -"Am I? I suppose I am. I don't know. On my word, Alwynne, I don't know! -But run along, my deputy. There's an agitated orb rolling in your -direction from the join of the curtains." - -Alwynne fled. - -The opening scene of the second division of the play--as Clare had -planned it--showed Arthur a prisoner to John and the old queen. The -child's face was changed, his manner strained; his startled eyes darted -restlessly from Hubert to the king and back again to Hubert; the pair -seemed to fascinate him. Yet he shrank from their touch and from -Elinor's embrace, only to check the instinctive movement with pitiful, -propitiatory haste, and to submit, his small fists clenched, to their -caresses. His eyes never left their faces; you saw the tide of fear -rising in his soul. Not till the interview with Hubert, however, was the -morbid drift of the conception fully apparent. He hung upon the man, -smiling with white lips; he fawned; he babbled; he cajoled; marshalled -his poor defences of tears and smiles, frail defiance and wooing -surrender, with an awful, childish cunning. He watched the man as a -frightened bird watches a cat; turned as he turned, confronting him with -every muscle tense. His high whisper premised a voice too weak with -terror to shriek. Yet at the entrance of the attendants there came a cry -that made Clare shiver where she sat. It was fear incarnate. - -Clare fidgeted. It was too bad of Louise.... And what had Alwynne been -thinking of? A free hand, indeed! Too much of a free hand altogether! -The fact that she was listening to a piece of acting, that, in a -theatre, would have overwhelmed her with admiration, added to her -annoyance. A school performance was not the place for brilliant -improprieties. Certainly impropriety--this laborious exposure of a naked -emotion was, in such a milieu, essentially improper--Louise must be -crazy! And in what unholy school had she learned it all--this baby of -thirteen? And what on earth would staff and school say? - -She stole a look at her colleagues. Some were interested, she could see, -but obviously puzzled. A couple were whispering together. A third had -chosen the moment to yawn. - -Her contradictory mind instantly despised them for fools that could not -appreciate what manner of work they were privileged to watch. She saw -her path clear--her attitude outlined for her. She would glorify a -glorious effort (it was pleasant that for once justice might walk with -expediency) and her sure, instant tribute would, she knew, suffice to -quiet the carpers. But, for all that, the performances themselves should -be, she promised herself, on less dangerous lines than the -dress-rehearsal. She would have a word with Louise: the imp needed a -cold douche.... But what an actress it would make later on! Clare sighed -enviously. - -The scene was nearly over. With the glad cry--"Ah! now you look like -Hubert," the enchantment of terror broke. A few more sentences and -Arthur was left alone on the stage. - -As the door clanged (Alwynne was juggling with hardware in the wings) -the child's strained attitude relaxed and the audience unconsciously -relaxed with it. He swayed a moment, then collapsed brokenly into a -chair. The long pause was an exquisite relief. - -But before long the small face puckered into frowns; a back-wash of -subsiding fear swept across it. The hands twitched and drummed. You felt -that a plan was maturing. - -At last, after furtive glances at the door, he rose with an air of -decision, and crossed quickly to the alcove of the window. For an -instant the curtains hid him, and the audience stared expectantly at an -empty stage. When he turned to them again, holding the great draperies -apart with little, resolute fists, his face was alight with hope, and, -for the first time, wholly youthful. In the soft voice ringing out the -last courageous sentences, detailing the plan of the escape, there was a -little quiver of excitement, of childish delight in an adventure. He -ended; stood a moment smiling; then the heavy folds hid him again as -they swept into position. - -There was a tense pause. - -Suddenly as from a great distance, came a faint wailing cry. Thereon, -silence. - -The curtains wheezed and rattled into place. - -Alwynne, hurrying on to the stage to shift scenery for the following -act, nearly tripped, as she dismantled the alcove, over a huddle of -clothes crouched between backing and wall. She stooped and shook it. A -small arm flung up in instant guard. - -"Louise? Get up! The act's over. Run out of the way. Stop--help me with -this, as you're here." - -Obediently the child scrambled to her feet. She gripped an armful of -curtain, and trailed across the stage in Alwynne's wake. Till the -curtains rose on the final act, she trotted after her meekly, helping -where she could. - -With King John embarked on his opening speech, Alwynne drew breath -again. She ran her eye over the actors, palpitant at their several -entrances, saw the prompter still established with book and lantern, and -decided that all could go on without her for a moment. She put her hand -on Louise's shoulder and drew her into the passage. - -"What is it, Louise?" - -"Nothing." - -"What were you doing just now? Were you scared? Was it stage fright?" - -"Oh no." Louise smiled faintly. - -"Then what were you doing?" - -Louise considered. - -"I was dead. I had jumped, you know. I was finding out how it would -feel." - -"Louise! You gruesome child!" - -"I liked it--it was so quiet. I'd forgotten about shifting the scenery. -I'm sorry. Does it--did it hurt him, do you think, the falling?" - -Alwynne put both her hands on the thin shoulders and shook her gently. - -"Louise! Wake up! You're not Prince Arthur now! Gracious me, child--it's -only a play. You mustn't take it so seriously." - -Louise made no answer; she did not seem to understand. - -Alwynne was struck by a new idea. She took the child's face in her hand -and turned it to the gaslight. - -"Did I see you at lunch, Louise? I don't believe I did. Do you know -you're a very naughty child to take advantage of the confusion?" - -"Miss Durand, I had to learn. I was forgetting it all. I slipped the -last two lines as it was--you know, the 'My uncle's spirit is in these -stones' bit. I wasn't hungry." - -"And you were very late, too. What did you have for breakfast?" - -An agitated face peered round the corner. - -"Miss Durand, which side do I come on from? Hubert's nearly off." - -"The left." Alwynne hurried to the rescue, dragging Louise after her. -She hustled the anxious courier to his entrance, twitched his mantle -into position, and saw him safely on the stage. Then she turned to -Louise. - -"Louise, will you please go to the kitchen and ask Mrs. Random for two -cups of tea and some buns--at once. There is some tea made, I know. I'm -tired and thirsty--two cups, please. Bring it to me here, and don't run -into any one with your hands full. Be quick--I'm dying for some." - -Louise darted away on her errand. Poor Daffy did look hot and -flustered.... Daffy was such a dear ... every one worried her ... it was -a shame.... Wouldn't Daffy have been a pleasant mother? Better than -shouting Constance.... What was it she had asked for? A plum, a cherry -and a fig? No, that wasn't it. Oh, of course, tea--tea and buns. - -Alwynne looked after her, smiling and frowning; she was not in the least -thirsty. What a baby it was.... But nothing to eat all day! Mrs. Denny -ought to be ashamed of herself.... She, Alwynne, would keep a vigilant -eye on her to-morrow, poor little soul.... Had she really lost herself -so entirely in the part--or was there a touch of pose? No, that was more -Agatha's line.... Agatha was enjoying herself.... She listened amusedly, -watching through a crack in the screen, till a far-away chink caught her -ear. She went out again into the passage, and met Louise with a laden -tray. - -Alwynne drank with expressive pantomime and motioned to the other cup. - -"Drink it up," she commanded. - -"It's a second cup--for you----" began Louise. - -"Be a good child and do as you're told! I must fly in a minute." - -The child looked doubtful; but the steaming liquid was tempting and the -new-baked, shining cakes. She obeyed. Alwynne watched the faint colour -flush her cheeks with a satisfaction that surprised herself. - -"Finish it all up--d'you hear? I must go." She hesitated: "Louise--you -were very good to-day. I am sure Miss Hartill must have been awfully -pleased." - -She went back to the stage. She had had the pleasure of bringing a look -of relief to Louise's face. Alwynne could never remember that the -kindest lie is a lie none the less. - -In the part of Arthur the child, unconsciously, had seen embodied her -own psychological situation. She had enacted the spirit, if not the -letter, of her own state of mind, and in the mock death had experienced -something of the sensations, the sense of release, of a real one. Left -to herself, she might gradually have dreamed and imagined and acted -herself out of her troubles, have drifted back to real life again, cured -and sane. But Alwynne, with her suggestion of good cheer, had destroyed -the skin of make-believe that was forming healingly upon the child's -sore heart. Louise awoke, with a pang of hope, to her real situation. - -"I am sure Miss Hartill must have been awfully pleased." ... So pleased -that, who knew, she might yet forgive the crime of the examination? If -it might be.... "What might be must be," cried the child within her. - -There came a crash of clapping; the rehearsal was over at last, and in a -few moments flocks of girls, chattering and excited, came trouping past -Louise on their way to tea. - -She did not follow them. She was suddenly aware of boy's clothes. She -must change them.... She could not find Miss Hartill till she was tidy, -and she had determined to speak with her. - -Miss Durand had said.... She would do as Arthur did to Hubert--she would -besiege Miss Hartill, force her to be kind, till she could say, "Oh, now -you look Miss Hartill! all this while you were disguised." She shivered -at the idea of undergoing once more the emotional experience of the -scene--but the vision of Miss Hartill transfigured drew her as a magnet -pulls a needle. - -She went towards the stairs. - -The big music-room at the top of the house had been temporarily -converted into a dressing-room, and she thought she would go quickly and -change, while it was still quiet and spacious. But as she pushed open -the swinging doors that divided staircase from passage, she saw Clare -coming down the long corridor. There was no one else in sight. Again -wild, unreasoning hopes flooded her. She would seize the opportunity ... -she would speak to Miss Hartill there and then.... She would ask her why -she was always angry.... Perhaps she would be kind? "I am sure Miss -Hartill must have been awfully pleased...." She must have speech with -her at once--at once.... - -She waited, holding open the door, her heart beating violently, her face -steeled to composure. - -Clare, passing with a nod, found her way barred by a white-faced scrap -of humanity, whose courage, obviously and pitifully, was desperation. -But Clare could be very blind when she did not choose to see. - -"Miss Hartill, may I speak to you?" - -"I can't wait, Louise. I'm busy." - -"Miss Hartill, was it all right? Were you pleased? I tried furiously. -Was it as you wanted it?" - -"Oh, you played your own version." Clare caught her up sharply. - -"But Miss Durand said--you said I was to." - -"I expect it was all right," said Clare lightly. "I'm afraid I was too -busy to attend much, even to your efforts, Louise." She smiled -crookedly. "And now run along and change." - -She pushed against the door, but Louise, beyond all control, caught back -the handles. - -"Miss Hartill--you shall listen. Are you always going to be angry? What -have I done? Will you never be good to me again as you used to be?" - -Clare's face grew stern. - -"Louise, you are being very silly. Let me pass." - -"Because I can't bear it. It's killing me. Couldn't you stop being -angry?" - -Clare, ignoring her, wrenched open the door. Louise, flung sideways, -slipped on the polished floor. She crouched where she fell, and caught -at Clare's skirts. She was completely demoralised. - -"Miss Hartill! Oh, please--please--if you would only understand. You -hurt me so. You hurt me so." - -Clare stood looking down at her. - -"Once and for all, Louise, I dislike scenes. Let me go, please." - -For a moment their eyes strove. And suddenly Louise, relaxing all -effort, let her go. Without another look, Clare retraced her steps and -entered the Common-room. Louise, still crouching against the wall, -watched her till she disappeared. The doors swung and clicked into -rigidity. - -There was a sudden uproar of voices and laughter and scraping chairs. A -distant door had opened. - -Louise started to her feet, and sped swiftly up the stairs, flight on -flight, of the tall old house, till she reached the top floor and the -music-room. It was empty. She flung-to the door, and fumbled with the -stiff key. It turned at last, and she leaned back against the lock, -shaking and breathless, but with a sense of relief. - -She was safe.... Not for long--they would be coming up soon--but long -enough for her purpose. - -But first she must recover breath. It was foolish to tremble so. It only -hindered one ... when there was so little time to lose. - -Hurriedly she sorted out her little pile of everyday clothes--some -irrelevant instinct insisting on the paramount necessity of changing -into them. Mrs. Denny would be annoyed if she spoiled the new costume. -She re-dressed hastily and, clasping her belt, crossed to the window. - -It was tall and divided into three casements. The centre door was open. -A low seat ran round the bay. She climbed upon it and stood upright, -peering out. - -How high up she was! There was a blue haze on the horizon, above the -line of faint hills, that melted in turn into a weald, chequered like -the chessboard counties in _Alice_. So there was a world beyond the -school! Nearer still, the suburb spread map-like. She craned forward. -Directly under her lay the front garden, and a row of white steps that -grinned like teeth. It was on them that she would fall--not on the -grass.... - -She imagined the sensation of the impact, and shuddered. But at least -they would kill one outright.... One would not die groaning in rhymed -couplets, like Arthur.... - -Clasping the shafts, she hoisted herself upwards, till she stood upon -the inner sill. Instantly the fear of falling caught her by the throat. -She swayed backwards, gasping and dizzy, steadying herself against the -stout curtains. - -"I can't do it," whispered Louise hoarsely. "I can't do it." - -Slowly the vertigo passed. She fought with her rampant fear, wrenching -away her thoughts from the terror of the death she had chosen, to the -terror of the life she was leaving. She stood a space, balanced between -time and eternity, weighing them. - -With an effort she straightened herself, and put a foot on the outer -ledge. Again, inevitably, she sickened. Huddled in the safety of the -window-seat, stray phrases thrummed in her head: "My bones turn to -water"--"There is no strength in me." He knew--that Psalmist man.... - -She slipped back on to the floor, and walked unsteadily to the littered -table. Her hands were so weak that she could hardly lift them to pour -out a glass of water. - -She leaned against the table and drank thirstily. What a fool she -was.... What a weak fool.... An instant's courage--one little -second--and peace for ever after.... Wasn't it worth while? Wasn't it? -Wasn't it? She turned again to her deliverance. - -As she pulled herself on to the seat, she heard a noise of footsteps in -the passage without, and the handle of the door was rattled impatiently. -In an instant she was on the sill. This was pursuit--Miss Hartill, and -all the terrors! There must be no more hesitation. Once more she -crouched for the leap, only, with a supreme effort, to swing herself -back to safety again. Her hands were so slippery with sweat that they -could barely grip the window-shafts. There was a banging at the door and -a sound of voices calling. She swayed in a double agony, as fear strove -against fear. - -She heard the voice of a prefect-- - -"Who is it in there? Open the door at once." - -They would break open the door.... They would find her.... They would -stop her.... Coward that she was--fool and coward.... One instant's -courage--one little movement! - -She stiffened herself anew. Poised on the extreme edge of the outer -sill, she pushed her two hands through the belt of her dress, lest they -should save her in her own despite. She stood an instant, her eyes -closed. - -Then she sprang.... - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII - - -Clare was enjoying tea and triumph. She had worked hard for both, and -was virtuously fatigued. The rocking-chair was comfortable, and the -little gym mistress had brought her her favourite cakes. The -Common-room, tinkling its tea-cups, buzzed criticism and approval. The -rehearsal had been a success. - -The talk centred, while opinion divided, on the Constance and the Prince -Arthur. The general standpoint seemed to be that Agatha had reached the -heights. Her royal robes had been effective; she reminded nearly every -one of a favourite actress. Louise was less popular. A curious -performance--very clever, of course--only one had not thought of Arthur -quite like that! Now the Constance---- - -Clare, watching and listening, purred like a sleepy cat. She wondered -why Alwynne was absent ... she was missing a lot.... Louise was -annoying--she had been excessively irritated with her ten minutes -before--and there was the debacle of the scholarship papers--but to -class her with Agatha! What fools these women were! - -The discussion had become argument, and was growing faintly acrimonious, -when a deep voice cut across it. - -Miss Hamilton, a visiting music mistress, always had a hearing when she -chose to speak. She was a big woman, with a fine massive head and shrewd -eyes. She dressed tweedily and carried her hands in her pockets, -slouching a little. It was her harmless vanity to have none. Teaching -music was her business; her recreations, hockey, and the more -law-abiding forms of suffrage agitation. She was a level-headed and -convincing speaker, with a triumphant sense of humour that could, and -had, carried her successfully through many a fantastic situation. -Rumours of her adventures had spread among the staff, if not through the -school, and beglamoured her; she could have had a following if she had -chosen. But her healthy twelve stone crashed through pedestals, and she -established comradeship, as she helped you, laughter-shaken, to pick up -the pieces. - -A postponed lesson had given her time to attend the rehearsal, and she -had afterwards joined the flock of mistresses at tea. Clare, who thought -more of her opinion than she chose to own, had eyed her once or twice -already, and at the sound of her voice she stopped her lazy rocking. - -"But they are not in the same category! Any schoolgirl could have played -Constance as What's-her-name played it, given the training she has had." -Miss Hamilton nodded pleasantly to the rocking-chair. She appreciated -Clare's capacities. "But Arthur----" - -"Well, I thought Agatha was splendid," repeated a junior mistress -stubbornly. - -"She was. An excellent piece of work! 'But the hands were the hands of -Esau.'" - -"They always are," said the little gym mistress fervently. - -Clare gave her a quick, brilliant smile. She blushed scarlet. - -The music mistress laughed; she enjoyed her weekly glimpse of school -interdependencies. - -"Why did you single out _King John_, Miss Hartill?" she inquired -politely. - -Clare was demure, but her eyes twinkled. - -"The decision lay with Miss Marsham," she murmured. - -"Of course. But having a Cinderella on the premises--eh?" - -"If you know of a glass slipper----" - -"You fit it on! Exactly! Where did you discover her?" - -"Starving--literally starving, in the Lower Third." Clare thawed to the -congenial listener. "It was an amazing performance, wasn't it? Of -course, there was nothing of the actual Arthur in it----" - -Miss Hamilton nodded. - -"That struck me. It was a child in trouble--not a boy. Not a girl -either--but, of course, only a girl would be precocious enough to -conceive and carry out the idea. If she did, that is!" - -"Oh, it was original," Clare disclaimed prettily. "It had little to do -with me. I had to let her go her own way." - -Miss Hamilton liked her generosity. - -"You're wise. It's all very well to trim the household lamps, but a -burning bush is best left alone. I don't altogether envy you. Genius -must be a disturbing factor in a school." - -"You think she has genius?" - -"It was more than precocity to-day--or talent. The Constance had -talent." - -"And was third in the scholarship papers. Louise failed completely. -Isn't it inexplicable? What is one to do? Of course, it was disgraceful: -she should have been first. I expected it. I coached her myself. I know -her possibilities. Frankly, I am deeply disappointed." - -Miss Hamilton pulled her chair nearer. She was interested; Clare was not -usually so communicative. But their further conversation was interrupted -by the opening of the door, and old Miss Marsham appeared on a visit of -congratulation, accepting tea and dispensing compliments with equal -stateliness. - -"An excellent performance! We must felicitate each other--and Miss -Hartill. But we are accustomed to great things from Miss Hartill. There -can be no uneasiness to-morrow. The child in the green coat, in that -scene--ah, you remember? I thought her a trifle indistinct. Perhaps a -hint----? Altogether it was excellent. Especially the Constance--most -dramatic. If I may criticise--acting is not my department--but the -Prince Arthur? Now, were you satisfied? Louise is a dear child, but -hardly suitable, eh?" - -Clare stiffened. - -"I thought her acting remarkable." - -"Did you? Now I can't help feeling that Shakespeare never intended it -like that. He makes him such a dear little boy. It's so pathetic, you -know, where he begs the man not to put out his eyes. So childlike and -touching. Like little Lord Fauntleroy. I know I cried when I saw it, -years ago. Now this child was not at all appealing." - -Clare shrugged her shoulders. - -"It is not a pretty scene, Miss Marsham, though the managers conspire to -make us think so. A child at the mercy of brutes, knowing its own -danger, terrorised into the extreme of cunning, parading its poor little -graces with the skill of a mondaine--it's not pretty! And Louise spared -us nothing." - -Miss Marsham fidgeted. - -"If that is your view of the scene, Miss Hartill, I wonder that you -consider it fit for a school performance." - -Clare hedged. - -"My private view doesn't matter, after all. Traditionally it is -inadmissible, of course. But if you would like the treatment altered a -little, I will speak to Louise. It is only the dress rehearsal, of -course." - -Miss Marsham looked relieved. - -"Perhaps it would be better. A little more childlike, you know. But -don't let her think me annoyed, Miss Hartill; I am sure she has worked -so hard. Just a hint, you know. I should not like her feelings to be -hurt. Poor child, the results were a sad disappointment to her, I'm -afraid. You spoke to her about the change of class?" - -"Yes." - -"I hope she was not distressed?" - -Clare remembered the look on Louise's face. She hesitated. - -"She will get over it," she said. - -The kind old woman looked worried. - -"You must not let her feel that she has failed over this, Miss -Hartill--on the top of the other trouble. You will be judicious?" - -A door slammed in the distance; there was a blurr of voices, a sound of -hurrying footsteps. - -Clare rose impatiently; she was tired of the subject. - -"It will be all right, Miss Marsham. I understand Louise. What in the -world is that disgraceful noise?" - -But the door was flung open before she could reach it. Alwynne stood in -the aperture, panting a little. In her arms lay Louise, her head falling -limply, like a dead bird's. Behind them, peering faces showed for a -moment, white against the dusk of the passage. Then Alwynne, staggering -beneath the dead weight, stumbled forward, and the door swung to with a -crash. - -The roomful of women stared in horrified silence. - -"She's dead," said Alwynne. "I found her on the steps. She fell from a -window. One of the children saw it. She's dead." - -She swayed forward to the empty rocking-chair, and sat down, the child's -body clasped to her breast. She looked like a young mother. - -Clare, watching half stupified, saw a thin trickle of blood run out -across her bare arm. - -It woke her. - -"Send for a doctor!" screamed Clare. "Send for a doctor! Will nobody -send for a doctor?" - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV - - -The sudden death of Louise Denny had shocked, each in her degree, every -member of the staff. The general view was that such a deplorable -accident could and should have been impossible. Every one remembered -having long ago thought that the old-fashioned windows were unsafe, and -having wondered why precautions had never been taken. Every one, the -first horror over, canvassed the result of the unavoidable inquest, and -speculated whether any one would be censured for carelessness. The -younger mistresses were so sure that it was nobody's business to be on -duty in the dressing-room at that particular hour that they spent the -rest of the hushed, horror-stricken day in telling each other so, -proclaiming, a trifle too insistently, their relief that they at least -had nothing, however remote, to do with the affair: while inwardly they -ransacked their memories to recall if perchance some half-heard order, -some forgotten promise of standing substitute or relieving guard could, -at the last moment, implicate them. - -But the task of quieting and occupying the frightened children, and of -clearing away, as far as might be, all traces of the dress rehearsal, -was at least distraction. On the heads of the school, real and nominal, -the strain was immeasurably greater. It was first truly felt, indeed, -many hours later. Old Miss Marsham, in whom the shock had awakened -something of her old-time decision of character, had conducted the -interview with the decorously grieving parents with sufficient dignity; -had overseen the temporary resting-place of the dead child; had -communicated with doctors, lawyers and officials. But the spurt of -energy had subsided with the necessity for it. She had retired late at -night to her own apartments and the ministrations of her efficient -maid, a broken old commander, facing tremulously the calamity that had -befallen her life-work: foreseeing and exaggerating its effect on the -future of the school, planning feverishly her defence from the gossip -that must ensue. An accident ... of course, an accident ... a terrible -yet unforeseeable accident.... That was the point.... At all costs it -must be shown that it was an accident pure and simple, with never a -whisper of negligence against authority or underling.... But she was an -old woman.... She needed, she supposed bitterly, a shock of this kind to -humble her into realising that her day was over.... She had been driving -with slack reins this many a long year.... She had known it and had -hoped that no one shared her knowledge. And none had known.... So there -came this pitiful occurrence to advertise her weakness to the world.... -The poor child! Ah, the poor little child! There had been a lack of -supervision, no doubt ... some such gross carelessness as she, in her -heyday, would never have tolerated.... And she was grown too old, too -feeble to hold enquiry--to dispense strict justice.... She must depend -on the lieutenants who had failed her, to hush the matter up--to make -the administration of the school appear blameless.... They could do -that, she did not doubt, and so she must be content.... But in the day -of her strength she would not have been content.... But she was old.... -It was time for her to abdicate.... She must put her affairs in order, -name her successor--Clare Hartill or the secretary, she supposed.... -They knew her ways.... There was that bright girl who had faced her -to-day with the little child in her arms ... what was her name? Daughter -or niece of some old pupil of her own.... She could more easily have -seen her in her seat than either of her vice-regents.... So young and -strong and eager.... She had been like that once.... Now she was a weak -old woman, and because of her weakness a little child lay dead in her -house.... Yes, Martha might put her to bed.... Why not? She was very -tired. - -Henrietta Vigers had also her anxieties. She had so long claimed the -position of virtual head that there was no doubt in her own mind that -other people would consider her as responsible as if she had been the -actual one. She worried incessantly. Should she have had bars put up to -those old-fashioned windows? She, who was responsible for all the -household arrangements? Ought she not to have foreseen the danger and -guarded against it? And there was the matter of the dressing-room -mistress.... For the school machinery she had made herself even more -pointedly responsible.... She should have arranged for some one to -oversee the children.... But the dressing-room had been a temporary one -and she had overlooked the necessity.... Yet if some one had been in the -room the accident could impossibly have happened.... She felt that she -would be lucky to escape public censure, that loss of prestige in the -eyes at least of the head mistress was inevitable. - -But the more or less selfish perturbation, as distinct from the emotion -of sheer humanity, that was aroused by the death of the little -schoolgirl in the two older women, was as nothing to the sensation of -sick dismay that it awoke in Clare Hartill. She, too, through the night -that followed on the accident, lay awake till sunrise, considering her -position. She was stunned by the unexpectedness of the catastrophe; a -little grieved for the loss of Louise, but, above all, intensely and -quite selfishly frightened. She felt guilty. She remembered, -remorselessly enlightened, the afternoon, the expression in Louise's -eyes, and not for one instant did she share the general belief in the -accidental nature of her death. Her conscience would not allow her the -comfort of such self-deception. Later she might lull it to sleep again, -but for the moment it was awake, and her master. This same keen-witted -conscience of hers, this quintessence of her secret admirations and -considered opinions, her epicurean appreciation of what was guileless -and beautiful and worthy, co-existing, as it did, with the -intellectualised sensuality of her imperious and carnal personality, was -no small trial to Clare. Though it could not sway her decisions nor -influence her actions by one hair's-breadth, it was at least cynically -active, as now, to prick and fret at her peace. It was, indeed, at the -root of the whimsical irritability that, for all her charm, made her an -impossible housemate. - -Essentially, her attitude to life was simple. It was an orange, to be -squeezed for her pleasure. It must serve her; but she owed it, -therefore, no duty. She found that she achieved a maximum of pleasurable -sensations by following the dictates of that mind which is the -mouthpiece of body, while indulging, as Lucullus ate turnips, in austere -flirtations with that other mind, which is the mouthpiece of spirit. So -she served Mammon, or rather, she allowed Mammon to serve her, but she -was, on occasions, critically interested in God. And this was her -undoing. Could she have been content to be frankly selfish, she might -have been happy enough, but her very interest in the kingdom of Heaven -had created her conscience, and had laid her open to its attacks. She -ignored it, and it made her wretched: she compromised with it, and -became a hypocrite. - -She resented the death of Louise because it challenged her whole scheme -of life. She was furiously angry with the dead child for what she felt -to be an indictment of her legitimate amusements. Louise, so meek and -ineffectual, had yet been able to steal a march on her, had stabbed in -the back and run away, beyond reach of Clare's retaliation.... Louise -had fooled her.... She, Clare, proud of her insight, her complete -knowledge of character, her alert intuition, had yet had no inkling of -what was passing in that childish mind.... If she had guessed, however -vaguely, she could have taken measures, have scourged the mere -suggestion of such monstrous rebellion out of that subject soul.... But -Louise, secure in her insignificance, had tricked her, planned her sure -escape.... But how unhappy she must have been!... - -In a sudden revulsion of feeling Clare grew faint with pity, as she -tried to realise the child's state of mind during the past months. Her -thoughts went back to the Christmas Day they had spent together. She had -been happy enough then.... Half sincerely she tried to puzzle out the -change in Louise, the gradual deterioration that had led to the tragedy. -Had she been to blame? Louise had grown tiresome, and she had snubbed -her.... There was the thing in a nutshell.... If she was to be so tender -of the feelings of all the silly girls who sentimentalised over her, -where would it end, at all? - -Poor little Louise.... She had been really fond of her at the -beginning.... She had thought for a time that she might even supplant -Alwynne.... But Louise had disappointed her.... She had let her work go -to the dogs.... All her originality and charm fizzled out.... She had -ceased to be interesting.... And she, Clare, had naturally been bored -and had shown it.... Why couldn't the child take it quietly? If Louise -had only known--and had conducted herself with tact--Clare had been -preparing to be nicer to her again.... She had been deeply interested in -her performance of the morning, had recognised its uncanny -sincerity--had thought, with a distinct quickening of interest, that -Louise was recovering herself at last, and that it might be as well to -take her in hand again.... Oh, she had been full of benevolent impulses! -But then Louise had been tiresome again ... had stopped her and made a -scene.... She hated scenes ... at least (with a laugh) scenes that were -not of her own devising.... - -She supposed she should have recognised that the child was -overwrought--terribly overwrought by the emotions aroused by such an -interpretation as she had insisted upon giving.... She ought never to -have been allowed to play it like that.... That was Alwynne's doing.... -Alwynne had persuaded Clare to leave Louise to her own devices.... -Alwynne was so headstrong.... She hoped that Alwynne would never need to -realise how much she was to blame.... - -Here she became aware that her conscience was convulsed with cynical -laughter. She flushed in the darkness, her opportune sense of injury -increasing. - -Alwynne might well be distressed.... If any awkward questions should be -asked, Alwynne might find herself uncomfortably placed.... People would -wonder that she had not noticed how unbalanced Louise was growing.... -Every one knew how intimate, how ridiculously intimate, she and Louise -had become.... Alwynne had fussed over her like an old hen ... had even -on occasion questioned her, Clare's, method with her.... She must have -known what was in Louise's mind.... Yet Clare had no doubt that people -would be only too ready to accuse her, rather than Alwynne, of criminal -obtuseness.... Henrietta Vigers, for instance.... Henrietta would be -less prejudiced than many others, though.... She was no friend to -Alwynne.... It might do no harm to talk over the matter with Henrietta -Vigers.... A word or two would be enough.... - -Of course it would be considered an accident.... But if by any chance, -vague suspicions were rife, a judicious talk with Henrietta would have -served, at least, to prevent Clare from being made their object.... She -had her enemies, she knew.... Alwynne, with her easy popularity, had -none save Henrietta.... A few waspish remarks from Henrietta would not -hurt Alwynne.... Clare would protect Alwynne from serious annoyance, of -course.... If the mistresses--the school--oh, if the whole world turned -against Alwynne, Clare would make it up to her.... What did Alwynne -want, after all, with any one but Clare? The less the world gave -Alwynne, the more she would be content with Clare, the more entirely she -would be Clare's own property.... It was a good idea.... She would -certainly speak to Miss Vigers.... - -She was outlining that conversation till she fell asleep. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV - - -On the following afternoon Clare and Henrietta were sitting together in -the mistresses' room. The afternoon classes were over and the day pupils -and mistresses had gone home. The boarders were at supper and the staff -with them. - -But Henrietta had taken no notice of the supper-hour. She had more work -in hand than she could well compass--letters to write and answer, of -explanation, and enquiry, and condolence. She could have found time for -her supper, nevertheless, but when she was overworked she liked her -world to be aware of it. Clare, contrary to her custom, had stayed late. -She was waiting for Alwynne. She had offered, perfunctorily enough, her -assistance, but Henrietta had refused all help from her. Yet Henrietta -had turned over the bulk of her formal correspondence to Alwynne, who -sat, hard at work, in the adjacent office. She disliked Alwynne, but -accepted the very necessary help from her more easily than from Clare -Hartill. Yet she was softened by Clare's offer, which she had refused, -and not at all grateful for Alwynne's help, though she accepted it. - -She wrote busily for more than an hour, and Clare, silent, scarcely -moving, sat watching her. Henrietta had, for once, no feeling of -impatience at her idle supervision. She did not experience her usual -sensation of intimidated antagonism. It was as if the stress of the last -twenty-four hours had temporarily atoned the two incongruous characters. -Neither by look or gesture had Clare flouted any suggestion or -arrangement of Henrietta's--indeed, her presence had been quite -distinctly a support. Henrietta had appealed more than once, and even -confidently, to her. Henrietta had thought, with a touch of -compunction, how strangely trouble brought out the best in people. Miss -Hartill had been very proud of Louise Denny; evidently felt her death. -The shock was causing her to unbend. Not, as one would have expected, to -Alwynne Durand--she hoped, by the way, that Miss Durand was addressing -those envelopes legibly: she did so dislike an explosive -handwriting--no, Miss Hartill was turning, very properly, to herself in -the emergency.... She was pleased.... There should be free-masonry -between the heads of the school.... And Clare Hartill, for all her lazy -indifference, was influential and enormously capable.... Henrietta -wondered if it would be safe to consult her.... She might, without -acknowledging a definite uneasiness, find out cautiously whether it had -occurred to Miss Hartill that she, Henrietta, might be considered to -have been negligent. - -She glanced across at her inscrutable colleague. Clare was staring -thoughtfully at her. Her lips were puffed a little, as if in doubt. - -Their eyes met for a moment in a glance that was almost one of -understanding. - -Henrietta hesitated, for the first time not at all disconcerted by -Clare's direct gaze. But the sparkle of gay malice that attracted half -her world, and disconcerted the other half, was gone from Clare's eyes. -Their expression, for the time being, was calm, possibly friendly; at -any rate, irreproachably matter-of-fact. - -Henrietta flung down her pen with a sigh of fatigue, and bent and unbent -her cramped fingers. But it was not fatigue that made her stop work. She -wanted to talk to Clare Hartill, and had a queer conviction that Clare -Hartill wanted to talk to her. - -"Finished?" Clare spoke from the shadow of her deep chair. Her back was -to the light, but Henrietta faced the west window. The evening sun laid -bare her face for Clare's inspection. Not a flicker of expression could -escape her, if she chose to look. - -"More or less. I want half-an-hour's rest." - -"I don't wonder. You've had everything to see to." Clare's voice was -delicately sympathetic. - -Henrietta unbent. - -"A secretary's work isn't showy, Miss Hartill, but it's necessary: and -any happening that's out of the common doubles it. The correspondence -over this unhappy affair alone----" - -"I know. Of course, at Miss Marsham's age----" - -"It all falls on me! People don't realise that. The extra work is -enormous. Miss Marsham depends on me so entirely, of course." - -"Yes, yes," murmured Clare appreciatively. - -Henrietta played with her papers. - -"I feel the responsibility very strongly," she said abruptly; but her -tone was confidential. - -Clare nodded. - -"Yet, of course--as far as nominal responsibility goes--I am not the -head of the school. I cannot be held responsible--any oversight----" - -Clare nodded. - -"Oh, Miss Vigers--you merely carry out instructions, like the rest of -us"--she hesitated imperceptibly--"officially," she added slowly. - -Henrietta looked relieved. - -"I am so glad you see what I mean." - -"Oh, I do, entirely," Clare assured her grimly. - -"I'm not heartless," said Henrietta suddenly, flushing. Her tone -justified herself against unuttered criticism. "And the poor child's -death was as much a shock to me as to any one. But I was not fond of -her--as you were, for instance----" - -Clare's pose never altered. - -"I was very proud of her," she said gently. "I thought her an -exceptional child. But, as Miss Durand said to me only a few days ago--I -didn't really know her: not, at least, as she did. Alwynne, I know, -thinks we have lost a genius. But you're right--it was a shock to me--a -terrible shock." - -"It was that to everybody, naturally. But in a way it's curious," said -Henrietta meditatively, "how much we all feel it--how oppressively, at -least: for I don't think any one was very fond of Louise." - -"Oh, Miss Durand was deeply attached to her," Clare protested, her -beautiful voice low with emotion. - -"Yes, of course! Oh, I've noticed that." Clare's unusual accessibility -made Henrietta anxious to agree. Also, though she had noticed nothing -unusual, she did not wish to appear lacking in penetration. She recalled -Alwynne's haggard face; recollected how much she had had to do with the -child; and decided that Clare was probably right. - -"But except for her," she went on, "and your interest in her----" - -"I've never had such a pupil," said Clare calmly. -"Industrious--original--oh, I shall miss her, I know. But you're -right--she was not popular----" - -"Yet everybody feels her death--among ourselves, I mean--to an -extraordinary degree. After all--an accident is only an accident, -however dreadful! But there's a sort of oppression on us--a kind of -fear. Do you know what I mean? I think we all feel it. It draws us -together in a curious way." - -"'The Tie of Common Funk,'" rapped out Clare, forgetting her rôle. - -Henrietta stiffened. - -"I don't think it is an occasion for slang," she said. "The child's not -buried yet." - -Clare bit back a flippancy. - -"I thought you would realise," continued Henrietta severely, "that the -situation is trying for us all----" - -"Of course I do." Clare hastened to soothe her. "But seriously, Miss -Vigers, I do not think you need be anxious. The inquest--oh, a painful -ordeal, if you like. But you, at least, can have no reason to reproach -yourself." - -Henrietta relaxed again. - -"No! As I say, I'm not the head of the school. I'm not responsible for -regulations--only for carrying them out. And accidents will happen." - -"I only hope," said Clare, as if to herself, "that it will be considered -an accident----" - -Henrietta stared. - -"But Miss Hartill! Of course it was an accident!" - -Clare looked at her wistfully. - -"Yes! It was, wasn't it? Yes, of course! It must have been an accident." -Her tone dismissed the matter. - -But Henrietta was on the alert. Her own anxieties had been skilfully -allayed. Her mind was recovering poise. She nosed a mystery and her -reviving sense of importance insisted on sharing the knowledge of it. - -"Miss Hartill--you are not suggesting----?" Her tone invited confidence. - -Clare gave a little natural laugh. - -"Oh, my dear woman--I'm all nerves just at present. Of course I'm not -suggesting anything. One gets absurd ideas into one's head. I'm only too -relieved to hear you laugh at me. Your common sense is always a real -support to me, you know. I've grown to depend on it all these years. I'm -afraid I've got into the way of taking it too much for granted." - -She gave a charming little deprecatory shrug. - -Henrietta flushed: she felt herself warming unaccountably to Clare -Hartill. She wondered why she had never before taken the trouble to draw -her out.... She was evidently a woman of heart as well as brain. She -felt vaguely that she must constantly have been unjust to her. But these -sensations only whetted her eager curiosity. She pulled in her chair to -the hearth. - -"But what ideas, Miss Hartill? If you will tell me--I should be the last -person to laugh. I have far too much respect for--I wish you would tell -me what is worrying you. Does anything make you think it was not an -accident?" - -Clare was the picture of reluctance. - -"Impressions--vague ideas--is it fair to formulate them? Even if Louise -were unbalanced--but, of course, I did not see much of her out of class. -I confess I thought her manner strained at times. But I teach. I have -nothing to do with the supervision of the younger children." - -"That is Miss Durand's business," remarked Henrietta crisply. - -"Oh, but if she had noticed anything----" began Clare. Then, lamely, -"Obviously she didn't----" - -"It was her business to. She should have reported to me. Why, she -coached Louise, didn't she?" - -"Of course, if Louise had really overworked--badly----" reflected Clare, -with the distressed air of one on whom unwelcome ideas are dawning. "One -hears of cases--in Germany--but it's impossible!" - -Henrietta looked genuinely shocked, but none the less she was excited. - -"She failed in that exam.