If Madame Broadbent had been wrathful before she was furious now. Never in her long experience had she been so braved. Without thought, without premeditation, she raised her heavy fan and struck sharply at Augusta. The blow fell on her beautiful bare neck, the collar-bone snapped, as it will do with a very slight matter, and Augusta dropped!
Cicily, waiting outside at the time, heard Madame’s raised voice and Augusta’s impetuous remonstrance; then a thud, a fall, and a suppressed scream from the girls; and without pausing to knock, she pushed open the door, Cicily had been too long the recipient of Augusta’s school-girl confidence to stand in much awe of Mrs. Broadbent at best of times. Now she darted forward to raise her young mistress, whom she almost worshipped, and certainly did not consult either Madame’s feelings or dignity in the epithets she launched at her.
No one had been more electrified at the effect of that stroke with the fan than Mrs. Broadbent’s self. She seemed petrified, and Cicily’s indignant outburst fell on deaf ears; but as Miss Nuttall ran for water, and Cicily cried out for a doctor, she roused to self-consciousness, and closed the school-room door as if to keep the outer world in ignorance of what was going on inside.
A wide latitude was then allowed for school discipline; but even Madame Broadbent was sensible that the blow which had felled Mr. Ashton’s only daughter was a blow to imperil her seminary.
Augusta did not revive. Miss Nuttall suggested that the school should be dismissed, and a doctor fetched; and, before either could be effected, Jabez was on the spot. He took in the scene at a glance; Augusta, white as her frock, her hair all in disorder, lay extended on a form, her head supported by the kneeling Cicily, whilst excited girls and teachers flocked helplessly around.
“Good heavens! what is the matter? What has happened to Miss Ashton?” was his hurried and agitated inquiry.
One said one thing, one another. Wrathful Cicily came nearest to the mark. “That old wretch has struck ar darlin’ wi’ her great fan. Aw’m afeared her neckbone’s brokken!”
“Impossible! She could not be so heartless!” he cried, as the group made way for him to pass, and he knelt down opposite to the sobbing Cicily, on the other side of the form, and sprinkled the pallid face so dear to him with water some one had brought in.
There was no sign of revival. “My God! this is terrible! Oh, madam, how could you do it? Mrs. Ashton will be distracted!” and he started to his feet, inexpressible anguish in every feature. “But this is no time for revilings. Where is the nearest doctor?”
“There is Mr. Campbell in Hanover Street—and——”