"Miss Durand, I had to learn. I was forgetting it all. I slipped the last two lines as it was--you know, the 'My uncle's spirit is in these stones' bit. I wasn't hungry."

"And you were very late, too. What did you have for breakfast?"

An agitated face peered round the corner.

"Miss Durand, which side do I come on from? Hubert's nearly off."

"The left." Alwynne hurried to the rescue, dragging Louise after her.

She hustled the anxious courier to his entrance, twitched his mantle into position, and saw him safely on the stage. Then she turned to Louise.

"Louise, will you please go to the kitchen and ask Mrs. Random for two cups of tea and some buns--at once. There is some tea made, I know. I'm tired and thirsty--two cups, please. Bring it to me here, and don't run into any one with your hands full. Be quick--I'm dying for some."

Louise darted away on her errand. Poor Daffy did look hot and fl.u.s.tered.... Daffy was such a dear ... every one worried her ... it was a shame.... Wouldn't Daffy have been a pleasant mother? Better than shouting Constance.... What was it she had asked for? A plum, a cherry and a fig? No, that wasn't it. Oh, of course, tea--tea and buns.

Alwynne looked after her, smiling and frowning; she was not in the least thirsty. What a baby it was.... But nothing to eat all day! Mrs. Denny ought to be ashamed of herself.... She, Alwynne, would keep a vigilant eye on her to-morrow, poor little soul.... Had she really lost herself so entirely in the part--or was there a touch of pose? No, that was more Agatha's line.... Agatha was enjoying herself.... She listened amusedly, watching through a crack in the screen, till a far-away c.h.i.n.k caught her ear. She went out again into the pa.s.sage, and met Louise with a laden tray.

Alwynne drank with expressive pantomime and motioned to the other cup.

"Drink it up," she commanded.

"It's a second cup--for you----" began Louise.

"Be a good child and do as you're told! I must fly in a minute."

The child looked doubtful; but the steaming liquid was tempting and the new-baked, shining cakes. She obeyed. Alwynne watched the faint colour flush her cheeks with a satisfaction that surprised herself.

"Finish it all up--d'you hear? I must go." She hesitated: "Louise--you were very good to-day. I am sure Miss Hartill must have been awfully pleased."

She went back to the stage. She had had the pleasure of bringing a look of relief to Louise's face. Alwynne could never remember that the kindest lie is a lie none the less.

In the part of Arthur the child, unconsciously, had seen embodied her own psychological situation. She had enacted the spirit, if not the letter, of her own state of mind, and in the mock death had experienced something of the sensations, the sense of release, of a real one. Left to herself, she might gradually have dreamed and imagined and acted herself out of her troubles, have drifted back to real life again, cured and sane. But Alwynne, with her suggestion of good cheer, had destroyed the skin of make-believe that was forming healingly upon the child's sore heart. Louise awoke, with a pang of hope, to her real situation.

"I am sure Miss Hartill must have been awfully pleased." ... So pleased that, who knew, she might yet forgive the crime of the examination? If it might be.... "What might be must be," cried the child within her.

There came a crash of clapping; the rehearsal was over at last, and in a few moments flocks of girls, chattering and excited, came trouping past Louise on their way to tea.

She did not follow them. She was suddenly aware of boy's clothes. She must change them.... She could not find Miss Hartill till she was tidy, and she had determined to speak with her.

Miss Durand had said.... She would do as Arthur did to Hubert--she would besiege Miss Hartill, force her to be kind, till she could say, "Oh, now you look Miss Hartill! all this while you were disguised." She shivered at the idea of undergoing once more the emotional experience of the scene--but the vision of Miss Hartill transfigured drew her as a magnet pulls a needle.

She went towards the stairs.

The big music-room at the top of the house had been temporarily converted into a dressing-room, and she thought she would go quickly and change, while it was still quiet and s.p.a.cious. But as she pushed open the swinging doors that divided staircase from pa.s.sage, she saw Clare coming down the long corridor. There was no one else in sight. Again wild, unreasoning hopes flooded her. She would seize the opportunity ...

she would speak to Miss Hartill there and then.... She would ask her why she was always angry.... Perhaps she would be kind? "I am sure Miss Hartill must have been awfully pleased...." She must have speech with her at once--at once....

She waited, holding open the door, her heart beating violently, her face steeled to composure.

Clare, pa.s.sing with a nod, found her way barred by a white-faced sc.r.a.p of humanity, whose courage, obviously and pitifully, was desperation.

But Clare could be very blind when she did not choose to see.

"Miss Hartill, may I speak to you?"

"I can't wait, Louise. I'm busy."

"Miss Hartill, was it all right? Were you pleased? I tried furiously.

Was it as you wanted it?"

"Oh, you played your own version." Clare caught her up sharply.

"But Miss Durand said--you said I was to."

"I expect it was all right," said Clare lightly. "I'm afraid I was too busy to attend much, even to your efforts, Louise." She smiled crookedly. "And now run along and change."

She pushed against the door, but Louise, beyond all control, caught back the handles.

"Miss Hartill--you shall listen. Are you always going to be angry? What have I done? Will you never be good to me again as you used to be?"

Clare's face grew stern.

"Louise, you are being very silly. Let me pa.s.s."

"Because I can't bear it. It's killing me. Couldn't you stop being angry?"

Clare, ignoring her, wrenched open the door. Louise, flung sideways, slipped on the polished floor. She crouched where she fell, and caught at Clare's skirts. She was completely demoralised.

"Miss Hartill! Oh, please--please--if you would only understand. You hurt me so. You hurt me so."

Clare stood looking down at her.

"Once and for all, Louise, I dislike scenes. Let me go, please."

For a moment their eyes strove. And suddenly Louise, relaxing all effort, let her go. Without another look, Clare retraced her steps and entered the Common-room. Louise, still crouching against the wall, watched her till she disappeared. The doors swung and clicked into rigidity.

There was a sudden uproar of voices and laughter and sc.r.a.ping chairs. A distant door had opened.

Louise started to her feet, and sped swiftly up the stairs, flight on flight, of the tall old house, till she reached the top floor and the music-room. It was empty. She flung-to the door, and fumbled with the stiff key. It turned at last, and she leaned back against the lock, shaking and breathless, but with a sense of relief.

She was safe.... Not for long--they would be coming up soon--but long enough for her purpose.

But first she must recover breath. It was foolish to tremble so. It only hindered one ... when there was so little time to lose.

Hurriedly she sorted out her little pile of everyday clothes--some irrelevant instinct insisting on the paramount necessity of changing into them. Mrs. Denny would be annoyed if she spoiled the new costume.

She re-dressed hastily and, clasping her belt, crossed to the window.

It was tall and divided into three cas.e.m.e.nts. The centre door was open.

A low seat ran round the bay. She climbed upon it and stood upright, peering out.

How high up she was! There was a blue haze on the horizon, above the line of faint hills, that melted in turn into a weald, chequered like the chessboard counties in _Alice_. So there was a world beyond the school! Nearer still, the suburb spread map-like. She craned forward.