----" she adduced. - -"Yes! Miss Durand coached her for that, you know. Poor Miss Durand! How -she slaved over her! She was dreadfully disappointed," said Clare -indulgently. - -"Of course, she let her overdo herself!" cried Henrietta triumphantly. -"But you coached her too--didn't you notice either?" - -"I coach the whole class. You know how busy I am. I'm afraid I left -Louise a good deal to Alwynne," said Clare regretfully. - -"But she's supposed to be grown up--an asset to the school, according to -Miss Marsham," said Henrietta tartly. "But, I must say, if she couldn't -see that the child was doing too much, she's not fit to teach----" - -"Oh, my dear!" cried Clare, distressed. "You mustn't say such things. -You've no idea how conscientious Alwynne is. She may have worked Louise -too hard--but with the best intentions. She would be heartbroken if you -suggested it." - -"Oh, you are always very lenient to Miss Durand," began Henrietta, with -a touch of jealousy. - -"Ah! She's so young! So full of the zeal of youth. Besides, I'm -very fond of her." Clare's smile took Henrietta into her -confidence--confessed to an amiable weakness. - -Henrietta brooded. - -"Oh, Miss Hartill, you talk of my common sense. I wish--I wish you could -see Miss Durand from my point of view for a moment." She eyed Clare, -attentive and plastic in her shadows, and took courage. -"This--appalling--probability----" - -"Possibility----" Clare deprecated. - -"Oh, but it seems terribly probable to me--only carries on my idea of -Miss Durand. She is so ignorant--so inexperienced--so undisciplined--she -cannot possibly have a good influence on young children----" - -"She is my friend!" Clare reminded her, with gentle dignity. - -"And if your suspicions are correct--if Louise's death were not -accidental--if it had anything to do with her state of mind--if it were -the effect of overwork--I consider--I must consider Miss Durand in some -measure responsible. I feel that Miss Marsham should be told." - -Clare shook her head. Her solemn, candid eyes abashed Henrietta. - -"Miss Vigers--we are speaking in confidence. I should never forgive -myself if anything I've said to you were repeated." - -"Of course, of course!" Henrietta appeased her hastily. "But I've had my -own suspicions--oh, for a long time, I assure you. I've not been blind. -And I might feel it my duty--on my account, you understand--after all -Miss Marsham depends on me implicitly--to speak to her--for the sake of -the school----" - -Clare considered. - -"That, of course--I can't prevent. But Miss Vigers--forgive -me--but--don't let your sense of responsibility make you unfair. And for -heaven's sake, don't let my vague uneasiness--it's really nothing -more--affect your judgment. We may both be utterly mistaken. I am sure -the result of the inquest will prove us mistaken after all--it will be -found to have been an accident." - -Henrietta closed her lips obstinately. - -Clare rose in her place. - -"It was an accident!" she cried passionately. "In my heart I am sure. I -wish I'd never said anything to you. I'd no right to be suspicious. -Think of what Miss Durand's feelings would be if she realised----" She -flung out her hands appealingly. "Oh, we're two overwrought women, -aren't we? Sitting in the dusk and scaring ourselves with bogies. It was -an accident, Miss Vigers--a tragic accident! Make yourself think so! -Make me think so too!" Her beautiful eyes implored comfort. - -Henrietta, quite touched, patted her awkwardly on the arm. She enjoyed -her transient superiority. - -"Of course, of course, we'll try to think so. Now you must go home. You -are quite overwrought. It will be a trying day for us all to-morrow. I -shall go to bed early too. Won't you go home now?" - -Clare nodded, mute, grateful. She went to her peg, and took down her hat -and jacket. - -"Have you finished with Miss Durand? She was going home with me." - -"Oh! Miss Durand!" Henrietta's tone grew crisper. "Yes, of course. I'll -see if she has done. I'll send her to you. And you mustn't let yourself -worry, Miss Hartill. Leave it all to me. These things are more my -province. Good-night!" said Henrietta cordially. - -She left the room. - -Clare, pinning on her hat, stared critically at herself in the -inadequate mirror. - -"I think," she said confidentially, "we did that rather well." - -She smiled. The cynical lips smiled back at her. - -"You beast!" cried Clare, with sudden passion. "You beast! You beast!" - -She was still staring at herself when Alwynne came for her. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI - - -Clare Hartill's precautions proved to be unnecessary as the alarms of -her colleagues. The inquest was a formal and quickly concluded affair, -and the only corollary to the verdict of accidental death was an -expression of sympathy with all concerned. - -Whereon, there being no further cause for the detaining of Louise Denny -above ground, she was elegantly and expeditiously buried. - -The whole school attended the funeral. The flowers required a second -carriage, and for the first time in his life, Mr. Denny was genuinely -proud of his daughter. He did not believe that his own death could have -extracted more lavish tributes from the purses of his acquaintances. - -Clare Hartill, writing a card for her wreath of incredible orchids, did -not regret her extravagance. After all--one must keep up one's -position.... There would certainly not be such another wreath in the -churchyard.... How Louise would have exclaimed over it! Poor child.... -It was all one could do for her now. Clare hesitated, pen -arrested--"With deepest sympathy." It was not necessary to write -anything more.... Her name was printed already.... But Louise would have -liked a message.... After all, she had been very proud of Louise.... - -She reversed the card, and wrote, almost illegibly, in a corner, -"Louise--with love. C. H." She paused, lips pursed. Sentimental, -perhaps? Possibly.... But let it go.... - -Hastily she impaled her card on its attendant pin, and thrust it, print -upward, among the flowers. The message was for Louise; no one else need -see it. - -Alwynne, too, sent flowers. But as usual she had spent all but a -fraction of her salary. Seven and sixpence does not make a show, even if -the garland be home-made. The shabby wreath was forgotten among the -crowd of hot-house blooms. It lay in a corner till the day after the -funeral. Then the housemaid threw it away. - -So Louise had no message from Alwynne. - -By the end of a fortnight Louise was barely a memory in the school. A -month had obliterated her entirely. - -Yet her short career and sudden death had its influence on school and -individual alike. Miss Marsham had had her lesson; she began to make her -preliminary preparations for giving up her head mistress-ship, and -selling her interest in the school; though it was the following spring -before she began to negotiate definitely with Clare, on whom her choice -had finally fallen. She would not be hurried; she would not appear -anxious to settle her affairs; but she had determined, between regret -and relief, that the next summer should be the last of her reign. - -Henrietta, though her anxieties were abated by the turn affairs had -taken, was still doubtful whether Miss Marsham were as blindly reliant -upon her as usual. But, though feeling her position still somewhat -insecure, her spirits had risen, and her natural love of interference -had risen with them. She could not forget her conversation with Miss -Hartill: an amazing conversation--a conversation teeming with -suggestions and possibilities.... Of course, Miss Hartill had had no -idea, poor distracted woman, of how skilfully Henrietta had drawn her -out.... Henrietta felt pleased with herself. Without once referring to -Miss Hartill, she could follow out her own plans as far as Miss Durand -was concerned.... Later, Miss Hartill might remember that apparently -innocent conversation and realise that Henrietta had stolen a march on -her.... Yet, though she might be loyally angry, for her friend's sake, -she could not do anything to cross Henrietta's arrangements ... could -not wish to do anything, because essentially, if reluctantly, she had -approved them, had recognised that it was time to curtail Miss Durand's -activities.... - -Henrietta felt virtuous. Miss Durand had brought it on herself.... She -wished her no harm.... But it was right that Marsham should realise how -far she was from an ideal school-mistress.... She had been engaged as -scholastic maid-of-all-work.... Yet in a few terms she had become second -only to Miss Hartill herself.... It was not fit.... Let her go back to -her beginnings.... She, Henrietta, had only to open Miss Marsham's -eyes.... But to that end there must be evidence.... - -For the rest of the term, patient and peering as a rag-picker, she went -about collecting her evidence. - -Clare did not give another thought to her conversation with the -gimlet-eyed secretary. It had served its purpose--had been a barrier -between herself and the possibility of attack--had given her a feeling -of security. She perceived, nevertheless, that her transient affability -had made Henrietta violently her adherent. Clare was resigned to knowing -that the change of face would be temporary--she could not allow a -parading of herself as an intimate, and thither, she shrewdly suspected, -would Henrietta's amenities lead. But she found it amusing to be -gracious, as long as no more was expected of her. She did not like -Henrietta one whit the better; felt herself, indeed, degraded by the -expedient to which she had resorted, and fiercely despised her tool. -Henrietta should be given rope, might attack Alwynne unhindered, -nevertheless she should hang herself at the last.... Clare would ensure -that.... Once--Henrietta had called her a cat.... Oh, she had heard of -it! Well--for the present, she would purr to Henrietta, blank-eyed, -claws sheathed.... Let her serve her turn. - -But Clare, beneath her schemes and jealousies, was, nevertheless, deeply -and sincerely unhappy. The removal of the entirely selfish and -cold-blooded panic that had been upon her since Louise's death, left her -free to entertain deeper and sincerer feelings. She thought of Louise -incessantly, with a growing feeling of regret and responsibility. She -hated responsibility, though she loved authority--she had always shut -her eyes to the effects of her caprices. But the more she thought of -Louise, the more insistent grew her qualms. That the child was dead of -its own will, she never doubted; but she fought desperately against the -suggestion that her own conduct could have affected its state of mind, -was ready to accept the most preposterous premise, whose ensuing chain -of reasoning could acquit her. But nobody having accused her, no -ingenuity of herself or another, could, for the time being, acquit her. -She was merely a prey to her own intangible uneasinesses. Yet it needed -but a key to set the whole machinery of her conscience in motion against -her. The key was to be found. - -The term was drawing to an end, and Alwynne, rounding off her special -classes and generally making up arrears, was proportionately busy. She -still spent her week-ends with Clare, but she brought her work along -with her. She had her corner of the table, and Clare her desk, and the -two would work till the small hours. - -But by the last Sunday evening, Clare's piles of reports and examination -papers had disappeared, and she was free to lie at ease on her sofa, and -to laugh at Alwynne, still immersed in exercise books, and tantalise her -with airy plans for the long, delicious holidays. It had been, in spite -of the season, a day of rain and cold winds. The skies had cleared at -the sunset, with its red promise of fine weather once more, but the -remnant of a fire still smouldered on the hearth. Alwynne was flushed -with the interest of her work, but ever and again Clare shivered, and -pulled the quilted sofa-wrap more closely about her. She wished that -Alwynne would be quick.... Surely Alwynne could finish off her work some -other time.... It wouldn't hurt her to get up early for once, for that -matter.... She was bored.... She was dull.... She wanted amusement.... -She wanted Alwynne, and attention, and affection, and a little -butterfly kiss or two.... Alwynne ought to be awake to the fact that she -was wanted.... - -She watched her, between fretfulness and affection, æsthetically -appreciative of the big young body in the lavender frock, and the crown -of shining hair, pleased with her property, intensely impatient of its -interest in anything but herself. - -"Alwynne----?" There was a hint of neglect in her voice. - -Alwynne beamed, but her eyes were abstracted. - -"Only another half-hour, Clare. I must just finish these. You don't -mind, do you?" - -"I? Mind?" Clare laughed elaborately. She picked up a book, and there -was silence once more. - -Leaves fluttered and a pen scraped. The light began to fade. - -Suddenly Alwynne gave a smothered exclamation. Clare looked up and -pulled herself upright, angry enough. - -"Alwynne! Your carelessness--you've dropped your wet pen on my carpet. -It's too bad." - -Alwynne groped hastily beneath the table. But even the prolonged -stooping had not brought back the colour to her cheek, as she replaced -her pen on the stand. - -"I'm sorry. I was startled. It hasn't marked it. Clare--just listen to -this." - -"What have you got hold of?" demanded Clare irritably. She disliked -spots and spillings and mess, as Alwynne might know. - -"It's Louise's composition book. I always wondered where it had got to, -when I cleared out her desk. It must have lain about and got collected -in with the rest, yesterday." - -"Well?" said Clare, with a show of indifference. - -"Here's that essay on King John and his times. Do you remember? You gave -it to them to do just before the play. It's not corrected. Not -finished." She hesitated. "Clare! It's rather queer." - -"Is it any good?" said Clare meditatively. - -"What for?" - -"The School Magazine. We're short of copy. The child wrote well. But I -suppose it wouldn't do to use it--though I don't see why not." - -Suddenly Alwynne began to read aloud. - - "_Another way by which King John got money from the Jews was by - threatening them with torture. He was all-powerful. He could draw - their teeth, tooth by tooth, twist their thumbs, or leave them to - rot in dark, silent prisons. They could not do anything against - him. If he could not force them to yield up their treasure he would - have them burned, or cause them to be pressed to death. This is a - horrible torture. I read about a woman who was killed in this way - in the 'Hundred Best Books'; and there was a man in Good King - Charles's days whom they killed like this. It is the worst death of - any. They tie you down, so that you cannot move at all, and there - is a slab of stone that hangs a little above you. This sinks very - slowly, so that all the first day you just lie and stare at it and - wonder if it really moves. People come and give you food and laugh - at you. You are scarcely afraid, because it moves so little and you - think nobody could be really so cruel and hurt you so horribly, and - that you will be saved somehow. But all the time the stone is - sinking--sinking--and the day goes by and the night comes and they - leave you alone. And perhaps you go to sleep at last. You are - horribly tired, because of the weeks of fear that are behind you. - Perhaps you dream. You dream you are free and people love you, and - you have done nothing wrong and you are frightfully happy, and the - one you love most kisses your forehead. But then the kiss grows so - cold that you shrink away, only you cannot, and it presses you - harder and harder, and you wake up and it is the stone. It is the - sinking stone that is pressing you, pressing you, pressing you to - death--and you cannot move. And you shriek and shriek for help - within your gagged mouth, and no one comes, and always the stone is - pressing you, pressing you, pressing you_----" - -Clare caught the exercise-book from Alwynne's hand and thrust it into -the heart of the half-dead fire. It lay unlighted, charring and -smouldering. The unformed handwriting stood out very clearly. Clare -caught at a matchbox, and tore it open; the matches showered out over -her hand on to the rug and grate. She struck one after another, breaking -them before they could light. Silently Alwynne took the box from her -shaking fingers, lit a match and held it to the twisting papers. A thin -little flame flickered up, overran them eagerly, wavered a second, and -died with a faint whistling sigh. - -"Do you hear that? Did you see that?" Clare knelt upright on the hearth. -She held up her forefinger. "Listen! Like a voice! Like a child's voice! -A child sighing! Light the candles--light all the candles! I want light -everywhere. No room for any shadow." - -But as Alwynne moved obediently, she caught at her hand. - -"Alwynne! Stay with me! Don't go into another room. Alwynne, I'm -frightened of my thoughts." - -Alwynne put her hand shyly on her shoulders, talking at random. - -"Clare, dear, do get up. Come on to the sofa. You mustn't kneel there. -You'll strain yourself. I always get tired kneeling in church. It makes -one's heart ache." - -Clare would not move. - -"Don't you think my heart aches?" she said. "Don't you think it aches -all day? You're young--you're cold--you can sit there reading, -reading--with a ghost at your shoulder----" - -An undecipherable expression flashed across Alwynne's face. It came but -to go--and Clare, absorbed in her own passion, saw nothing. - -"It's Louise!" she cried, between sincerity and histrionics. "Calling to -some one. Calling from her grave. They call it an accident, like fools. -Oh, can't you hear? She died because she was forced. She's -complaining--plaining--plaining----I tell you it's nothing to do with -me. It wasn't my fault!" - -She flung her arms about Alwynne's waist and clutched her convulsively. -She was sincere enough at last. - -"Alwynne! Alwynne! Say it was not my fault." - -Alwynne sank to her knees beside her and held her close. They clung to -each other like scared children. But Clare's abandonment awoke all -Alwynne's protective instincts. She crushed down whatever emotions had -hollowed her eyes and whitened her cheeks in the last long weeks, and -addressed herself to quieting Clare. Clare, stepped off her pedestal, -unpoised, clinging helplessly, was a new experience. In the face of it -she felt herself childish, inadequate. But Clare was in trouble and -needed her. The very marvel of it steadied. All her love for Clare rose -within her, overflowed her, like a warm tide. - -By sheer strength she pulled Clare into a chair and dropped on to the -floor beside her, face upturned, talking fast and eagerly. - -"You're not to talk like that. Of course it's not your fault. If -anything could be your fault. Clare, darling, don't look like that. You -must lean back and rest. You're just tired, you know. We've talked of it -so often. You know it was an accident. Why can't you believe it, if -every one else does?" - -"Do you?" said Clare intently. - -Alwynne's eyes met hers defiantly. - -"I do. Of course I do. It's wicked to torment yourself. But if I -didn't--if the poor baby was overtired and overworked--is it your fault? -You only saw her in class at the last. You couldn't help it if the -exams, and the play were suddenly too much--if something snapped----" - -"You see, you do think so," said Clare bitterly. "I've always known you -did. Well--think what you like--what do I care?" She put up her clenched -hands and rubbed and kneaded at her dry aching eyes. - -Alwynne watched her, desperately. Here was her lady wanting comfort, and -she had found none. She wracked her brains as the sluggish minutes -passed. - -Clare's hands dropped at last. She met Alwynne's anxious gaze and -laughed harshly. - -"Well? The verdict? That I was a brute to Louise, I suppose?" - -Alwynne looked at her wistfully. - -"Clare, I do love you so." - -Clare stiffened. - -"Then I warn you--stop! I'm not good for you. I hurt people who love me. -You always pestered me about hurting Louise. You needn't protest. You -always did. And now you lay her death at my door. I see it in your face. -Can't I read you like a book? Can't I? Can't I?" Her face was distorted -by the conflict within her. - -Alwynne's simplicity was convinced. Here, she felt, was tragedy. Awe and -pity tore at her sense of reality. Love loosened her tongue. Her words -rushed forth in a torrent of incoherent argument. She was so eager that -her fallacies had power to convince herself, much more Clare. - -"Clare, I won't have it. You don't know what you say. What is this mad -idea you've got? What would poor Louise think if she heard? Why, she -adored you. And you were kind--always kind--only when you thought it -better for her, you were strict. It's folly to torment yourself. If you -do--what about me?" - -"You?" Clare's eyes glinted suddenly. - -"Me! If you are to blame, how much more I? Oh, don't you see?" Alwynne's -face grew rapt. Here was inspiration; her path grew suddenly clear. -"Clare, don't you see? If she did--" she paused imperceptibly--"I ought -to have seen what was coming. I knew her so much better than you." - -Clare repressed a denial. - -"Oh, darling--you mustn't worry. It's my responsibility. Try and -think--at the play, for instance. Did you think her manner strained? No, -of course you didn't. But I did. I thought at the time it had all been -too much for her. I did notice--I did! I thought--that child will get -brain-fever if we're not careful----I meant to speak to Elsbeth. I -meant to speak to you. Oh, I'd noticed before. Only I was busy, and -lazy, and put it off. She was unhappy at failing--I knew. I wanted to -tell you that I know how much it meant to her--and I didn't. I was -afraid----" She broke off abruptly; her eloquence ended as suddenly as -it had begun. - -But she had succeeded in her desire. Clare was recovering poise; would -soon have herself all the more rigidly in control for her recent -collapse. She stiffened as she spoke. - -"Afraid of whom?" - -"I mean I was afraid all along of what might happen," Alwynne concluded -lamely. "You see, it was my fault?" There was an odd half-query in her -voice. - -"If you noticed so much and never tried to warn me, you are certainly to -blame." Clare's voice was full of reluctant conviction. "I can't -remember that you tried very hard." - -"Oh, Clare!" began Alwynne. Their eyes met. Clare's face was hard and -impassive--all trace of emotion gone. Her eyes challenged. Alwynne's -lids dropped as she finished her sentence. "That is--no, I didn't try -very hard." - -"And why not?" - -Inconceivably an answer suggested itself to Alwynne, an unutterable -iconoclasm. Her mind edged away from it horrified and in an instant it -was not. But it had been. - -"I don't know," she stammered. - -"You realised the responsibility you incurred?" Clare went on. - -"I didn't. No, never!" Alwynne supplicated her. - -"You do now?" - -"Oh, yes," she said despairingly. She rejoiced that Clare could believe -and be comforted, but it hurt her that she believed so easily. It -alarmed her, too, made her, knowing her own motives, yet doubt herself. -She felt trapped. - -"I'm sorry you told me," said Clare abruptly. - -They sat a moment in silence. A ray from the dying sun illuminated their -faces. In Alwynne an innocent air of triumph fought with distress, and a -growing uneasiness. Clare was expressionless. - -Clare put up her hand to shelter herself, and her face was scarcely -visible as she went on. She spoke softly. - -"My dear, I can't say I'm not relieved. I feel exonerated--completely. -Yet I wish you hadn't told me. I'd have rather thought it my fault than -known it----" - -"Mine," said Alwynne huskily. - -Clare bent towards her, tender, gracious, yet subtly aloof; confessor, -not friend. - -"Oh, Alwynne! Why will you always be so sure of yourself? Why not have -come to me for advice as you used to? What are we elder folk for? I love -your impetuosity--your self-reliance--and I believe, I shall always -believe, that you wanted to spare me trouble and worry. I know you. But -you're not all enough, Alwynne, to decide everything for yourself. You -won't believe it, I suppose--oh, I was just the same. But doesn't all -this dreadful business show you? A few words--and Louise might have been -with us now. Of course you acted for the best, but----There, my dear, -there, there----" for her beautiful, pitiful voice had played too -exquisitely on Alwynne's nerves, and the girl was sobbing helplessly. - -And Clare was very kind to Alwynne, and let her cry in peace. And when -she was tired of watching her, she braced her with deft praises of -courage and self-control. Self-control appealed very strongly to Clare, -Alwynne knew. While she dried her eyes, Clare whispered to her that the -past was past and that one couldn't repair one's mistakes by dwelling -on them. Let devotion to the living blot out a debt to the dead. She -must try and forget. Clare would help her. Clare would try to forget -too. They would never speak of it again. Never by word or look would -Clare refer to it. It should be blotted out and forgotten. - -And after a discreet interval, when there was no chance of big, -irrepressible tears dropping into the gravy, or salting the butter, -Clare thought she would like her supper. - -She made quite a hearty meal, and Alwynne crumbled bread and drank -thirstily, and watched her with humble, adoring eyes. - -Clare, in soft undertones, was delicately amusing, full of dainty quips -that coaxed Alwynne gently back to smiles and naturalness. She spared no -pains, and sent Alwynne home at last, with, metaphorically speaking, her -blessing. - -But Alwynne stooped as she walked, as though she carried a burden. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII - - -The summer holidays came and went, eight cloudless weeks of them. Clare -loved the sun; was well content to be out, day after day, cushioned and -replete, on the sunniest strip of sand in the sunniest corner of a -parched and gasping England. She found it wonderfully soothing to listen -with shut eyes to the purr of the sea and the distant cries of gulls and -children, with Alwynne to fan her and shade her, and clamber up and down -two hundred feet of red cliff for her when the corkscrew was forgotten, -or the salt, or Clare's bathing-dress, or a half-read magazine. Clare -grew brown and plump as the drowsy days went by. Alwynne grew brown, -too, but she certainly did not grow plumper. But then the heat never -suited Alwynne. She had often said so, as she reminded Elsbeth. For, -when Alwynne came back to her for the three weeks at home that she had -persuaded Clare were due to Elsbeth, Elsbeth was difficult to satisfy. -Elsbeth was inclined to be indignant. What sort of a holiday had it -been, if Alwynne could come back so thin, and tired, and colourless -under her tan? What had Miss Hartill been about to allow it? - -But Alwynne's account of their pleasant lazy days was certainly -appeasing.... It must have been the heat.... Not even the most -suspicious of aunts could conscientiously suspect Clare of having -anything to do with it.... Wait till September came, with its cooling -skies.... Alwynne would be better then. - -In the meantime Elsbeth tried what care and cookery and coddling could -do, and Alwynne submitted more patiently than usual. - -Alwynne, indeed, was unusually gentle with Elsbeth in the three weeks -they spent together before the autumn term began. She was always good to -Elsbeth, considerate of her bodily comforts, lovingly demonstrative. But -Clare had taught Alwynne very carefully that she was growing up at last, -becoming financially and morally independent, free to lead her own life, -that if she stayed with Elsbeth it was by favour, not by duty. And -Alwynne, immensely flattered by the picture of herself as a woman of the -world, had lived up to it with her usual drastic enthusiasm. Elsbeth, -not unused to disillusionment and hopes deferred, could sigh and smile -and acquiesce, knowing it for the phase that it was and forgiving -Alwynne in advance. But Clare, who owed her neither gratitude nor duty, -she never forgave. She was a very human woman, for all her saintliness. - -She got her reward that summer, when Alwynne came back, quieted, grave, -very tender with Elsbeth, clinging to her sometimes as if she were -nearer nine than nineteen. But Elsbeth was fated never to have her -happiness untainted. She was haunted by the conviction that Alwynne's -subduement was not natural. Her pleasure in being with her aunt was so -obvious that Elsbeth was worried, and knowing how infallibly Alwynne -turned to her in any trouble, she expected revelations. But none -came--only the manner was there that always accompanied them. Yet -something was wrong.... A quarrel with Clare Hartill. - -But Alwynne, delicately questioned, chattered happily enough of their -holiday, and there were frequent letters----She was over-anxious, too, -to protest that she was perfectly well, and, in proof, exhausted herself -in unnecessary housework. But she continued restless and abstracted, -jumped absurdly at any sudden noise, and followed Elsbeth about like a -homeless dog. - -And she had contracted an odd habit of coming late at night into -Elsbeth's room, trailing blankets and a pillow under her arm, to beg to -sleep on Elsbeth's sofa--just this once! She would laugh at herself and -pull Elsbeth's face down to her for a kiss, but she never gave any good -reason for her whim. But she came so often that Elsbeth had a bed made -up for her at last, and she slept there all the holidays, or lay awake. -Elsbeth suspected that she lay awake two nights out of three. - -With the autumn term Alwynne seemed to rouse herself, and flung herself -into her work with her usual energy. Elsbeth saw less of her. The school -claimed all her days, and Clare the bulk of her evenings. She had moved -back into her own room again, and Elsbeth, her door ajar, would lie and -watch the crack of light across the passage, and grieve over her -darling's sleeplessness, and the shocking waste of electric light. - -She wondered if the girl were working too hard.... Could that be at the -root of the matter? She grew so anxious that she could even consult -Clare on one of the latter's rare and formal calls. - -"I am so glad to see you. Alwynne is changing; she'll be down in a -minute. I made her lie down. Miss Hartill, I'm very distressed about the -child. Do you think she looks well?" - -Clare, less staccato than usual, certainly didn't think so. - -"So thin--she's growing so dreadfully thin! Her neck! You should see her -neck--salt-cellars, literally! And she had such a beautiful neck! But -you've never seen her in evening dress." - -Yes, Clare had seen her. - -"And so white and listless! I don't know what to make of her. I don't -know what to do." - -Clare, with unusual gentleness, would not advise Elsbeth to worry -herself. Possibly Alwynne was doing a little too much. Clare would make -enquiries. But she was sure that Elsbeth was over-anxious. - -But Elsbeth was not to be comforted. She nodded to the open door. - -"Look at her now--dragging across the hall." - -But Alwynne, in her gay frock, cheeks, at sight of Clare, suddenly -aflame, did not look as if there were much amiss. She was thinner, of -course.... - -Elsbeth, however, had made Clare uneasy. She attacked Alwynne on the -following day. - -"Your aunt says you're dying, Alwynne. What's the matter?" - -"Dear old Elsbeth!" Alwynne laughed lightly. - -"_Is_ anything wrong?" Clare did not appear to look at her; nevertheless -she did not miss the slight change in Alwynne's face, as she answered -with careful cheeriness-- - -"What should be wrong in this best of all possible----" - -Clare caught her up. - -"I'm not a fool, Alwynne. What's the matter?" - -"I wish you wouldn't discuss me with Elsbeth," said Alwynne uneasily. "I -don't like it. I won't have you bothered." - -"I'm not," said Clare coolly. "At the same time----" - -Alwynne braced herself. She knew the tone. - -"--I don't like any one about me with a secret grief and a pale, -courageous smile. I can't stand a martyr." - -"I'm not!" Alwynne was wincing. Then, suddenly: "What has Elsbeth been -saying? Honestly, I didn't know she'd noticed anything." - -"What is the matter?" said Clare again, gently enough. "Tell me, silly -child!" - -Alwynne shrugged her shoulders. - -"Nothing! Just life!" - -Clare waited. - -"I'm sorry if I've been horrid--" she paused--"to Elsbeth." - -Clare opened her eyes. - -"What about me?" - -"I'm never horrid to you," said Alwynne with compunction. "That's what's -so beastly of me." - -"Well, upon my word!" cried Clare blankly. - -"Oh, you know what I mean." Alwynne jumbled her words. "I always want to -be nice to you. It's perfectly easy. And then I go home to Elsbeth, the -darling, and am grumpy and snappy, and show her all the hateful side of -me. Heaven knows why! Only yesterday she said, 'You wouldn't speak to -Clare Hartill like that,' in her dear, hurt voice. I felt such a brute." - -A little smile hovered at the corners of Clare's mouth. - -"I was always so sorry," said Clare smoothly, "that you couldn't spend -Christmas Day with me last year." - -Alwynne wrinkled her forehead. - -"What's that got to do----?" - -Clare caught her up. - -"With your secret griefs? Nothing whatever! You're quite right. But what -are they, Alwynne? Who's been worrying you? Have you got too much to -do?" - -"It's not that," said Alwynne unwillingly. - -"Then what?" - -"Oh, things!" - -"What things?" - -"Miss Vigers, for one," Alwynne began. Then she burst out: "Clare, I -don't know what I've done to her. She never leaves me alone." - -Clare stiffened. - -"Miss Vigers? What has she to say to you? You're responsible to -me--after Miss Marsham." - -"She doesn't seem to think so. It's nag, nag, nag--fuss, fuss, fuss. Are -the girls working properly? Am I not neglecting this? Or overdoing that? -Do I remember that Dolly Brown had measles three terms ago? Why is -Winifred Hawkins allowed to sit with the light in her eyes? Do I make a -habit of keeping So-and-so in? and if so, why so? And Miss Marsham -doesn't approve of this, and Miss Marsham evidently doesn't know of -that--and my manner is excessively independent--and will I kindly -remember...? Oh, Clare, it's simply awful. I get no peace. And you know -how driven I am, with Miss Hutchins away. You'd think I'd done something -awful from the way she treats me. Everlastingly spying and hinting----" - -"Hinting what?" Clare's voice was icy. - -"That's what I can't make out. That's the maddening part of it. Do you -think I'm such a failure? Do you think I'm not to be trusted? I get on -with the children--they work well! Truly, Clare, I don't know why she -dislikes me so. You'd think she was trying to worry me into leaving." - -"You should have told me before," said Clare curtly, and changed the -subject so abruptly that Alwynne feared she was angry, and wished that -she had held her tongue. - -She was right. Clare was angry. Clare had conveniently forgotten her -little conversation with Henrietta on that panic-stricken summer day: -was naturally surprised and indignant to find it bearing the fruit she -had intended it to bear. This was what came of confiding in people! And -Henrietta, she had no doubt, would be prepared to give chapter and verse -for her surveillance, if Clare should, directly or indirectly, call it -in question.... Henrietta would appear to have Clare in a cleft stick: -and Alwynne was to suffer in consequence. Clare (a great deal fonder -of Alwynne than she, or Alwynne, or any one save Elsbeth, guessed) -laughed to herself, once, softly, and her eyes snapped. Wait a while, -Henrietta ... wait a wee while! - -Thoughtfully she approached the question of the counter-attack. That was -inevitable, a sop to her own conscience. Besides, it would be -amusing.... It was necessary, however, to decide upon the weapon. - -It was a small matter--the refusal of a boarder for lack of space--that -provided it. Quietly, she went to work. - -For the first time, for her own departments had allowed her energy its -outlet, she set herself to disentangle the lines on which the school was -run. She found many knots. Half day, half boarding school, grown from a -timid beginning into one of the most flourishing of its kind, it was, -indeed, like the five hundred-year-old town in which it stood, a -marvellous compound of ancient custom and modern usage. The "Seminary -for Young Ladies" of the 'seventies was three parts obliterated by the -'nineties High School regimen, on which, in its turn, was superimposed -the cricket and hockey of the twentieth century's effemination of the -public-school system; the whole swollen, patchwork concern held together -by the personality of its creator, and its own reputation. - -Clare nodded. It was obvious to her, that with the retirement of Miss -Marsham, accomplished already in all save name, the school would fall to -pieces. A pity ... it had a fine past ... was a valuable property -still.... With a vigorous woman at its head, judiciously iconoclastic, -no stickler for tradition, it would revive its youth.... She herself, -for instance.... She toyed with the idea. - -Miss Marsham was looking out for a successor.... She herself had been -sounded.... Should she? She shook her head. Life was very pleasant as it -was.... She knew that she hated responsibility as much as she liked -power.... She sat on the school's shoulders, at present.... As head -mistress the school would sit on hers.... No, thank you! She had better -uses for her spare time.... There were books ... idleness ... -Alwynne.... Imagine never having time to play with Alwynne! - -Nevertheless it would be fascinating to plan out the reorganisation of -the school ... and carry it out, for that matter. She could do it, she -knew. She would get all pat and then have some talks--some suggestive -talks--with Miss Marsham.... She, Clare, had some little influence.... -And there was life in the old warhorse yet.... Anything that she could -be persuaded to believe would benefit her school would have her instant -sanction.... She would be nominally responsible, of course, and would -give Clare, nevertheless, a free hand.... And Clare, sweeping clean, -would sweep away whatever withstood her.... Henrietta would have little -energy left for Alwynne when Clare had finished her spring-cleaning.... - -For the next few weeks, Clare spent nearly all her spare time at the -school. She would stay to supper, and even, on occasion, superintend -"lights out." She would ask artless questions, and the matron and the -young mistresses found her "so sympathetic when you really got her to -yourself. So sensible, you know--always sees what you mean." - -Finally, Clare shut herself up for a Saturday and a Sunday with a neat -little note-book, and drew up plans and made some calculations. Then she -went to see Miss Marsham. She went to see Miss Marsham several times. - -The plan was certainly an excellent one.... Miss Marsham could not -follow the details very well ... but that, of course, would be dear -Clare's affair.... A great saving ... an immense improvement.... There -would be changes, of course.... This idea of separate houses, for -instance.... It would mean taking extra premises--but Clare was quite -right, they were overcrowded--had had to turn away girls.... She quite -agreed with Clare ... she had always preferred boarders herself; one had -a freer hand.... With a mistress responsible for each house, though, -what would there be left for Miss Vigers to do?... Yes--she might take -over a house, of course.... But Miss Marsham paused uneasily. She -anticipated trouble with Henrietta. - -She was justified. Henrietta refused utterly to discuss the suggested -alterations. Miss Marsham must excuse her; she had her position.... One -house? after controlling the entire school's economy? She did not -suggest that Miss Marsham could be serious--that was impossible.... Miss -Marsham was serious? Then there was no more to be said.... - -She said a good deal, however, and at considerable length; ended, -breathless, waspish, leaving her resignation in her principal's hands. -Neither she nor Miss Marsham dreamed that it would be accepted. - -But Clare Hartill, consulted by Miss Marsham, was puzzlingly relieved. -Very delicately she congratulated her chief on being extricated from a -difficult position; praised Miss Vigers's tact--or her sense of fitness. -Unusual good sense.... People so seldom realised their limitations, -unprompted ... poor Miss Vigers was certainly no longer young ... hardly -the woman for a modern house-mistress-ship.... Old fashioned ... in -these days of degrees and college-training so much more was expected ... -and after that affair in the summer no doubt she had lost confidence in -herself.... Clare was sure that Miss Vigers had appreciated Miss -Marsham's forbearance, but of course, she must know, in her own heart, -that if she had taken proper precautions--it was her business to arrange -for a mistress to be on duty, wasn't it?