The pressure on her eyeb.a.l.l.s was causing the usual kaleidoscopic ring of light to form within her closed lids. The phenomenon had always been a childish amus.e.m.e.nt 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. "G.o.d hopes?"

"G.o.d helps?" But He hadn't.... "G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 coa.r.s.e 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 a.s.serted 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 pa.s.sed the gla.s.s-panelled doors warned her that no hurrying could avail her. She was definitely late. Her speed slackened.

The pa.s.sage ended at right-angles to a small landing, into which her cla.s.s-room opened. She paused, sheltering in the curve of the hall, listening. The cla.s.s was still. The single voice of a mistress rang m.u.f.fled through the walls. She could not distinguish the accents.

It was Miss Durand's cla.s.s; 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 gla.s.s.

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 cla.s.ses 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; n.o.body 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.