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.