--the accident could not have -happened. Poor little Louise! Oh, and of course, poor Miss Vigers -too!... Well, it was for the best, she supposed ... and Miss Vigers -seemed to feel that it was time for her to go.... Perhaps it was.... But -they would all be sorry to lose her.... Clare really thought that she -would like to get up a presentation from the school.... Now what did -Miss Marsham consider appropriate? - -So Henrietta found herself taken at her word. She left, passionately -resentful, at the half-term; hoping, at least, to embarrass her employer -thereby. (But Clare Hartill knew of such a nice suitable -woman--Newnham.) - -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. - -But where Elsbeth grew anxious Clare grew irritated. She spied a -mystery. Some obscure, yet powerful instinct prevented her from probing -it, but she was none the less piqued at being left in the dark. It -annoyed her too, that Alwynne should be obviously and daily losing her -health and good looks. Clare required above all vitality in her -associates. It had been, in her eyes, one of Alwynne's most attractive -characteristics. This changing Alwynne, whitened, quieted, submissive, -the sparkle gone from her eyes and the snap from her tongue, was less to -her taste. Alwynne, very conscious of her shortcomings and of Clare's -irritation at them, grew daily more nervously propitiatory--ever a fatal -attitude to Clare. It roused the petty tyrant in her. There were -jarrings, misunderstandings, exhausting scenes and more exhausting -reconciliations. Yet the two were always together. Clare, viciously -adroit as she grew in those days in piercing the armour of Alwynne's -peace, exacted nevertheless her incessant service. And never had Alwynne -so strained every nerve to please her. - -Elsbeth, guessing at the situation, could give thanks when influenza, -sweeping over the school, claimed Alwynne as its earliest victim. Her -turn had come. She nursed Alwynne through the attack, prolonged her -convalescence, excluded all enquirers, censored messages and letters. -When Alwynne grew better, and talked, restless yet unwilling, of fixing -the date of her return, Elsbeth, lips firmly set, went out one afternoon -to pay a call upon Miss Marsham, and returning, sat down to write a -letter. She busied herself for the rest of that day and all the next -over Alwynne's wardrobe, mending and pressing and freshening. - -Alwynne protested. - -"Elsbeth dear, do leave my things alone. I'll mend them some -time--honestly. They're all right. I wish you wouldn't fuss." - -But Elsbeth fussed placidly on. - -In the evening came letters for them both. Alwynne read hers hurriedly. - -"Elsbeth, it's from Clare! She wants to know why I'm not coming back. -What does she mean? Of course I'm coming back. Mademoiselle Charette is -already, and she was ill after I was!" - -Elsbeth sniffed. - -"She was only in bed two days--Miss Marsham said so. You're not going -back this term, Alwynne. I've seen Miss Marsham myself. I told her what -the doctor said. I've arranged things. She agrees with me--you're not -fit to. It's only a month to end of term. They can manage. You've simply -got to have a change. So I wrote to Dene--to the Lumsdens, and Alicia's -answer has just come. They're delighted to have you. I knew they would -be, of course. They have asked us so often. Such a lovely place. Now, my -dear, be a sensible child and don't argue, because I've made up my mind. -It'll do you good to get away." - -For in Alwynne's face astonishment had been succeeded by indignation. -Elsbeth prepared herself resignedly to face a storm of protest, -if not a blank refusal. To be arranged for as if she were a -child--unconsulted--Clare--the school--the coaching--leaving Elsbeth -alone--Dene--utter strangers--perfectly well--simply ridiculous. Elsbeth -saw it all coming. - -"My dear Elsbeth! What a preposterous----" began Alwynne. Then the -weakness of convalescence swamped her. She sank back in her chair. - -"Perhaps it will," said Alwynne wearily. "All right, Elsbeth! I'll go if -you want me to. Anyway, I don't much care." - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX - - -A week later Alwynne was sitting in a diminutive go-cart drawn by a -large pony, and driven by a large lady with a wide smile and bulgy -knees, with which, as the little cart jolted over the stony road, she -unconsciously nudged Alwynne, imparting an air of sly familiarity to her -pleasant, formal talk. This, Alwynne supposed, was Alicia. She liked -her, liked her fat kind face, her comfortable rotundity, and her sweet -voice. She liked her cool disregard of her own comical appearance, -wedged in among portmanteaux and Alwynne and a basket of market produce, -with an old sun-hat tied bonnet-fashion to shade her eyes, and her scarf -ends fluttering madly, as she thwacked and tugged at the iron-mouthed -pony. - -She was more than middle-aged, a woman of flopping draperies and -haphazard hookings, and scatter-brained grey locks, that had been a -fringe in the days of fringes. She moved, as Alwynne noticed later, like -a hurried cow, and tripped continually over her long skirts. Yet, in -spite of her ramshackle exterior, she was not ridiculous. The good-men -and stray children they encountered greeted her with obvious respect. -Alwynne, comparing the keen eyes and their cheerful crowsfeet, with the -chin, firm enough in its cushion of fat, guessed her the ruling spirit -of the Dene household, and wondered why she had not married a vicar. - -But Alicia, though Alwynne listened politely to her flow of talk, and -answered prettily when she must, did not long occupy her attention. - -She was in her own country again. She loved the country--woods, fields, -hedges and lanes--as she loved no city or sea-town of them all. London, -Paris, Rome--Swiss mountains or Italian lakes--she would have given -them all for Kent and Hampshire and the Sussex Weald. But Clare would -never hear of a country holiday. Alwynne took deep breaths of the clean, -kindly air, and wondered to herself that she had taken the proposal of -her holiday so dully. She had not realised that she was going into the -country--she had not realised anything, except that she was tired, and -that Elsbeth would not leave her alone. She had shrunk painfully from -the idea of meeting strangers, from the exertion of accommodating -herself to them. But this good air made one feel alive again.... - -She stared over the pony's ears at the gay spring landscape. - -"Those are the Dene fields," said Alicia, following her glance. "There -are two Denes, you know--Dene Village and Dene Fields. There's a couple -of miles between them. We are in the hollow, where the road dips, at the -foot of Witch Hill." - -"Witch Hill?" - -Alicia flourished her whip at the sky-line. The fields were spread over -the hillside in sections of chocolate and magenta and silver-green, with -here and again a parti-coloured patch, where oats and dandelions, -pimpernel and sky-blue flax choked and strangled on an ash-heap. From -the slopes Witch Hill lifted a brow of blank white chalk, crowned and -draped in woodland, lying against pillows of cloud, for all the world -like a hag abed, knees hunched, and patchwork quilt drawn up to ragged -eyebrows. Round her neck the road wound like a silver riband; looped, -dipped, disappeared, for two unfenced miles--to flash into view but a -parrot's flight away, and swerve, with a steep little rush, round a -house with French windows thatched in yellow jessamine. - -Alwynne's eyes lit up. - -"What a good name! Who was she before she was turned into that?" She -stopped, flushing. Alicia would think her stupid. - -Alicia laughed pleasantly. - -"Do you like fairy tales? You've come to the right place--the -country-side's full of them. There's a fairy fort--Roman I suppose, -really, and a haunted barn out beyond Dene Compton, besides Witch Hill -and the Witch Wood just behind our house. There's a story, of course. I -don't know it--you must ask Roger. He's always picking up stories." - -"Roger?" - -"My nephew, Roger Lumsden. Hasn't Elsbeth----?" - -"Oh yes, of course." - -"He's away just now. Look, now you can see the house properly." - -"Behind the hill?" Alwynne had caught sight of a group of buildings -crowning a secondary slope. - -"No, no--that's the school, Dene Compton." - -"A school?" Alwynne screwed up her eyes to look at it. "What a big -place! Girls or boys?" - -"Both." - -"Oh! A board school!" Alwynne's interest flagged. - -"Scarcely!" Alicia laughed. "Haven't you heard of Dene Compton? And you -a school-mistress!" - -Alwynne was politely blank. - -"The thin end of the co-educational wedge. It's unique--or was, till a -few years ago. There are several now, dotted about England. You ladies' -seminaries should be trembling in your shoes." - -"Boys and girls! What a mad idea! Yes, I believe Clare--I believe I did -hear something about it. It's all cranks and simple lifers and -socialists though, isn't it?" - -"You'd better come up one day and see. I'll take you." - -"Why, do you know them?" - -"I teach there." - -"You? Oh--I beg your pardon," cried Alwynne strickenly. - -Alicia laughed. - -"I'm accustomed to it. Jean will be delighted with an ally. She -pretends to disapprove. But Roger and I are generally too much for her." - -"Is he a master, then?" - -"Good gracious, no! But he has a lot of friends at the school. He ought -to be interested--it's his land, you know. His people lived there for -generations--the Lumsdens of Dene Compton. The head master has the old -house, but the school itself is new--all those buildings you see. No, -not those--" Alwynne's eyes were caught by a glitter of glass -roofs--"those are Roger's houses. He's a gardener, you know. He lives -for his bulbs and his manures." - -The tiny cart rocked as the pony bucketed down the dip of the road and -whirled it through the gates and up the short drive. Alwynne clutched -the inadequate rail. - -"He will do it," said Alicia resignedly. "He wants his tea. There's -Jean. Mind the door." - -She pulled up the rocketing pony as the ridiculous little door burst -open and Alwynne and her baggage were precipitated on to the gravel. - -A little woman ran out from the porch. - -"Are you hurt? It always does that. I'm always asking Alicia to tell -Bryce to take it to be seen to. Alicia--I shall speak to Roger if you -don't. My dear, I hope you haven't hurt yourself. That pretty frock--but -it will all brush off. And how is Elsbeth, and why didn't you bring her -with you? Come in at once and have some tea. Alicia has driven round to -the stables. It's Bryce's afternoon off." - -Jean was a prim little red-haired woman, some years younger than Alicia, -with brisk ways, and a clacking tongue. She had Alwynne in a chair, had -given her tea, deplored her white looks, suggested three infallible -remedies, recounted their effect on her own constitution and Alicia's -and her nephew's, and, digressing easily, was beginning a detailed -history of Roger's health since, at the age of five or thereabouts, he -had come under her care, before Alwynne had had time to realise more -than that the room was very cheerful, Jean very talkative, and she -herself very, very tired. She could not help being relieved when Alicia -returned. Jean, with her neat dress and knowledgeable ways and little -air of apologising for her slap-dash elder, should, by all the rules, -have been the more reliable of the cousins. Yet Alwynne turned -instinctively to Alicia; and Alicia, spread upon a chair, fanning -herself cyclonically with her enormous hat, did not fail her. - -"Jean! The child's as white as a sheet. You can ask about Elsbeth -to-morrow, and Roger will keep. Take her up to her room, leave her to -unpack and lie down in peace and quiet, and come back and give me my -tea. Supper's at seven, Alwynne. Take my advice and have a good rest. -There are plenty of books--oh, yes, I know all about your likes and -dislikes. Elsbeth's a talker too--on paper! Jean--if you're not down in -five minutes, I'll come and fetch you." - -Alwynne, half an hour later, curled comfortably upon a sofa, in front of -a blazing fire, with a lazy hour before her and a Copperfield upon her -knee, thought that Alicia was a perfect dear. And Jean? Jean, pulling -out the sofa, poking the fire, pattering about her like a too -intelligent terrier--Jean was a dear too.... They were a couple of -comical dears. - -And "The Dears" was Alwynne's name for them from that day on. - - - - -CHAPTER XXX - - -Alwynne settled down with an ease that surprised herself. Much as she -loved the country, a country life would have bored her to death, Clare -had often assured her, as a permanent state; but for a few weeks it was -certainly delightful. She enjoyed pottering about the garden with Jean, -and jogging into the village on her own account behind the obstinate -pony, who, approving her taste in apples, allowed her to believe that -she more or less regulated his direction and pace. She enjoyed the -complicated smells of the village store, half post office, half -emporium, and the taste of its gargantuan bulls'-eyes. She sent, in the -first enthusiasm of discovery, a tinful heaped about with early -primroses to Clare; but Clare was not impressed. - -Clare disapproved strongly of Alwynne's holiday, needed her too much to -allow it necessary. Her first letters were a curious mixture--half -fretfulness over Alwynne's absence, half assurance of how perfectly well -she, Clare, got on without her. Alwynne would have been exquisitely -amazed could she have known how eagerly Clare awaited her bi-weekly -budget. Alwynne was afraid her letters were dull enough. She apologised -constantly-- - - _Of course, Clare, this will seem very small beer to you--but - little things are important down here. It's all so quiet, you see. - I've been perfectly happy this morning because I found a patch of - white violets in a clearing, and Jean and Alicia were just as - excited when I told them at lunch: and we went off with a - tea-basket afterwards, and dug violet roots for an hour, or more, - and then spread our mackintoshes over a felled trunk and made tea. - The ground was sopping, but it was fun. You'd love my cousins. - They're as old as Elsbeth but full of beans, and they've travelled - and are interesting--only they will talk incessantly about this - nephew they've got. It's "Roger" this and "Roger" that--he seems to - rule them with a rod of iron--can't do wrong! He comes back next - week. I rather wonder what he'll be like. The Dears make him out a - paragon; but I'm expecting a prig, myself! There are photographs of - him all over the place. He's quite good-looking._ - -But before Alwynne could tire of the lanes and village, of gardening -with Jean, and hints of how Roger stubbed up roots and handled bulbs, -Alicia had provided her with a new interest. She remembered her promise -one morning and took her up to Dene Compton. - -Alicia gave Italian lessons twice a week, and from her Alwynne had -gleaned many quaint details of the school and its workings. What she -heard interested her, though she was prepared to be merely, if -indulgently, amused. She looked forward to the visit if only to get copy -for a letter to Clare. Clare, too, liked to be amused. - -The gong was clanging for the mid-morning break when Alicia, Alwynne in -her wake, led the way into the main building, and waving her airily -towards a mound of biscuits, bade her help herself and look about her -for a while, because she, Alicia, had got to speak to--She dived into -the crowd. - -Alwynne, thus deserted, stood shyly enough in a roofed corner of the -great brick quadrangle, munching a fair imitation of a dog-biscuit, and -watching the boys and girls who swarmed past her as undisturbed by her -presence as if she were invisible. At the boys she smiled indulgently as -she would have smiled at a string of lively terriers, but of the girls -she was sharply critical. They wore curious, and as she thought hideous, -serge tunics: she jibbed at their utilitarian plaits: but she conceded a -good carriage to most of them and was impressed by a certain pleasant -fearlessness of manner. A couple of men, Alicia, and a bright, emphatic -woman in a nurse's uniform, wandered through the crowd, which made way -courteously enough, but seemed otherwise in no degree embarrassed by -their propinquity. Alwynne had a sudden memory of Clare's triumphal -processions; compared them uneasily with the fashion of these quiet -people. - -She watched a small girl dash panting to the loggia at the opposite side -of the quadrangle, where a slight man in disreputable tennis-shoes, -leaned against a shaft and observed the pleasant tumult. There was a -moment's earnest consultation, and the small girl darted away again and -disappeared down a corridor. The man resumed his former pose--head on -one side, smiling a little. - -Alwynne ventured out of her corner and caught at Alicia as she passed. - -"Cousin Alice! I like all this. I'm glad you brought me. Who's that?" -She nodded towards the man in tennis-shoes. - -"The Head." - -"The head-master?" - -"Why not?" - -"But--but--when Miss Marsham comes in--you can hear a pin drop----Is he -nice?" - -Alicia laughed. - -"I'll introduce you." - -She did. - -"Well," said Alicia with a twinkle as they walked home together later, -"what did you think of him?" - -Alwynne flushed, but she laughed too. - -"Cousin Alice--it was too bad of you. He just said 'How do you do?' and -smiled politely. Then he said nothing at all for five minutes, and then -he clutched at one of the girls and handed me over to her with another -smile--an immensely relieved one--and drifted away. I've never been so -snubbed in my life." - -"You're not the first one. So you didn't like him?" - -"Oh--I liked him," conceded Alwynne grudgingly. - -They walked on in silence for a while. - -"What's that?" Alwynne pointed to a large grey building half way down -the avenue. - -"The girls' house, Hill Dene. They sleep there; and have the needlework -classes, and housewifery, I believe." - -"Do they have everything else with the boys?" - -"Practically." - -"Does it answer?" - -"Why not? Girls with brothers and boys with sisters have an advantage -over the solitary specimens, everybody knows. This is only extending the -principle." - -Alwynne giggled suddenly. - -"You know that girl he dumped me on to--she was showing me round, and we -ran into some boys in the gym. I couldn't make out why, but she jolly -well sent them flying." - -"Out of hours, I expect." - -"But the coolness of it, Cousin Alice! She was a bit of a thing--the -boys were half as high again!" - -"But not prefects." - -"Oh, I see." Alwynne meditated. "Oh, Cousin Alicia, that girl asked -me to go with them next Saturday for a tramp. Over Witch Hill. -She and another girl and some boys. Imagine! they're going by -themselves--without a master or a mistress or anything!" - -"Why not?" - -"We don't. We crocodile. Two and two, and two and two, and two and two. -And I trot along at the side and see that they don't take arms. But of -course, you can't control the day-girls. One of them asked two of the -boarders out for the day one Sunday, at least her mother did, and we met -them after church on the promenade, arm in arm--all three! I tell you, -there was a row. They were locked up in their bedrooms for three days, -and nobody might speak to them for the rest of the term. Miss Marsham -said it was defiance and that they might remember they were ladies." - -"I don't think they want 'ladies' here," said Alicia. "They're quite -content if they produce gentlewomen. Your school must be peculiar." - -"Oh, no," said Alwynne, opening her eyes. "There are dozens of schools -like Utterbridge. I was at two myself when I was young. It's this place -that's peculiar. It's like nothing I've heard of. I want to explore. He -said I could. Yes, I forgot--he did say that--that I was to come up -whenever I liked." - -And for the next week Alwynne spent a good half of her days at Dene -Compton. She clung to Alicia's skirts at the first, afraid of appearing -to intrude. But she soon found that she might go where she would without -arousing curiosity or even notice, though boys and girls alike were -friendly enough when she spoke to them. Accustomed to her mistress-ship, -she was half-piqued, half-amused to find herself so entirely -unimportant. - -But the great school fascinated her. It was scarce a third larger than -her own in point of numbers, but the perfection of its proportions made -it impressive. The arrangements for the children's physical well-being -reflected the methods employed for their spiritual development. There -was an insistence on sunlight and fresh air and space--above all, space. -There was no calculation of the legal minimum of cubic feet: body and -mind alike were given room in which to turn, to stretch themselves, to -grow. - -Gradually she realised that she had been living for years in a rabbit -warren. - -With her discoveries she filled many sheets of notepaper. But Clare's -letters were nicely calculated to divert enthusiasm. Their tone was -changing; they allowed Alwynne to guess herself missed. There was in -them a hint of appeal: a suggestion of lonely evenings----Never a word -of Alwynne's doings. Yet, by implication, description of her new friends -and their outlook was dismissed as unnecessary. Clare, Alwynne was to -realise, would smile pleasantly as she read, and think it all rather -silly. - -Elsbeth--_so pleased that they are so kind to you at Alicia's -school_--was more genuinely uninterested. Dene Compton had been the home -of a certain John Lumsden for Elsbeth. She did not care for descriptions -of its metamorphosis. She wanted to hear about Dene, and her cousins, -and how Alwynne was eating and sleeping, and if Roger Lumsden had come -back yet. She asked twice if Roger Lumsden had come back yet. But -Alwynne had an annoying habit of leaving her questions unanswered -through eight closely written sheets. It was not only Clare who was very -tired of co-education and Dene Compton. - -But Elsbeth got her news at last, and was satisfied with it as -Macchiavellis usually are, whose plots are being developed by -unconscious and self-willed instruments. Alwynne, who in her spare time -had discovered what spring in the country could mean, tucked in the news -at the end of an epistle that was purely botanical---- - - _... and cuckoo-pint and primroses and violets! Have you ever seen - larches in bud? Oh, Elsbeth, why can't we live in the country? - Every collection of buildings bigger than Dene Village ought to be - razed by Act of Parliament. I expect the earth hates cities as I - hated warts on my hands when I was little. Well, I must stop. - Oh--the Lumsden man turned up a day or two ago. The Dears were in - ecstasies, and he let himself be fussed over in the calmest way, as - if he had a perfect right to it. I think he's conceited. I don't - think you'd like him. He's back for good, apparently, but he won't - worry me much. I'm only in at meals. The Dears are always busy and - let me do as I like, and I either go up to Compton, or prowl, or - take a rug and book into the garden. It's quite hot, although it's - barely April--so you needn't worry. The garden is jolly, big and - half wild: only "Roger" is beginning to trim it--the vandal! He's - by way of being a gardener, you know. Great on bulbs and roses, I - believe._ - - _By the way_ is _he a relation? Even The Dears are only very - distant cousins, aren't they? Because he will call me "Alwynne" as - if he were. I call it cheek. I was very stiff, but he's got a hide - like a rhinoceros. When I said "Mr. Lumsden," he just grinned. So - now I say "Roger" very markedly whenever he says "Alwynne." I can't - see what Jean and Alicia see in him; but of course I have to be - polite. They are dears, if you like--are giving me a lovely time._ - - _I hope you're not very dull, Elsbeth dear. You must try and get - out this lovely weather. Why not have Clare to tea one day? You'd - both enjoy it. I heard from her yesterday--such a jolly letter!_ - - _Heaps of love from Jean and Alicia--and you know what a lot from - me._ - - ALWYNNE. - - _P.S.--I found these violets to-day on a bank behind the church. - They'll be squashed when you get 'em, but they'll smell still._ - - _P.S.--The Lumsden man saw me writing, and said, would I send you - his love, and do you remember him? I told him I'd scarcely heard - you mention his name, so it wasn't probable--but he just smiled his - superior smile. He reminds me of Mr. Darcy in P. and P. I can't say - I like him._ - - - - -CHAPTER XXXI - - -Roger Lumsden had been home a week. Alwynne, save at meals, had seen -little of him, and that little she did not intend to like. There was a -memory of a passage of arms at their first meeting which rankled. - -Roger had been inquiring when the Compton holidays began. Alicia -hesitated-- - -"Let me see--the play's Tuesday week----" - -"Wednesday week," put in Alwynne. - -"Tuesday----" - -"No, Wednesday," Alwynne persisted. "Because, you know, Mr. Bryant is so -afraid that Gertrude Clarke won't be out of the 'San.' He says he can -never coach up another Alkestis in the time. Besides, there isn't any -one. He's been tearing his hair." - -Alicia laughed. - -"She knows more about it than I do, Roger! She's been half living there, -haven't you, Alwynne?" - -Roger turned to her with a smile and the first touch of personal -interest that he had shown. - -"Jolly place, isn't it? You teach, don't you? I wonder how it strikes -you!" - -But he was a stranger and Alwynne was nervous. She answered flippantly, -as she always did when she was not at her ease-- - -"Oh, I can't get over their dresses! Appalling garments! Imagine that -poor girl trying to rehearse Alkestis in a pea-green potato sack! It -must be delicious. And their hair! Doesn't anybody ever teach them to do -their hair?" - -He eyed her thoughtfully, from her carefully dressed head to her -shining shoe-buckles, and shrugged his shoulders. - -"Is that all you see?" said Roger dispassionately, and withdrew -interest. - -Alwynne grew hot with annoyance. Idiot! All she saw.... As if she had -meant anything of the kind.... One said things like that.... One just -said them.... Especially when one was nervous.... Taking a remark like -that seriously.... Oh well, if he liked to think her a fool--let him! -Silly prig! - -She endeavoured to put him out of her mind. But his mere existence -disturbed her. She was not accustomed to tobacco, for instance ... and -it was disconcerting to find him in her favourite corner of the library -or occupying the writing-table that no one had seemed to use but -herself. He appeared to have forgotten that he had snubbed her and was -unquenchably friendly. She found herself being pleasanter than she -intended, but she made it a point of honour never to agree with him. -That, at least, she owed herself. - -She watched him furtively, alert for justification of her ill-humour. -She told herself that it would be easier to be nice to him if everybody -else did not fuss over him so.... It was ridiculous to see how Jean, -especially, brightened at the sight of him.... He was good to her, -certainly: she was argumentative, without being shrewd, but he never -lost patience, as Alwynne, in secret was inclined to do. Even Alicia, so -stoutly the head of her household, submitted every difficulty, from an -unexpected legacy to a dearth of eggs. And he would sit down solidly and -think the matter out. And his advice, from a flutter in rubber to pepper -in the chicken pail, would be followed literally, and generally, Alwynne -admitted, with success. - -But she jibbed furiously when the sisters began to consult him about her -personal affairs. - -"Roger, don't you think that Alwynne----?" - -But here Roger was invariably offhand and non-committal. Curiously, -however, this attitude, correct as it was, did not appease Alwynne. But -she was forced, at least, to admit that he could, on occasion, be -tactful. - -The last week of the term had begun. Alicia, at breakfast behind the -coffee urn, was making her plans. - -"It's a busy week. The Swains want us to go to lunch, Jean, only we -haven't a day before Sunday, have we? At least--there's Tuesday; it's -only the dress-rehearsal. I can get out of that. Alwynne can represent -me." She nodded benevolently. - -There was a slight pause. Roger, glancing up, stared openly. Alwynne had -turned as white as paper. Her words came stickily. - -"Cousin Alice, I can't. I mean--I'd rather--I don't want to go much, if -you don't mind." - -Alicia blessed herself. - -"But, my dear! Why not? I thought you'd be looking forward----Oh, I -suppose you've watched it so often, already." - -"No--I haven't seen it; I'm afraid rehearsals bore me----" Alwynne broke -off with an attempt at a light laugh. - -"But you've been up to Compton so much," Alicia's tone was reproachful. -"I should have thought you would have been sufficiently interested----" - -"Oh, I am! Only--you see I've got letters to write--to Elsbeth----" - -"Well, you've got all the week to write in! Are you so afraid of being -bored? Compton wouldn't be flattered. We rather pride ourselves on our -acting, you know! My dear, we're expected to go--must give the -performers some sort of an audience to get them into training for the -night. You ought to understand, of all people! Don't you ever give plays -at your school?" - -Alwynne was silent, but prompted by an instinct she could not have -explained, she turned to Roger, stolid behind his eggs and bacon. She -said nothing, but she looked at him desperately. He gave an -imperceptible nod. He had been watching her intently. - -"But, dear Alwynne----" Jean was chirruping her version of Alicia's -remarks when Roger's calm voice interrupted-- - -"I say, Alicia! I thought you and Jean were coming with me! I can't go -on the night itself. Of course you must come. Go to your lunch on -Sunday--I'll look after Alwynne. But I'm not going up to Compton without -you. Spoil all the fun." - -"Of course, if Roger wants us----" began Jean quickly. - -"Oh, I didn't want to miss it," retreated Alicia hastily. "I only -thought the Swains----But of course Sunday would do." - -"I met old Swain yesterday," said Roger, "travelled up to town with him. -He was very full of his daughter's engagement." - -"Engagement!" Alicia and Jean swooped to the news, like gulls to a -falling crust. It kept them busy till breakfast was over. - -And Roger returned to his eggs and bacon with never a glance at Alwynne. - -Alwynne, half an hour later in her own room, fighting certain memories, -arguing herself fiercely out of her weakness, had yet time to puzzle her -head over Roger Lumsden. How quick he had been--and how kind.... Or had -he noticed nothing? Had that adroit change of subject been accidental? -That was much more likely. - -She dismissed him from her mind. She wished she could dismiss all the -thoughts that filled her mind as easily. - -Alwynne was grateful enough to Roger, however, when Tuesday came and he -set out for Compton, an aunt on either arm: but on Sunday she had to pay -for her non-attendance. Hurrying down, a little late, to lunch, she was -half-way through her usual apologies before she realised that neither -Jean nor Alicia were in their places. Of course--they were going to the -Swain's.... Their nephew, however, waiting gravely behind his chair, -admitted her excuses with a little air of acknowledging them to be -necessary that ruffled her at once, though she had promised herself to -be pleasant. After all, she was staying, as she had told herself several -times already, with Jean and Alicia. Once more she applied herself, -quite unsuccessfully, to snubbing his air of host. Roger listened to her -in some amusement; her ungracious ways disturbed him no more than the -rufflings and peckings of an angry bird, and her charming manner to his -aunts and occasional whim of friendliness to himself, had prevented him -from pigeon-holing her definitely as a pretty young shrew. He was -inclined to like her, for Jean and Alicia had confessed themselves -absurdly taken with the girl, and he was accustomed to be influenced by -their judgment; but the touch of hostility that usually showed itself in -her manner to him puzzled as much as it amused him. - -He enjoyed baiting her, yet he thought, carelessly, that it was a pity -she should have inaugurated guerilla warfare. She looked as if she could -have been pleasant company for his spare time if she had chosen. -However, he would have little enough spare time, for the next few weeks, -anyhow ... he had promised Jean to set to work seriously at the -renovation of her garden.... He should be thankful for a visitor -requiring neither escort nor attention. - -Yet, naturally, her independence piqued him. He eyed her swiftly, as she -sat at his right hand. She was a curious girl, he thought, to be so -pretty and well-dressed, and yet so self-sufficing. Girls, apparently of -her type, (he thought of his American cousins) usually needed a good -deal of admiration to keep them contented. - -She did not look altogether contented, though ... there were lines and -puckers at the corners of her large eyes, that were surely out of -place ... nineteen, wasn't she? She had had a breakdown, of course ... -rather absurd, for such a child.... Jean had hinted a guess at some -trouble.... A love affair, he supposed. That would account for her -thorniness, her occasional air of absence and depression, that -contrasted with her usual cheerfulness.... Yet that curious whim the -other day--what had it meant? More than a whim, he imagined--her very -lips had grown white.... He was quite sure that he had helped her out of -a hole.... She might at least show a certain decent gratitude.... He -wondered what she was thinking about, sitting there so silently ... she -was generally talkative enough ... pretty quarrelsome, too. He supposed -she was having a fit of the blues.... He had better talk to her, -perhaps.... - -Alwynne, eating her wing of chicken, was merely and sheerly shy. She was -garrulous enough with women, but she did not in the least know how to -talk to men. Therefore and naturally she was full of theories. She had -vague ideas that they had to be amused as babies have to be amused, but -confronted with the prospect of a prolonged _tête-à-tête_, without -Alicia or Jean to retire upon, she had nothing whatever to say. Yet she -had been taught by Elsbeth to consider a lack of table-talk as a lack of -manners, and was irritated with herself for her silence, and still more -irritated with Roger for his. - -She met his belated attempts at a conversation none too graciously--was -bored by the boat-race, and would have nothing to say to the weather; -though she thawed to his catalogue of copses and plantations in the -neighbourhood, where certain wild flowers she had not yet discovered -might be found. - -But it was impossible for Alwynne to be silent long, and by the time -they had adjourned to the drawing-room, the pair were talking easily -enough. Roger did not find himself bored. He had, from the beginning, -recognised that she was no fool, that her remarks owed their comicality -to her phrasing of them, and that essentially they were shrewd, her -acrobatic intellect swinging easily across the gaps in her education. -The gaps were certainly there. He would marvel at her amazing ignorance, -only to be tripped up by her unexpected display of authoritative -knowledge. Gradually he began to analyse and discriminate, to see that -she was naturally observant. Her remarks on life as she knew it, were as -illuminating as original. She had humour and a nice sense of caricature. -But when she, as it were, hoisted herself on the shoulders of the women -about her, and from that level peered curiously at an outer, alien -world, her insight failed her, her views grew distorted and merely -grotesque. He thought he guessed the reason. She was no longer gazing, -critical and clear-eyed, at known surroundings, but, still supported by -the opinions of the women of her circle, was seeing what she had -expected to see, what she had been told by them that she would see. - -For all her air of modern girl, her independence, her store of book -experience, she was comically conventual in her curiosities and -intolerances, in her prim company manners and uncontrollable lapses into -unconventionality. She had an air of not being at her ease; yet he -guessed that it was merely the unaccustomed environment that disturbed -her poise. He could see her handling surely enough a crowd of -schoolgirls. He was equally certain that she ruled through sheer, easy -popularity. She had dignity in spite of her whimsies, but he could not -imagine her intimidating even a schoolgirl. - -But most of all her attitude to himself amused him. She had a certain -veiled antagonism of manner, that was allied to the antagonism of the -small child to any innovation. She talked to him readily enough (and he, -for that matter, to her) yet she was always on the defensive, -inquisitive yet wary. He felt that if she had been ten years younger, -she would have circled about him and poked. - -A stray phrase explained her to him. - -They had discussed the latest raid. At Alwynne's age and period all -conversational roads led to the suffrage question, and he had found her -re-hash of Mona Hamilton's arguments sufficiently entertaining. He -guessed a plagiarism of the matter, but the manner was obviously her -own. She was full of second-hand indignation over the conduct of a -certain Cabinet Minister. - -"He won't even see them!" she explained grievously. "Not even a -deputation from the constitutional section! Just because some women are -fools--and burn things----" The pause was eloquent. "It's so utterly -unreasonable," declaimed Alwynne. "But of course men are unreasonable," -said Alwynne, pensively reflective. - -"Are they?" - -"All I know are, anyhow." - -He considered her ingenuous countenance-- - -"If it's not a delicate question--how many do you know?" said Roger -softly. - -She looked at him, mildly surprised. - -"Hundreds! In books, that is." - -"Oh--books! I meant real life." - -"Surely a page of Shakespeare is more real than dozens of real people's -lives." - -"Side issue! I'm not to be deflected. How many men do you know, in real -life, well enough to discuss the suffrage with?" - -"I'm always kept at school the day the vicar comes to tea," she said -suggestively. - -"Who else?" - -She saw his drift, but defended herself, smiling. - -"The assistants are most intelligent at the circulating library." - -"Who else?" - -"There were music masters at school. I didn't mean _you_ were -unreasonable," she deprecated. - -He began to laugh, openly, mischievously, delighting in her -discomfiture. - -"Anyhow, I know a lot about women," said Alwynne heatedly. - -He eyed her respectfully. - -"I'm sure you do. But we were talking of men. And on the whole--you -make me a polite exception--as a result of your wide knowledge, your -complicated experience of Us--as a class--you consider that we are -unreasonable?" - -But he spoke into space. Alwynne had retired, pinkly, to a sofa and a -novel. But he thought, as he settled to his own reading, that he heard a -strangled chuckle. Alwynne, caught napping, always tickled Alwynne. - -Over the top of his book, he considered her bent head approvingly. He -liked her sense of fun. It was not every girl who could appreciate the -smut on her own nose ... quite a pretty nose too ... indeed the whole -profile was unexceptionable.... He noticed how well the patch of sky and -the slopes of Witch Hill framed it ... and her hair ... it regularly -mopped up the sunlight! He felt that he wanted to take the great heavy -rope and twist it like a wet cloth till the gold dropped out on to the -floor in shining pools. - -He supposed she would be called a beautiful woman.... He had always -looked upon a beautiful woman as an improbable possibility, like a -millionaire or an archbishop--whom you might meet any day, but somehow -never did.... Yet he was in the same house with one--and she his -semi-demi cousin.... Yes--she was certainly beautiful.... - -Here Alwynne, who had not been entirely absorbed, looked up and caught -his eye. Neither quite knew how to meet the other's unexpected scrutiny. -Roger, less agile than Alwynne, stared solemnly until she looked away. - -Alwynne gave a little inaudible sigh. She was boring him, of course.... -It was pretty obvious.... Yet he had been quite nice all through -lunch.... It was a pity.... She wondered if he wanted to read, or if she -ought to go on talking? She racked her brains for something to say to -him. It was not so easy to talk if he would not do his share.... She -supposed she had talked too much about the suffrage.... Men never liked -to be contradicted.... She glanced at him swiftly, and met his look once -more, and once more he stared, till her dropping lids released him. -Then he lit his pipe. - -She shrugged her shoulders. - -She thought it very rude of him to leave off talking.... Silence was -oppressive unless you knew people well.... It snubbed you.... Especially -when you had been, as Alwynne feared she had, holding forth a trifle.... -She supposed he had put her down as a talkative bore.... Elsbeth always -said that strangers thought her enthusiasms were pose ... as if it -mattered what strangers thought! She hated strangers.... She was always -fantastic with new acquaintances.... It was the form her shyness took. -If Roger chose to think she was posing.... It didn't affect her -anyway.... She was only too glad to be able to read in peace.... Hang -Roger! - -She settled herself to her reading. - -For five long minutes they both read steadily. But Alwynne's book was -not interesting; she began to flutter the pages, her thoughts once more -astray. - -It was rather a shame of The Dears to desert her ... to leave her to -entertain a strange man who didn't like her.... It made her look a -fool.... She hated boring people.... If she bored their precious nephew -as much as the book on her lap bored her!... She wondered why, with all -the library to choose from, she had pitched on it. Of course, it was -Roger's suggestion.... Well, she didn't think much of his taste.... Or -perhaps he imagined it was the sort of stuff to appeal to her? She flung -up her chin indignantly, to find his serious and critical eyes once more -concerned with her. She met them with a raising of eyebrows--a hint of -cool defiance. It was Roger's turn to retire into his book. - -He was an odd sort of a man.... She wondered what Clare would think of -him? As if Clare would bother her head.... But then he wasn't Clare's -cousin. But Clare would be out in the woods after the wild hyacinths.... -Somebody had said it was blue with them in the little wood behind the -house.... She must send Clare a boxful to-morrow ... or to-day? She -supposed there was an evening post.... It was a pity to waste such a -heavenly afternoon.... - -She stole yet another glance at Roger; he was evidently engrossed at -last. It would not be rude? After all, what did it matter? He wasn't too -polite himself! She drove her book viciously down the yielding side of -the Chesterfield, swished to the open French window, and so out. The -gravel crunched moistly beneath her thin shoes; she could feel every -pebble. She glanced back into the drawing-room. All quiet. But by the -time she had changed, the man might have come out.... She would change -afterwards.... The smooth lawn sloped invitingly--beyond lay the rose -walk and the wood, little Witch Wood that she had never yet explored, -just because it was always at hand. - -She picked up her silken skirts and took to her heels. - -It was exactly half an hour later that Roger's book also grew dull to -the point of imbecility. He shut it with a bang, stirred the sun-drowned -fire, and knocked out his pipe against the shining dogs. Then he too -walked out on to the terrace. - -He wondered where the girl had got to. Then he frowned. Little -half-moons dinted the wet yellow path and the stretch of grass beyond -it. It was very careless, cutting up the turf like that.... If there was -one thing he hated.... Of course she was town-bred ... could not be -expected to realise the sacredness of a lawn.... But he must certainly -tell her.... He might as well find her and tell her at once.... Then he -laughed. Alwynne's high heels had betrayed her. The tracks led straight -to the wood. So that was the lure.... He remembered saying that the -hyacinths would probably be out.... - -He wondered if she knew her way.... It wasn't a large wood.... Perhaps -he had better go and see ... and warn her off the lawn coming back? He -hesitated. His eyes fell on Jean's forgotten bodge, lying by the -border. If the hyacinths were out, she would need a basket.... She had -not taken one.... Trust her to forget such a detail.... She would be -glad of it though.... He tipped out the weeds into a neat pile and -jumping the narrow bed, ran down in his turn, towards the wood. - -Alicia and Jean, home to tea, were annoyed to find the fire out. - -The gardener, rolling the lawn next day, thought as ill of hobnailed -boots as of high French heels. