She too must learn to subdue them to her will: she must. For
it was her duty, since the school was such. He had crystallized
the class into order. But to see him, a strong, powerful man,
using all his power for such a purpose, seemed almost horrible.
There was something hideous about it. The strange, genial light
in his eye was really vicious, and ugly, his smile was one of
torture. He could not be impersonal. He could not have a clear,
pure purpose, he could only exercise his own brute will. He did
not believe in the least in the education he kept inflicting
year after year upon the children. So he must bully, only bully,
even while it tortured his strong, wholesome nature with shame
like a spur always galling. He was so blind and ugly and out of
place. Ursula could not bear it as he stood there. The whole
situation was wrong and ugly.
The lesson was finished, Mr. Harby went away. At the far end
of the room she heard the whistle and the thud of the cane. Her
heart stood still within her. She could not bear it, no, she
could not bear it when the boy was beaten. It made her sick. She
felt that she must go out of this school, this torture-place.
And she hated the schoolmaster, thoroughly and finally. The
brute, had he no shame? He should never be allowed to continue
the atrocity of this bullying cruelty. Then Hill came crawling
back, blubbering piteously. There was something desolate about
this blubbering that nearly broke her heart. For after all, if
she had kept her class in proper discipline, this would never
have happened, Hill would never have called out and been
caned.
She began the arithmetic lesson. But she was distracted. The
boy Hill sat away on the back desk, huddled up, blubbering and
sucking his hand. It was a long time. She dared not go near, nor
speak to him. She felt ashamed before him. And she felt she
could not forgive the boy for being the huddled, blubbering
object, all wet and snivelled, which he was.
She went on correcting the sums. But there were too many
children. She could not get round the class. And Hill was on her
conscience. At last he had stopped crying, and sat bunched over
his hands, playing quietly. Then he looked up at her. His face
was dirty with tears, his eyes had a curious washed look, like
the sky after rain, a sort of wanness. He bore no malice. He had
already forgotten, and was waiting to be restored to the normal
position.
"Go on with your work, Hill," she said.
The children were playing over their arithmetic, and, she
knew, cheating thoroughly. She wrote another sum on the
blackboard. She could not get round the class. She went again to
the front to watch. Some were ready. Some were not. What was she
to do?