WHILE events at the Hall were moving so swiftly to a final crisis, at
The Laurels also there had been developments.
Having witnessed the fiasco of the Assembly Rooms, Elfreda had now to
face the fact that the game was up. So far as it went the game had been
quite amusing, but--and the “but” was decidedly a big one--it was by no
means clear that it was going to prove worth the candle.
Over a belated tea in the nursery, as Elfreda grimly reviewed the
situation in all its bearings, she was almost tempted for a moment to
deplore her mischievous folly. But only for a moment. There was nothing
of the weakling about her. Illogically enough, she was deeply angry
with Miss Cass for making such a pitiable exhibition of herself, yet
when she came to think matters over amid the boredom and discomfort of
thick bread and butter and lukewarm tea and the table talk of Master
Peter and Miss Joan, she was ready to believe that the ignominious
collapse of the play added a new spice to the adventure. A set of
vulgar people had been properly “scored off” and for the time being
that was all she cared.
Nevertheless, before the evening was out she had to withstand a
threat of “cold feet.” About seven o’clock the terrified Pikey arrived
with the news that Himself had been telegraphed for in hot haste. The
immediate effect was certainly to diminish Elfreda’s sense of victory.
She was not really afraid of her father, she was not afraid of any one,
but when “The Dadda” was fully roused he was an awkward customer to
tackle.
There was a rather bad quarter of an hour with Pikey. It was also a
rather ignominious one. The foolish old thing had got “cold feet” so
badly herself that she vowed, even with tears, that she would never
return to Clavering Park at all. Stern threats were required to bring
her to reason. And it was not until Elfreda had made a solemn promise
to appear in the course of the next day at Clavering Park that Pikey
could be induced to return that evening. She, at any rate, had a
wholesome fear of “The Dadda.”
Forced not very willingly into a definite promise, Elfreda had now to
carry it out. Her immediate surroundings were decidedly uncomfortable,
but they did not lack interest. Indeed, they had a romantic interest.
Miss Dolores Parbury had marked down General Norris for her own, but
the passing of each day merely confirmed the determination of the new
governess to thwart that lady. He was such an engaging young man that,
leaving out the personal equation, it would go to Elfreda’s heart, nay,
it might almost be said to impinge on her professional pride to abandon
such a charming novice to the wolves. She was quite sure that as soon
as she withdrew from the scene the wolves would gobble up George Norris.
The following morning, tense prelude to a momentous day, found
Elfreda’s mind divided against itself. Even if she was not looking
forward to a meeting with “The Dadda” she was unrepentent for the
mischief she had wrought; but now that she was in the presence of the
fact she simply hated the idea of giving up George Norris. He was
really very attractive. And, taking the problem he presented on the
lowest ground of all, it would be unpleasantly like defeat to allow him
to be carried off by somebody else.
The morning lessons in the schoolroom had always been irksome. And
to-day they soon became intolerable. The governess with such grave
issues weighing upon her made little or no attempt to give her mind
to the daily routine. Besides she was in the blackest of moods. This
morning she was hating everybody and everything. Her temper, which had
suffered ten long days unnatural repression, had now a dangerous edge.
It was the amiable custom of Master Peter and Miss Joan to begin
the day with a quarrel. And it was regarded as the first duty of
the custodian of these spoiled darlings to calm their ugly little
tempers without losing her own. From the first, as far as Elfreda was
concerned, this had seemed to ask almost too much of human nature. A
creature of curiously strong antipathies she disliked Miss Joan and
Master Peter so intensely that the time had now come when she found it
exceedingly difficult to stay in the same room with them.
“Don’t, Jo-an, you are pulling my hair!”
“Pe-tah, you story--you wicked story!”