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXII - - -Alwynne left the garden behind her and crossed the stretch of grass, -half lawn, half paddock, that lay between kitchen-garden and wood. It -was fenced with riotous hedges, demure for the moment in dove-grey -honeysuckle and star of Bethlehem, with no hint in their puritan apparel -of the brionies and eglantines that were to follow. About the hedge -borders the grass grew tall and rank, and, as she watched, the wind -would stir it into a sea of emerald and the parsley-blossoms sway above -it like snatches of drifting foam. Beyond the hedge shadow, "Nicholas -Nye," the one-eyed donkey, reposed Celestially among the buttercups, -which, making common cause with the afternoon sun, had turned his -grazing ground into a Field of the Cloth of Gold. - -For a moment she was minded to content herself with all the buttercups -on earth to gather, and to go no further that day; but staring down the -dazzling slope, her eyes rested once more upon the pleasant darkness of -the goal for which she had been bound. Among the nearer tree trunks were -stripes and chequerings of blue--the blue that is lovelier than the sea, -the one blue in the world to the flower-lover. At once, indifferently, -she left the buttercups to Nicholas Nye and hurried on and into the -wood. - -There were hyacinths everywhere, hyacinths by the million. It was as if -the winds had torn her robes from the faint, spring sky, and had flung -them to earth, and she now bent above them naked and shivering. - -Alwynne wandered from patch to patch in an ecstasy of delight. As usual, -her pleasure shaped itself into exclamations, phrases, whole sentences -of the letters she would write to Clare Hartill of her experiences. If -only she could have Clare with her, she thought, to see and hear and -touch and smell--to share the loveliness she was enjoying. Her thoughts -flew to Italy, to their crowded month of beautiful sights together. She -laughed--she would discard all those memories for love of this present -vision.... If only Clare could see it.... She could never describe it -properly ... adjectives welled up in her mind and dispersed again, like -bubbles in a glass of water. The stalks and the hoarse ring of the -hyacinth bells fascinated her. Clare was forgotten. She began to pick -for the sake of picking. - -The hot silence of early afternoon lay upon tree and bird and air. -Alwynne, moving from blue clump to blue clump, grew ashamed of the -rustle of her dress and the scrunch of twigs and soaked leaves beneath -her feet, and trod softly; even her own calm breathing sounded too -loudly for the perfect peace of the place and the hour. - -She picked steadily, greedily--she had never before had as many flowers -as she wanted, and there was inexpressible pleasure in filling her arms -till she could hold no more; yet, some twenty minutes later, as she -straightened herself at last, a little giddily, and looked about her -over the pile of azure bells, there was no sign of bareness, for all she -had gathered; she still stood to her knees in a lake of blue and green -and gold. - -She stretched herself lazily as she considered the flowers about her and -wondered at their luxuriance. They were thicker and longer-stemmed than -the mass of those she carried: the leaves were juicy and shining like -dark swords: the last dozen of her armful had flecked her hands and -dress with milky syrup. The ground, too, was black and boggy, and sucked -at her feet as she moved. Suddenly she realised that the trees grew -thick and close together--that the patches of sunlight were far -apart--and that she had wandered farther into the wood than she had -intended. She thought that she had picked enough, more than enough for -Elsbeth as well as Clare; that it was time to be getting home. She had -no idea of the hour.... It would not do to risk being late.... - -She moved forward uncertainly. - -She had had a blessed afternoon: she had surrendered herself to the -sounds and sights and smells of the spring, to the warmth of the sun and -the touch of the wind, till every sense was drunken with pleasure. But -her ecstasy had been impersonal and thoughtless: she had enjoyed too -completely to have had knowledge of her enjoyment. With the return to -realisation of place and time, her mood was changing. She was no longer -of the wood, but in it merely; wandering in the dark heart of it, no -dryad returned and welcome, but a stranger, one Alwynne Durand, in thin -shoes and an unsuitable dress, with the wood's flowers, not her own, in -her hands. Stolen flowers--their weight was suddenly a burden to her. -She felt guilty, and had an odd, sudden wish to put them down tenderly -at the foot of a tree, hide them with grasses and run for her life. She -laughed at the idea as she looked for the path--what were flowers for, -but picking? Yet she could not get rid of the feeling that she had been -doing wrong, and that even now she was being watched, and would, in due -time, be caught and punished, her stolen treasures still in her hands. - -But wild flowers are free to all--and the wood was Roger Lumsden's wood! -He had told her that he rented it. - -She moved backwards and forwards, turning hurriedly hither and thither, -trampling the hyacinths and stumbling on the uneven ground, unreasonably -flurried that she could not find any path. She could not even track her -own footsteps. - -It was very strange, she thought, when she had penetrated so easily the -depths of the wood, that the return should be so difficult. She had -thought it a mere copse. She put her free hand to her eyes, scanning the -wall of greenery in all directions. She fancied that at one point the -trees grew less densely, and set out, scrambling over rough ground -towards the faint light. - -But in spite of her hurry she advanced slowly. The thin switches of the -undergrowth whipped her as she pushed them aside, and the huge briars -twisted themselves about her like live things. Twice the slippery moss -brought her to her knees, and the faint light grew no stronger as she -pressed forward. She began to feel frightened, though she knew the -sensation to be absurd. It was impossible to be lost in a little wood, -half a mile across.... It was merely a question of walking straight on -till one emerged on open fields.... - -She told herself so, and tried to be amused at her adventure, and hummed -a confident little tune as she plodded on, very careful not to look -behind her. Her shoes, thudding and squelching in the wet mess of mould -and green stuff, made more noise than one would have thought possible -for one pair of feet, and woke the oddest echoes. - -Of course, it was impossible that any one could be following her.... But -the wood was so horribly silent that her own breathing and clumsy -footfalls (there could be nothing else) counterfeited the noises of -pursuit.... She could have sworn there was a presence at her elbow, in -her rear, moving as she moved, stumbling as she stumbled. Twice she -faced round abruptly, standing still--but she saw nothing but the wall -of vegetation, motionless, silent, yet insistently alive. She felt that -every tree, every leaf, every blade of grass, was watching her with -green, unwinking eyes. There was nothing more in the wood than there had -been a pleasant hour ago--less indeed, for she realised suddenly that -the sun had gone in and that it was cold; yet she owned to herself at -last that she was nervous, vaguely uneasy. Instantly, by that mere act -of recognition, fright was born in her--unreasonable and unreasoning -fright, that, in the length of a thought, pervaded her entire -personality, crisping her hair, catching at her throat, paralysing her -mind. The wood-panic had her in its grip--the age-old terror that still -lies in wait where trees are gathered together, though the god that -begot it be dead these nineteen hundred years. - -She began to run. - -It was impossible to pass quickly through the tangled undergrowth; but -sheer fright gave her skill to avoid real obstacles, strength to crash -over and through the mere wreckage of the wood. She turned and doubled -like a hare, yet desperately, with the hare's terror of the sudden turn -that might confront her with the presence at her heels. She could endure -its pursuit, but she knew that its revelation would be more than she -could bear. She was so far merely and indefinitely frightened, but to -face the unknown would be to confront fear itself. And she was more -frightened of fear than of any evil she knew. She could, she thought, -meet pain or sickness, or any mere misery, with sufficient calmness, but -the fear of fear was an obsession. She tore through the wood, shaken and -gasping with terror of the greater terror she every moment expected to -be forced to undergo; for almost the only clear thought remaining to -her, in that onrush of panic, was the realisation that there was, at her -elbow, in her heart, physical or metaphysical, she knew not which, some -as yet veiled fact waiting to be revealed, in view of which her present -agitation was trivial and meaningless. - -She ran on, blind and blundering; yet her feet were so clogged by the -weight of earth and wet, her thoughts by the sweat of the fear that was -on them, that neither seemed to move for all her willing. And all the -while, another part of her consciousness sat aloof, critical and -detached, laughing at her for an excitable fool, analysing, in Clare's -crispest accents, the illusions which were bewildering her, and -wondering coolly that any girl of her age could so let her imagination -run away with her. - -She pulled herself together with an immense effort of will. - -That was the truth.... It was her own imagination that was literally -and physically running away with her, whipping her tired body into -unnecessary exertion, flogging her into mad flight from this pleasant, -harmless place, with its hideous and horrible suggestion of evil at -hand.... But the evil was in her own mind.... There was nothing pursuing -her, no vague ghost at her elbow.... The horror was in herself, to be -faced, and fought, and trampled.... Running would not help her ... she -would only carry her terror with her.... For an instant she had a -lightning glimpse of the reasons of the Sadducean attitude to -personality, and its desperate denials of future existence. She was -suddenly appalled at the hideous possibility of existing eternally with -her own undying thoughts for company. She wondered if there were really -such a thing as soul suicide, and thought that, if so, many must have -chosen to commit it. - -Here her shifting, crowding thoughts blotted out the glimmer of -understanding, as flies clustering on a window-pane can blot out light; -yet the word _suicide_ remained in her mind, disturbing, vaguely -suggestive. It was connected with something terrible--she could not -remember what--that in its turn was one with the vague horror at her -elbow, that walked with the echo of her footsteps and panted with the -echoes of her breaths, and yet was not real at all, but only in her -mind. - -She did not believe she should ever find her way out of the wood.... The -hyacinths in her arms were so heavy--a queerly familiar weight: and the -sun had gone in, which had, somehow, something to do with the -trouble.... She felt the black depression of the winter months that she -had left Utterbridge to escape settling down on her once more. She -turned hopelessly to elude it, but it surrounded her like a fog, as -indeed she half believed it to be. She supposed they had sudden fogs in -the country, when the sun went in.... And the sun had gone in because -she had picked all the hyacinths.... She remembered the story clearly -enough now.... The sun had played at quoits with a child, and had -thrown amiss, and killed it, and the purple blood had trickled down from -the child's forehead.... So the sun had turned it into purple -hyacinths.... But she, Alwynne, had been gathering all the hyacinths, -and they were a heavy bunch, heavy as a dead child's body ... and in -another minute they would be disenchanted, and she would be carrying a -dead child's body in her arms.... - -She stood still, gazing down at the flowers, white and glassy-eyed with -terror, wondering that she was still alive and not yet mad. For she knew -that the fear she had feared was upon her at last. She dared not blink -lest in that second the change should take place, and she should find -Louise, long buried, in her arms. Because, of course, it was Louise who -had been following her all the while.... Louise--who had committed -suicide.... She was following Alwynne, because it was Alwynne's -fault.... Clare had said so.... Well--at least she could tell Louise -that she had meant no harm.... - -She waited, swayed back against a tree trunk, the flowers a dead weight -over her arm. She held them gently, lest a rough movement should wake -the horror they hid. With what was left of sanity she prayed. - -The trees encircled her, watching. From far away there came once more a -sound of footsteps. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIII - - -Roger set out at a quick pace for the wood, the basket rattling lightly -on his arm; but the track of Alwynne's shoes was lost in the deep grass -of the paddock, and he hesitated, wondering where he should look for -her. Followed a cupboard-love scene with Nicholas Nye, who accompanied -him to the boundary of his kingdom, snuffling windily in the empty -bodge. He brayed disgustedly when Roger left him, his ancient lips -curling backward over yellow stumps, in a smile that was an insult. He -had the air of knowing exactly where Roger was going, and of being -leeringly amused. - -For ten minutes Roger wandered about, starting aside from the pathway -half a dozen times, deceived by a swaying branch, or the deceptive pink -and white of distant birch bark. He tramped on into the thickness of the -wood, till at last, through a thinning of trees, a hundred yards to his -left, he caught a glimpse of gold, that could only, he told himself, be -Alwynne's hair. He frowned. It was just like the girl to go floundering -into the only boggy bit of the wood, when two thirds were drained and -dry, and thick with flowers.... It was sheer spirit of contradiction! -She would catch cold of course; and he would, not to mince matters, be -stunk out with eucalyptus for the next ten days ... and The Dears would -fuss ... he knew them! His fastidiousness was always revolted by a -parade of handkerchiefs and bleared eyes. He was accustomed to insist -that disease was as disgraceful as dirt: and that there was not a pin to -choose between Dartmoor and the London Hospital as harbourage for -criminals. But he could always dismount from his hobby-horse for any -case of suffering that came his way. He could give his time, his money, -or his tenderness, with a matter-of-course promptitude that relieved all -but a tender-skinned few of any belief that they had reason to be -grateful to him. - -Roger, his eye on the distant halo, crashed through the undergrowth at a -great rate, emerging into a little natural clearing, to find Alwynne -facing him, a bare half-dozen yards away. - -The full sight of her pulled him up short. - -She was standing--lying upright, rather, for she seemed incapable of -self-support--flattened against a big grey oak. One arm, flung -backwards, clutched and scrabbled at the bark; the other, crooked -shelteringly, supported a mass of bluebells. Her face was grey, her -mouth half open, her eyes wide and pale. Very obviously she did not see -him. - -"Alwynne!" he exclaimed. - -She cowered. He exclaimed again, astonished and not a little alarmed---- - -"Alwynne! Are you ill? What on earth has happened?" - -She flung up her head, staring. - -"Roger?" she said incredulously. - -Then her face began to work. He never forgot the expression of relief -that flowed across it. It was like the breaking up of a frozen pool. - -"Why, it's you!" cried Alwynne. "It's you! It's only you!" The flowers -dropped lingeringly from her slack hands, and she swayed where she -stood. He crossed hastily to her and she clung helplessly to his arm. -She looked dazed and stupid. - -"Of course it is," he said. "Who did you think it was?" - -Alwynne looked at him. - -"Louise," she said, "I thought it was Louise. She's come before, but -never in the daytime. A ghost can't walk in the daytime. But this place -is so dark, she might think it was night here, don't you think?" - -He gave her arm a gentle shake. - -"Let's get out of this, Alwynne," he began persuasively. "I think you're -rather done for. There's been a hot sun to-day, and you've been stooping -till you're dizzy. Come on. What a lot of flowers you've picked! Come, -let's get out of this place." - -"Yes," she said; "let's get out of this place." - -"What about your bunch?" he questioned, glancing down at the hyacinths' -heaped disorder. "Don't you want it?" - -He felt her shiver. - -"No," she said, "no." She hesitated. "Could we hide it? Cover it up? It -ought to be buried. I can't leave it--just lying there----" There was a -catch in her voice. - -He concealed his astonishment and looked about him. - -"Of course not," he said cheerfully. "Here--what about this?" - -A huge tussock of bleached grass, its sodden leaves as long as a woman's -hair, caught his eye. He parted the heavy mass and showed her the little -cave of dry soil below. - -"What about this? They'll be all right here," he suggested gravely. - -Alwynne nodded. - -"Yes--put it in quickly," she said. - -Without a word, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he -did as she asked. Then, rising and slipping her arm through his own, he -pushed on quite silently, holding back the strong pollard shoots, -clearing aside the brambles, till they reached the uneven footpath once -more, that led them in less than five minutes to the further edge of the -wood. As they emerged into the open fields, he felt the weight on his -arm lessening. He glanced at his companion, and saw that there was once -more a tinge of colour in her cheek. - -She drew a deep breath and looked at him. - -"I thought I should never get out again," she said dispassionately, as -one stating a bald fact. - -"Get where?" - -"Out of that wood. You were just in time. I thought I was caught. I -should have been, if you hadn't come." - -Then she grew conscious of his expression, and answered it-- - -"I suppose you think I'm mad." - -"I do rather." - -"I don't wonder. It doesn't much matter----" Her voice flagged and -strained. - -They walked on in silence. - -She began again abruptly. - -"Of course you thought I was mad. I knew you would. I do myself, -sometimes. Any one would. Even Clare. That's why I never told any one. -But it never happened when I was awake before." - -"I wonder if you would tell me exactly what happened?" - -"I was frightened," she began irresolutely. - -"For a moment I wondered if a tramp----" - -She laughed shakily. - -"I'm a match for the average tramp, I think. I'm head of the games." - -He was amused. - -"You'd tell him what you thought of him, I'm sure." - -But already her smile had grown absent; she was relapsing into her -abstraction. - -They had crossed the field as they talked, and struck into the little -gravelled path that led to the monster glass-houses on the other side of -the hedge. A wide gate barred their progress. Roger manipulated the -rusty chain in silence for a moment, then, as the gate yawned open, -turned to her pleasantly---- - -"Won't you have a look round, as we've come so far? You're in my -territory now, and I've a houseful of daffodils just bursting." - -His calm matter-of-fact manner had its effect. Alwynne absorbed in her -sick thoughts, found herself listening to his account of his houses and -his experiments, as one listens subconsciously to the slur of a distant -water-course. She did not take in the meaning of his words, but his -even voice soothed her fretted nerves. - -Roger was perfectly aware of her inattention. He was not brilliant, but -he was equipped with experience and common-sense and kindness of heart; -and above all he was observant. The Alwynne of his acquaintance, pretty, -amusing, clever, had attracted him sufficiently, had even, as he -admitted to himself as he went in search of her, been able to entice him -from his Sunday comfort to wander quarrelling in wet fields. But the -Alwynne he had come upon half-an-hour later was a revelation; at a -glance every preconceived notion of her character was swept away. - -His first idea was that she had been frightened by roughs, but her -manner and expression speedily contradicted it. She was, he perceived, -struggling, and not for the first time, with some overwhelming trouble -of the mind. He had been appalled by the fear in her eyes. He remembered -Jean's account. Elsbeth had been worried about her for a long time: -ill-health and depression: she believed there had been some sort of a -shock--a child had died suddenly at the school.... - -Alwynne's gay and piquant presence had made him forget, till that -moment, such rudiments of her history as he had heard. But seeing her -distress, he was angry that he had been obtuse, and amazed at her skill -in concealing whatever trouble it might be that was oppressing her. All -the kindliness of his nature awoke at sight of her haunted, hunted air; -he bestirred himself to allay her agitation; he resolved then and there -to help her if he could. - -He had recognised at once that she was in no state for argument or -explanation, and had devoted himself to calming her, falling in with her -humour, and showing no surprise at the extravagance of her remarks. He -had her quieted, almost herself, by the time they had reached his -nursery and descended brick steps into a bath of sweet-smelling warmth. - -Alwynne exclaimed. - -The glass-house was very peaceful. Above a huge Lent lily the spring's -first butterfly hovered and was still awhile, then quivered again and -fluttered away, till his pale wings grew invisible against the aisles of -yellow bloom. The short, impatient barks of Roger's terrier outside the -door came to them, dulled and faint. The sun poured down upon the -already heated air. - -Alwynne walked down the long narrow middle way, hesitating, enjoying, -and moving on again, much, Roger thought, as the butterfly had done. She -said little, but her delight was evident. Roger was pleased; he liked -his flowers to be appreciated. But he, too, said little; he was -considering his course of action. - -At the end of the conservatory was a square of brick flooring on which -stood a table with a tobacco jar, and a litter of magazines; beside it -an ancient basket-chair. Roger pulled it forward. - -"This is my sanctum," he said. "Won't you sit down? I do a lot of work -here in the winter." - -Alwynne sank into the creaking wicker-work with a sigh of relief. - -"I shall never get up again," she said. "It's too comfortable. I'm -tired." - -"Of course." He smiled at her. "Don't you worry. You needn't budge till -you want to. I'll get some tea." - -"You mustn't bother. It'll be cold. It's miles to the house," said -Alwynne wearily. - -He made no answer, but began to clear away the rubbish on the table. He -moved deftly, light-footed, without clumsy or unnecessary noise; in -spite of his size, his movements were always silent and assured. - -She closed her eyes indifferently. She had said that she was tired; the -word was as good as another where none were adequate to express her -utter exhaustion. She felt that, in a sense, she was in luck to be so -tired that she could not think.... She knew that later she must brace -herself to an examination of the nightmare experience of the afternoon, -to renew her struggle against the devils of her imagination; but for the -moment her weakness was her safe-guard, and she could lie relaxed and -thoughtless, mesmerised by the flooding sunshine and the pulsing scents -and the quick movements of the man beside her. She wondered what he was -doing, but she was too tired to open her eyes, or to interpret to -herself the faint sounds she heard. She thought dreamily that he was as -kind as Elsbeth. She was grateful to him for not talking to her. He was -a wonderfully understanding person.... He might have known her for -years.... He made her feel safe ... that was a great gift.... If she, -Alwynne, had been like that, kind and reassuring, to poor little -Louise--if only she had understood--Louise would have come to her, then, -instead of brooding herself to death.... Poor Louise.... Poor unhappy -Louise.... And after all she had not been able to kill herself.... She -was still alive, lying in wait for her, though she knew that Alwynne -could not help her.... She would never go away, though they had left her -outside in the cold--in the cold of the wood--and were safe in this warm -summerland ... she would be waiting when they came out again.... She -shuddered as she thought of retracing her steps. She would ask Roger to -take her home another way.... She would not have to explain.... He had -not wanted explanation.... She was passionately grateful to him because -he had not overwhelmed her with questions at their meeting. She could -never explain, of course, because people would think her mad.... They -might even send her to an asylum, if she told them.... She longed for -the relief of confession, yet who would believe that she was merely a -sane woman rendered desperate by evil dreams? Not Clare, certainly--not -Elsbeth, though they loved her.... She would just have to go on fighting -her terrors as best she could, till she or they were crushed.... - -She sighed hopelessly and opened her eyes. - -"Had a doze? Good! Tea's ready! I expect you want it," said Roger -cheerfully. - -She was surprised into normality, and began to smile as she looked about -her. - -The rickety table had been covered by a gay, chequered cloth. There was -crockery, and a little green tea-pot, and a pile of short-bread at her -elbow. A spirit-lamp and kettle were shelved incongruously between trays -of daffodils. - -Roger sat upon an upturned flower-pot, and beamed at her. - -"Oh, how jolly!" cried Alwynne, the Alwynne once more of his former -acquaintance. "Where did it come from?" - -He showed her a cupboard against the wall, half hidden by a canopy of -smilax. - -"I always keep stores here," he confessed boyishly. "I used to when I -was a kid. This is the old glass-house, you know, on Great House land. -I've built all the others. I used to be Robinson Crusoe then, and now -it's useful, when I'm busy, not to have to go up to the house always. -Won't you pour out?" - -Alwynne flashed a look at him. - -"I don't believe it's that. You enjoy the--the marooning still. I -should. I think it's perfectly delightful here." - -"Well, Harris--my head-gardener--doesn't approve. Thinks it's _infra -dig_. He told me once that he knew ladies enjoyed making parlours of -their conservatories, and letting in draughts and killing the plants; -but he was a nursery-man himself. However, I've broken him in to it. Oh, -I say, there's no milk!" - -"I don't take it. Clare--a friend of mine--never does, so I've got -accustomed to it." She drank thirstily. "Oh, it's good! I didn't know I -wanted my tea so." - -"I did," he said significantly. - -She coloured painfully: she would not look at him. - -"I was very tired," she said lamely. - -"Were you?" he asked her. "You weren't gone half an hour. Do you know -it's only half-past three?" - -He was very gentle; but she felt herself accused. She played uneasily -with her rope of beads as she chose her words. Roger, for all his -intentness, could not help noticing how white and slender her hands -showed, stained though they were with hyacinth-milk, as they fingered -the blue, glancing chain. They were thin though; and following the -outline of her wrist and arm and bare neck, he thought her cheek, for -all its smooth youthfulness, was thin also, too thin--altogether too -austere, for her age and way of life. She had always been flushed in his -presence, delightfully flushed with laughter, or anger, or -embarrassment, and he had noticed nothing beyond her pretty colour. But -now, he saw uneasily that there were hollows round her eyes, as if she -slept little, and that there were hollows as well as dimples in her -cheeks. He was astonished to find himself not a little perturbed at his -discovery, so perturbed that he did not, for a moment, realise that she -was speaking to him. - -"I am very sorry," she was saying. "I'm afraid you thought--I'm afraid I -was rather silly--in the wood. I was disturbed when you found me." Her -words came jerkily. "I had not expected--that is--I did not expect----" -She broke off. Her eyes implored him to leave her alone. - -He would not understand their appeal. - -"Yes, you expected----" he prompted her. - -She controlled her voice with difficulty. - -"Heavens knows!" She laughed, with a pitiful little air of throwing him -off the scent. "One gets frightened for no reason sometimes." - -"Does one?" - -"In the country--I'm town-bred." She smiled at him. - -He made up his mind, though he felt brutal. - -"You were expecting--Louise?" - -There was a silence. Slowly she lifted shaking hands, warding him off. - -"No, no!" she said. "For pity's sake. You are calling her back." Then, -struck with a new idea, she grew, if possible, whiter still. "Unless," -she said, whispering, "you saw her--you too? Then there is no hope. I -thought it was in my mind--only in my mind--but if you saw her too----" -Her voice failed. - -He thrust in hastily, ready enough to comfort her, but knowing well that -the time had not come. Yet he felt like a surgeon at his first -operation. - -"No, you are mistaken. There was no one. I don't even know who Louise -is. Only you mentioned her--once or twice, you see." - -"Did I?" she said. Then, with an effort at a commonplace tone: "I was -stupidly upset. You must excuse----" - -He broke in. - -"Who is Louise?" he asked her bluntly. - -"A ghost," said Alwynne, white to the lips. - -Again they were blankly silent. - -Then she spoke, with extraordinary passion-- - -"If you laugh--it will be wicked if you laugh at me." - -"I'm not thinking of laughing," he said, with the petulance of extreme -anxiety. - -She met his look and shrugged her shoulders. - -"Then you think I'm crazy," she began defiantly. "I can't help it, what -you think." She changed the subject transparently. "Roger, it's nice -here. What are the names of all these flowers? Are those big ones -daffodils, or jonquils, or narcissi? I never know the difference. I -never remember----" Her voice trailed into silence. - -"But look here," he began, and stopped again abruptly, deep in thought. - -The flame of the spirit-lamp on the shelf between them flickered and -failed, and sputtered up again noisily. Mechanically he rose to -extinguish it, and, still absently, cleared the little table of its -china and eatables. - -Then he sat down once more, and leant forward, his arms on the table, -his expression determined, yet very friendly. - -"Alwynne," he said, in his most matter-of-fact voice, "hadn't you better -tell me all about it?" - -"You?" - -"Why not?" he said comfortably. "You'll feel ever so much better if you -get if off your chest." - -For an instant she hesitated: then she shook her head wearily. - -"I would like to tell some one. But I can't. I sound mad, even to -myself. I couldn't tell any one. I couldn't tell Elsbeth even." - -"Of course not," he agreed. "You can't worry your own people." - -"No, you can't, can you?" she said, grateful for his comprehension. - -"Of course not. But you see--I'm different. Whatever your trouble is, it -won't worry me--because I don't care for you like Elsbeth and your -friends. So you can just ease off on me--d'you see? If I do think you -mad, it just doesn't matter, does it? What does it matter telling some -one a secret when you'll never see them again? Don't you see?" he argued -reassuringly. - -She nodded dumbly. The cheerful, impersonal kindness of his voice and -air made her want to cry. She realised how she had been aching for -sympathy. - -"Don't you see?" he repeated. - -"You wouldn't make fun?" she asked him. "You wouldn't tell any one? You -wouldn't talk me over?" - -"No, Alwynne," he said gravely. - -For a moment her eyes searched his face wistfully; then with sudden -decision, she began to speak. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIV - - -Alwynne's words, after the months of silence, came rushing out, breaking -down all barriers, sweeping on in unnatural fluency. Yet she was simple -and direct, entirely sincere; accepting him at his own valuation, -impersonally, as confessor and comforter, without a side glance at the -impression she might make, or its effect on their after relations. - -She told him the story of Louise; and he felt sick as he listened. -Unintentionally, for she was obviously absorbed in her school and -uncritical in her attitude to it, she gave him a vivid enough impression -of the system in force, of the deliberate encouragement of much that he -considered unhealthy, if not unnatural. He detected an hysterical -tendency in the emulations and enthusiasms to which she referred. The -gardener in him revolted at the thought of such congestion of minds and -bodies. He felt as indignant as if he had discovered a tray of unthinned -seedlings. Alwynne conveyed to him, more clearly than she knew, an idea -of the forcing-house atmosphere that she, and those still younger than -she, had been breathing. The friend she so constantly mentioned, -repelled him; he thought of her with distaste, as of an unscrupulous and -unskilful hireling; he was amazed at the affection of Alwynne's -references to her. Only in connection with the dead child was there a -hint of uncertainty in her attitude. There perhaps, she admitted, had -"Clare" been, not unkind--never and impossibly unkind--but perhaps, with -the best of motives, mistaken. She had not understood Louise. Roger -agreed silently and grimly enough. She had not understood Louise, whom -she had killed, nor this loyal and affectionate child, whom she was -driving into melancholia, nor any one it appeared, nor anything, but the -needs of her own barrenly emotional nature.... He was horrified at the -idea of such a woman, such a type of woman, in undisputed authority, -moulding the mothers of the next generation.... He had never considered -the matter seriously, but he supposed she was but one of many.... There -must be something poisonous in a system that could render possible the -placing of such women in such positions.... - -"Then what happened, after that poor child's death?" he asked. "She -left, of course?" - -"Who?" - -"Your friend--'Clare'--Miss----?" - -"Hartill. Oh, no! Why should she?" - -"I should have thought--suicide--bad for the school's reputation?" - -"Then you think it was--that--too? It was supposed to be an accident." - -"How do you mean, 'supposed'?" - -"There was an inquest, you see. I had to go. I was so frightened all the -time, of what I might slip into saying. But they all agreed that it was -an accident. She was fond of curling up in the window-seats with her -books. Oh, she was a queer little thing! When you came on her suddenly, -she used to look up like a startled baby colt. She always looked as if -she wanted some one to run to. Well, there was no guard, you see, only -an inch of ledge--she had not been well--she must have felt faint--and -fallen. They all said it was that. I was so thankful--for Clare's sake. -She could not reproach herself--after such a verdict. It was 'Accidental -Death.' Only--I--of course--I knew. Some of them guessed--Clare--and I -believe Elsbeth, though we never discussed it--and I knew. But nobody -said anything--nobody has, ever since, except once Clare told me--what -she feared. I never managed to persuade her that it was an accident, but -at least she doesn't know for certain, and at least she knows she -couldn't help it. And now we never speak of it. But _I_ know----" - -"What do you know?" he said. "You found out something?" - -"She did--she did kill herself," said Alwynne. "Oh, Roger, she did. I've -known it all along--I should have guessed anyway, I think, because I -knew how unhappy she was. I knew how awfully she cared about Clare. -Clare was very good to her sometimes. Clare was fond of her, you know. -Clare takes violent fancies like that, to clever people. And Louise was -brilliant, of course. Clare was charmed with her. Only Louise--this is -how I've thought it out; oh, I've had time to think it out--she just got -drunk on it, the happiness, I mean, of being cared for. She hadn't much -of a home. She was rather an ugly duckling to her people, I think. Then -Clare made a fuss of her, and you see, she was so little, she couldn't -see that--it didn't mean much to Clare. And I don't think grown-up -people understand how girls are--they have to worship some one, at that -age. Clare doesn't quite understand, I think. She is too sensible -herself to realise how girls can be silly. She is awfully good to them, -but, of course, she never dreams how miserable they get when she gets -bored with them. She can't help it." - -Roger's face was expressive--but Alwynne was staring at the uneasy -butterfly. - -"It doesn't matter, as a rule. Only Louise had no one else--and it just -broke her heart. If she had been grown-up it would have been like being -in love." - -Roger made an inarticulate remark. - -"Don't you see?" said Alwynne innocently. - -"I see." He was carefully expressionless. - -"And then she was run down and did her work badly. And Clare hates -illness--besides--she thought Louise was slacking. I tried to make her -see----Oh," she cried passionately, "why didn't I try harder? It's -haunting me, Roger, that I didn't try hard enough. I ought to have -known how she felt--I was near her age. Clare couldn't be expected -to--but Louise talked to me sometimes--I ought to have seen. I did see. -All that summer she went about so white and miserable--and Clare was -angry with her--and I hadn't the pluck to tackle either of them. I was -afraid of being a busybody--I was afraid of upsetting Clare. You -see--I'm awfully fond of Clare. She makes you forget everything but -herself. And, of course, she never realised what was wrong with Louise. -I didn't altogether, either--you do believe that?" She broke off, -questioning pitifully, as if he were her judge. - -He nodded. - -"Right till the day of the play, I never really saw how crazily -miserable she was growing. She was crazy--don't you think?" - -"You want to think so?" He considered her curiously. - -"It mitigates it." - -"That she killed herself?" - -"It's deadly sin? Or don't you believe----?" - -"No," he said. "There's such a thing as the right of exit--but go on." - -"What do you mean?" - -"I'll tell you what I think presently. I want all your thoughts -now----There were signs----?" - -"Of insanity? No. But she was--exaggerated--too intelligent--too -babyish--too brilliant--too everything. She felt things too much. She -failed in an exam.--sheer overwork--just before." - -"I see. Was she ambitious?" - -"Only to please Clare. Clare didn't like her failing." - -"Did she tell the child so?" His tone was stern. - -"Oh, no!" - -"You're sure?" - -"Clare would have told me if they had had a row. She tells me -everything." - -He smiled a little. - -"How old is your friend?" - -She looked surprised. - -"Oh--thirty-three--thirty-four--thirty-five. I don't really know. She -never talks about ages and looks and that sort of thing. She rather -despises all that. She laughs at me for--for liking clothes...." Her -little blush made her look natural again. "But why?" - -"I wondered. Then there was nothing to upset the child?" - -"Only the failing. And then the play. I told you. She was awfully -strange afterwards. That's where I blame myself. I ought to have seen -that she was overwrought. But she drank the tea, and cheered up so when -I told her Clare was pleased with her acting----" - -"Was she?" He was frowning interestedly. - -"I'm sure she must have been--it was brilliant, you know." - -"She said so?" - -"Oh, not actually--but I could tell. And it cheered the child up. I was -quite easy about her--and then ten minutes later----" She shuddered. - -"Then it might have been an accident," he suggested soothingly. - -"It wasn't," she said, with despairing conviction. - -"My dear girl! Either you're indulging in morbid imaginings--or you've -something to go on?" - -She shook her head with a frightened look at him. - -"No!" she said hurriedly. "No!" - -"Then why," he said quietly, meeting her eyes, "were you frightened at -the inquest?" - -She averted her eyes. - -"I wasn't--I mean--I was nervous, of course." - -"You were frightened of what you might slip into saying. You told me so -ten minutes ago." - -"Oh, if you're trying to trap me?" she flashed out wrathfully. - -He rejoiced at the tone. It was the impetuous Alwynne of his daily -intercourse again. The mere relief of discussion was, as he had -guessed, having a tonic effect on her nerves. - -He smiled at her pleasantly. - -"Don't tell me anything more, if you'd rather not." - -She subsided at this. - -"I didn't mean to be angry," she faltered. "Only I've guarded myself so -from telling. You see, I lied at the inquest. It was perjury, I -suppose." There was a little touch of importance in her tone. "But I'll -tell you." - -She hesitated, her older self once more supervening. - -"Afterwards--when the doctor had come, and they took Louise away--after -that ghastly afternoon was over----" She whitened. "It was ghastly, you -know--so many people--crowding and gaping--I dream of all those crowded -faces----" - -"Well?" he urged her forward. - -"I went up to the room where she had changed, to see that the children -had gone----" - -"She fell from that room?" - -"She must have. After she had changed. She'd locked the door--to change. -I broke it open. I thought she had fainted--a baby told me something -about Louise falling--lisping so, I couldn't make out what she -meant--and I'd run up to see. It turned out afterwards that little Joan -had been in a lower room, and had seen her body as it fell past the -window." - -"How beastly!" he said, with an involuntary shudder. - -"And when I got the door open--an empty room. Something made me look out -of the window. She was down below--right under me--on the steps." - -She was silent. - -"But afterwards?" he urged her. "You went up again?" - -"I had to. I was afraid already--recollecting little things. I looked -about, in case she'd left a message. And on the window-ledge--there were -great scratches. Then I knew." - -She was forgetting him, staring into space, peopled as it was with her -memories. - -"I don't understand," he said. - -She did not answer. - -"Alwynne!" he said urgently. - -She looked at him absently. - -"Scratches? What are you driving at?" - -"Oh," she said dully, "there was a nail in her shoe. She had tried to -hammer it in at the morning school. It had made scratches all over the -rostrum. I was rather cross about it." - -"But I don't see," he began, and stopped, realising suddenly her -meaning. - -"You mean--she must have stood on the ledge--to make those marks?" - -"Yes," said Alwynne. Then, fiercely, "Well?" - -"Yes, that's conclusive," he admitted. He looked at her pityingly. "You -poor child! And you never told?" - -"I got a paint-box," she said defiantly, "and painted them brown--like -the paintwork. It would have broken up Clare to know--and all the -questions and comments. What would you have done?" - -He ignored the challenge, answered only the misery in the tone. - -"It can't have been easy for you--that week," he said gently. - -"Easy?" She began to laugh harshly. "And yet I don't know," she -reflected. "I don't think I felt anything much at the time. It was like -being in a play. Almost interesting. Entirely unreal. At the inquest--I -lied as easily as saying grace. I wasn't a bit worried. What did worry -me was a bit of sticking-plaster on the coroner's chin. One end was -uncurled, and I was longing for him to stick it down again. It seemed -more important than anything else that he should stick it down. It would -have been a real relief to me. I'm not trying to be funny." - -"I know," he said. - -"And when it was over--I was quite cheerful. And at the funeral--I know -they thought I was callous. But I didn't feel sad. Only cold--icy -cold--in my hands and my feet and my heart. And I felt desperately -irritated with them all for crying. People look appalling when they -cry." She paused. "So they banked up Louise with wreaths and we left -her." She paused again. - -"Well?" he prompted. - -"I went home at the end of that week. Elsbeth sent me to bed early. I -was log-tired all of a sudden. Oh, I was tired! I had hardly slept at -all since she died. I'd stayed at Clare's, you know. She's a bad -sleeper, too, and it always infects me--and we used to sit up till -daylight, forgetting the time, talking. We've always heaps to talk -about. Clare's a night-bird. She's always most brilliant about -midnight." She smiled reminiscently. "We picnic, you know, in our -dressing-gowns. She has a great white bearskin on the hearth. Her fires -are piled up, and never go out all night. And I brew coffee--and we -talk. It's jolly. I wish you knew Clare. She's an absorbing person." - -"You're giving me quite a good idea of her," he said. Then carelessly: -"But she must have realised that after such a shock--and the strain----" - -"Oh, it was much worse for Clare," she broke in quickly. "Think--her -special pupil! She had had such hopes of Louise. And Clare's so terribly -sensitive--she was getting it on her mind. Do you know, she almost began -to think it was her fault, not to have seen what was going on? Once, she -was absolutely frantic with depression, poor darling, until I made her -understand that, if it was any one's, it must be mine. Of course, when I -told her everything, how I'd guessed Louise was pretty miserable, and -tried to tell her again and then funked it--well, then she saw. As she -said, if I'd only spoken out.... She was very kind--but, of course, I -soon felt that she thought I was responsible--indirectly--for the whole -thing----" Her voice quavered. - -Roger, watching her simple face, wanted to do something vigorous. At -that moment it would have given him great satisfaction to have -interviewed Miss Hartill. Failing that, he wanted to take Alwynne by the -shoulders and shake the nonsense out of her. He repressed himself, -however. He was in his way, as simple as Alwynne, but where she was -merely direct, he was shrewd. He knew that she must show him all the -weeds that were choking her before he could set about uprooting them and -planting good seed in their stead. - -She went on. - -"But even then, though I had been neglectful--oh, Roger, what made -Louise do it? Just then? She looked happier! It couldn't have been -anything I'd said! I know I cheered her up. It's inconceivable! She was -smiling, contented--and she went straight upstairs and killed herself!" - -He shook his head. - -"Inconceivable, as you say. You're sure--of your facts!" - -"How?" - -"I mean--you were the last person to see her?" - -"Oh, yes, Roger! every one was at tea." - -"Miss Hartill?" - -"Clare would have said----" - -"Of course," he said, "she tells you everything." - -She nodded, in all good faith-- - -"Besides, Clare was in the mistresses' room." - -"Impossible for her to have spoken with Louise?" - -"Quite. Clare would have told me----" - -"Yet there remains the fact that Louise was, as you say, happier after -seeing you. Within fifteen minutes, she is dead. Either she went -mad--which I don't believe, do you?" - -"I want to----" - -"But you don't--knowing the child. Neither do I, from what you tell me. -She seems to have been horribly sane. Sane enough, anyhow, to throw off -a burden. So if, as we agree, she didn't suddenly go mad--something -occurred to change her mood of comparative happiness to actual despair. -I think, if you ask me, that she did see Miss Hartill after she left -you." - -"But Clare would have told me," repeated Alwynne stubbornly. - -"I'm not so sure." - -"But she said nothing at the inquest, either." - -"Did you?" he retorted. "If she had had a row with the child it would -have sounded pretty bad." - -"But Clare's incapable of deceit." - -"She might say the same of you." - -"But--if your guess were true, it would be Clare's fault--all Clare's -fault--not mine at all!" she deducted slowly. - -"It's not your fault, anyway," he assured her. - -"But it would have been too utterly cruel of Clare not to have told me. -She knew what I felt at the time--why not have told me?" - -"She might have been afraid--you might have shrunk----" - -"From Clare?" She smiled securely. Then, with a change of tone: "No, -Roger. All this is guessing, far-fetched guessing." - -"Anyhow, Alwynne," he said sharply, "there was gross cruelty in her -treatment of that child. You can't excuse it. Directly or indirectly, -she is responsible for her death." - -She flushed. - -"You have not the shadow of right to say that." - -"I do say it." - -She put out her hand to him with a touch of appeal. - -"Please--won't you leave Clare out of it? You are utterly wrong. You -see, you don't know her. If you did you would understand. I am so -grateful to you for being kind. I don't want to be angry. But I must, if -you talk like that. Please--if you can, make me sure it wasn't my fault. -But if it involves Clare--I'd rather go on being--not not quite happy. -Yet I hoped, perhaps, you would help me." - -"Of course I'm helping you," he said, quick to catch and adopt her tone. -He had no wish to intimidate her. He liked her pathetic little dignities -and loyalties. He was, so far, content; he had, he knew, in spite of her -protestations, sown a seed of distrust in her mind. Time would ripen it. -He felt no compunction in enlightening her blind devotion. He had quick -antipathies, and he had conceived an idea of Clare Hartill that would -have appalled Alwynne, and which justified to himself any measure that -he might see fit to take. In his own mind he referred to her as "that -poisonous female." There were no half-measures with Roger. