Up I darted to reach my own room, and it was well that I made for the back staircase; for there, regularly fringing the balustrade of the best staircase, were all the younger pupils and the servants looking down and listening; while I could hear the sounds coming up from the hall, as my Lady Blunt and the teachers began again to storm at the poor silent girl, who never, that I could hear, answered them one single word, and in the act of slipping into my room, I nearly brushed the dress of one of the pupils.
And now, if Clara would only be a martyr, I felt safe, as I stood inside our room, and listened for a few moments to the words which came up quite plainly in the still night.
“Once more, I insist upon knowing who it was,” shrieked Mrs Blunt, while her satellites added their feeble echoes.
“Tell, directly!” screamed Miss Sloman.
“Bad gell—bad gell!” croaked the Fraülein.
“You must confess,” cried Miss Furness, in shrill, treble tones.
“Who was it, Miss Fitzacre?” cried Mrs Blunt.
And then there was a stamp upon the floor, but not a word from Clara; and I dared stay for no more, but closed the door, listened to Patty snoring more loudly and ever, and then dashed to the washstand, recalling poor Clara’s smutty face, and sponged my own quickly. Then I slipped on my bonnet de nuit, and undressed quicker than I ever before did in my life. Then just as I had finished, I heard them coming up the stairs—scuffling of feet and shutting of doors as the pupils hurried into their rooms, some skirmishing at a terrible rate past my door; so I slipped into bed with my head turned towards the window, and lay there with my heart beating tumultuously.
“Now, if they only did not come here first, I’m safe,” I muttered.