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.