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXV - - -Alwynne leant back in her chair and regarded Roger with some intentness. - -"Well?" he said politely. - -"I was thinking----" she said lamely. - -"Obviously." - -"That it was rather queer--that I should tell you all this, when I -couldn't even tell Elsbeth." - -"Don't you think it's often easier to talk to strangers? One's -personality can make its own impression--it has no preconception to -fight against." - -"Yes. But I hate strangers, till they've stopped being strange. And, you -know"--she hesitated--"I haven't really liked you. Have you noticed it?" - -"In streaks," he admitted. "But why?" - -"You patronise so!" she flared. "You make me feel a fool. This -afternoon----Of course, it's quite true that I don't know much about -men. I suppose you knew I was--inexperienced; but you needn't have -rubbed it in. And you've always talked down to me." - -"I don't think I did," he considered the matter unsmiling. "I think it's -rather the other way--the tilt of your nose disturbs my complacence. You -listen to me at meals like Disapproval incarnate. You make me nervous." - -"Do I?" she asked delightedly. - -"Yes." He laughed. "I hide it under a superior air, of course." - -"Yes, of course," she sympathised. "That's what I do always." - -"It is useful," he agreed. - -"People may think you disagreeable, but at least you're dignified. _You -have chosen your fault well, I really cannot laugh at it._ Do you -remember? I told Elsbeth that you were like Mr. Darcy." - -"And that you don't like me?" - -"Well--I didn't. That's why it's so queer--that I can talk to you so -easily. I am grateful. It has helped, just talking." - -"I knew it would." - -"I feel better." She stirred in her seat. "Is it late? Ought we to be -going home?" - -He chose his words, his eyes on her, though he spoke casually enough. - -"No hurry. We can always take a cut through the wood, you know." - -She flinched at that, as he expected; spoke uneasily, furtive-eyed. - -"I think I'd rather go at once--round by the road. Isn't there a road?" -She rose and looked about her, taking farewell of the daffodils. - -"Yes, there's a road. Wouldn't you like a bunch?" He took a pair of -scissors from the wall, and began to select his blooms. Alwynne followed -him delightedly. She thought she would have a surprise for Clare, after -all. And Elsbeth! Elsbeth was an after-thought. But she hoped there -would be enough for Elsbeth. - -"Why won't you go back through the wood?" he said quietly, as, hands -full, he at last replaced the scissors on their particular nail, and -twitched a strand from the horse-tail of bass that hung beside them. -"Tell me." Then, calmly, "Here--put your finger here, will you?" - -Mechanically she obeyed and he tied the knot that secured the great -yellow sheaf and gave it to her. - -"Now tell me. What frightened you in the wood? What was wrong?" He spoke -quietly, but his tone compelled her. - -"If you dreamed a dream----" she began unwillingly, "night after -night--month after month--something ghastly----" - -"Yes--" he encouraged her. - -"Ah, well--at least you've the comfort of knowing it's a dream. But -suppose, one day--you dreamt it while you were awake----?" - -"Dreamt what?" He guessed her meaning, but he was deliberately forcing -her to reduce her terrors into words--the more they crystallised, the -easier she would find it to face and destroy them. - -"Do you believe in hell?" she flung at him. - -"I should jolly well think so." - -"For children?" Her tone implored comfort. - -"I'm afraid so." - -"But how can it be fair? They're so little. They don't know right from -wrong." - -"I knew a kid," he said meditatively, an eye on her tormented face, -"only eight--used to act, if you please. Hung about London stage-doors, -and bearded managers in their dens for a living. Quick little chap! -Father drunk or ill; incapable, anyhow. The child supported them both. -I've seen that child kept hanging about three or four hours on end. And -what he knew! It made you sick and sorry. He must be twelve by -now--getting on, I believe, poor kid! And a cheerful monkey! He's -certainly had his hell, though." - -She had hardly listened, she was absorbed in her thoughts; but she -caught at his last words---- - -"In this life? Oh, yes! That's cruel enough. But not afterwards? Not -eternal damnation! I don't mind it for myself so much--but for a baby -that can't understand why----It isn't possible, is it?" - -He began to laugh jollily. - -"Alwynne--you utter fool! Don't you believe in God?" - -"I suppose so," she admitted. - -"Of course, if you didn't----" - -"Yes," she thrust in. "Then it would be all right. I could be sure she -was asleep--dead--like last year's leaves----" - -"But why should God complicate matters?" - -"Well--heaven follows--and hell--don't they? _Their worm dieth not_--and -all the rest." - -"Oh, I follow." - -"Miss Marsham--the head mistress, you know--of course she's very -old--but she believes--terribly. It's an awfully religious school. It -scares some of the children. I used to laugh, but now, since Louise -died, it scares me, though I am grown up. I've no convictions--and she -is certain--and then I get these nightmares. I hear her calling--for -water." - -The flat matter-of-fact tone alarmed him more than emotion would have -done. - -"Water?" - -"_For I am tormented in this flame._ I hear her every night--wailing." -Her eyes strained after something that he could not see. - -He found no words. - -She returned with an effort. - -"Of course, when it's over--I know it's imagination. My sense tells me -so--in the daytime. Only I can't be sure. If only I could be sure! If -some one would tell me to be sure. It's the reasoning it out for -myself--all day--and going back to the dreams all night." - -"How long has this been going on?" he asked curtly. - -"Ever since--when I came home from Clare's--that night. I'd slept like a -log. Then I woke up suddenly. I thought I heard Louise calling. I'd -forgotten she was dead. Every night it happens--as soon as I go to -sleep, she comes. Always trying to speak to me. I hear her screaming -with pain--wanting help. Never any words. Do you think I'm mad? I know -it's only a dream--but every night, you know----" - -"You're not going to dream any more," he said, with a determination that -belied his inward sense of dismay. "But go on--let's have the rest of -it." - -"There isn't much. Just dreams. It's been a miserable year. I couldn't -be cheerful always, you know--and I used to dread going to bed so. It -made me stupid all day. And Clare--Clare didn't quite understand. Oh--I -did want to tell her so. But you can't worry people. I'm afraid Elsbeth -got worried--she hates it if you don't eat and have a colour. She packed -me off here at last." - -She drew a long breath. - -"This blessed place! You don't know how I love it. I feel a different -girl. All this space and air and freedom. What is it that the country -does to one's mind? I've slept. No dreaming. Sleep that's like a hot -bath. Can you imagine what that is after these months? Oh, Roger! I -thought I'd stopped dreaming for good--I was forgetting----" - -"Go on forgetting," he said. "You can. I'll help you. You had a shock. -It made you ill. You're getting well again. That's all." - -"I'm not," she said. "I'm going mad. To-day, in that wood.... Louise -came running after me--and I was awake...." - -Suddenly she gave a little ripple of high-pitched laughter. - -"Oh, Mr. Lumsden! Isn't this a ridiculous conversation? And your -face--you're so absurd when you frown.... You make me laugh.... You make -me laugh...." - -She broke off. Roger, with a swift movement, had turned and was standing -over her. - -"Now shut up!" he said sharply. "Shut up! D'you hear? Shut up this -instant, and sit down." He put his hand on her shoulder and jerked her -back into the chair. - -The shock of his roughness checked her hysterics, as he had intended it -should. She sat limply, her head in her hand, trying not to cry. He -watched her. - -"Pull yourself together, Alwynne," he said more gently. - -Her lips quivered, but she nodded valiantly. - -"I will. Just wait a minute. I don't want to make a fool of myself." -Then, with a quavering laugh, "Oh, Roger, this is pleasant for you!" - -He laughed. - -"You needn't mind me," he said calmly. "Any more than I mind you. Except -when you threaten hysterics. I bar hysterics. I wouldn't mind if they -did any good. But we've got lots to do. No time at all for them. We've -got to work this thing out. Ready?" - -Alwynne waited, her attention caught. - -"Now listen," he said. "First of all, get it into your head that I know -all about it, and that I'm going to see you through. Next--whenever you -get scared--though you won't again, I hope--that you are just to come -and talk it over. You won't even have to tell me--I shall see by your -face, you know. Do you understand? You're not alone any more. I'm here. -Always ready to lay your ghosts for you. Will you remember?" - -He spoke clearly and patiently--very cheerful and reassuring. - -"You've got to go home well, Alwynne. Because, you know, though you're -as sane as I am, you've been ill. This last year has been one long -illness. You had a shock--a ghastly shock--and, of course, it skinned -your nerves raw. My dear, I wonder it didn't send you really mad, -instead of merely making you afraid of going mad. If you hadn't put up -such a fight----Honestly, Alwynne! I think you've been jolly plucky." - -The sincere admiration in his voice was wonderfully pleasant to hear. - -Alwynne opened her eyes widely. - -"I don't know what you mean," she began shyly. - -"I'm not imaginative," he said, "but if I'd been hag-ridden as you -have----" He broke off abruptly. "But, at least, you've fought yourself -free," he continued cheerfully. "Yes, in spite of to-day." And his -complete assurance of voice and manner had its effect on Alwynne, -though she did not realise it. - -"You're better already. You say yourself you're a different girl since -you got away from--since you came here. And when you're quite well, -it'll be your own work, not mine. I'm just tugging you up the bank, so -to speak. But you've done the real fighting with the elements. I think -you can be jolly proud of yourself." - -Alwynne looked at him, half smiling, half bewildered. - -"What do you mean? You talk as if it were all over. Shall I never be -frightened again? Think of to-day?" - -"Of course it's all over," he assured her truculently. "To-day? To-day -was the last revolt of your imagination. You've let it run riot too -long. Of course it hasn't been easy to call it to heel." - -"You think it's all silly imaginings, then?" - -"Alwynne," he said. "You've got to listen to this, just this. You -say I'm not to talk about your friend, that I don't know her--that -I'm unjust. But listen, at least, to this. I won't be unfair. I'll -grant you that she was fond of the little girl, and meant no harm, -no more than you did. But you say yourself that she was miserable -till you relieved her mind by taking all the blame on yourself. Can't -you conceive that in so doing you did assume a burden, a very real -one? Don't you think that her fears, her terrors, may have haunted you -as well as your own? I believe in the powers of thought. I believe -that fear--remorse--regret--may materialise into a very ghost at your -elbow. Do you remember Macbeth and Banquo? Do you believe that a something -really physical sat that night in the king's seat? Do you think it was -the man from his grave? I think it was Macbeth's thoughts incarnate. He -thought too much, that man. But let's leave all that. Let's argue it out -from a common-sense point of view. You said you believed in God?" - -"Yes," she said. - -"And the devil?" - -"I suppose so." - -"Well--I'm not so sure that I do," he remarked meditatively. "But if I -do--I must say I cannot see the point of a God who wouldn't be more than -a match for him: and a God who'd leave a baby in his clutches to expiate -in fire and brimstone and all the rest of the beastliness----Well, is -it common sense?" he appealed to her. - -"If you put it like that----" she admitted. - -"My dear, would you let Louise frizzle if it were in your hands? Why, -you've driven yourself half crazy with fear for her, as it is. Can't you -give God credit for a little common humanity? I'm not much of a Bible -reader, but I seem to remember something about a sparrow falling to the -ground----Now follow it up," he went on urgently. "If Louise's life was -so little worth living that she threw it away--doesn't it prove she had -her hell down here? If you insist on a hell. And when she was dead, poor -baby, can't you trust God to have taken charge of her? And if He has--as -He must have--do you think that child--that happy child, Alwynne, for if -God exists at all, He must exist as the very source and essence of peace -and love--that that child would or could wrench itself apart from God, -from its happiness, in order to return to torment you? Is it possible? -Is it probable? In any way feasible?" - -Alwynne caught her breath. - -"How you believe in God! I wish I could!" - -Roger flushed suddenly like an embarrassed boy. - -"You know, it's queer," he confided, subsiding naïvely, "till I began to -talk to you, I didn't know I did. I never bother about church and -things. You know----" - -But Alwynne was not attending. - -"Of course--I see what you mean," she murmured. "It applies to Louise -too. Why, Roger, she was really fond of me--not as she was of Clare--of -course--but quite fond of me. She never would have hurt me. Hurt? Poor -mite! She never hurt any one in all her life." - -"I wonder you didn't think of that before," remarked Roger severely. "I -hope you see what an idiot you've been?" - -"Yes," said Alwynne meekly. She did not flash out at him as he had hoped -she would: but her manner had grown calm, and her eyes were peaceful. - -"Poor little Louise!" said Alwynne slowly. "So we needn't think about -her any more? She's to be dead, and buried, and forgotten. It sounds -harsh, doesn't it? But she is dead--and I've only been keeping her alive -in my mind all this year. Is that what you mean?" - -"Yes," he said. "And if it were not as I think it is, sheer -imagination--if your grieving and fear really kept a fraction of her -personality with you, to torment you both--let her go now, Alwynne. Say -good-bye to her kindly, and let her go home." - -She looked at him gravely for a moment. Then she turned from him to the -empty house of flowers. - -"Good-bye, Louise!" said Alwynne, simply as a child. - -About them was the evening silence. The sun, sinking over the edge of -the world, was a blinding glory. - -Out of the flowers rose the butterfly, found an open pane and fluttered -out on the evening air, straight into the heart of the sunlight. - -They watched it with dazzled eyes. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVI - - -Alwynne had gone to bed early. She confessed to being tired, as she bade -her cousins good-night, and, indeed, she had dark rings about her eyes; -but her colour was brilliant as she waited at the foot of the stairs for -her candle. Roger had followed her into the hall and was lighting it. -The thin flame flickered between them, kindling odd lights in their -eyes. - -"Good-night," said Alwynne, and went up a shallow step or two. - -"Good-night," said Roger, without moving. - -She turned suddenly and bent down to him over the poppy-head of the -balustrade. - -"Good-night," said Alwynne once more, and put out her hand. - -"You're to sleep well, you know," he said authoritatively. - -She nodded. Then, with a rush-- - -"Roger, I do thank you. I do thank you very much." - -"That's all right," said Roger awkwardly. - -Alwynne went upstairs. - -He watched her disappear in the shadows of the landing, and took a -meditative turn up and down the long hall before he returned to the -drawing-room. - -He felt oddly responsible for the girl; wished that he had some one to -consult about her.... His aunts? Dears, of course, but ... Alicia, -possibly.... Certainly not Jean.... Nothing against them ... dearest -women alive ... but hardly capable of understanding Alwynne, were they? -Without at all realising it he had already arrived at the conviction -that no one understood Alwynne but himself. - -He caught her name as he re-entered the room. - -"Ever so much better! A different creature! Don't you think so, Roger?" - -"Think what?" - -"That Alwynne's a new girl? It's the air. Nothing like Dene air. But, of -course, you didn't see her when she first came. A poor white thing! -She'd worked herself to a shadow. How Elsbeth allowed it----" - -Jean caught her up. - -"Overwork! Fiddlesticks! It wasn't that. I'm convinced in my own mind -that there's something behind it. A girl doesn't go to pieces like that -from a little extra work. Look at your Compton women at the end of a -term. Bursting with energy still, I will say that for them. No--I'm -inclined to agree with Parker. I told you what she said to me? 'She must -have been crossed in love, poor young lady, the way she fiddle-faddles -with her food!'" - -Alicia laughed. - -"When you and Parker get together there's not a reputation safe in the -three Denes. If there had been anything of the kind, Elsbeth would have -given me a hint." - -"I should have thought Elsbeth would be the last person----" Jean broke -off significantly. - -Roger glanced at her, eyebrows lifted. - -"What's she driving at, Aunt Alice?" - -"Lord knows!" said Alicia shortly. - -Jean grew huffed. - -"It's all very well, Alicia, to take that tone. You know what I mean -perfectly well. Considering how reticent Elsbeth was over her own -affairs to us--she wouldn't be likely to confide anything about Alwynne. -But Elsbeth always imagined no one had any eyes." - -Alicia moved uneasily in her chair. - -"Jean, will you never let that foolish gossip be? It wasn't your -business thirty years ago--at least let it alone now." - -Jean flushed. - -"It's all very well to be superior, Alicia, but you know you agreed with -me at the time." - -Roger chuckled. - -"What are you two driving at? Let's have it." - -Alicia answered him. - -"My dear boy, you know what Jean is. Elsbeth stayed with us a good deal -when we were all girls together--and because she and your dear father -were very good friends----" - -"Inseparable!" snapped Jean. She was annoyed that the telling of the -story was taken from her. - -"Oh, they had tastes in common. But we all liked him. I'm quite certain -Elsbeth was perfectly heart-whole. Only Jean has the servant-girl habit -of pairing off all her friends and acquaintances. I don't say, of -course, that if John had never met your dear mother--but she came home -from her French school--she'd been away two years, you know--and turned -everybody's head. Ravishing she was. I remember her coming-out dance. -She wore the first short dress we'd seen--every one wore trains in those -days--white gauze and forget-me-nots. She looked like a fairy. All the -gentlemen wanted to dance with her, she was so light-footed. Your father -fell head over ears! They were engaged in a fortnight. And nobody, in -her quiet way, was more pleased than Elsbeth, I'm sure. Why, she was one -of the bridesmaids!" - -"She never came to stay with them afterwards," said Jean obstinately, -"always had an excuse." - -"Considering she had to nurse her father, with her mother an invalid -already----" Alicia was indignant. "Ten years of sick-nursing that poor -girl had!" - -"Anyhow, she never came to Dene again till after John died. Then she -came, once. When she heard we were all going out to Italy. Stayed a -week." - -"I remember," said Roger unexpectedly. - -"You! You were only five," cried Jean. The clock struck as she spoke. -She jumped up. "Alicia! It's ten o'clock! Where's Parker? Why hasn't -Parker brought the biscuits? You really might speak to her! She's always -late!" - -She flurried out of the room. - -Roger drew in his chair. - -"Aunt Alice, I say--how much of that is just--Aunt Jean?" - -Alicia sighed. - -"My dear boy! How should I know? It's all such a long while ago. Jean's -no respecter of privacy. I never noticed anything--hate prying--always -did." - -"She never married?" - -"She was over thirty before her mother died. She aged quickly--faded -somehow. At that visit Jean spoke of--I shall never forget the change in -her. She was only twenty-six, two years older than your mother, but -Rosemary was a girl beside her, in spite of you and her widow's weeds. -And then Alwynne was left on her hands and she absorbed herself in her. -She's one of those self-effacing women--But there--she's quite -contented, I think. She adores Alwynne. Her letters are cheerful enough. -I always kept up with her. I'd like to see her again." - -"Why didn't you ask her with Alwynne?" - -"I did. She wouldn't come. Spring-cleaning, and one of her whimsies. -Wanted the child to have a change from her. That's Elsbeth all over. She -was always painfully humble. I imagine she'd sell her immortal soul for -Alwynne." - -"Well--and so would you for me," said Roger, with a twinkle. - -"Don't you flatter yourself," retorted Alicia with spirit. Then she -laughed and kissed him, and lumbered off to scold Jean up to bed. - -Roger sat late, staring into the fire, and reviewing the day's -happenings. - -There was Alwynne to be considered.... Alwynne in the wood.... Alwynne -in the daffodil house.... Alwynne hanging over the bannisters, a candle -in her hand.... And Elsbeth.... Elsbeth had become something more than a -name.... Elsbeth had known his mother--had been "pals" with his -father.... He chuckled at the recollection of Jean's speculations.... -Poor old Jean! She hadn't altered much.... He remembered her first -horror at Compton and its boys and girls.... But Elsbeth was evidently a -good sort ... appreciated Alwynne.... He would like to have a talk with -Elsbeth.... He would like to have her version of that disastrous summer; -have her views on Alwynne and this school of hers ... and that woman ... -what was her name?... Hartill! Clare Hartill! Yes, he must certainly get -to know Alwynne's Elsbeth.... In the meantime.... - -He hesitated, fidgeting at his desk; spoiled a sheet or two; shrugged -his shoulders; began again; and finally, with a laugh at his own -uncertainty, settled down to the writing of a long letter to his second -cousin Elsbeth. - -Elsbeth, opening a boot-boxful of daffodils on the following evening, -had no leisure for any other letter till Alwynne's was read. - - _I hope they'll arrive fresh. Roger packed them for me himself. - He's frightfully clever with flowers, you know; you should just see - his greenhouses! But he goes in chiefly for roses; he's going to - teach me pruning and all that, he says, later on. The Dears were - out all day, but he looked after me. He's really awfully nice when - you get to know him. One of those sensible people. I'm sure you - would like him_, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. - -Elsbeth smiled over her daffodils. She had to put them in water, and -arrange them, and re-arrange them, and admire them for a full half-hour -before she had time for the rest of her post, for her two circulars and -the letter in the unfamiliar handwriting. - -But when, at last, it was opened, she had no more eyes for daffodils; -and though she spent her evening letter-writing, Alwynne got no thanks -for them next day. - -"Not even a note!" declaimed Alwynne indignantly. "She might at least -have sent me a note! It isn't as if she had any one else to write to!" - -Roger was most sympathetic. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVII - - -Alwynne's visit had been prolonged in turn by Alicia, Jean and Roger; -and Elsbeth had acquiesced--her sedate letters never betrayed how -eagerly--in each delay. - -Alicia was flatteringly in need of her help for the Easter church -decorations, and how could Alwynne refuse? Jean was in the thick of -preparations for the bazaar: Alwynne's quick wits and clever fingers -were not to be dispensed with. Alwynne wondered what Clare would say to -her interest in a bazaar and a mothers' meeting, and was a little -nervous that it would be considered anything but a reasonable excuse for -yet another delay. Clare's letters were getting impatient--Clare was -wanting her back. Clare was finding her holidays dull. Yet Alwynne, -longing to return to her, was persuaded to linger--for a bazaar--a -village bazaar! That a bazaar of all things should tempt Alwynne from -Clare! She felt the absurdity of it as fully as ever Clare could do. Yet -she stayed. After all, The Dears had been very good to her.... She -should be glad to make some small return by being useful when she -could.... - -And Alwynne was pleasantly conscious that she was uncommonly useful. A -fair is a many-sided gaiety. There are tableaux--Alwynne's suggestions -were invaluable. Side-shows--Alwynne, in a witch's hat, told the -entire village its fortunes with precision and point. Alwynne's -well-drilled school-babies were pretty enough in their country -dances and nursery rhymes; and the stall draperies were a credit -to Alwynne's taste. Alwynne's posters lined the walls; and her lightning -portraits--fourpence each, married couples sixpence--were the success -of the evening. The village notabilities were congratulatory: The Dears -beamed: it was all very pleasant. - -Her pleasure in her own popularity was innocent enough. Nevertheless she -glanced uneasily in the direction of Roger Lumsden more than once during -the evening. He was very big and busy in his corner helping his aunts, -but she felt herself under observation. She had an odd idea that he was -amused at her. She thought he might have enquired if she needed help -during the long evening, when the little Parish Hall was grown crowded. -Once, indeed, she signed to him across the room to come and talk to her, -but he laughed and shook his head, and turned again to an old mother, -absorbed in a pile of flannel petticoats. Alwynne was not pleased. - -But when the sale had come to its triumphant end, and the stall-holders -stood about in little groups, counting coppers and comparing gains--it -was Roger who discovered Alwynne, laughing a trifle mechanically at the -jokes of the ancient rector, and came to her rescue. - -She found herself in the cool outer air, hat and scarf miraculously in -place. - -"Jean and Alicia are driving, they won't be long after us. I thought -you'd rather walk. That room was a furnace," said Roger, with -solicitude. - -She drew a deep breath. - -"It was worth it to get this. Isn't it cool and quiet? I like this black -and white road. Doesn't the night smell delicious?" - -"It's the cottage gardens," he said. - -"Wallflowers and briar and old man. Better than all your acres of glass, -after all," she insinuated mischievously. Then, with a change of tone, -"Oh, dear, I am tired." - -"You'd better hang on to my arm," said Roger promptly. "That's better. -Of course you're tired. If you insist on running the entire show----" - -"Then you did think that?" Alwynne gave instant battle. "I knew you -did. I saw you laugh. I can walk by myself, thank you." - -But her dignity edged her into a cart-rut, for Roger did not deviate -from the middle of the lane. - -He laughed. - -"You're a consistent young woman--I'm as sure of a rise----You'd better -take my arm. Alwynne! You're not to say 'Damn.'" A puddle shone blackly, -and Alwynne, nose in air, had stepped squarely into it. - -She ignored his comments. - -"I wasn't interfering. I had to help where I could. They asked me to. -Besides--I liked it." - -"Of course you did." - -She looked up quickly. - -"Did I really do anything wrong? Did I push myself forward?" - -"You made the whole thing go," he said seriously. "A triumph, Alwynne. -The rector's your friend for life." - -"Then why do you grudge it?" She was hurt. - -"Do I?" - -"You laugh at me." - -"Because I was pleased." - -"With me?" - -"With my thoughts. You've enjoyed yourself, haven't you?" - -She nodded. - -"I never dreamed it would be such fun." She laughed shyly. "I like -people to like me." - -"Now, come," he said. "Wasn't it quite as amusing as a prize-giving?" - -She looked up at him, puzzled. He was switching with his stick at the -parsley-blooms, white against the shadows of the hedge. - -"I suppose your goal is a head mistress-ship?" he suggested -off-handedly. - -"Why?" began Alwynne, wondering. Then, taking the bait: "Not for -myself--I couldn't. I haven't been to college, you know. But if Clare -got one--I could be her secretary, and run things for her, like Miss -Vigers did for Miss Marsham. We've often planned it." - -"Ah, that's a prospect indeed," he remarked. "I suppose it would be more -attractive, for instance, than to be Lady Bountiful to a village?" - -"Oh, yes," said Alwynne, with conviction. "More scope, you know. And, -besides, Clare hates the country." - -"Ah!" said Roger. - -They walked awhile in silence. - -But before they reached home, Roger had grown talkative again. He had -heard from his aunts that she was planning to go back to Utterbridge on -the following Saturday--a bare three days ahead. Roger thought that a -pity. The bazaar was barely over--had Alwynne any idea of the clearing -up there would be to do? Accounts--calls--congratulations. Surely -Alwynne would not desert his aunts till peace reigned once more. And the -first of his roses would be out in another week; Alwynne ought to see -them; they were a sight. Surely Alwynne could spare another week. - -Alwynne had a lot to say about Elsbeth. And Clare. Especially Clare. -Alwynne did not think it would be kind to either of them to stay away -any longer. It would look at last as if she didn't want to go home. -Elsbeth would be hurt. And Clare. Especially Clare. - -But the lane had been dark and the hedges had been high, high enough to -shut out all the world save Roger and his plausibilities. By the time -they reached the garden gate Alwynne's hand was on Roger's arm--Alwynne -was tired--and Alwynne had promised to stay yet another week at Dene. On -the following day, labouring over her letters of explanation, she -wondered what had possessed her. Wondered, between a chuckle of mischief -and a genuine shiver, what on earth Clare would say. - -But if Roger had gained his point, he gained little beside it. The week -passed pleasantly, but some obscure instinct tied Alwynne to his aunts' -apron-strings. He saw less of her in those last days than in all the -weeks of her visit. He had assured her that The Dears would need help, -and she took him at his word. She absorbed herself in their concerns, -and in seven long days found time but twice to visit Roger's roses. - -Yet who so pleasant as Alwynne when she was with him? Roger should have -appreciated her whim of civility. It is on record that she agreed with -him one dinner-time, on five consecutive subjects. On record, too, that -in that last week there arose between them no quarrel worthy of the -name. Yet Roger was not in the easiest of moods, as his gardeners knew, -and his coachman, and his aunts. The gardeners grumbled. The coachman -went so far as to think of talking of giving notice. Alicia said it was -the spring. Jean thought he needed a tonic--or a change. Roger, -cautiously consulted, surprised her by agreeing. He said it was a good -idea. He might very well take a few days off, say in a fortnight, or -three weeks.... - -Only Alwynne, very busy over the finishing touches of Clare's birthday -present, paid no attention to the state of Roger's temper. She was -entirely content. The anticipation of her reunion with Clare accentuated -the delights of her protracted absence. Indeed, it was not until the -last morning of her visit that she noticed any change in him. That last -morning, she thought resentfully, as later she considered matters in the -train, he had certainly managed to spoil. Roger, her even-minded, -tranquil Roger--Roger, prime sympathiser and confederate--Roger, the -entirely dependable--had failed her. She did not know what had come over -him. - -For Roger had been in a bad temper, a rotten bad temper, and heaven knew -why.... Alwynne didn't.... She had been in such a jolly frame of mind -herself.... She had got her packing done early, and had dashed down to -breakfast, beautifully punctual--and then it all began.... She re-lived -it indignantly, as the telegraph poles shot by. - -The bacon had sizzled pleasantly in the chafing-dish. She was standing -at the window, crumbling bread to the birds. - -"Hulloa! You're early!" remarked Roger, entering. - -"Done all my packing already! Isn't that virtue?" Alwynne was intent on -her pensioners. "Oh, Roger--look! There's a cuckoo. I'm sure it's a -cuckoo. Jean says they come right on to the lawn sometimes. I've always -wanted to see one. Look! The big dark blue one." - -"Starling," said Roger shortly, and sat himself down. "First day I've -known you punctual," he continued sourly. - -"I'm going home," cried Alwynne. "I'm going home! Do you know I've been -away seven weeks? It's queer that I haven't been homesick, isn't it?" - -"Is it?" said Roger blankly. - -"So, of course, I'm awfully excited," she continued, coming to the -table. "Oh, Roger! In six hours I shall see Clare!" - -"Congratulations!" He gulped down some coffee. - -Alwynne looked at him, mildly surprised at his taciturnity. - -"I've had a lovely time," she remarked wistfully. "You've all been so -good to me." - -Roger brightened. - -"The Dears are such dears," continued Alwynne with enthusiasm. "I've -never had such a glorious time. It only wanted Clare to make it quite -perfect. And Elsbeth, of course." - -"Of course," said Roger. - -"So often I've thought," she went on: "'Now if only Clare and Elsbeth -could be coming down the road to meet us----'" she paused effectively. -"I do so like my friends to know each other, don't you?" - -Roger was cutting bread--stale bread, to judge by his efforts. His face -was growing red. - -"Because then I can talk about them to them," concluded Alwynne lucidly. - -"Jolly for them!" he commented indistinctly. - -Alwynne looked up. - -"What, Roger?" - -"I said, 'Jolly for them!'" - -"Oh!" Alwynne glanced at him in some uncertainty. Then, with a frown-- - -"Have you finished--already?" - -"Yes, thank you." - -"I haven't," remarked Alwynne, with sufficient point. Roger rose. - -"You'll excuse me, won't you? I've a busy morning ahead of me." - -He got up. But in spite of his protestations of haste he still stood at -the table, fidgeting over his pile of circulars and seed catalogues, -while he coughed the preliminary cough of a man who has something to -say, and no idea of how to say it. - -Alwynne, meanwhile, had discovered the two letters that her napkin had -hidden, and had neither ears nor eyes for him and his hesitations. - -Roger watched her gloomily as she opened the envelopes. The first -enclosure was read and tossed aside quickly enough, but the other was -evidently absorbing. He shrugged his shoulders at last, and, crossing -the room, took his warmed boots from the hearth. The supporting tongs -fell with a crash. - -Alwynne jumped. - -"Oh, Roger, you are noisy!" - -"Sorry," said Roger, but without conviction. - -She looked across at him with a hint of perturbation in her manner. She -distrusted laconics. - -"I say--is anything the matter?" - -"Nothing whatever!" he assured her. "Why?" He bent over his boots. - -"I don't know. You're rather glum to-day, aren't you?" - -"Not at all," said Roger, with a dignity that was marred by the sudden -bursting of his over-tugged bootlace. His ensuing exclamation was -vigorous and not inaudible. Alwynne giggled. It is not easy to tie a -knot in four-sided leather laces. She watched his struggles without -excessive sympathy. Presently a neat twist of twine flicked through -space and fell beside him. - -"'Just a little bit of string,'" murmured Alwynne flippantly. But -getting no thanks, she returned to her letter. Roger fumbled in silence. - -"The Dears are late," remarked Alwynne at last, as she folded her -sheets. - -"No--it's we who are early. I got down early on purpose. I thought you -might be, too. I wanted----" he broke off abruptly. - -"Yes, I always wake up at daybreak when I'm excited," she said joyously. -"Oh, Roger! How I'm looking forward to getting home! Clare says she may -meet me--if she feels like it," she beamed. - -"Oh!" said Roger. - -Alwynne tapped her foot angrily. - -"What's the matter with you?" she demanded. "Why on earth do you sit -there and grunt at me like that? Why won't you talk? You're an absolute -wet blanket--on my last morning. I wish The Dears would come down." - -"I think I hear them moving," he said, and stared at the ceiling. - -"I hope you do." Alwynne flounced from the table and picked up a paper. - -He stood looking at her--between vexation and amusement, and another -sensation less easily defined. - -"Well, I must be off," he said at last. - -He got no answer. - -"Good-bye, Alwynne. Pleasant journey." - -Alwynne turned in a flash. - -"Good-bye? Aren't you coming to see me off?" she demanded blankly. - -He hesitated, looking back at her from the open window, one foot already -on the terrace. - -"I'm awfully busy. It's market-day, you know--and the new stuff's coming -in. The Dears will see you off." - -"Oh, all right." Alwynne was suddenly subdued. She held out a limp hand. - -He disregarded it. - -"Do you want me to come?" He spoke more cheerfully. - -"One always likes one's friends to see one off," she remarked sedately. - -"And meet one?" He glanced at the letter in her hand. - -"And meet one. Certainly." Her chin went up. "I hadn't to ask Clare. But -you needn't come. Good-bye!" - -"Oh, I'm coming--now," he assured her, smiling. - -Alwynne's eyebrows went up. - -"But it's market-day, you know----" - -"Yes." - -"You're awfully busy." - -"Yes." - -"The new stuff's coming in." - -"Yes." - -"Are you coming, Roger?" - -"Yes, Alwynne." - -"Then, Roger dear--if you are coming, and it's no bother, and you can -spare them, would you bring me a tiny bunch of your roses? Not for -me--for Clare. She does love them so. Do, Roger!" - -"I'm hanged if I do," cried Roger, and went his wrathful way. - -But he did. A big bunch. More than enough for Clare. