So that, pale, shut, at last distant and impersonal, she saw
no longer the child, how his eyes danced, or how he had a queer
little soul that could not be bothered with shaping handwriting
so long as he dashed down what he thought. She saw no children,
only the task that was to be done. And keeping her eyes there,
on the task, and not on the child, she was impersonal enough to
punish where she could otherwise only have sympathized,
understood, and condoned, to approve where she would have been
merely uninterested before. But her interest had no place any
more.
It was agony to the impulsive, bright girl of seventeen to
become distant and official, having no personal relationship
with the children. For a few days, after the agony of the
Monday, she succeeded, and had some success with her class. But
it was a state not natural to her, and she began to relax.
Then came another infliction. There were not enough pens to
go round the class. She sent to Mr. Harby for more. He came in
person.
"Not enough pens, Miss Brangwen?" he said, with the smile and
calm of exceeding rage against her.
"No, we are six short," she said, quaking.
"Oh, how is that?" he said, menacingly. Then, looking over
the class, he asked: "How many are there here to-day?"
"Fifty-two," said Ursula, but he did not take any notice,
counting for himself.
"Fifty-two," he said. "And how many pens are there,
Staples?"
Ursula was now silent. He would not heed her if she answered,
since he had addressed the monitor.
"That's a very curious thing," said Mr. Harby, looking over
the silent class with a slight grin of fury. All the childish
faces looked up at him blank and exposed.
"A few days ago there were sixty pens for this
class--now there are forty-eight. What is forty-eight from
sixty, Williams?" There was a sinister suspense in the question.
A thin, ferret-faced boy in a sailor suit started up
exaggeratedly.
"Please, sir!" he said. Then a slow, sly grin came over his
face. He did not know. There was a tense silence. The boy
dropped his head. Then he looked up again, a little cunning
triumph in his eyes. "Twelve," he said.
"I would advise you to attend," said the headmaster
dangerously. The boy sat down.
"Forty-eight from sixty is twelve: so there are twelve pens
to account for. Have you looked for them, Staples?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then look again."
The scene dragged on. Two pens were found: ten were missing.
Then the storm burst.
"Am I to have you thieving, besides your dirt and bad work
and bad behaviour?" the headmaster began. "Not content with
being the worst-behaved and dirtiest class in the school, you
are thieves into the bargain, are you? It is a very funny thing!
Pens don't melt into the air: pens are not in the habit of
mizzling away into nothing. What has become of them then? They
must be somewhere. What has become of them? For they must be
found, and found by Standard Five. They were lost by Standard
Five, and they must be found."