Clemence lifted her eyes in incredulous consternation. Surely human beings could not have such power over each other and wield it thus without thought or mercy. She shrank from betraying her fear of her home, her fear of her parents, her fear of the trust and hope that had cradled her, but could only grasp at the chance of averting an ordeal that was too great.
“Need we trouble people at home with what happens at school?” she said, in a voice that carried sufficient, but not excessive urgency. “The point of school is that it takes such things off them. They mean to entrust them to other people.”
“There are things that they would wish to know. They will not see it as a trouble,” said Miss Marathon, taking the words at their surface meaning. “We cannot leave them ignorant of anything that comes so near to them. They would see it as failing in the trust.”
There was a pause, and Clemence broke out, as if on an impulse.
“Miss Marathon, they are both so worried by the troubles of the house and place, and all the general anxieties. It seems hard that they should not have freedom from these other things. It was to be their reward for giving us up.”
“Yes, it does. But there are exceptions to every rule,” said Miss Marathon, in a sympathetic, almost social tone. “This is, perhaps, the exception that proves this one.”
Lesbia’s eyes were also on Clemence, seeing more than Miss Marathon’s, divining a shade of Clemence’s feeling; and what Clemence saw as relentless and shallow penetration, struck her pride and gave her a calm front. She made no further protest, and left her judges to conduct their case, experiencing a faint sense of triumph, as their resource failed.
“Well, the holidays are upon us,” said Miss Marathon, in a more cheerful tone, as though seeing some solution in a fact that for her pupil certainly carried none. “And we shall start afresh next term and forget this has ever happened. I am sure nothing will occur to remind us of it. And the girls have agreed not to speak of the matter, Clemence. Miss Chancellor does not know and we hope never will. We can spare you that and spare her the disappointment the rest of us have felt.” She smiled and almost bowed towards Clemence in reference to the compliment in her words.
Clemence felt the irony of sparing Miss Chancellor and sacrificing her parents, of saving the easy disappointment and causing the hard one; but supposed it escaped her judges in their simplicity and ignorance. She wondered they had gone so far in life, saw herself as inevitably going further, pictured her mother’s joy in her advance, and fell with a shock to the certain truth.
“And we must make clear, Clemence,” said Lesbia, maintaining the note that had been relinquished by her partner, “that if anything of the kind should happen again, the excuse of not thinking, or of acting on the spur of the moment, will not hold. We accept it this once, believing it to be the true one, but things would take on a different complexion a second time.”
Clemence made no acknowledgment of an acceptance that went so short a way, and Miss Laurence seemed to divine her thought, and turned as if to speak, sent a ray of hope through her heart, and was silent.
“Oh, there will be no second time, I am sure,” said Miss Marathon.
“I hope we shall be able to be sure, as time goes by,” said Lesbia; “and I will say, Clemence, that I believe we shall.”
Clemence returned to her companions, careless of the ordeal in view of the greater ones ahead. They gathered about her, too curious to hold aloof, not unfriendly in the face of the reckoning that had come.
“What did they say?” said Esther.
“Oh, just the ordinary things that would be said by any-one.”
“How many of them were there?” said Verity.
“All three, but Miss Laurence did not say anything.”
“Didn’t she speak at all?” said Gwendolen.
“Not a word; she might have been struck dumb.”
“She is angry with us all,” said Esther. “More than she is with Clemence.”
“Miss Chancellor is not to know about it,” said Verity. “Did they say that?”
“Something was said. I am sure I do not care if she knows or not.”
“I hardly think that can be the case, Clemence,” said Maud. “It is clearly better both for you and for her that she should not know.”
“Oh, what difference does it make?” said Clemence, feeling that to the main and desperate truth it made none.
“Will your people at home know?” said Esther.
“Yes, I suppose so. There was some talk of something on the report, or I think there was. But home is not like school.”
“I should have thought it was a good deal worse in some ways.”
“Well, homes differ, Esther,” said Maud. “Clemence knows her own.”
“Won’t your parents really mind?” said Gwendolen. “Mine would care very much about a thing like that.”
“Well, I don’t think they trouble much about things at school. They don’t seem to think they are very important, somehow. And I am sure they are not.”
“I should have thought certain things were equally important everywhere,” said Maud.
“Why did they send you to school, if they felt like that?” said Gwendolen.
“Oh, well, I suppose we all have to be educated somehow. And I daresay they would not have done it, if Miss Firebrace had not suggested it, and carried it through.”
“Perhaps she wanted another pupil,” said Gwendolen.
“And got one of a kind she may not much have wanted,” said Esther.
“Perhaps it is as much your parents’ fault as yours, that things have happened as they have,” said Gwendolen.
“I should advise your reconsidering your attitude to school before next term, Clemence,” said Maud.
“You might have been expelled,” said Esther.
“Well, I should not have minded that. I have no great wish to be here.”
“I hardly think that is the case, Esther,” said Maud. “Things would have had to go further.”
“And would soon have done so, if they had not been checked. They were moving apace.”
“I don’t think there was any talk about it,” said Clemence, in an indifferent tone.
“Miss Firebrace would hardly want to lose Clemence after taking all that trouble to get her,” said Gwendolen.
“People would hardly keep schools, if they wanted to lose their pupils,” said Maud.
“What an odd conversation this is!” said Verity. “Are we in sympathy with Clemence, or are we not?”
“I hope we are, Verity,” said Maud. “The more we regret what has happened, the more we should be, in a way.”
“Oh, that kind of sympathy! I wonder if Clemence is grateful for it.”
“I don’t think Clemence is easily grateful,” said Esther.
“You would hardly have an opportunity of judging that. About me or anyone,” said Clemence. “You are not a person to inspire gratitude.”
“You frighten me, Clemence,” said Gwendolen. “Maud, forbid her to tell me her opinion of me. I am nervous of people who do that.”
“I think a great deal more of you than I do of Esther,” said Clemence.
“Clemence’s tongue is unloosed,” said Verity. “She will make us all nervous. It is a good thing that Miss Chancellor is coming.”