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVIII - - -Alwynne was out of the train a dangerous quarter minute before it came -to a standstill, and making for the bunch of violets that bloomed -perennially in Elsbeth's bonnet. There followed a sufficiency of -kissing. It was like a holiday home-coming, thought Alwynne, of not so -very long ago. But not so long ago she would have been exclusively -occupied with Elsbeth, and her luggage, and her forgotten compartment; -would not have turned impatiently from her aunt to scan the length of -the platform. Not a sign of Clare? And Clare had promised to meet -her.... - -She prolonged as long as she might her business with porters and ticket -collectors and outside-men, but Clare did not appear; and she left the -station at last, at her aunt's side, sedately enough, with the edge off -the pleasure of her home-coming. - -A telegram on the hall stand, however, contented her. Clare was sorry; -Clare was delayed; would be away another four days; was writing. Alwynne -shook off her black dog, and the meeting with Clare still delightfully -ahead of her, was able to devote herself altogether to Elsbeth. Elsbeth -spent a gay four days with an Alwynne grown rosy and cheerful, -affectionate and satisfyingly garrulous again; found it very pleasant to -have Alwynne to herself, her own property, even for four days. Elsbeth -might know that she was second fiddle still, but though it cost her -something to realise that she could never be first fiddle again, she -could be content to give place to Roger Lumsden. She shook her head over -her inconsistency. She could school herself, rather than lose the girl's -confidence, to accept Clare Hartill as the main theme of Alwynne's -conversation, till she was weary of the name, but she could not hear -enough of Roger. All that Alwynne let fall of incident, description, or -approval--Roger, Elsbeth discovered, had, in common with Clare, no -faults whatever--she stored up to compare, when Alwynne had gone to bed, -with letters, half-a-dozen by this time, that she kept locked up, with -certain other, older letters, in the absurd little secret drawer of her -desk. And she would patter across into Alwynne's room at last, to tuck -in a sheet or twitch back a coverlet or merely to pretend to herself -that Alwynne was a baby still, and so, with a smile and a sigh, to her -own room, to make her plain toilet and to say her selfless prayers to -God and her counterpane. Happy days and nights--four happy days and -nights for Elsbeth. - -Then Clare came back. - -It was natural that Alwynne should meet her and go home with her, -portmanteau in hand, to spend a night or two.... Elsbeth agreed that it -was natural.... Three nights or even four.... But when a week passed, -with no sign from Alwynne but a meagre, apologetic postcard, Elsbeth -thought that she had good cause for anger. Not, of course, with -Alwynne ... never, be it understood, with Alwynne ... but most certainly -with Clare Hartill. Alwynne was so fatally good-natured.... Clare, she -supposed, had kept the child by a great show of needing her help.... -Of course, school was beginning, had begun already.... Clare would -find Alwynne useful enough.... No doubt it was pleasant to have some -one at her beck and call again in these busy first days of term.... -Possibly--probably--oh, she conceded the "probably"--Clare had missed -Alwynne badly.... Had not Elsbeth, too, missed Alwynne? - -But she answered Alwynne's postcard affectionately as usual. If Alwynne -were happier with Clare, Elsbeth would given no hint of loneliness. A -hint, she knew, would suffice. Alwynne had a sense of duty. But she -wanted free-will offering from Alwynne, not tribute. - -In spite of herself, however, something of bitterness crept into her -next note to Roger Lumsden, who had inveigled her, she hardly knew how, -into regular correspondence. Her remark that _Alwynne has been away ten -days now_, was set down baldly, with no veiling sub-sentences of -explanation or excuse. - -Had she but known it, however, she was not altogether just to Alwynne. -The first hours of reunion did certainly drive her aunt out of Alwynne's -mind, but after a couple of days she was ready to remind herself and -Clare that Elsbeth, too, had some claim on her time. It is possible, -however, that had she been happier, she would have been less readily -scrupulous. Clare had certainly been glad to see her, had, for an hour -or two, been entirely delightful. But with the resumption of their -mutual life Clare was not long in falling back into her old bad ways, -and in revenge for her two months' boredom, in sheer teasing high -spirits at Alwynne's return, as well as in unreasoning, petulant -jealousy, led Alwynne a pretty enough dance. For Clare was jealous, -jealous of these eight weeks of Alwynne's youth that did not belong to -her, and between her jealousy and her own contempt for her jealousy, was -in one of the moods that she and Alwynne alike dreaded. - -The mornings at the school came as a relief to them both, but no sooner -were they together again than Clare's pricking devil must out. Scenes -were incessant--wanton, childish scenes. Yet Alwynne, sore and -bewildered as she was by Clare's waxing unreasonableness, was yet not -proof against the sudden surrenders that always contrived to put her in -the wrong. She would repeat to herself that it must be she who was -unreasonable, that she should be flattered rather than distressed, for -instance, that Clare would not let her go home.... She would rather be -with Clare than Elsbeth, wouldn't she? Of course! well, then!... -Nevertheless she could not help wondering if any letters had come for -her; if Elsbeth, expecting her daily, would bother to send them on.... -Roger had promised to write.... She thought that really she ought to go -home. - -But Clare would not hear of her leaving. Elsbeth wanted Alwynne? So did -she. Didn't Elsbeth always have Alwynne? Surely Alwynne was old enough -to be away from Elsbeth for a fortnight, without leave granted! Really, -with all due respect to her, Alwynne's aunt was a regular Old Man of the -Sea. - -"Clare!" Alwynne's tone had a hint of remonstrance. - -"Oh, I said 'with all respect.' But if she were not your aunt I should -really be tempted to get rid of her--have you here altogether. You would -like that, Alwynne, eh?" - -Alwynne refused to nod, but she laughed. - -"'Get rid'? Clare, don't be absurd." - -Clare looked at her, smiling, eyes narrowed in the old way. - -"Do you think I couldn't get rid of her if I wanted to? I always do what -I set out to do. Look at Henrietta Vigers." - -Alwynne sat bolt upright. - -"Miss Vigers? But she resigned! She had been meaning to leave! She told -us so! Do you mean that she didn't want to leave? Do you mean that she -had to?" - -"Have you ever seen a liner launched? You press an electric button, you -know--just a touch--it's awfully simple----" She paused, eyes dancing. - -But Alwynne had no answering twinkle. - -"I wouldn't have believed it," she said slowly. Then, distractedly, "But -why, Clare, why? What possessed you?" - -"She got in my way," said Clare indolently. - -Alwynne turned on her, eyes blazing. - -"You mean to say--you deliberately did that poor old thing out of her -job? If you did----But I don't believe it. If you did----Clare, excuse -me--but I think it was beastly." - -"_Demon! With the highest respect to you_----" quoted Clare, tongue in -cheek. - -But Alwynne was not to be pacified. - -"Clare--you didn't, did you?" - -"My dear, she was in the way. She worried you and you worried me. I -don't like being worried." - -Alwynne shivered. - -"Don't, Clare! I hate you to talk like that--even in fun. It's--it's so -cold-blooded." - -"In fun!" Clare laughed lightly. Alwynne's youthful severity amused her. -But she had gone, she perceived, a trifle too far. "Well, then, in -earnest--joking apart----" - -Alwynne's face relaxed. Of course, she had known all along that Clare -was in fun.... - -"Joking apart--it was time for Miss Vigers to go. I admit saying what I -thought to Miss Marsham. I am quite ready to take responsibility. She -was too old--too fussy--too intolerant--I can't stand intolerance. She -had to go." - -Alwynne looked wicked. - -"Clare, you remind me of a man I met, down at Compton. You ought to get -on together. He's great on tolerance too. So tolerant that five hundred -years ago he'd have burned every one who wasn't as tolerant as he. As it -is, he shrugs them out of existence, _à la_ Podsnap. Just as you did -Miss Vigers just now." - -"Who was he?" - -"Don't know--only met him once. But he tickled me awfully. He hadn't the -faintest idea how funny he was." - -"Did he shrug you out of existence?" - -"My dear Clare--could any one snub me? You might as well snub a rubber -ball." - -"Yes, you're pretty thick-skinned." Clare paid her back reflectively. - -Alwynne winced. - -"Am I? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be. How, just now?" - -Clare yawned. - -"Well, for one thing, you needn't flavour your conversation exclusively -with Denes. They bore me worse than if they had an 'a' in them." - -"I'm sorry." Alwynne paused. Then she plucked up courage. "Clare, I -stayed there two months. The Dene people are my friends, my great -friends. I don't think you need sneer at them." - -Clare yawned again. - -"I wonder you ever came back, if they're so absorbing. What is the -particular attraction there, by the way? The old women or the young -men?" - -Alwynne's lips quivered. - -"Clare, what has happened? What is the matter with you nowadays? Why are -you grown so different? Why are you always saying unkind things?" - -Clare shrugged her shoulders. - -"Really, Alwynne, I am not accustomed to be cross-examined. Such a bore, -giving reasons. Besides, I haven't got any. Oh, don't look such a -martyr." - -"I think I'll go home," said Alwynne in a low voice. "I don't think you -want me." - -"But Elsbeth does, doesn't she?" - -Clare settled herself more comfortably in the comfortable Chesterfield -as she watched Alwynne out of the room. She lay like a sleepy cat, -listening to the muffled sounds of Alwynne's packing; let her get ready -to her hat and her gloves and the lacing of her boots, before she called -her back, and played with her, and forgave her at the last. Yet she -found Alwynne less pliable than usual: convicted of sin, she was yet -resolved on departure, if not to-day--no, of course she would not go -to-day, after behaving so ill to her Clare--then, the day following. -That would be Friday--a completed fortnight--and Saturday was Clare's -birthday--had Clare forgotten? Alwynne hadn't, anyhow. Oh, she must come -for Saturday, and what would Elsbeth say to that? There must be one -evening, at least, given to Elsbeth in between. After all, it was jolly -dull for Elsbeth all by herself. - -Clare, good-tempered for the first time that afternoon, supposed it was, -rather. - -But on that particular day, Alwynne's qualms of conscience were -unnecessary. Elsbeth was not at all dull. Elsbeth, on the contrary, was -tremendously excited. And Elsbeth had forgotten all about Alwynne, was -not missing her in the least. Elsbeth had received a letter from Dene -that morning, and was expecting Roger Lumsden to supper. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIX - - -Elsbeth spent her day in that meticulous and unnecessary arrangement and -re-arrangement of her house and person, with which woman, since time -was, has delighted to honour man, and which he, the unaccountable, has -as inevitably failed to notice. The clean cretonnes had arrived in time -and were tied and smoothed into place; the vases new-filled; and the -fire, though spring-cleaning had been, sprawled opulently in a brickless -grate. The matches, with the fifty cigarettes Elsbeth had bought that -forenoon, hesitating and all too reliant upon the bored tobacconist, -lay, aliens unmistakable, near Roger's probable seat, and the knowledge -of the supper laid out in the next room fortified Elsbeth as, years ago, -a new frock might have done. Alwynne, in every age and stage, dotted the -piano and occasional tables, and a photograph that even Alwynne had -never seen was placed on the mantelshelf, that Roger, greeting Elsbeth, -might see it and forget to be shy. - -But it was Elsbeth that was shy, when Roger, very punctual, arrived amid -the chimes of the evening service. Yet Elsbeth had been ready since -five. They greeted each other in dumb show and sat a moment, smiling and -taking stock, while the clamour swelled, insisted, ebbed and died away. - -Roger, still silent, began to fumble at a case he carried, while Elsbeth -found herself apologetically and for the thousandth time wondering to -her guest why she had taken root so near a church, while within herself -a hard voice cried exultantly, "He's his father, his father over again! -Nothing of Rosemary there!" and she tasted a little strange flash of -triumph over the dead woman she had been too gentle to hate. - -But suddenly her lap was filled with roses, bunch upon tight masculine -bunch, and the formal sentences broke up into incoherence as Roger -stooped and kissed his second cousin Elsbeth. - -They soon made friends. Roger, who had never quite forgotten her, found -the pleasant-faced spinster as attractive as the pretty lady of his -childhood. He examined her as he ate his supper. A spare figure, soft -grey hair, and square, capable hands; a kind mouth, not a strong one, -set in lines firmer than were natural to it; gentle eyes, no longer -beautiful, and a cheerful, tired smile; a sweet face, thought Roger, not -a happy one. Yet she had Alwynne! She fluttered a little over the meal, -and was anxious about his coffee, and full of little enquiries and -attentions that were never irritating. There was a faint scent of -verbena as she moved about him, and her silk gown did not crackle like -younger women's dresses. She listened well, but he guessed her no -talker, and later in the evening, gauged her affection for Alwynne by -her breathless fluency. He thought her charming and a little pathetic, -and wondered why nobody had ever insisted on marrying her. - -Elsbeth's shyness soon dwindled; she slipped quickly into the informal -"aunt and nephew" attitude that he evidently expected, and found his -friendliness and obvious pleasure in her as delightful as it was -astonishing. She supposed, with a wistful little shrug, that she was -near the rose! Nevertheless she enjoyed herself. - -They talked in narrowing circles: of his father a little; more of his -mother; of Dene, and Elsbeth's former visits. He described Compton and -The Dears, and his gardens and his roses. Then, with a chuckle, an -unauthorised attempt of Alwynne at pruning that had ended in disaster; -and so plunged into confidences. - -"I expect you've guessed that I intend--that I want to marry -Alwynne,--with her permission," he added hastily, smiling down at her. - -Elsbeth envied him his inches. For Alwynne's sake she did not intend to -be dominated; but she found his mere masculinity a little overpowering, -and did not guess that her frail dignity had made its own impression. - -She smiled back at him. - -"I'm glad you put that in. You should respect grey hairs." - -"But I do." - -"No. You imply that I'm a very blind and foolish guardian! My dear boy," -her pretty voice shook a little, "I've hoped and prayed for this. You, -John's boy, and--and dear Rosemary's, of course--and Alwynne, who's -dearer to me than a daughter! Why, that's why I sent her down to Dene!" -She blushed the rare blush of later middle age. "Oh, my dear--it was -shameless! I was matchmaking! I was! And I've always considered it so -indelicate. But I wished so strongly that you two might come together. -When Alwynne wrote of you so often, I hoped: and then your letters made -me sure. You had got on so well without me these twenty-five years--and -then to feel the ties of kinship so very strongly all of a sudden--it -was transparent, Roger." - -He laughed. - -"I hadn't forgotten really--though it's the vaguest memory. You gave me -a rabbit in a green cabbage that opened. And one Sunday we shared Prayer -Books. You had a blue dress--a pale blue that one never sees nowadays, -and very pink cheeks." - -"Ah! the _crêpe de Chine_," said Elsbeth absently. - -"I always remembered--though I'd forgotten I did. Alwynne brought it -back. She's like you in some ways, you know. She made me awfully curious -to see you again. From the way she talked I knew you'd be decent to me." -He smiled. "Elsbeth--I'm tremendously in love." - -"Have you told her so?" - -"Alwynne's rather difficult to get hold of. She doesn't understand -anything but black and white." - -"Clare Hartill--I suppose you've heard of Clare Hartill?" - -"Have I not!" - -"Clare Hartill says she has an uncanny ear for nuances." - -"Also that she's thick-skinned! The woman's a fool." - -"Oh, she's quite right, Roger, though I expect she was in a temper when -she said it. But it only means that Alwynne has been trained to listen -to women. She can't follow men yet. She has been advised that they are -grown-up children and that her rôle is to be superior but tactful." - -He chuckled. - -"Yes. When Alwynne's tactful--she's tactful! You can't mistake it, can -you? Have you ever seen her sidling out of a room when she thought she -wasn't wanted? Still, she can hold her own, on occasion. She simply -walked through my hints. But--how does she talk of me, Elsbeth, if she -does at all, that is?" - -"She likes you, in the 'good old Roger' fashion." - -"But you do think I have a chance?" - -"That's why I wanted to see you. Frankly, at present I don't think you -have." - -He looked at her coolly, not at all depressed. - -"Why not?" - -"Clare Hartill." - -"Ah!" He sat down at the table again, his chin in his fist. "You think -her the obstacle?" - -"I taught her once. Alwynne has been absorbed in her for two years. -Alwynne talks----" they both smiled. "I could compare. I ought to know -her pretty well." - -"Yes. But how can she affect Alwynne and me? Of course I know what a lot -Alwynne thinks of her. She's rather delightful on the subject. Thinks -her perfection, and so on. Alwynne is naïve; conveys more than she knows -or intends, sometimes. And she never looks at her god's feet, does she? -'Clare' and 'Clare' and 'Clare.' Personally, I imagine her a bit of a -brute." - -"I try to be fair. She is fond of Alwynne." - -"Why not? But what's that got to do with Alwynne's caring for me, if I -am lucky enough to make her? And I'm--conceitedly sure--that it's only a -question of waking Alwynne up." - -"You don't know Clare. If once she knows, she'll never let the child -go." - -"But if Alwynne were engaged to me?" - -"She'll never allow it. She'll play on Alwynne's affection for her." - -"But why? I shouldn't interfere with their friendship." - -"My dear Roger--marriage ends friendship automatically. Clare would be -shrewd enough to see that. And even--otherwise--she would never share. -You don't guess how jealous women are." - -Roger leant back in his chair with a gesture of bewilderment. - -"My dearest cousin! The age of sorcery is over. You talk as if Alwynne -were under a spell." - -"Practically she is. Of course Clare would put it on the highest -grounds--unsuitability--a waste of talents. She pretends to despise -domesticity. Alwynne would be hypnotised into repeating her arguments as -her own opinion." - -"Hypnotism?" - -"Oh, not literally. But she really does influence some women, and young -girls especially, in the most uncanny way. I've watched it so often." - -"She's not married?" - -"She hardly ever speaks to a man. I've seen her at gaieties, when she -was younger. She was always rather stranded. Men left her alone. -Something in her seems to repel them. I think she fully realised it. And -she's a proud woman. There's tragedy in it." - -"Does she repel you?" - -"Not in that way. I dislike her. I think her dangerous. I'm intensely -sorry for her. And I do understand something of the attraction she -exercises, better than you can, though it has never affected me. You -see--eccentricity--abnormality--does not affect women as it does men. -And she's brilliantly clever." - -"So is Alwynne--you wouldn't call her abnormal?" - -"Alwynne? Never! She's as sound and sweet as an apple. But--and it means -a good deal at her age--she's in abnormal hands. Clare Hartill is -abnormal, spiritually perverse--and she's fastened on the child. They -adore each other. It's terribly bad for Alwynne. As it is, it will take -her months to shake off Clare's influence, even with you to help her. -That is, if you succeed in detaching her. I'm useless, of course. -Loving--just loving--is no good. You can only influence if you are -strong enough to wound. I merely irritate. I'm weak. But you could do as -you like, I believe. Take her away from that selfish woman, Roger! It's -blighting her." - -"You think," he said, "that she would be content with me--with marriage -as a career? Of course, Miss Hartill's right about her talents." - -"Alwynne? I don't think--I know. All her gifts are so much surface show; -she's a very simple child underneath. Content? Can't you see her, -Roger--with children? Her own babies?" - -Roger beamed. - -"It's rather a jolly prospect. Well, I must take my chance." - -"Of course, you must wait; it's too soon yet. Even later, if Clare -really wants her--wants her enough to suppress her own perverse -impulses--I'm afraid you've little chance. But it's possible that she -will not want her as much as that." - -"I don't follow." - -"I mean that Clare, with that impish nature of hers, may hurt Alwynne." - -"I should think she has already, often enough." - -"Yes--but Alwynne has never realised it, never realised that it was -deliberate. She is always so sure that it was her fault somehow. If -once she found out that Clare was hurting her for--for the fun of it, -you know--for the pleasure of watching her suffer--as I'm sure she -does--it might end everything. Alwynne hates cruelty. That poor child's -death shook her. A little more, and she will be disillusioned." - -"But loyal still?" - -"Probably. But the glamour would be gone. She would be extremely -unhappy. There your chance would come. Though I don't think Clare will -give it you--for I believe Alwynne does mean more to her than most -things. But she's an unaccountable person: there is the chance." - -"I see," Roger rose and straightened himself. "Practically I'm not to -depend on my own--attractions--at all." He laughed a little. "I am to -watch the whims of this--this unpleasant school-marm, and be grateful to -her for forcing Alwynne to prefer my deep sea to her devil. The -situation is hardly dignified." - -Elsbeth laughed too. - -"Love is always undignified, Roger. What does it matter if you want -her?" But she watched him anxiously as he walked to the window, and -stood staring out. - -There was a silence. At last he turned-- - -"Elsbeth, dear, it's a beautiful scheme, and a woman could carry it -through, I daresay--but it's no good to me. It's too--too tortuous, too -feminine. I don't mean anything rude. It's merely that I'm not--subtle -enough, or patient. At least, I haven't got that cat-and-mouse kind of -patience. I can wait, you know. That's different. I can wait all right. -But I can't intrigue." - -Elsbeth flushed. - -"There is no intrigue. It's a question of understanding Alwynne and of -using the opportunity when it comes." - -"To trick and surprise and over-persuade her into caring for me! It's no -good, Elsbeth. It isn't possession I want--it's Alwynne. Can't you see? -We should neither of us be happy. She would always distrust me and -remember that I'd taken an advantage. I should end by hating her, I -believe. Can't you see?" - -Elsbeth was shaken by her own thoughts. - -"I see," she said finally. "And I see that you don't love her--or you'd -take her on any terms." - -"Would you?" - -"Yes." - -"Well, I wouldn't. And I do love her. But I want Alwynne on my terms. Do -I sound an awful prig? Cousin Elsbeth, hear my way! I'm going to have it -out with Alwynne." - -"At once?" - -"At once. As soon as I see her--no beating about the bush." - -"Roger--she may be utterly out of the mood." - -"Hang moods! I beg your pardon, Elsbeth. But I'm going to tell -her--certain things. If she doesn't like it I'm going back to Dene. -She'll know where to find me when she changes her mind. Elsbeth, don't -look so hopeless." - -"You don't understand Alwynne." - -"I don't want to understand her--I want to marry her. I must stick to my -own way. Can't you conceive that all this consideration, all this -deference to moods and dissection of motives, this horribly feminine -atmosphere that she seems to have lived in, of subtleties, and -reservations, and simulations--may be bad for her? It seems to me that -she's always being thought about. You, with your anxious affection--that -unholy woman with her lancet and probe--you neither of you leave her -alone for a second. She's always being touched. Well, I'm going to leave -her alone. It gives her a chance." - -"I've never spoiled her." Elsbeth was off at a tangent. - -"I'm sure of it. I can remember Father holding you up to Mother once. He -said you were the most judicious woman with children that he knew." - -"Did he?" said Elsbeth. - -"Mother was awfully annoyed." Roger chuckled. "I'd been bawling for my -fourth doughnut--and got it." - -"I've never spoiled Alwynne," repeated Elsbeth tonelessly. - -"No one could," remarked Roger with conviction. - -Elsbeth looked up and laughed at him. - -"So you are human!" she said. "I was beginning to doubt it." - -"When I get on the subject of Alwynne's adorableness----" he laughed -back at her, "we're obviously cousins, aren't we? But, really, I've been -trying to be detached, and critical, and analytical, and all the things -you feel are important. I wanted to see what you meant, Cousin Elsbeth; -and I do see that we both want the same thing. But as to the means--I -believe I must go my own way." - -She eyed him doubtfully. But he looked very big and solid in the little -room, comfortingly sure of himself. - -"You think me a frantic old clucking hen, don't you? And are just a -little sorry for the duckling." - -"I think you're a perfect dear," said Roger. - -"You'll come to-morrow? Alwynne will be back, I hope." - -"What time is she likely to turn up?" - -"About four, if she comes. She would lunch with Clare, I expect." - -He nodded whimsically. - -"Very well. To-morrow, at four precisely, there will be a row royal. -To-morrow I am calling on Miss Hartill to fetch Alwynne home. Good-bye, -Cousin Elsbeth." - -He turned again in the doorway. - -"Elsbeth, there's a house at Dene I've got my eye on. There's a turret -room. My best roses will clamber right into it. That's to be yours. And -Elsbeth! Nobody but you shall run the nursery." - -He had shut the door before she could answer, and she heard him laugh as -he ran, two at a time, down the shallow steps. - -She went to the window and watched till his strong figure had -disappeared in the dusk. - -"He is very like his father," said Elsbeth wistfully, glancing across at -the faded likeness. - -The dusk deepened and the stars began to twinkle. - -"He will never be the man his father was," cried Elsbeth, suddenly and -defiantly. - -Her hands shook as she cleared away the remnants of the meal. She swept -up the hearth, picked the coals carefully apart, and tidied the tidy -room. Roger's roses still lay in a heap in the basket chair. She -gathered them up and carried them into the tiny bathroom, that they -might drink their fill all night. Their scent was strong and sweet. Then -she lit her candle and prepared for bed. - -The sheets were very cold. She tried not to think of Roger's father -lying in the grave she had never seen. The old, cruel longing was upon -her for the sound of his voice and the sight of his face and the -sweetness of his smile. She broke into painful weeping. - -The hours wore past. - -Of course he would marry Alwynne.... Alwynne would be happy ... there -was comfort in that.... Roger would be kind to her.... A good boy ... a -dear boy.... - -"And he might have been my son," cried out Elsbeth to the uncaring -night. - - - - -CHAPTER XL - - -Roger never fought his battle-royal with Clare, for at the turn of -Friar's Lane he met Alwynne herself, dragging wearily along the -cobblestones, weighed down by paper parcels and the heavy folds of the -waterproof hanging on her arm. Her hair was roughened by the wind that -tugged and strained at her loosened hat; her face was drawn and shadowy; -she had an air of exhaustion, of indefinable demoralisation that Roger -recognised angrily. He had seen it in the first weeks of her visit to -Dene. Her thoughts were evidently far away, and she would have passed -him without a look if he had not stopped her. She started violently as -he spoke--it was like rousing a nightmare-ridden sleeper--then her face -grew radiant. - -"Roger!" she cried, and beamed at him like a delighted child. - -He possessed himself of her parcels and they walked on, Alwynne's -questions and exclamations tumbling over each other. Roger at -Utterbridge! Why had he come? How long was he staying? How were The -Dears and how did Dene spare him? When had he arrived? - -Roger dropped his bomb. - -"Yesterday. I went to supper with Elsbeth. We had a long talk." - -His tone conveyed much. The brightness died out of Alwynne's face. She -looked surprised and excessively annoyed. - -"She knew you were coming?" - -"She did." - -"Why on earth didn't she let me know? Why, she doesn't know you! She -hasn't seen you since you were a kid! It's extraordinary of Elsbeth." - -"I wouldn't let her." - -"Wouldn't let her?" Alwynne looked at him blankly. "Roger--I think -you're cracked." - -"Terse and to the point! Don't you worry. Elsbeth and I understand each -other. Besides, we've been corresponding." - -"You and Elsbeth?" - -"Yes. That's partly why I came. I wanted to get to know her. You see, -your description and her letters didn't tally. So I came. We got on -jolly well. I burst in on her again at breakfast this morning. She -didn't fuss--took it like a lamb. I fancy you underrate our cousin--in -more ways than one. She knows it too; she's no fool! I found that out -when we talked about you." - -"Elsbeth discussed me?--with you?" Alwynne's tone foreboded a bad -half-hour to Elsbeth. - -"Why not? You're not sacred, are you?" Roger chuckled. - -Alwynne felt inclined to box his ears. Here was a new Roger. Roger--her -own property--to take such an attitude--to ally himself with Elsbeth--to -leave her in the dark! Roger! It was unthinkable.... And she had been so -awfully glad to see him ... absurdly glad to see him ... he had made her -forget even Clare.... Clare.... She began to occupy her mind once more -with the scene of the previous day, recalling what she had said; -contrasting it with what she had intended to say; stabbed afresh by -Clare's manner; writhing at her own helplessness; when Roger's slow -voice brought her thoughts back to the present. - -"You've been away from Elsbeth a fortnight," he said accusingly, as they -entered the Town Gardens. - -She flared anew at his tone. - -"Certainly. I've been staying with friends. Have you any objection?" - -"A friend," he corrected. - -She flushed. - -"Clare Hartill is my best friend----" - -"Your worst, you mean." - -She turned on him. - -"How dare you say that? How dare you speak of my friends like that? How -dare you speak to me at all?" - -He continued, quite unmoved-- - -"Don't be silly, Alwynne. Your best friend is your Aunt Elsbeth--you -ought to know that. You don't treat her well, I think. You've been away -a fortnight with that--friend of yours; you stayed on without consulting -her----" - -"I telephoned," cried Alwynne, in spite of herself. - -"Since then you've sent her one post card. She isn't even sure that -you're coming back to-day; she's just had to sit tight and wait until -it's your--no, I'll give you your due--until it's your friend's pleasure -to send you back to her, fagged out, miserable--just like my dog after a -thrashing. And Elsbeth's to comfort you, and cosset you, and put you to -rights--and then you'll go back to that woman again, to have the -strength and the spirit drained out of you afresh--and you walk along -talking of your best friend. I call it hard luck on Elsbeth." - -Alwynne's careful dignity was forgotten in her anger. She turned on him -like a furious schoolgirl. - -"Will you stop, please? How dare you speak of Clare? If Elsbeth chooses -to complain----What affair is it of yours anyhow? I'll never speak to -you again--never--or Elsbeth either." Her voice broke--she was on the -verge of tears. - -Roger took her by the arm, and drew her to a seat. - -"You'd better sit down," he said. "We've heaps to talk over yet, more -than you've a notion of. And if we're to have a row, let's get it over -in the open--far less dangerous. Never get to cover in a thunderstorm. I -know what you want." He had watched her fumbling unavailingly in the bag -and pocket and had chuckled. He knew his Alwynne. He produced a clean -silk handkerchief and dangled it before her. She clutched at it with -undignified haste. - -"'Thank you,' first," he said, holding it firmly. A moment victory hung -in the balance. Then-- - -"Oh! Oh, thank you," said Alwynne, with fine unconcern, and secured it. -Their eyes met. It was impossible not to smile. - -"At the same time," remarked Alwynne, a little later, "you've no right -to talk to me like that, Roger, whatever you choose to think. You're not -my cousin." - -"I'm Elsbeth's. It strikes me she needs defending." - -Alwynne laughed. - -"You know I'm awfully fond of Elsbeth. You know I am. I am a beast -sometimes to her, you're quite right--but she doesn't really need -defending. Honestly." - -"Not from you, I know. But frankly, without wanting to be rude to your -friend--I think she makes you careless of Elsbeth's feelings. Elsbeth -was awfully hurt this week, and she's the sort of dear one hates to see -hurt." - -Alwynne looked at him wistfully. - -"Roger," she said hesitatingly, "suppose some one were unkind to -me--hurt me--hurt me badly, very often, almost on purpose--would you -defend me? Would you care at all?" - -"I shouldn't let 'em," he grunted. - -"If you couldn't help it?" - -"I shouldn't let 'em," he repeated doggedly. - -"But should you care?" - -"Of course I should. What rot you talk. Of course I should. But I -shouldn't let them." - -"Oh, Roger," she cried, suddenly and pitifully, "they do hurt me -sometimes--they do, they do." - -Roger looked around him with unusual caution. The Gardens were empty. -There was not even a loafer in sight. He put his arm round her, and drew -her clumsily to him. She yielded like a tired child, and lay quietly, -staring with brimming eyes at the gaudy tulip-bed on the further side -of the walk. - -"I believe you're about fed up with that school of yours," he said, -after a time, as if he had not followed the allusion to Clare. - -She nodded. - -"I'm not lazy, Roger; you know it's not that. It's just the atmosphere, -and the awful crowding. Such a lot of women at close quarters, all -enthusiasm and fussing and importance. They're all hard-working, and all -unselfish and keen--more than a crowd of men would be, I believe. But -that's just it--they're dears when you get them alone, but somehow, all -together, they stifle you. And they all have high voices, that squeak -when they're keenest. D'you know, that was what first made me like you, -Roger--your voice? It's slow, and deep, and restful--such a reasonable -voice. You mustn't think me disloyal to the school. The girls are all -frightfully interesting, and the women are dears, and there's always -Clare--only we do get on each other's nerves." - -"A boys' school is just the same." - -"Is it? I've only seen Compton. I don't know how co-education affects -the boys, but I'm sure it's good for the girls, and the mistresses too. -Of course, they're not really different to my lot, but they seemed so. -They had room to move. They weren't always rubbing up against each other -like apples in a basket. It all seemed so natural and jolly. Fresh air -everywhere. And since I've been back, I've felt I couldn't breathe. I -believe it's altered me, just seeing it all; and I can't make Clare -understand. She thinks I liked Dene because I wanted to flirt." - -"That type would." - -"Yes, I know you think that," she answered uneasily, "but she -isn't--that horrid type. That's why it hurts so that she can't -understand. As if I ever thought of such a thing until she talked of it! -Only I like talking to men, you know, Roger; because they've often got -quite interesting minds, and it's easier to find out what they really -think than with women. But they bore Clare." - -"Do they?" Roger had his own opinion on the question. But he found that -it was difficult to refrain from kissing Alwynne when she looked at him -with innocent eyes and made preposterous statements; so he stared at the -tulips. - -"You see, she thinks--we both think, that if you've got a--a really real -woman friend, it's just as good as falling in love and getting married -and all that--and far less commonplace. Besides the trouble--smoking, -you know--and children. Clare hates children." - -"Do you?" Roger looked at her gravely. - -"Me? I love them. That's the worst of it. When I grew old, I'd meant to -adopt some--only Clare wouldn't let me, I'm sure. Of course, as long as -Clare wanted me, I shouldn't mind. To live with Clare all my life--oh, -you know how I'd love it. I just--I love her dearly, Roger, you know I -do--in spite of things I've told you. Only--oh, Roger, suppose she got -tired of me. And, since I've been back, sometimes I believe she is." - -"Poor old girl!" - -"It's a shame to grizzle to you; it can't be interesting; and, of -course, I don't mean for one moment to attack Clare; only everything I -do seems wrong. When she sneers, I get nervous; and the more nervous I -get, the more I do things wrong--you know, silly things, like spilling -tea and knocking into furniture. And she gets furious and then we have a -scene. It's simply miserable. We had one yesterday, and again this -morning. It's my fault, of course--I get on her nerves." - -"You never get on my nerves," said Roger suggestively. - -"Not when I chop up your best pink roses?" She looked at him sideways, -dimpling a little. - -"As long as you don't chop up your own pink fingers--you've got pretty -fingers, Alwynne----" - -"Roger, you're a comforting person. I wish--I wish Clare would treat me -as you do, sometimes. You pull me up too, but you never make me -nervous. I'm sure I shouldn't disappoint her so often, if she did." - -"Alwynne," he returned with a twinkle, "stop talking. I've made a -discovery." - -"Well?" - -"You're ten times fonder of me than you are of that good lady. Now, own -up." - -"Roger!" Alwynne was outraged. She made efforts to sit upright, but -Roger's arm did not move. It was a strong arm and it held her, if -anything, a trifle more firmly. "You're talking rot. Please let me sit -up." - -"You're all right. It's quite true, my child, and you know it. Ah, -yes--they're a lovely colour, aren't they?" - -For Alwynne was gazing at the tulips with elaborate indifference. -Secretly she was a little excited. Here was a new Roger.... He was quite -mad, of course, but rather a dear.... She wondered what he would say -next.... - -"To examine our evidence. You were very glad to see me--now weren't -you?" - -"I'm always pleased," remarked Alwynne sedately to the tulips, "to see -old friends." - -"Yes--but we're not old friends exactly, if you refer to length of -acquaintanceship. If to age--I was thirty last March. I'm not doddering -yet." - -"I wasn't speaking of ages. Thirty is perfectly young. Clare's -thirty-five. You do fish, Roger." - -"Yes. I'm going to have a haul some day soon, I hope. But to resume. -Firstly, you were jolly glad to see me. Secondly, you took your lecture -very fairly meekly--for you! and you've already had one talking-to -to-day during which, I gather, you were anything but meek." - -"I never told you----" - -"But there was a glint in your eye----You've no idea how invariably -your face gives you away, Alwynne. Thirdly, you've hinted quite -half-a-dozen times that Miss Hartill would be all the better for a few -of my virtues. Tenth, and finally, you've made my coat collar -thoroughly damp--you needn't try to move--and I don't exactly see you -spoiling your Clare's Sunday blouse that way, often, eh?" - -Alwynne was obliged to agree with the tulips. - -"I thought so. Therefore I say, after considering all the evidence--in -your heart of hearts you are ten times fonder of me than of Miss Clare -Hartill." - -The trap was attractively baited. Impossible for an Alwynne to resist -analysis of her own emotions. She walked into it. - -"I don't know--I wonder if you're right? Perhaps I am _fonder_ of you. I -love Clare--that's quite a different thing. One couldn't be fond of -Clare. That would be commonplace. She's the sort of wonderful person you -just worship. She's like a cathedral--a sort of mystery. Now you're like -a country cottage, Roger. Of course, one couldn't be fond of a -cathedral." - -"A cottage," remarked Roger to the tulips in his turn, "can be made a -very comfortable place. Especially if it's a good-sized one--Holt -Meadows, for instance. My tenants leave in June, did you know? There's a -south wall and a croquet ground." - -"Tennis?" - -Roger was afraid the tulips would find it too small for tennis. - -"But a court could be made in Nicholas Nye's paddock," Alwynne reminded -them. - -Roger thought it would be rather fun to live there, tennis or no -tennis--didn't the tulips think so? - -The tulips did, rather. - -"One could buy Witch Wood for a song, I believe; you know it runs along -the paddock. Think of it, all Witch Wood for a wild garden." - -"And no trespassers! No trampled hyacinths any more! Or ginger-beer -bottles! Oh, Roger!" A delighted, delightful Alwynne was forgetting all -about the tulips; but they nodded very pleasantly for all that. - -"A footpath through to The Dears' garden, and my glass-houses. And -chickens in a corner of the paddock. You'd have to undertake those." - -"All white ones!" - -"Better have Buff Orpingtons. Lay better. Remember Jean's troubles: -'Really, the Amount of Eggs----'" - -"Dear Jean. And besides, I shall want some for clutches. I adore them -when they're all fluff and squeak; and ducklings too, Roger. We won't -have incubators, will we?" - -"Rather not. Lord, it will be sport. You're to wear print dresses at -breakfast, Alwynne--lilac, with spots." - -"You're very particular----" - -"Like that one you wore at the Fair----you know." - -"Oh, that one! Do you mean to say----All right. But I shall wear -tea-gowns every afternoon--with lace and frillies. Elsbeth says they're -theatrical." - -"All right! We'll eat muffins----" - -"And read acres of books----" - -"May I smoke?" - -"It'll get into the curtains----" - -"I'll get you a new lot once a week----" - -"And we won't ever be at home to callers----" - -"Just us two." - -Alwynne sighed contentedly. - -"Oh, Roger, it would be rather nice. You can invent beautifully." - -He laughed. - -"Then we'll consider that settled." - -He bent his head and kissed her. - -A very light kiss--a very airy and fugitive attempt at a kiss--a kiss -that suited the moment better than his mood; but Roger could be Fabian -in his methods. Alwynne rather thought that it was a curl brushing her -forehead: the tulips rather thought it wasn't. Roger could have settled -the matter, but they did not like to appeal to him. They were all a -little disturbed--more than a little uncertain how to act. The tulips' -attitude was frankly alarming to Alwynne, who (if the kiss had really -happened) was prepared to be dignified and indignant. The tulips, -however, appeared to think a kiss a pleasant enough indiscretion. "To -some one, at any rate, we are worth the kissing," quoth the tulips -defiantly, with irreverent eyes on a vision of Clare's horrified face. -Then, veering smartly, they reminded Alwynne, that from a patient, -protective Roger it was the most brotherly and natural of sequels to -their make-believe. Alwynne was not so sure; Roger was developing -characteristics of which the kiss (had it taken place) was not the least -exciting and alarming symptom. He was no longer the Roger of Dene days, -not a month dead; or rather, the Dene Roger was proving himself but a -facet of a many-sided personality--big, too--that was more than a match -for a many-sided Alwynne, with moods that met and enveloped hers, as a -woman's hands will catch and cover a baby's aimless fist. More than his -strength, his gentleness disturbed her. So long a prisoner to Clare, -ever bruising herself against the narrow walls of that labyrinthine -mind--she would have been indifferent to any harshness from him; but his -kindliness, his simplicity, unnerved her. He had been right--she had her -pride. Clare did not often guess when her self-control was undermined. -But with Roger--what was the use of pretending to Roger? It had been -comforting to have a good cry. His kiss had been comforting too. She -remembered the first of Clare's rare kisses--the thin fingers that -gripped her shoulders; the long, fierce pressure, mouth to mouth; the -rough gesture that released her, flung her aside. - -But Roger--if, indeed, she had not dreamed--had been comforting. Here -the tulips broke in whimsically with the brazen suggestion that it would -be delightful to put one's arms round Roger's neck and return that -supposititious kiss. A remark, of course, of which no flower but a -flaunting scarlet tulip could be capable. Alwynne was horrified at the -tulips. Horrified by the tulips, worried by her own uncertainties, -puzzled by the imperturbable face smiling down at her. Certainly not a -conscience-stricken face. Probably the entire incident was a wild -imagining of the tulips. She had watched those nodding spring devils -long enough. Time to go home: at any rate it was time to go home. - -It puzzled her anew that Roger's arm was no longer about her, that he -should make no effort to detain her, or to reopen the conversation; that -he should walk at her side in his usual fashion, originating nothing. -Once or twice, glancing up at him, she surprised a smile of inscrutable -satisfaction, but he did not speak; he merely met her eyes steadily, -still smiling, till she dropped her own once more. A month ago she would -have challenged that smile, cavilled and cross-examined. To-day she was -quaintly intimidated by it. Indeed a new Roger! She never dreamed of a -new Alwynne. - -Yet for all her perplexity and very real physical fatigue, Alwynne -walked with a light step and a light heart. As usually she was absurdly -touched by his unconscious protective movements--the touch on her arm at -crossings--the juggle of places on the fresh pathway--the little -courtesies which the woman-bred girl had practised, without receiving, -appealed to her enormously. She felt like a tall school-child, -"gentleman" perforce at all her dancing lessons, who, at her first ball, -comes delightedly into her own. - -She gave Roger little friendly glances as they walked home, but no -words; though she could have talked had he invited. But Roger was -resolutely silent, and for some obscure reason this embarrassed her more -than his previous loquacity. Gradually she grew conscious of her -crumpled dress and loosened hair; that a button was missing on her -glove! trifles not often wont to trouble her. She wondered if Roger had -noticed the button's absence; she hoped fervently that he had not. She -glanced obscurely at shop-windows, whose blurred reflections could not -help her to the conviction that her hat was straight. Also it dawned -upon her that Roger was weighed down by preposterous parcels; that the -parcels were her own. She was sure the string was cutting his fingers. -She was penitent, knowing that she would not be allowed to relieve him, -and hugely annoyed with herself. She had been scolded often enough for -her parcel habit, and had laughed at Elsbeth; and here was Elsbeth -proved entirely right. Weighing down Roger like this! What would he -think of her? He had not spoken for ten minutes.... Of course--he was -annoyed.... They had better get home as quickly as might be.... - - - - -CHAPTER XLI - - -Elsbeth, sitting at the window, had seen them come down the street, and -was at the door to welcome them. Alwynne was kissed, rather gravely, but -Elsbeth and Roger greeted each other like the oldest of trusted friends. -Alwynne's eyebrows lifted, but Elsbeth ignored her. She scolded Roger -for being late, showed him his roses, revived and fragrant in their blue -bowls; and when Alwynne turned to go and dress, declared that he looked -starved, that supper was long overdue, and must be eaten at once. Roger -seconded her, and to supper they went. - -Alwynne raged silently. What was the matter with Elsbeth? She had barely -greeted her.... And now to be so inconsiderate.... To insist on sitting -down to supper then and there, without giving her time to make herself -decent! Couldn't she see how tired Alwynne was, how badly in need of -soap and water and a brush and comb, let alone a prettier frock? It -wasn't fair! Elsbeth might know she would want to look nice--with Roger -there.... She did not choose to look a frump, however Elsbeth dressed -herself.... - -It dawned on her, however, as Elsbeth, resigning the joint to Roger, -began to mix a salad under his eye, after