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.