It was the beginning of the daily duet. And it was part of the price
exacted by Nemesis of Miss Cass’s deputy. The Lady Elfreda Catkins of
the planet must not suppose that for the average nursery governess life
is a bed of roses. No doubt it was in the interests of human nature as
a whole that they should not. All the same, by the time the duet had
been repeated for the eleventh successive morning, the Deputy-Miss Cass
would have given much to slay Master Peter and Miss Joan.
The governess made several attempts to ensue peace. But this morning
her task was not easy. She was feeling, perhaps too keenly, the
pressure of events. No longer perfect mistress of a sure and balanced
self, she allowed her small tyrants to perceive with the uncanny
acuteness that small tyrants have, that just now the game was in
their favor. And they were tempted to presume on their knowledge. The
thoughts of Miss Cass seemed elsewhere. This morning there was less
sting in her rebuke; on the surface, at all events, her manner towards
them was not quite so uncompromising.
The duet went on. And so forbearing was Miss Cass that its most
popular passages were repeated. New embellishments were even added
to the original performance. For instance, when Miss Joan encored a
particularly neat and effective pinch, Master Peter, disdaining mere
words, suddenly got right home with a well directed hack on Miss Joan’s
shin.
Miss Joan responded with a little howl of fury. This protest having
completely failed to attract the notice of Miss Cass, Miss Joan
proceeded to deliver an honestly resounding box on Master Peter’s ear.
The reply of Master Peter was to fling ink over Miss Joan’s copy book.
And then things really began to happen. Miss Joan cast a hasty glance
at the governess in order to be quite sure that private thoughts
still engaged the whole of that lady’s attention, and then she fairly
went for Master Peter. First the kick was returned with interest and
then ink in liberal quantities was daubed over Master Peter’s face
and collar. This last indignity, however, proved too much for the
self-respect of a Briton. Master Peter’s rejoinder took the form of a
piercing howl.
Now the howl of Master Peter had such a quality that it drew Miss Cass
abruptly from her reverie. Her private thoughts were of darkness and
eclipse, of battle, murder and sudden death, but the sound of Master
Peter and more particularly the sight of him seemed quite to harmonize
with them. Master Peter proved just a little too much for Miss Cass in
the present state of her nerves.
The reckless Miss Joan did not understand that she had come already
to the edge of a sheer precipice. Therefore she gave Master Peter’s
hair one final tweak. The voice of Master Peter ascended to heaven. In
almost the same instant something snapped in the brooding soul of Miss
Cass. Pent-up forces were unsealed. The deep resentments of eleven long
and weary days suddenly burst their bonds. Horse, foot and artillery,
the new governess fell upon Miss Joan.
At the moment of onset Miss Joan merely wondered what had happened. She
seemed to realize vaguely that it was something very unpleasant. As her
spectacles flew off and her mouse-colored locks escaped the custody
of their puce-colored ribbon, she found herself projected into a new
experience. An experience quite surprisingly new. She couldn’t breathe.
Her eyeballs seemed to rattle against the back of her ears. And her
knees were in continual danger of knocking chips off her chin.
The new governess was small, she might even be said to be “petite,” but
she was extraordinarily vigorous, nay she was more than vigorous. She
was remarkably strong. Generations of stern self-discipline had curbed
the natural spirit of a Berserk, which, all unknown to its possessor,
still lurked below the surface. But eleven days, eleven long embittered
days of Miss Joan and Master Peter, had unchained primeval forces. The
new governess fell upon that child and shook her. She fell upon Miss
Joan and shook her until it became a wonder that one breath remained in
the small body. It was far from the act of a “lady,” yet it was almost
inhumanly exhilarating.
This terrific assault was at its height, and Master Peter, who had
decided to join forces against the common foe, was indulging in shrill
screams which Miss Joan would have been only too ready to second had
she been in a condition to do so, when Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson opened
the schoolroom door.
For a moment the fond mother stood mute and rigid, a tragedy queen.
“Miss Cass!”
The voice of hard horror was no longer flutelike.
“Miss Cass!”
It was clear that Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson expected the heavens to fall.