some particular recipe of his -imparting, that Elsbeth, on this occasion, was looking anything but a -frump. She wore her best dress of soft, dark purple stuff, and the scarf -of fine old lace, that, as Alwynne very well knew, saw the light on high -and holy days only; and a bunch of Roger's roses were tucked in her -belt. Her hair was piled high in a fashion new to Alwynne: a tiny black -velvet bow set off its silvery grey; it was waved, too, and clustered -becomingly at the temples. Alwynne, gasping, realised that Elsbeth must -have paid a visit to the local coiffeur. She realised also, for the -first time, how pretty, in delicate, pink-may fashion, her aunt must -once have been. - -At any other time Alwynne would have been delighted at the improvement, -for she was proud of Elsbeth, in daughterly fashion, and had wrestled -untiringly with her indifference to dress. She knew she should have -hailed the change, but, to her own annoyance, she found it irritating. -It displeased her that she herself should be dishevelled and day-worn, -while Elsbeth faced her, cool and dainty and dignified. Roger was -obviously impressed.... Roger, to whom Elsbeth had been so carefully, -deprecatingly explained.... It made Alwynne look such a fool.... How was -she to know that Elsbeth would have this whim? She had never guessed -that Elsbeth could make herself look so charming.... And she to be in -her street clothes ... with her hair like a mouse's nest! It was too -bad! However, it didn't seem to matter.... Roger, it was clear enough, -had no eyes for her.... - -Her resentment grew. She attempted to join in the conversation, but -though Roger listened gravely, and answered politely--she never caught -the twinkle in his eye--he invariably flung back the ball to Elsbeth as -quickly as might be. She mentioned Dene; made intimate allusions to -their walks and adventures; and he turned to explain them, to include -Elsbeth, with a pointedness that made Alwynne pink with vexation. She -began to long to get him to herself ... to quarrel or make peace, as he -pleased ... but anyhow to get him to herself.... Couldn't one have a -moment's conversation without dragging Elsbeth into it? So absurd of -Roger.... - -Slowly she realised that neither Roger nor Elsbeth were finding her -indispensable, and her surprise was only rivalled by her indignation. -Elsbeth particularly--it was simply beastly of Elsbeth--was being, in -her impalpable way, unapproachable.... She was angry about -something.... Alwynne knew the signs.... She, Alwynne, supposed that -she ought to have written.... But she did write a postcard.... One -couldn't be everlastingly writing letters.... Any one but Elsbeth would -have waived the matter, with a visitor present, but Elsbeth was so -vindictive.... Here Alwynne's rebellious conscience allied itself with -her sense of humour, to protest against the picture of a vindictive -Elsbeth. They bubbled with tender laughter at the idea. Alwynne must -needs laugh with them, a trifle remorsefully, and admit that the idea -was fantastic; that Elsbeth, in all the years she had known her, had -been the most meek and forgiving of guardians; and that she, Alwynne, -had been undeniably negligent. Nevertheless, why must Elsbeth show Roger -the kitchen? What was he saying to her out there? And why were they both -laughing like that? - -"Cackle, cackle, cackle," muttered Alwynne viciously; "awfully funny, -isn't it?" - -She continued her reflections. - -Fussing over clearing the supper still! One of Elsbeth's absurd ideas, -just because it was the maid's evening out.... Let her do it when she -came back! Such a fuss and excitement always! What would Roger think of -them? What a long time they were! She might take the opportunity of -going to change her frock.... She hesitated. What was that? What was -Roger saying? She caught the murmur of his deep voice and her aunt's -staccato in answer, but the words were blurred. - -After all--why should she bother to change? Elsbeth would be sure to -make unnecessary remarks.... And Roger wouldn't care--he was too -occupied with Elsbeth.... Nobody cared--nobody wanted her.... She would -go back to Clare to-morrow.... But if Clare were in to-day's humour -still? - -What a wretched week it had been.... Even if Clare had not been so -moody, Alwynne would have felt ill at ease ... she had known perfectly -well that she owed the first weeks of her return to her aunt ... but at -a hint from Clare she had stifled her conscience and stayed.... And now -Elsbeth, she could tell, was deeply hurt.... Once away from Clare, -Alwynne could reflect and be sorry.... She wouldn't have believed that -she could be so careless of Elsbeth's feelings.... She was suddenly and -generously furious with herself. How selfish, how abominably selfish she -had been.... No wonder Roger had been shocked! Of course neither he nor -Elsbeth could ever understand how difficult it was to withstand -Clare.... It had been possible once.... Her thought strayed to that -early Christmas when she had resisted all Clare's arguments.... But now -she had no choice.... However determined one might be beforehand--and -she had intended to return that first day--one's will was beaten aside, -blown about like a straw in a strong wind.... If only Roger would -understand that.... She hated him to think her so selfish.... Elsbeth -needn't have told him, she thought resentfully ... it was not like -Elsbeth to give her away.... She supposed she had hurt Elsbeth's -feelings pretty badly.... Why, oh why, hadn't she been firmer with -Clare? She had only to say, quite quietly, that she must do what she -felt to be right.... Clare couldn't have eaten her.... - -She began to rehearse the conversation; it soothed her to compose the -telling phrases she might have uttered. They sounded all right ... but, -of course, face to face with Clare she could never have said them.... -Clare, in indifference, displeasure or appeal, would have conquered -without battle given ... in her heart she knew that. - -She moved uneasily about the room, deep in thought. For the first time -her attitude to Clare struck her as contemptible.... What had Roger -said? "Like a dog after a thrashing." Intolerable! She flung up her -head, her pride writhing under the phrase. So that was how it struck -outsiders! Outsiders? She didn't care a dead leaf for outsiders.... Let -them think what they chose! But Roger? And Elsbeth? Did they really -think her weak and enslaved? It stung her that Roger should think so -meanly of her. She told herself that the loss of his opinion in no way -affected her--and instantly began to revolve within herself phrases, -explanations, actions, wherewith to regain it. And there was Elsbeth.... -He had thought her unkind to Elsbeth.... He was right there! She saw, -remorsefully, with her usual thoroughness, that she had been, for many a -long year, as the plagues of Egypt to her Elsbeth. - -She flung herself on the prim little sofa, and stared at the closed door -uncertainly. She was too proud to do what she wanted to do--invade the -kitchen, and regardless of Roger's eyes and presence, confess to -Elsbeth, and receive absolution. A word, she knew, would be enough.... -If Elsbeth felt as miserable as she did--a word would be more than -enough.... - -Elsbeth and Roger, returning to the sitting-room, ended her indecision. -Their manner had changed--Roger was quieter--less talkative--but Elsbeth -was so radiant that Alwynne decided that contrition could wait. More -than ever she realised that two were company.... - -Her anger grew again as she watched and listened. - -Elsbeth had produced cards, and suggested three-handed bridge. Alwynne -excused herself, and Roger, who had been her partner on occasion at -Dene, was obviously relieved. His Alwynne was the One Woman--but she -could not play bridge! - -He settled down to double-dummy with Elsbeth. The conversation became a -rapt and technical duet, punctuated with interminable pauses. - -Alwynne fumed. - -So this was Elsbeth's idea of a really pleasant evening! Cards! Beastly, -idiotic cards! Roger, her Roger, had come up all the way from Dene to -play cards with Elsbeth! Had he just? All right then! He should have all -the cards he wanted--and more! As for Elsbeth--catch Alwynne telling her -she was sorry now! - -The striking of the clock gave her her opportunity. She rose, yawning -elaborately. - -"I'm going to bed," she remarked to the card-table. - -"Are you, dear?" said Elsbeth. - -"Oh! Oh, good-night," said Roger casually rising, and sitting down -again. "Your shout, Elsbeth." - -Elsbeth went "no trumps." - -Alwynne lingered. - -"Of course the kitchen fire's out?" she said, with sour suggestiveness. - -"Do you want a bath? Yes, of course. Do you know, my dear, you're -looking rather grubby?" Elsbeth paid her sweetly. "I expect the water -will still be hot, if you're quick. Don't forget to turn the light off, -will you, when you've finished?" - -Alwynne made no answer, but she still lingered. Elsbeth, finishing her -hand, spoke over her shoulder-- - -"Alwynne, dear, either go out, or come in and sit down. There's such a -draught." - -There was a swish of skirts, and all the innumerable ornaments rattled -on their shelves. Alwynne had permitted herself the luxury of banging -the door. - -Roger laughed like a schoolboy. - -"'All is not well!'" he quoted. - -Elsbeth laughed too, yet half against her will. - -"My poor Alwynne! She hates me to be annoyed with her. It infuriates -her. She'll be awfully penitent to-morrow. It's really rather comical, -you know. She'll take criticism from any one else--but I must approve -implicitly! And you being here didn't improve matters. She was longing -to be nice, and I didn't help her. She was quite aware that she was -showing you her worst side, and quite unable to get out of the mood. I -knew, bless her heart!" - -She looked at him with a quick little gesture of appeal. - -"Roger--you do understand? That--tantrum--meant nothing. She's such an -impulsive child." - -He smiled. - -"I know. Don't you worry. Besides, it was my fault. I was teasing her -all the evening. It was not what she expected. Oh, I'm growing subtle -enough to please even you, Elsbeth. You know, she's had rather a full -day. Evidently a scorching afternoon with that delightful friend of -hers, to start with----" - -"Ah?" said Elsbeth, her eyes brightening. - -"Oh, yes; she was distinctly chastened. I improved the occasion, and -you've about finished her off, the poor old girl! I was expecting that -little exhibition." - -"I believe--I believe you enjoy upsetting her," began Elsbeth, rather -indignantly. - -"Of course I do. It's as good as a play!" - -Elsbeth sighed. - -"Well--I suppose it's all right. You'll have to manage her for the -future, not I." - -"Oh, she'll do all the managing," said Roger ruefully. "I foresee that -this is my last stand. She's just a trifle in awe of me, at present, you -know, though she doesn't know it. But it won't last. And then--heaven -help me! But, you know, Cousin Elsbeth--to be henpecked by -Alwynne--don't you think it will be quite pleasant?" - -"It is. She's bullied me since she was three. Oh, Roger, I shall miss -her." She blinked rapidly. - -Roger stared away from her in awkward sympathy. - -"You shan't, not very much," he said. "We'll fix things. You'll have to -come and settle with us." - -Elsbeth fidgeted. - -"You know, you took my breath away in the kitchen just now," she said. -"Are you quite sure it's all right? Does Alwynne _know_ she's engaged to -you?" - -He perpended. - -"Well, frankly--I don't think she did quite take it in." - -"Roger!" - -"But I'm buying the engagement ring to-morrow," he added hastily. -"That'll clear things up." - -Elsbeth looked at him helplessly. - -"Roger, either you're a genius or a lunatic. I'm not sure which--but, I -think, a lunatic." - -"Oh, well! We shall know to-morrow," he observed consolingly. "I shall -turn up about eleven. Keep Alwynne for me, won't you?" - -Elsbeth struck her hands together. - -"It's Clare Hartill's birthday! I'd almost forgotten her! Alwynne will -be engrossed. Oh, Roger! You've been telling me fairy tales. We've -forgotten Clare Hartill!" - -Roger picked up the scattered cards. With immense caution he poised a -couple, tent fashion, and builded about them, till a house was complete. -He added storey after storey, frowning and absorbed. At the sixth, the -structure collapsed. He looked up and met Elsbeth's eyes. - -"People in card-houses shouldn't raise Cain. It's an expensive habit," -he remarked sententiously. "Elsbeth, don't worry! But keep Alwynne till -I come to-morrow, won't you?" - -"I'll try." - -"Of course, if she's still in a temper----Hulloa!" - -The door had been softly opened. Alwynne, in her gay dressing-gown stood -on the threshold. Her hair was knotted on the top of her head, and small -damp curls strayed about her forehead. The folds of her wrapper, humped -across her arm, with elaborate care, hinted at the towels and sponges -concealed beneath. She looked, in spite of her bigness, like an -extremely small child masquerading as a grown-up person. - -Her eyes sought her aunt's appealingly. Roger, she ignored. - -"Elsbeth," she said meekly, "please won't you come and tuck me up?" - -She disappeared again. - -Elsbeth laughed as she rose. - -"I knew she wouldn't be content. Isn't she a dear, Roger, for all her -little ways?" - -"She's all right," said Roger, with immense conviction. - - - - -CHAPTER XLII - - -Alwynne was spending a contented morning. She had made her peace with -Elsbeth over-night, and at the ensuing breakfast had been something of a -feasted prodigal. Elsbeth had made no objection to her plans for the -afternoon, but had suggested that, as Roger was coming to lunch, Alwynne -might take him for a walk in the morning. He was sure to arrive by -twelve. Alwynne, her head full of Clare's birthday and Clare's birthday -present, acquiesced graciously. Indeed, she was herself anxious to talk -to him again, to show him how completely she and Elsbeth were in accord, -to prove to him, once and for all, though with kindly firmness, how -uncalled for his comments had been. She believed that they had not -parted the best of friends last night.... A pity--Roger could be such a -dear when he chose.... Yesterday afternoon, for instance.... She found -herself blushing hotly, as she recalled the details of yesterday -afternoon. - -Her thoughts were divided evenly between Roger and Clare as she sat at -her work-table, running the last ribbon through the foamy laces and -embroideries. She was proud of her work, and thrilled with pleasurable -anticipations of Clare's comments. Clare would be pleased, wouldn't she? - -Elsbeth, helping her to fold the dainty garment, and wondering wistfully -if Alwynne would ever be found spending a tenth of the time and trouble -on her own trousseau that she lavished on presents for people who did -not appreciate them, was quite sure that Clare would be more than -pleased. She could not cloud Alwynne's happy face; but she hoped to -goodness that Roger would come soon.... She was sick of the word Clare. - -Alwynne despatched her parcel by messenger-boy. She would not trust it -to the post--yet it must arrive before she did. Clare hated to be -confronted with you and your gift together. She hoped that Clare would -not be in a mood when gifts were anathema. You never knew with Clare. - -She paid the boy with a bright shilling and a slice of inviolate company -cake, and was guiltily endeavouring so to squeeze and compress its -girth, that Elsbeth would not notice the enlarged gap at tea-time, when -Roger arrived. - -She slid the tin hastily back into the cupboard. - -"I won't shake hands," she said. "But it's stickiness, not ill-feeling." - -Roger frowned aside the remark. He was looking excited, extremely -pleased with himself, yet a trifle worried. He had the air of a man who -had been priding himself on doing the right thing, and is suddenly -stricken with doubt as to whether, after all, he had not made a mess of -the business. He confronted her. - -"I expect I've got it wrong," he remarked, with gloomy triumph. "I hate -coloured stones myself." - -"What are you talking about?" demanded Alwynne. - -"Which is it, anyhow?" - -"Which is what?" - -"Which is your favourite stone?" - -Alwynne gazed at him blankly. - -"What on earth----?" she began. - -Roger frowned anew. - -"Don't argue with me. Which is your favourite stone?" - -"I don't know--emeralds, I think." - -He gave a sigh of relief, not entirely make-believe. - -"Of course! I knew I was right. Elsbeth swore to pearls." - -"Oh, I've always coveted her string. She's going to give it to me when -I'm forty. I'd like to know what you're talking about, Roger, if you -don't mind?" - -"Why forty?" - -"Years of discretion! You are tidy and never lose anything once you're -forty. But why? Were you having a bet?" - -"Not exactly." Roger searched his pockets. "Here, catch hold!" - -He had produced a small package, gay with sealing-wax and coloured -string. He handed it to her awkwardly, with immense detachment. - -She opened it curiously. - -In a little white kid case lay an emerald, round and shining like a -safety signal. It was set in silver, quaintly carven. - -Alwynne exclaimed. - -"Oh, Roger! How gorgeous! How perfectly ripping! Where did you pick it -up? Was it awfully expensive?" - -Roger had been beaming in a gratified fashion, but at her question his -jaw dropped. - -"Well," he began. "Well--I----" - -His expression struck her. - -"Do you mind my asking? It's only because it is so exactly what I've -always longed to give Clare. I'm saving. I'm going to, some day. Clare -loves emeralds." - -"Perhaps," said Roger, with elaborate irony, "you'd like to give her -this? Don't mind me." - -She glanced up at him, startled, puzzled. - -"This?" - -"It happens to be your engagement ring," he remarked offendedly. - -Alwynne began to laugh, but a trifle uncertainly. To laugh without -accompaniment or encouragement is uneasy work, and Roger's face was -entirely expressionless. She felt that her laughter was sounding -affected, and ceased abruptly, her foot tapping the floor, a glint of -annoyance in her eye. - -"What are you talking about?" she attacked him. - -"Your engagement ring, wasn't it?" he said. - -"Are you by any chance serious?" - -"Perfectly." Roger's schoolboy awkwardness, due to his encounter with -an unexpectedly facetious jeweller, was wearing off. - -"_My_ engagement ring?" - -"We'll change it, of course," he said, with maddening politeness, "if -you really prefer pearls." - -"Presupposing an engagement?" Alwynne was on her high horse. - -"To me. That was the idea, I think. Elsbeth is delighted." - -Alwynne dismounted hastily again, though she kept a hand on the bridle. - -"Roger--this is beyond a joke. What have you been saying to Elsbeth?" - -"Why, my dear," he said gently, "very much what I told you yesterday -afternoon." - -Alwynne grew scarlet. - -"Roger--we were in fun yesterday. We were joking. I forget what it was -all about. There was nothing to tell Elsbeth." - -"Yes, you do forget," he said. - -"Yes. I have. I want to," she answered unsteadily. "You know you weren't -serious. Why, you were laughing at me--you know you were." - -"Do you never laugh when you're serious?" - -"Never!" said Alwynne earnestly. - -"Well, then, we're like the Cheshire cat and dog. But I laugh when I'm -most amazingly serious sometimes, Alwynne. I was yesterday, and I think -you knew it." - -"I didn't," said Alwynne stubbornly. "We only just talked nonsense. All -about Holt Meadows--you know it was nonsense." - -"I didn't," said Roger, with equal stubbornness. - -"You did," said Alwynne. - -"I didn't," said Roger. - -"Oh, of course, if you're going to lose your temper----" cried Alwynne. - -Roger shrugged his shoulders. It was deadlock. - -Alwynne looked at him. He was grave enough now. - -"I didn't mean to be rude," she said unhappily. - -"Didn't you?" He was all polite surprise. - -"I expect I was----" she ventured. - -"It all depends on what one's used to," he returned philosophically. - -"Yes, I know I was. But you are so horrid to-day." - -"Sorry," said Roger stiffly. - -She turned to him impulsively. - -"Roger--I've missed you awfully since I came back. It was quite absurd, -when I'd got Clare all to myself. But I did. It was so nice seeing you. -I was simply miserable yesterday, and then you turned up and were -perfectly sweet. It cheered me up. And then you turned horrid. All the -evening you were horrid. And now you're horrid, quarrelling and arguing. -Why can't you be nice to me always?" - -She was very close to him. Her hand was on the arm of his chair. Her -skirts swished against his knee. - -"Alwynne, you're too illogical for a school-marm. Haven't you been -bullying me since I came on account of yesterday?" - -"Roger," she said unsteadily, "don't tease me. I do so want to be -friends with you." - -He put his arms about her as she stood beside him, and looked up at her, -with laughing, tender eyes. - -"And I do so want to marry you. Why not, Miss Le Creevy? _Let's be a -comfortable couple._" - -She struggled away from him. - -"No, Roger! No. No. I don't want to get married. Why aren't you content -to be friends, as we were at Dene? Friendship's a lot. If I can see you -very often, and write to you twice a week, and tell you everything--I -should be awfully content. Wouldn't you?" - -He looked at her with amusement. - -"Your idea of friendship is pretty comprehensive. What's wrong with -getting married, Alwynne?" - -"Oh--I don't know." - -"What's wrong with getting married, Alwynne?" - -"How can I get married," cried Alwynne, in sudden exasperation, "when -I'm not in love with you? You're silly sometimes, Roger." - -"I suppose you're quite sure about it," he ventured cautiously. - -"Oh, yes." - -He looked utterly unconvinced. - -"Why, I've hardly ever even dreamed about you," she remonstrated. "And I -know all your faults." - -"Oh, you do, do you? Out with the list." - -"It would take too long." Alwynne dimpled. - -"Love must be blind--is that the idea? Couldn't that be got over? One -uses blinkers, you know, in double harness. I never dream, Alwynne, -normally. Must I eat lobster salad every night?" - -"There--you see!" Alwynne waved her hand complacently. "You're just as -bad. You couldn't talk like that if----" - -"If what?" - -"Nothing!" - -"If what?" - -Alwynne looked at him. - -"If what, Alwynne?" Roger's tone was a little stern. - -She had taken a rose from the bowl at her elbow, and was slowly pulling -off the petals. Her eyes were on her work. - -He waited. - -Her hands cupped the little pile of rose-leaves. She buried her face in -them--watching him an instant, through her fingers. - -"They are very sweet, Roger--are they from home--from Dene, I mean? -Smell!" - -She held out her hands to him. - -He caught them in his own. The red petals fluttered noiselessly to the -ground. - -"If what, Alwynne?" he insisted. - -"Oh, Roger! Do you really care--so much?" - -"Yes, dear," he said soberly, "so much." - -Alwynne looked up at him anxiously. She was very conscious of the big -warm hands that held hers so firmly. She wished that he would not look -so intent and grave; he made her feel frightened and unhappy. No--not -frightened, exactly. There was something strong and serene about him, -that upheld her, even when she opposed him; but certainly, unhappy. She -realised suddenly how immensely she liked him--how entirely his nature -satisfied hers. - -"Oh, Roger!" she said wistfully. "I do like you. It isn't that I -wouldn't like to marry you." - -His face lit up. - -"Would--liking awfully--do, Roger? Would it be fair? Must one be in love -like a book?" - -His face relaxed. - -"I shall be content," he said. Then, impetuously, "Alwynne, I'll make -you so happy. You shall do--nearly everything--you want to. Alwynne, if -you only knew----" - -She stopped him hurriedly, pulling away her hands. - -"Don't, Roger! Don't! I didn't mean that. I only meant I'd like to. But -I can't, of course. Of course, I can't. There's Clare." - -"Clare!" His tone abolished Clare. - -Alwynne flushed. - -"Why do you sneer at Clare? You always sneer. I won't have it." - -Her tone, in spite of her sudden anger, was unconsciously and comically -proprietary. He repressed a smile as he answered her. - -"All right, dear. But I wasn't sneering--not at Clare." - -"At me, then?" - -"Not sneering--chuckling. My dear, what has Clare--oh, yes, she's your -dearest friend--but what has any friend, any woman, got to say to us -two? We're going to get married." - -"We're not. It's no good, Roger." Alwynne spoke slowly and emphatically, -as one explaining things to a foreigner. "Why won't you understand? -Clare wants me. We've been friends for years." - -"Two years!" he interjected contemptuously. - -"Well! You needn't talk! I've known you two months," she flashed out. -"Do you think I'm going to desert Clare for you, even if--even if----" -She stopped suddenly. - -He beamed. - -"You do. Don't you, darling?" he said. - -"I don't. I don't. I don't want to. I mustn't. I don't know why I'm even -talking to you like this. It's ridiculous. Of course, there can never be -any one but Clare." - -"Yes, it is ridiculous," he said impatiently. - -She faced him angrily. - -"Yes, very ridiculous, isn't it? Not to leave a person in the lurch--a -person whom you love dearly, and who loves you. You can laugh. It's easy -to laugh at women being friends. Men always do. They think it funny, to -pretend women are always catty, and spiteful, and disloyal to each -other." - -"I've never said so or thought so," said Roger. - -"You have! You do! Look at the way you've talked about Clare. That looks -as if you thought me loyal and a good friend, doesn't it? What would -Clare think of me--when I've let her be sure she can have me -always--when I've promised her----" - -"At nineteen! Miss Hartill's generous to allow you to sacrifice -yourself----" - -"It's no sacrifice! Can't you understand that I care for her--awfully. -Why--I owe her everything. I was a silly, ignorant schoolgirl, and she -took me, and taught me--pictures, books, everything. She made me -understand. Of course, I love my dear old Elsbeth--but Clare woke me -up, Roger. You don't know how good she's been to me. I owe her--all my -mind----" - -"And your peace?" he asked significantly. - -She softened. - -"You know I'm grateful. I don't forget. But she's such a dreadfully -lonely person. You've got The Dears, at least. She's queer. She can't -help it. She doesn't make friends, though every one adores her. She's -only got me. She wants me. How could I go when she wants me--when she's -so good to me?" - -"Is she?" he said. "Yesterday----" - -"I was a fool yesterday," said Alwynne quickly. "Of course, I get on her -nerves sometimes. But it's always my fault--honestly. You don't know -what she's like, Roger, or you wouldn't say such things. I hate you to -misunderstand her. How could I care for her so, if she were what you and -Elsbeth think?" - -He looked at her innocent, anxious face, and sighed. - -"All right, my dear. Stick to your Clare. As long as you're happy, I -suppose it's all right. Well, I'd better be off. Where's Elsbeth?" - -"Be off? Where?" Alwynne looked startled. - -"To pack my traps. I'm going home." - -"Oh, Roger, you're not angry with me?" - -"I am, rather," he said. "But you needn't mind me. You don't, do you?" - -She looked at him piteously. - -"Good-bye," he said. He shook hands perfunctorily and turned away. - -"You're angry--oh, you are!" cried Alwynne, following him. - -He laughed. - -"You can't pay Clare without robbing Roger. Don't worry, Alwynne." - -"Are you really going?" she said wistfully. - -"Yes. Any message?" - -"You'll write to me, won't you?" - -"Good Lord, no!" said Roger, with immense decision. - -Alwynne jumped. It was not the answer she had expected. - -"But--but you must write to me," she stammered. "How shall I know about -you, if you don't write to me?" - -He was silent. - -A new idea struck Alwynne. - -"D'you mean--you don't want to hear from me either?" she asked -incredulously. - -"I think it would be better," he said. - -"Oh, Roger--why? Aren't you going to be friends?" - -Alwynne was looking alarmed. - -"I wonder," he began, with elaborate patience, "if you could contrive, -without straining yourself, to look at things from my point of view--for -a moment--only a moment?" - -"That's mean. You make me feel a beast." - -"That won't hurt you----" - -"Roger!" - -"Alwynne?" - -"You're being very rude." - -"You kick at the privileges of friendship already? I knew you would. -Let's drop it, Alwynne. You've got your good lady: you're quite -satisfied. I've not got you: I'm not. So the best thing I can do is to -go back to Dene and forget about you." - -"If you can," said Alwynne's widening, indignant eyes. - -"After all," he said meditatively, "you're a dear, but you aren't the -only woman in the world, are you?" - -"Oh, no," said Alwynne. - -"I might go back to America," he said, "for a time. I've heaps of -friends out there." - -"Oh?" said Alwynne. - -"Yes, I shall get over it," he concluded comfortably. "You mustn't -worry, my child. Well, good-bye again--wish me good luck, Alwynne." - -"Good luck," said Alwynne. - -He took up his hat--looked at her--smiled a little, and walked to the -door. - -But before he could open it, he felt a touch on his arm. - -"Roger," said a soft and wheedling voice, "wouldn't you _like_ to write -to me? Now and then, Roger?" - -He dissented with admirable gravity. - -"All right! Don't then!" cried Alwynne wrathfully. She turned her back -on him and sat down. - -The luncheon-bell tinkled across the ensuing pause, like a peal of -puckish laughter. - - - - -CHAPTER XLIII - - -Elsbeth's voice, raised tactfully at the further end of the passage, -warned them of her approach. - -Said Alwynne over her shoulder-- - -"Anyhow, you must stay to lunch now, Elsbeth would be furious if you -went. She'll say I've driven you away or something. Unless you want to -get me into another row?" - -She spoke ungraciously enough, for she disliked having to ask a favour -of him at such a juncture; but she disliked even more the notion of a -_tête-à-tête_ lunch with Elsbeth. Elsbeth, by right of aunthood, would -ask questions, demand confession.... Elsbeth, she knew instinctively, -would be on Roger's side.... She told herself that she did not mind -being bullied by Roger, because, after all, it was Roger's affair; but -she would not be otherwise interfered with.... Elsbeth had a way of -putting you in the wrong.... She would rather not talk with Elsbeth -until she had seen Clare.... Clare would fortify her.... If only Roger -would keep Elsbeth occupied till she got away to Clare.... - -"You must stay, you know," she repeated uneasily. - -"You made me forget about lunch," he said cheerfully. "Of course I must! -You know, you're a terror, Alwynne. I never know which makes me -hungrier, a football match or an argument with you. I'm ravenous." - -Alwynne was speechless. - -"Is no one coming in to lunch?" asked Elsbeth, entering. She looked -quickly from one to the other. Alwynne was at the glass, tidying her -hair, and Roger seemed cheerful. Elsbeth smiled a significant smile: -her eyebrows were question-marks. - -Roger shook his head, but not before Elsbeth had caught sight of the -scattered rose and disarranged vases. She was instantly engaged in -restoring order, and missed the movement. - -Suddenly she exclaimed, and pounced on a small object lying on the -floor, half hidden in petals. - -"Oh! Oh, how lovely! What an exquisite ring! Why, Roger--why, -Alwynne--look! I might have trodden on it. How careless of you both." - -But she beamed on them with immense satisfaction, as she held out the -emerald ring. - -"It's not mine," said Alwynne icily. - -"Nothing to do with me," Roger assured her. - -Elsbeth looked bewildered. - -"One of you must have dropped it," she began. - -"No!" said Alwynne. - -"Oh, no!" said Roger. - -But there was a glimmer of fun in his eye, that enlightened Elsbeth, or -she thought, at least, that it did. - -"In my young days," she remarked severely, "young people didn't leave a -valuable engagement ring lying about on the floor." - -"A disengaged engagement ring," he corrected her sadly. "At least, it's -disengaged at present." - -"I think, Elsbeth," said Alwynne firmly, "that the lunch must be getting -cold." And preceded them in all dignity to the dining-room. - -Alwynne found the meal a trying one. Roger was talkative, and Elsbeth, -though obviously puzzled, was too much occupied with him, to be critical -of her niece. Alwynne was divided between gratitude to Roger for -relieving the situation, and pique that he could be equal to so doing. A -man in his position should be far too crushed by disappointment for -social amenities. She would have been genuinely distressed, yet -undeniably gratified, if his appetite had failed him; but she noticed -that he was able to eat a hearty meal. He could laugh, too, with -Elsbeth, and make ridiculous jokes, and draw Alwynne, silent and -unwilling, into the conversation. He seemed to have no objection to -catching her eye, though she found it difficult to meet his. He was a -queer man.... She supposed he wasn't very much in love with her, really, -that was the truth of it.... She found the idea depressing. She wondered -if he were really going back to Dene at once, and was relieved to hear -her aunt challenging his decision. Elsbeth was expostulating. She had -plans for the next day ... there was a concert that evening.... Roger -appeared to waver. Alwynne, contemptuous that he could be so easily -turned, annoyed that Elsbeth should sway him where she herself had -failed, was yet conscious of a feeling of relief. At least she should -see him again, if only to quarrel with him.... She was due to supper -with Clare as well as tea, though she had not told Elsbeth so.... It -would be quite simple--she would run round to Clare at once, and spend a -long afternoon, and get back for another peep at Roger in the -evening.... Clare wouldn't mind.... - -She hesitated. Clare would be rather surprised if she didn't stay.... -She had never been known to curtail a visit to Clare before.... But she -would explain things to her.... Clare would be as sorry for Roger as she -herself ... for, of course, she must tell Clare all about it.... She -hoped Clare would not say she had been flirting.... But she must make -her at least understand what a dear Roger was.... She should like Clare -to appreciate Roger ... she was afraid she would never be able to make -Roger appreciate Clare.... It was a great pity!... If it had not been -for Roger's unlucky prejudice, she might have introduced them to each -other, and it would have all been so jolly.... She would have loved to -show Clare to Roger, if Clare had been in a good mood, and had worn her -new peacock-coloured frock and had looked and been as adorable as she -sometimes could be. They might have gone to-day--and now Roger had -spoiled everything.... But at least he was not going till to-morrow.... -She would slip away at once while he and Elsbeth were talking--she would -be back all the sooner.... - -She left the pair at their coffee, and hurried to her room to put on her -new coat and skirt and her prettiest hat. It was Clare's birthday ... -and Clare liked her to be fine.... She wondered, with a little skip of -excitement, if Clare had got her parcel yet? - -She was no sooner gone than Roger turned to Elsbeth, his laughing manner -dropped from him like a mask. - -"It's all off, Elsbeth," he said. "You were right. It's that woman. -She's infatuated." - -The pleasure died out of Elsbeth's face. - -"I was afraid so," she said. "I saw something had happened. But you were -so comical, I couldn't be sure." - -"I didn't want an explanation just then----" - -"Of course not," she interpolated hastily. - -"But I think I'll go straight back to Dene. Have you a time-table?" - -"Have you quarrelled badly?" - -"Not exactly! Alwynne's rather annoyed with me, though." - -"Annoyed? With you?" - -"Well, you see," he explained, with a touch of amusement, "I think she -rather wants to retain me as a tame cat----" - -"Oh, but Alwynne's not like that," Elsbeth protested. - -"Don't you think every woman is, if she gets the chance? She has to -kow-tow to the Hartill woman, and it would be a relief to have some one -to do the same to her--as well as an amusement. But she's had to -understand that I won't be her friend's whipping-boy. I decline the -post." - -"Oh,--well, if you put it that way--but it's hardly fair to Alwynne. Of -course, you're angry and disappointed----" - -"I'm not!" he protested heatedly. - -"Oh, but you are. Don't pretend you're not human. I don't blame you; I'm -angry too. But you must be fair. Alwynne's motives are obvious enough. -There's no cat-and-mouse business about it. She simply can't bear the -idea of losing you." - -"Yet she won't marry me." - -"She would, if it weren't for Clare. Didn't you get that impression? -Roger, if you really care, wait here a little longer. Stay with us. Let -her have a chance of contrasting you with Clare Hartill." - -"No, I won't," he said obstinately. - -"You care more for your own dignity than for Alwynne, I think," said -Elsbeth, in her lowest voice. - -"Cousin Elsbeth, I care more for Alwynne than for anything else in the -world. You know that. Also, though you'll call me a conceited ass, I -believe I know your ewe-lamb ten thousand times better than you do. And -I've simply got to sit tight for a bit. The less she sees of me at -present, the more she'll think of me--in two senses. If I can make her -miss me, it'll be a profitable exile. Oh, you dear, worried woman," he -cried, laughing at her intent face, "do you think I want to go away from -Alwynne? Nevertheless--where's the time-table?" - -She rose and fetched it, and gave it him, without a word. - -He ran his finger down the page. - -"There's a four o'clock," he announced. - -"If only I could do something," mused Elsbeth. - -He smiled at her gratefully. - -"You're a pretty staunch friend," he said. "What more can one ask?" - -"Oh, but I ought to think of something," she said impatiently. "I sit -here and let you go--I see two people's lives being spoiled--for the -want of a----" - -"What?" - -"That's it! What? What can I do? Nothing, nothing, nothing. Oh, Roger, -it's hard. It's very hard to see people you love unhappy, and not to be -able to help them. It's the hardest thing I know. It would be such -happiness to be allowed to bear things for them. But to watch.... It's -harder for us than for men, you know--we're such born meddlers. We think -it's our mission to put things to rights." - -"When we've made a mess of 'em. I'm not sure that it isn't!" - -"I've got to do something," she went on, without heeding him. "There -you'll be at Dene, miserable--you will be miserable, Roger?" she -interrupted herself, with a faint twinkle. - -"Don't you worry," he reassured her. "It was bad enough when she left. -She's managed to make every nook and corner of the place remind one of -her. I don't know how she does it. Oh, it will be rotten, all right." - -"Then there will be Alwynne here," she continued, "pretending she -doesn't care. Working herself into a fever each time Clare is unkind to -her--and pretending she doesn't care. Watching the posts for a letter -from you--I know her--and pretending she doesn't care. Thoroughly -miserable, and quite satisfied that I see nothing, as long as she laughs -and jokes at meals. Oh, life's a comedy," cried Elsbeth. "You young folk -have your troubles, and think we are too old and blind to see them; and -we old folk have our troubles, and know you are too young and blind to -see them. Yes, Roger--I'm having a grumble, and it's doing me good. One -suffers vicariously as one gets older, but one suffers just the same. -You children forget that." - -"Do we?" he said gently. "I won't again--we won't, later on, -Elsbeth--Alwynne and I." - -"I want you two to be happy," she cried piteously. "I want it so. Oh, -Roger, what can I do?" - -"Nothing," he said. - -She was silenced. But he was touched and a little amused to see how -entirely she was unconvinced. He admired her persistence, and wondered -if she had fought as vehemently for her own happiness, as she now fought -for Alwynne's. Failure was instinct in her, in her faded colouring and -eager, unassured manner. He thought it probable that the memory of -failure was spurring her now. - -He roused her gently. - -"Elsbeth! It's past three o'clock. Will you come and see me off? I must -go back to the White Horse for my bag first. Shall I call for you? I -shan't be more than twenty minutes." - -She nodded assent and promised to be ready. - -Left to herself, she went to her room and dressed with mechanical care. -Her mind tossed the while like an oarless boat in the sea of her -restless thoughts. - -What could she do? Wait--wait and hope, and watch things go wrong.... -Roger was in love now, and prepared to be patient; but Roger was only a -man.... He would get over it in time; and Alwynne, finally released from -Clare's influence--that, too, surely, was only a question of time--would -find out what she had lost.... She understood Alwynne well enough to -know that if she cared, however unconsciously, for Roger, she would -never be content to attach herself to any later comer.... Alwynne was -terribly tenacious. So she, too, would waste and spoil her life; and for -the sake of an infatuation, a piece of girlish quixotry.... It was -criminal of Clare Hartill to allow it.... She supposed that the -situation amused Clare; at least, if Alwynne's version had allowed her -to guess it.... She wondered exactly how much Alwynne would tell -Clare.... - -Suddenly and wonderfully she was illumined by an idea. - -Roger, returning punctually with his bag, found Elsbeth awaiting him on -the step, in calling costume, pulling and patting at a new pair of -gloves with extraordinary energy. Her cheeks were bright; she had the -air of frightened bravery of a cornered sheep. - -"Come away quickly, Roger," she whispered, with a glance at the windows. -"I don't want Alwynne to catch me. I can't come with you to the station, -Roger. I'm going to see Clare Hartill." - - - - -CHAPTER XLIV - - -Alwynne, for all her eagerness, took more than her usual breathless ten -minutes in reaching Clare Hartill's flat. Underneath her pleasure at -seeing Clare again ran a little current of uneasiness. There was so much -to be told, not only in deference to the intimacy of their relationship, -but in order to procure the proof that had never before seemed -necessary, that Roger's, and incidentally Elsbeth's, view of that -relationship was wrong.... Clare, of course, was reserved, -undemonstrative, not, Alwynne was prepared to admit, so kindly or -considerate a companion as--well, as Roger.... But why it should -therefore follow that Roger loved her better, and was more -worthy--preposterous word--of her own love, Alwynne could not see.... -Clare Hartill cared for her, had told her so, had--had not as yet proved -it, because there had been no need of proof.... Alwynne could love for -two.... But to-day she felt only an aching desire that Clare should -realise the importance of what she had just done; should reward her -sacrifice with little softenings and intimacies, some such signs as she -had shown her in the earlier days of their friendship, of affection and -sympathy.... She did not ask much, she told herself; if Clare were only -a little kind, she should not miss Roger. Even as she so decided, her -cheek flushing at the idea of Clare's kindness, at the possibility of a -return to their earlier relationship, she saw suddenly, with flashlight -distinctness, how much, even then, she should miss Roger, how great her -sacrifice would still be.... She saw, as in a vision, the man and woman -drowning in waste seas, and she herself at rescue work with room for one -and one only in the boat beside her.... She felt herself torn by the -agony of choice, knowing the while, that a year ago it had not been so; -that a year ago she would have outstretched arms for Clare alone; that -even now, Elsbeth, The Dears, all alike might drown in that dream sea, -so long as Clare were saved.... She acknowledged, she exulted in the -narrowness of her affection.... Clare before the world! But Clare before -Roger? Clare safe and Roger drowning? She chuckled as it occurred to her -that Roger would certainly be able to swim.... Yes, he would swim -comfortably alongside and spare her the fantastic trouble of a -choice.... Blessed old Roger! - -As she passed the little kiosk at the corner of Friar's Lane, where a -red-haired girl sat behind branches of white and mauve lilac, and -high-piled mounds of violets, she hesitated and turned back. It was a -breaking of unwritten rules, and Clare would give her no thanks, but -to-day at least she would not scold.... She would say nothing, but how -big her dear eyes would grow at sight of that armful of scented colour! -She bought lavishly, and forgot to stay for change, for she was -picturing her own arrival as she hurried on: the open door; the -pell-mell of flowers and sunlight; Clare's smile; Clare's kiss. In spite -of moods Clare could not do without her! She tore up the stairs and -pealed the bell, with never another thought of Roger. - -Clare was at her writing-table and had but a bare nod for Alwynne, as -she stood in the doorway, flushed, smiling, expectant. The girl was -accustomed to finding her preoccupied; there was a time, indeed, when -there had been subtle flattery in the cavalier welcome, when the lack of -ceremony had seemed but a proof of intimacy, and she would bide her time -happily enough, exploring book-shelves, darning stockings, tiptoeing -from parlour to pantry to refill vases and valet neglected plants, or, -curled in the big arm-chair, would sketch upon imaginary canvases -Clare's profile, dark against the sun-filled window, or stare -half-hypnotised, at the twinkling diamond on her finger. But to-day, for -the first time, Clare's reception of her jarred. - -She sat down quietly, the flowers in a heap at her feet, her excitement -subsiding and leaving her jaded and sorehearted. She felt herself -disregarded, reduced to the level of an importunate schoolgirl.... She -wondered how much longer Clare intended to write, and told herself, with -a little, petulant shrug, that for two pins she would surprise Clare, -wrench away her pen, take her by the shoulders and anger her into -attention. Roger was right.... One could be too meek.... She rose with a -little quiver of excitement, her irrepressible phantasy limning with -lightning speed an imaginary Clare--a Clare beleaguered, with barriers -down, a Clare with wide maternal arms, enclosing, comforting, -sufficing.... - -The real Clare shifted in her seat and Alwynne sank back again. No, that -was not the way to take Clare.... One must be patient, only patient, -like Roger.... Clare would give all one needed, that was sure, but in -her own time, her own way.... One must be patient.... - -She loosed her coat.... How close the room was.... She would have liked -to fling open the window, but Clare always protested.... She heard -Elsbeth's voice: "Fresh air? Her idea of fresh air is an electric -fan." ... Queer, how those two jarred! But Elsbeth was not just.... - -Her head throbbed. Listlessly she picked up a spray of lilac and crushed -it against her face. It was deliciously cool.... She supposed that the -lilacs were out by now at Dene.... - -Tic, tac! Tic, tac! The tick of the clock would not keep time with the -scratch of Clare's pen.... How stupid! Stupid, stu--pid, stu--pid, -stu---- - -"Clare!" she cried desperately, "won't you even talk to me?" - -Clare wrote on for a moment as if she had not heard her, finished her -letter, blotted it, stamped and addressed the cover and wiped her pen -deliberately; then she rose, smiling a little. She had been perfectly -conscious of Alwynne's unrest. - -"What is it?" she said. Alwynne flushed and gathered up her flowers. - -"It's your birthday," she apologised. "Look, Clare, aren't they -darlings? I know you hate the school fusses, but your own birthday is -important. Must you go on writing? It ought to be a holiday. May I get -vases? Clare, I've such heaps to tell you, heaps and heaps, only I can't -if you stand and look at me from such a long way off. Won't you sit down -and smell your lilacs and let me talk to you comfortably?" - -With enormous daring she put her arm round Clare and drew her on to the -sofa. Clare made no resistance, but she sat stiffly, unsupported, still -smiling, her eyes glittering oddly. But the acquiescence was enough for -Alwynne and she slid to the ground and sat there sorting her flowers, -her face level with Clare's knee, radiant and fearless again. - -"I wonder what you will say? It's about Roger." - -Clare raised her eyebrows. - -"Oh, Clare, don't you know? I wrote such a lot about him from Dene." - -"I am to remember every detail of your epistles?" - -Alwynne looked up quaintly-- - -"I suppose there is a good deal to wade through. There always seems so -much to say to you. Do you really mind?" - -"You remind me that I've letters to finish." - -Alwynne looked at the clock in sudden alarm. - -"Am I awfully early? You did expect me to tea?" - -"And you're never on the late side, are you?" Clare was still smiling, -but her tone stung. - -Alwynne got up quickly. - -"I'm very sorry. Don't bother about me. I'll arrange these things while -you finish. I didn't know you were really busy." - -Clare put out her hand to the table behind her. - -"I'm not busy. It seems one mayn't tease you since you've stayed at -Dene." - -Alwynne's eyes flashed. - -"That's not fair. It's only that--that sometimes now you tease with -needles--you used to tease with straws." - -"So I had better not tease at all?" - -"You know I don't mean that." - -Clare lifted an opened parcel from the table. Alwynne recognised it and -beamed. So Clare was pleased! - -"If I tease with needles," she smoothed the paper and began to -straighten the little heap of knotted string, "it's because you annoy me -so often. Why did you send me this, Alwynne?" - -She shrugged her shoulders. - -"It was your birthday." - -"I hate birthdays." - -"I know." She spoke flatly, a lump in her throat. She might have known -and saved herself her trouble and her pleasure.... She thought of the -weeks of careful work and her delight in it; of the little sacrifices; -the early rising; the walks with Roger curtailed and foregone.... -Everybody had admired it, even Elsbeth had been sure that Clare would be -charmed.... But Clare was angry.... Perhaps it was only that Clare did -not understand.... She roused herself. - -"Clare, it's different. Don't you remember?" - -Clare gave no sign. She had disentangled the string and was retying it -with elaborate care. Alwynne spoke with eyes fixed upon the dexterous -fingers-- - -"You challenged me, don't you remember, Clare? When Marion showed us the -things she was making for her sister's trousseau? And you said, would I -ever have the patience, let alone my clumsy fingers? And I said I could, -and you said you would wear all I made. And you did laugh at me so. So I -thought I'd surprise you, and Elsbeth taught me the pillow-lace, and I -was frightfully careful. It's taken months and months, and you love -lace, and oh, Clare! I thought you would be a little bit pleased." - -Her lip quivered; she was very childlike in her eagerness and -disappointment. - -"Did you think I should wear it?" - -Alwynne dimpled. - -"It's your size, Clare. Wouldn't you just try it?" - -Clare looked at her inscrutably. - -"You've taken great pains," she said. "I've been pleased to see it. But -you've shown it to me and I've told you that you've learned to work -well, so it has fulfilled its purpose, hasn't it? And now you'd better -take it back with you. I'm sure you will be able to use it." - -She held out the neatly fastened package. - -Alwynne's face hardened. She put her hands behind her back. - -"I shall do nothing of the kind," she said. - -Clare did not seem ruffled. - -"Of course you will. And you'll look very pretty in it." She smiled -amiably. - -But Alwynne's face did not relax. - -"I won't take it back. I gave it to you. I made it to give you pleasure. -If you don't want it, burn it, give it to your maid, throw it away. Do -you think I care what becomes of it? But I won't take it back. That is -an insult. You say that to hurt me." - -"You'll take it back because I wish you to." - -"I won't. You shouldn't wish me to." - -"You know I dislike presents." - -"I never labelled it a present in my mind. You talk as if we were -strangers." - -"Perhaps, then," murmured Clare, still smiling, "I dislike the hint that -you consider my wardrobe inadequate." - -Alwynne caught her breath. For the last ten minutes she had been growing -angry, not in her usual summer-tempest fashion, but with a slow, cold -anger that was pain. She felt Clare's attitude an indelicacy--the -discussion a degradation. She sickened at its pettiness. She seemed to -be defending, not herself, but some shrinking, weaponless creature, from -attack and outrage.... The fight had been sudden, desperate; but at -Clare's last sentence she knew herself vanquished, knew that the first -love of her life had been most mortally wounded. - -She turned blindly. She had no tears, no regret: her sensations were -purely physical. She was numbed, breathless, choking, conscious only of -an overpowering desire for fresh air, for escape into the open. But -first she must say good-bye, head erect, betraying nothing ... say -good-bye to the dark figure that was no longer Clare.... A sentence from -a child's book danced through her mind in endless repetition, _They -rubbed her eyes with the ointment, and she saw it was only a stock._ Of -course! And now she must go away quickly.... She should choke if she -could not get into the air.... - -She heard her own voice, flat and tiny-- - -"Have you finished with me? May I go now?" - -Clare's laugh was quite unforced. - -"You're not to go yet!" - -"Yes. Yes--I think so. May I go now, please?" - -She had retreated to the door and clung to the handle looking back with -blank eyes. - -"But, you foolish child, you've had no tea. Why are you running away? -Are you going to spoil my afternoon?" - -She lied blunderingly, mad to escape. - -"But I told you I couldn't stay long. Because--because of Elsbeth. She's -to meet me. I only ran up for a minute. Really, I have to go." She made -a tremendous effort: "I--I can come back later." - -Clare shrugged her shoulders. - -"Oh, very well. Will you come to supper?" - -Alwynne forced a smile. - -"Yes." She crossed the threshold, Clare watching from the doorway. - -"I shall wait for you, we'll have a lazy evening. Supper at eight." - -There was no answer. Alwynne was stumbling down into the darkness of the -stairs and did not seem to hear. Clare turned back into her flat, -hesitated uneasily, and came out again. She leaned far over the -balustrade, peering down. - -"Alwynne!" she cried. "Alwynne! Wait a moment, Alwynne!" - -But Alwynne was gone, gone beyond recall. - - - - -CHAPTER XLV - - -Alwynne fled down Friar's Lane in amazement, conscious only of the need -of escape. She had heard the outer door of the flat close behind her, -yet she felt herself pursued. Clare's voice rang in her ears. Momently -she awaited the touch of Clare's hand upon her shoulder. She felt -herself exhausted; knew that, once overtaken, she would be powerless to -resist; that she would be led back; would submit to reconciliation and -caresses. And yet she was sure that she would never willingly see Clare -again. She was free, and her terror of recapture taught her what liberty -meant to her. There was the whole world before her, and Elsbeth--and -Roger.... She must find Roger.... She was capable of no clear thought, -but very sure that with him was safety. - -She hurried along in the shadow of the overhanging lilac-hedge, ears -a-prick, eyes glancing to right and left. Oblivious of probabilities she -saw Clare in every passer-by. At the turn of the blind lane she ran into -a woman, walking towards her. She bit back a cry. - -But it was only Elsbeth--Elsbeth in her Sunday gown, very determined, -gripping her card-case as if it were a dagger. She spoke between relief -and distress. - -"Alwynne! Why did you disappear? Where have you been?" - -"With Clare." - -"It was more than rude. You could surely have foregone one afternoon. No -one to see Roger off! After all his kindness to you at Dene!" - -"See Roger off?" - -Elsbeth was pleased to see her concern. - -"I should have gone myself, of course, but he would not allow it. The -heat--as I have to pay a call. So he saw me on my way and then went off -by himself, poor Roger!" - -"Where is he going? Why is he going?" - -"Back to Dene. The four-five. I am afraid, Alwynne, he has been hurt and -upset. Alwynne!" - -But Alwynne, tugging at her watch-chain, was already running down the -road with undignified speed. The four-five! Another ten minutes ... no, -nine and a half.... Cutting through the gardens she might do it yet.... -She prayed for her watch to be fast--the train late. She ran steadily, -doggedly, oblivious of the passers-by, oblivious of heat and dust and -choking breathlessness, of everything but the idea that Roger was -deserting her. - -As she bent round the sweep of the station yard past the shelter with -its nodding cabmen, and ran down the little wall-flower-bordered asphalt -path, she heard the engine's valedictory puff. The platform was noisy -and crowded, alive with shouting porters, crates of poultry and burdened -women, but at the upper end was Roger, his foot on the step of the -carriage, obviously bribing a guard. - -She pushed past the outraged ticket collector, and darted up the -platform. - -Roger had disappeared when she reached the door of his compartment, and -the whistle had sounded, but the door was still a-swing. The train began -to move as she scrambled in. The door banged upon their privacy. - -"Roger!" cried Alwynne. "Roger!" - -She was shaking with breathlessness and relief. - -"You were right. I was wrong. It's you I want. I will do everything you -want, always. I've been simply miserable. Oh, Roger--be good to me." - -And for the rest of his life Roger was good to her. - - - - -CHAPTER XLVI - - -Clare had paused a moment, half expecting Alwynne to return; but it was -draughty on the landing and she did not wait long. Silly of Alwynne to -dash off like that.... She had wanted to discuss Miss Marsham's letter -with her before writing her answer.... Not that she was really -undecided, of course.... The offer was an excellent one no doubt, and it -was fitting that it should have been made.... But to accept the head -mistress-ship was another matter.... Life was pleasant enough as it -was.... She had plenty of money and Alwynne was hobby enough.... She -wondered what Alwynne would say to it ... urge her to accept, -probably.... Alwynne was so terribly energetic.... Well, she would let -Alwynne talk ... (she picked up her pen) and when she had expended -herself, Clare would produce her already written refusal.... Alwynne -would pout and be annoyed.... Alwynne hated being made to look a -fool.... Clare laughed as she bent over her letter. - -She had achieved preliminary compliments and was hesitating as to how -she should continue, when a violent rat-tat, hushing immediately to a -tremulous tat-a-tat-tat, as if the success of the attack upon Clare's -door had proved a little startling to the knocker, announced a visitor, -and to their mutual astonishment, Elsbeth Loveday fluttered into the -room. Though Elsbeth's naïve amazement at herself and her own courage -was more apparent, it was scarcely greater than Clare's politely veiled -surprise at the invasion, for since Alwynne's attempts to reconcile the -oil and water of their reluctant personalities had ceased with her -absence, there had been practically no intercourse between them. With a -crooked smile for her first fleeting conviction of the imminence of a -church bazaar or Sunday-school treat on gargantuan lines, Clare applied -herself to the preparation of Elsbeth's tea, in no great hurry for the -disclosure of the visit's object, but already slightly amused at her -visitor's unease, and foreseeing a whimsical half-hour in watching her -pant and stumble, unassisted, to her point. - -Elsbeth was dimly aware of her hostess's attitude, and not a little -nettled by it. She waved away cake and toast with a vague idea of -breaking no bread in the enemy's house, but she was not the woman to -resist tea, though Hecate's self brewed it. Fortified, she returned the -empty cup; readjusted her veil, and opened fire. - -"My dear Miss Hartill," she began, a shade too cordially, "I've come -round--I do hope you're not too busy; I know how occupied you always -are." - -Clare was not at all busy; entirely at Miss Loveday's service. - -"Ah, well, I confess I came round in the hope of finding you alone--in -the hope of a quiet chat----" - -Clare was expecting no visitors. But would not Miss Loveday take another -cup of tea? - -"Oh no, thank you. Though I enjoyed my cup immensely--delicious flavour. -China, isn't it? Alwynne always quotes your tea. Poor Alwynne--she can't -convert me. I've always drunk the other, you know. Not but that China -tea is to be preferred for those who like it, of course. An acquired -taste, perhaps--at least----" She finished with an indistinct murmur -uncomfortably aware that she had not been particularly lucid in her -compliments to Clare's tea. - -Might Clare order a cup of Indian tea to be made for Miss Loveday? It -would be no trouble; her maid drank it, she believed. - -"Oh, please don't. I shouldn't dream----You know, I didn't originally -intend to come to tea. But you are so very kind. I am sure you are -wondering what brings me." - -Clare disclaimed civilly. - -"Well, to tell you the truth--I am afraid you will think me extremely -roundabout, Miss Hartill----" - -Clare's mouth twitched. - -"But it is not an easy subject to begin. I'm somewhat worried about -Alwynne----" - -"Again?" Clare had stiffened, but Elsbeth was too nervous to be -observant. - -"Oh, not her health. She is splendidly well again--Dene did wonders." -Clare found Elsbeth's quick little unexplained smile irritating. "No, -this is--well, it certainly has something to do with Dene, too!" - -"Indeed," said Clare. - -Elsbeth continued, delicately tactless: she was always at her worst with -her former pupil. - -"I daresay you are surprised that I consult you, for we need not -pretend, need we, that we have ever quite agreed over Alwynne? You, I -know, consider me old-fashioned----" She paused a moment for a -disclaimer, but Clare was merely attentive. With a little less suavity -she resumed: "And of course I've always thought that you----But that, -after all, has nothing to do with the matter." - -"Nothing whatever," said Clare. - -"Exactly. But knowing that you are fond of Alwynne, and realising your -great, your very great, influence with her, I felt--indeed we both -felt--that if you once realised----" - -"We?" - -"Roger. Mr. Lumsden." - -"Oh, the gardener at Dene." - -"My cousin, Miss Hartill." - -"Oh. Oh, really. But what has he to do with Alwynne?" - -"My dear, he wants to marry her. Didn't she tell you?" Elsbeth had the -satisfaction of seeing Clare look startled. "Now I was sure Alwynne had -confided the matter to you. Hasn't she just been here? That is really -why I came. I was so afraid that you, with the best of motives, of -course, might incline her to refuse him. And you know, Miss Hartill, she -mustn't. The very man for Alwynne? He suits her in every way. Devoted to -her, of course, but not in the least weak with her, and you know I -always say that Alwynne needs a firm hand. And between ourselves, though -I am the last person to consider such a thing, he is an extremely good -match. I can't tell you, Miss Hartill, the joy it was to me, the -engagement. I had been anxious--I quite foresaw that Alwynne would be -difficult, though I am convinced she is attached to him--underneath, you -know. So I made up my mind to come to you. I said to myself: 'I am -sure--I am quite sure--Miss Hartill would not misunderstand the -situation. I am quite sure Miss Hartill would not intend to stand in the -child's light. She is far too fond of Alwynne to allow her personal -feelings----' After all, feminine friendship is all very well, very -delightful, of course, and I am only too sensible of your goodness to -Alwynne--and taking her to Italy too--but when it is a question of -Marriage--oh, Miss Hartill, surely you see what I mean?" - -Clare frowned. - -"I think so. The gard----This Mr. Lumpkin----" - -"Lumsden." - -"Of course. I was confusing him----Mr. Lumsden has proposed to Alwynne. -She has refused him, and you now wish for my help in coercing her into -an apparently distasteful engagement?" - -"Oh no, Miss Hartill! No question of coercion. I think there is no -possible doubt that she is fond of him, and if it were not for -you----But Alwynne is so quixotic." - -Clare lifted her eyebrows, politely blank. - -"Oh, Miss Hartill--why beat about the bush? You know your influence with -Alwynne. It is very difficult for me to talk to you. Please believe that -I intend nothing personal--but Alwynne is so swayed by you, so entirely -under your thumb; you know what a loyal, affectionate child she is, and -as far as I can gather from what Roger let fall--for she is in one of -her moods and will not confide in me--she considers herself bound to you -by--by the terms of your friendship. All she would say to Roger was, -'Clare comes first. Clare must come first'--which, of course, is -perfectly ridiculous." - -Clare reddened. - -"You mean that I, or you, for that matter, who have known Alwynne for -years, must step aside, must dutifully foster this liking for a -comparative stranger." - -Elsbeth smiled. - -"Well, naturally. He's a man." - -"I am sorry I can't agree. Alwynne is a free agent. If she prefers my -friendship to Mr. Lumsden's adorations----" - -"But I've told you already, it's a question of Marriage, Miss Hartill. -Surely you see the difference? How can you weigh the most intimate, the -most ideal friendship against the chance of getting married?" Elsbeth -was wholly in earnest. - -Clare mounted her high horse. - -"I can--I do. There are better things in life than marriage." - -"For the average woman? Do you sincerely say so? The brilliant -woman--the rich woman--I don't count them, and there are other -exceptions, of course; but when her youth is over, what is the average -single woman? A derelict, drifting aimlessly on the high seas of life. -Oh--I'm not very clear; it's easy to make fun of me; but I know what I -mean and so do you. We're not children. We both know that an unmated -woman--she's a failure--she's unfulfilled." - -Clare was elaborately bored. - -"Really, Miss Loveday, the subject does not interest me." - -"It must, for Alwynne's sake. Don't you realise your enormous -responsibility? Don't you realise that when you keep Alwynne entangled -in your apron strings, blind to other interests, when you cram her with -poetry and emotional literature, when you allow her to attach herself -passionately to you, you are feeding, and at the same time deflecting -from its natural channel, the strongest impulse of her life--of any -girl's life? Alwynne needs a good concrete husband to love, not a -fantastic ideal that she calls friendship and clothes in your face and -figure. You are doing her a deep injury, Miss Hartill--unconsciously, I -know, or I should not be here--but doing it, none the less. If you will -consider her happiness----" - -Clare broke in angrily-- - -"I do consider her happiness. Alwynne tells you that I am essential to -her happiness." - -"She may believe so. But she's not happy. She has not been happy for a -long time. But she believes herself to be so, I grant you that. But -consider the future. Shall she never break away? Shall she oscillate -indefinitely between you and me, spend her whole youth in sustaining two -old maids? Oh, Miss Hartill, she must have her chance. We must give her -what we've missed ourselves." - -Clare appeared to be occupied in stifling a yawn. Her eyes were danger -signals, but Elsbeth was not Alwynne to remark them. - -"In one thing, at least, I do thoroughly agree with you. I don't think -there is the faintest likelihood of Alwynne's wishing to marry at all at -present, but I do feel, with you, that it is unfair to expect her to -oscillate, as you rhetorically put it, between two old maids. I agree, -too, that I have responsibilities in connection with her. In fact, I -think she would be happier if she were with me altogether, and I intend -to ask her to come and live here. I shall ask her to-night. Don't you -think she will be pleased?" - -Clare's aim was good. Elsbeth clutched at the arms of her chair. - -"You wouldn't do such a thing." - -Clare laughed shrilly. - -"I shall do exactly what your Mr. Lumsden wants to do. I'm not poor. I -can give her a home as well as he, if you are so anxious to get her off -your hands. She seems to be going begging." - -Elsbeth rose. - -"I'm wasting time. I'll say good-bye, Miss Hartill. I shouldn't have -come. But it was for Alwynne's sake. I hoped to touch you, to persuade -you to forego, for her future's sake, for the sake of her ultimate -happiness, the hold you have on her. I sympathised with you. I knew it -would be a sacrifice. I knew, because I made the same sacrifice two -years ago, when you first began to attract her. I thought you would -develop her. I am not a clever woman, Miss Hartill, and you are; so I -made no stand against you; but it was hard for me. Alwynne did not make -it easier. She was not always kind. But hearing you to-day, I -understand. You made Alwynne suffer more than I guessed. I don't blame -her if sometimes it recoiled on me. You were always cruel. I remember -you. The others were always snails for you to throw salt upon. I might -have known you'd never change. Do you think I don't know your effect on -the children at the school? Oh, you are a good teacher! You force them -successfully; but all the while you eat up their souls. Sneer if you -like! Have you forgotten Louise? I tell you, it's vampirism. And now you -are to take Alwynne. And when she is squeezed dry and flung aside, who -will the next victim be? And the next, and the next? You grow greedier -as you grow older, I suppose. One day you'll be old. What will you do -when your glamour's gone? I tell you, Clare Hartill, you'll die of -hunger in the end." - -The small relentless voice ceased. There was a silence. Clare, who had -remained quiescent for sheer amaze at the attack from so negligible a -quarter, pulled herself together. Rather white, she began to clap her -hands gently, as a critic surprised into applause. - -"My dear woman, you're magnificent! Really you are. I never thought you -had it in you. The Law and the Prophets incarnate. How Alwynne will -laugh when I tell her. I wish she'd been here. You ought to be on the -stage, you know, or in the pulpit. Have you quite finished? Quite? Do -unburden yourself completely, you won't be given another opportunity. -You understand that, of course? If Alwynne wishes to see you, she must -make arrangements to do so elsewhere. That is the one condition I shall -make. This is the way out." - -Elsbeth rose. She was furious with herself that her lips must tremble -and her hands shake, as she gathered up scarf and reticule; but she -followed her hostess with sufficient dignity. - -Clare flung open the door with a gesture a shade too ample. - -Elsbeth laughed tremulously as she passed her and crossed the hall. - -"Oh, you are not altered," she said, and bent to fumble at the latch. -"But it doesn't impress me. You've not won yet. You count too much on -Alwynne. And you have still to reckon with Mr. Lumsden." - -"And his three acres and a cow!" Clare watched her contemptuously. It -did not seem worth while to keep her dignity with Elsbeth. She felt that -it would be a relief to lose her temper completely, to override this -opponent by sheer, crude invective. She let herself go. - -"What a fool you are! Do you flatter yourself that you understand -Alwynne? Go back to your Coelebs and tell him from Alwynne--I tell you I -speak for Alwynne--that he's wasting his time. Let him take his goods to -another market: Alwynne won't buy. I've other plans for her--she has -other plans for yourself. She doesn't want a husband. She doesn't want a -home. She doesn't want children. She wants me--and all I stand for. She -wants to use her talents--and she shall--through me. She wants -success--she shall have it--through me. She wants friendship--can't I -give it? Affection? Haven't I given it? What more can she want? A home? -I'm well off. A brat to play with? Let her adopt one, and I'll house -it. I'll give her anything she wants. What more can your man offer? But -I won't let her go. I tell you, we suffice each other. Thank God, there -are some women who can do without marriage--marriage--marriage!" - -Elsbeth, as if she heard nothing, tugged at the catch. The door swung -open, and she stepped quietly into the sunny passage. Then she turned to -Clare, a grey, angry shadow in the dusk of the hall. - -"Poor Clare!" she said. "Are the grapes very sour?" - -She pulled-to the door behind her. - - * * * * * - -Later in the evening, as she sat, flushed, tremulous, utterly joyful -over Roger's telegram, she considered the manner of her exit and was -shocked at herself. - -"I don't know what possessed me," said Elsbeth apologetically. "And if I -had only known. It was unladylike--it was unwomanly--it was -unchristian." She shook her head at her mild self in the glass. "But she -made me so angry! If I'd only known that this was coming!" She fingered -the pink envelope. "She'll think I knew. She'll always think I knew. And -then to say what I did? It was unpardonable. - -"But I was right, all the same," cried Elsbeth incorrigibly; "and I -don't care. I'm glad I said it--I'm glad--I'm glad!" - - - - -CHAPTER XLVII - - -The sun slid over the edge of the sweating earth. Its red-hot plunge -into the sea behind the hills was almost audible. The black cloud, -fuming up from its setting-place, was as the steam of the collision. In -great clots and coils it rolled upwards, spreading as it thinned, till -it was a pall of vapour that sheeted all the lemon-coloured sky. -Suddenly a cold wind sprang up, raced down the silent heavens, and, by -way of Eastern Europe and the North Sea and the straight Roman road that -drives down England, tore along the Utterbridge byways, and into the -open window of Clare Hartill's parlour. A touch of its cold lips on her -hair, and brow, and breast, and it was out again, driving the dust -before it. - -Clare shivered. She was very tired of waiting.... It was inexplicable -that Alwynne should be late; but Clare with a half laugh, promised -Alwynne to forego her scolding if she would but come.... The dusk and -the wind and the silence were getting on her nerves.... The tick of the -hall clock, for instance, was aggressive, insistent, maddening in its -precise monotony.... Oh, unbearable! With a gesture that was hysterical -in its abandonment, Clare rose suddenly and flung into the hall, plucked -open the clock door, and removed the pendulum. The released wire waggled -foolishly into silence, like an idiot, tongue a-loll. - -As the quiet hunted Clare into her sitting-room again, a little silver -wire flickered down the sky like a scared snake, and for an instant she -saw herself reflected in a convex mirror, a Clare bleached and shining -and askew, like a St. Michael in a stained-glass window. Dusk and the -thunder followed. The storm was beginning. - -Clare moved about restlessly. She disliked storms. Her eyes ached, and -she was cramped with waiting, and Alwynne had not come. She would, of -course.... That woman had detained her, purposely, no doubt, and now -there was the storm to delay her.... But Alwynne would come.... Clare -smiled securely. - -Again the lightning whipped across the heavens, and thunder roared in -its wake. - -Clare went to the window and watched the sky. The pane of glass was -grateful to her hot forehead. She was too tired, too bruised and shaken -by her own recent anger to arrange her thoughts, to pose for the moment, -even to herself--of all audiences the most critical. The interview with -Elsbeth Loveday rehearsed itself incessantly, pricking, probing, -bludgeoning, in crescendo of intonation, innuendo, open attack, to the -final triumphant insult. Triumphant, because true. The insult could cut -through her defences and strike at her very self, because it was true. -Her pride agonised. She had thought herself shrouded, invulnerable. And -yet Elsbeth, whom of all women she had reckoned negligible, had guessed, -had pitied.... Yet even her enemy was forgotten, as she sat and -shuddered at the wound dealt; plucked and shrank, and plucked again at -the arrow-tip rankling in it still. - -The hours had passed in an evil mazement. But Alwynne was to come.... -She thought of Alwynne with shifting passions of relief and longing and -sheer crude lust for revenge. Alwynne would come.... Alwynne would -soothe and comfort, intuitive, never waiting for the cry for help. - -And Alwynne should pay.... Oho! Alwynne should pay Elsbeth's debts ... -should wince, and shrink, and whiten. _Scientific vivisection of one -nerve._ Wait a little, Alwynne!--Ah, Alwynne--the dearest--the -beloved--the light and laughter of one's life.... What fool is -whispering that Clare can hurt her?... Alwynne shall see when she comes, -who loves her.... There shall be a welcome, the royalest welcome she has -ever had.... For what in all the world has Clare but Alwynne, and -having Alwynne, has not Clare the world? - -Ah, well.... Perhaps, she had not been always good to Alwynne.... -To-day, for instance, she might have been kinder.... But Alwynne always -understood.... That was the comfort of Alwynne, that she always -understood.... Why didn't she come? Wasn't there an echo of a step far -down the street? - -When Alwynne came, they would make plans.... It would not be easy to -wean the girl from her aunt, at least while they lived in the same town, -the same country.... But one could travel, could take Alwynne quite -away.... Italy.... Greece.... Egypt.... they would go round the world -together, shake off the school and all it stood for.... In a new world, -begin a new life.... Why not? She had money enough to burn.... It would -not be hard to persuade Alwynne, adventurous, infatuate.... Once gone, -Elsbeth might whistle for her niece.... They would talk it over -to-morrow ... to-night ... as soon as Alwynne came.... - -Was that thunder or a knocking? Rat-tat! Rat-tat! She had not been -mistaken after all.... Alwynne! Alwynne! - -And Clare, with an appearance on her that even Alwynne had never seen, -ran like a child to open the door. - -On the threshold stood a messenger boy, proffering a telegram. She took -it. - -"Any answer, Miss!" for she had offered to close the door. - -"Oh, of course!" She frowned, and pulled open the flimsy sheet. - -The boy waited. He peered past her, interested in the odd pictures on -the walls, and the glimpse of a table luxuriously set. The minutes sped. -He had soon seen all he could, and began to fidget. - -"Any answer, Miss?" he hinted. - -"Oh!" said Clare vaguely. "Answer? No. No answer. No answer at all." - -The boy knuckled his forehead and clattered away down the staircase. - -Mechanically Clare shut the door, locked and bolted it and secured it -with the chain. Then she returned to the sitting-room and crossed to her -former station by the open window. - -The storm was ending in a downpour of furious tropical rain. It beat in -unheeded upon her thin dress and bare neck and the open telegram in her -hands, as, with lips parted and a faint, puzzled pucker between her -brows, she conned over the message-- - -_I cannot come to-night.--I have gone to Dene. I am going to marry -Roger._ - -She read it and re-read, twisting it this way and that, for it was -barely visible in the wet dusk. It seemed an eternity before its full -meaning dawned upon her. And yet she had known all there was to know -when she confronted the messenger boy (Oh, Destiny is up to date) and -took her sentence from his grimy hand. - -_I am going to marry Roger._ - -"Very well, Alwynne!" Clare flung up her head, up and back. Her face was -drowned in the shadows of the crimson curtain, but her neck caught the -last of the light, shone like old marble. The whole soul of her showed -for an instant in its defiant outline, in the involuntary pulsation that -quivered across its rigidity, in the uncontrollable flutter beneath the -chin. - -The thin, capable fingers twisted and clenched over the sodden paper. - -She moved at last, spoke into space. Passion, anger, and the cool -contempt of the school-mistress for a mutinous class, mingled -grotesquely in her voice. - -"Very well, Alwynne! Just as you please, of course. There is no more to -be said." She tossed away the little ball of paper as she spoke. - -She wandered aimlessly about the room; turned to her book-shelves after -a while, and stood a long time, pulling out volume after volume, -opening each at random, reading a page, closing the book again, letting -it slide from her hand, never troubling to replace it. She was tired at -last and turned to her writing-table. - -It was piled high with exercise-books, and she corrected a couple before -she swept them also aside. - -The rain had not faltered in its swishing downfall. It beat against the -panes, and on to the sill, and dripped down into a pool beneath the open -window. - -"She will have to come back on Monday," said Clare suddenly. "She can't -go off like that. There's the school----" She broke off abruptly, as a -gust of wind soughed by. - -_I cannot come. I have gone to Dene. I am going to marry Roger._ She -could hear Alwynne's voice in it, answering. - -"But why?" cried Clare piteously. "Why? What is it? What have I done?" - -"S'hush!" sighed the rain. "S'hush!" - -"I loved her," cried Clare. "I loved her. What have I done?" - -"S'hush!" sobbed the rain. "S'hush! S'hush!" - -She turned to the darkening windows, and started, and shuddered away -again, stricken dumb and shaking. A pool of something red and wet was -spreading over the polished boards, and a thin trickle was stealing -forward to her feet. - -Blood? - -Fool.... The red of the curtains reflected, tingeing a pool of -rain-water.... Blood, nevertheless.... She had forgotten Louise. - -What had Alwynne heard? A garbled version of that last interview? Fool -again--unless the dead can speak.... But Alwynne knew.... Something had -been revealed to her, suddenly, during their idle talk.... But when? But -how? She had come as a lover ... she had left as a stranger ... what in -any god's name, had she guessed? Clare's subconscious memory reproduced -for her instantly, with photographic accuracy, details of the scene that -she had not even known she had observed. Alwynne had changed, in an -instant, between a word and a reply.... What was it that Clare had -said--what trifling, teasing nothing, flung out in pure wantonness? But -Alwynne's face, her dear face, had become, for an instant--Clare -strained to the memory--as the face of Louise.... Louise had looked at -her like that, that other day.... What had they seen then, both of them? -Was she Gorgon to bring that look into their faces? Louise--yes--she -could understand Louise.... She did not care to think about Louise.... -But Alwynne--what had she ever done to Alwynne? At least Alwynne might -tell her what she had done.... She would not submit to it.... She would -not be put aside.... She would at least have justice.... - -_I am going to marry Roger._ - -Useless! All useless! The struggle was over before she had known she was -fighting.... She knew that in Alwynne's life there was no longer any -part for her. And Clare had travelled far that evening, to phrase it -thus. Sharing was a strange word for her to use. But she recognised -dully that even sharing was out of her power. What had she to do with a -husband, and housewifery, and the bearing of children? Alwynne married -was Alwynne dead. - -Alwynne in love.... Alwynne married.... Alwynne putting any living thing -before Clare! She broke into bitter laughter at the idea. What had -happened? What had Clare done or left undone? She realised grimly that -of this at least she might be sure--it had been her own doing.... No -influence could have wrought against her own.... Alwynne, at least, was -where she was, because Clare had sent her, not because another had -beckoned.... And that was the comfort she had stored up for herself, to -last her in the lean years to come.... - -What was the use of regretting? - -Alwynne was gone.... Then forget her.... There were other fish in the -sea.... There was a promising class this term.... That child in the -Fourth.... She wondered if Alwynne had noticed her.... She must ask -Alwynne.... Alwynne had gone away, had gone to Dene, was going to marry -Roger.... - -Well, there was always work.... Where was that letter to Miss Marsham? - -She moved stiffly in her seat, lit a candle, and drew towards her the -half-written sheet that lay open on the blotter. She re-read it. - -_You will, I am sure, understand how much I appreciate your offer of the -partnership, but after much consideration I have decided_---- - -She hesitated, crossed out the _but_ and wrote an _and_ above it, and -continued-- - ---_to accept it. I will come to tea to-morrow, as you kindly suggest._ - -She finished the letter, signed it, stamped and addressed, and sat idle -at last, staring down at it. - -The neat handwriting danced, and flickered, and grew dim. - -With an awkward gesture she put her hands to her eyes, and brought them -away again, wet. She smiled at that, a twisted, mocking smile. She -supposed she was crying.... She did not remember ever having done such a -thing.... - -So her future was decided.... It was to be work and -loneliness--loneliness and work ... because, it seemed, she had no -friends left.... Yet Alwynne had promised many things.... What had she -done to Alwynne? What had she done? - -She turned within herself and reviewed her life as she remembered it, -thought by thought, word by word, action by action. Faces rose about -her, whispering reminders, forgotten faces of the many who had loved -her: from her old nurse, dead long ago, to Louise, and Alwynne, and -foolish Olivia Pring. - -The candle at her elbow flared and dribbled, and died at last with a -splutter and a gasp. She paid no heed. - -When the dawn came, she was still sitting there, thinking--thinking. - - _March 1914--September 1915._ - - - THE END - - - PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA - - - * * * * * - - - - -Transcriber's Note: - - -Punctuation and formatting markup have been normalized. - -"_" surrounding text represents italics. - -Apparent printer's errors have been retained, unless stated below. - -Page 22, "critise" changed to "criticise". ("Excuse me, Miss Vigers, but -I hardly see that it is your business to criticise my way of teaching.") - -Page 26, "inacessible" changed to "inaccessible". (Miss Hartill, who had -been, indeed, surrounded, inaccessible, from the instant of her entrance -until the prayer bell rang, did not look her way a second time.) - -Page 29, "Tallyerand" changed to "Talleyrand". -(Marengo--Talleyrand--never heard of 'em!) - -Page 30, "returned" changed to "return". (But to return to Napoleon and -the Lower Third----) - -Page 31, "warned" changed to "warmed". (And how it warmed the cockles of -one's heart to her!) - -Page 43, "all all" changed to "all". (Clare thanked the gods of her -unbelief, and, relaxing all effort, settled herself to enjoy to the full -the cushioning sense of security;) - -Page 47, "shouldnt'" changed to "shouldn't". (Well, I thought I -shouldn't get it done under forty--an essay on _The Dark Tower_.) - -Page 83, "scretly" changed to "secretly". (and she would pay any price -for apple-wood, ostensibly for the quality of its flame, secretly for -the mere pleasure of burning fuel with so pleasant a name;) - -Page 88, "a a" changed to "a". (She could not believe in simplicity -combined with brains: a simple soul was necessarily a simpleton in her -eyes.) - -Page 89, "negligble" changed to "negligible". (So that negligible and -mouse-like woman had been aware--all along ...) - -Page 100, "eucalyplyptus" changed to "eucalyptus". (Before the evening -was over Alwynne reeked of eucalyptus.) - -Page 108, "Clarke" changed to "Clare". ("Of course not," said Clare, -with grave sympathy.) - -Page 135, "Louise's" changed to "Clare's". (And Alwynne's eyes grew big, -and she forgot all about Louise, as Clare's "loveliest voice" read out -the rhyme of _The River_.) - -Page 152, "Cnythia" changed to "Cynthia". ("And yet it bores her -too----" parenthesised Cynthia shrewdly.) - -Page 155, "Wail" changed to "Wait". ("Wait till you get a best boy.") - -Page 186, "then" changed to "them". ("You begin by being heavenly to -people--and then you tantalise them.") - -Page 250, "phrase" changed to "phase". (Elsbeth, not unused to -disillusionment and hopes deferred, could sigh and smile and acquiesce, -knowing it for the phase that it was and forgiving Alwynne in advance.) - -Page 370, "so" changed to "to". (She had only to say, quite quietly, -that she must do what she felt to be right....) - -Page 413, "Alwyne" changed to "Alwynne". (She thought of Alwynne with -shifting passions of relief and longing and sheer crude lust for -revenge.) - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Regiment of Women, by Clemence Dane - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK REGIMENT OF WOMEN *** - -***** This file should be named 40264-8.txt or 40264-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/0/2/6/40264/ - -Produced by David Starner, Veronika Redfern and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -book was produced from images made available by the -HathiTrust Digital Library.) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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