If one or two of the girls notice Miss Paulson's sudden emotional crisis, it is not remarked upon; and soon, very soon, they call "Thank you, miss," curtseying to her back as one by one they take their leave. Miss Paulson stands rooted to the spot, handkerchief to her mouth, staring sightlessly out of the window. To lose her heart like this is impossible, dreadful. Nobody would understand, least of all poor Carry. To betray the slightest sign of it would cause terrible scandal, and doubtless make it necessary to resign her position at Hepplewhite. She must be strong, strong for her own sake, and especially for dear Carry.
At last, it is quiet, and she turns. But she is not alone: there is Carry Walmsley, still fixing her with that pleading gaze. Despite her momentary tremor, she succeeds in injecting a cool neutrality into her voice:
"Miss Walmsley! You startled me! Are you recovered? What is it?"
"Oh Miss Paulson! I am well — very well. Only..."
"I was afraid for you, Walmsley. You seemed so... overcome."
"It is so difficult to say this, Miss Paulson. I... I hardly know how to put it into words. My feelings are so very vivid and yet confused. The... the electrical current..."
"Yes?"
"I feel its effects often."
"Often?"
"Yes. It is not pain, Miss Paulson. When my body stiffens, I know I tremble, but it is not in pain or in suffering. When you hear this little bell ring like this..." she takes it from the desk and gives it a rapid shake, and as she does so, a pang of sweetness and warmth seems to suffuse the teacher's body, causing her to stoop and gasp.
"Oh Miss Walmsley... when you ring that bell, I feel a most extraordinary weakness..."
"Oh no, Miss Paulson, it is not weakness, but strength: it is the electrical force, calling us to a greater, fuller life..."
"I acknowledge what you say, but yet I feel it as a yearning, a yearning that clouds my mind, a yearning for I know not what..." Alas, the wretched teacher knows full well for what – for whom – she yearns, but dares not voice it.
"You know not what, Miss Paulson?" There is something eager in the younger woman's stance, her hands clasped as if in supplication. "Is it not a yearning for happiness, for fulfilment, for the heart's desire?"
"Ah, but what does my heart desire, Walmsley? Of that, I am not sure..."
Carry Walmsley's face falls. "Well, good night, miss."
"Good night, Walmsley."
"Oh, Carter! I thought I'd find you here."
It is break time on Monday, and as is often the case, Carter is in a corner of the library, deeply absorbed in diagrams and formulae.
"Hello, Shipman." Carter does not seem pleased to see her friend.
"I was wondering if you would care to come walking with me this afternoon."
"Why? Is Clark busy, then, Miss Shipman?"
"Oh Carter, don't be like that. Just because I like to go walking with Clark, it surely doesn't mean that I'm not your friend too."
"You don't know what they are saying about you."
"Why? What are they saying?" Shipman sits in a facing chair, suddenly a little pale.
"You know how people like to say disagreeable things to me, Shipman. Unfortunately so many people are saying them that I have to believe that they are true."
"Tell me! What are people saying?"
"They are saying, Shipman, that both you and Clark have acquired an extremely dirty, vulgar, unladylike habit, which you both practise with such an utter want of modesty that you have become the laughing-stock of the school." Carter looks up. Shipman's cheeks are scarlet. "And I wish that were all." She looks down, searching for words to express what she has to say. When she looks up again, Shipman's eyes are glistening with tears. "They say that on your so-called walks, almost every afternoon, so I believe, unmentionable things happen. I am aware that you are ashamed to be seen with me, Shipman: I am not made of stone. But now I am afraid that it is mutual. You may not be stupid, nor ugly, as I am, but I do have my standards."
Swiftly, without another word, Shipman rises from her chair and walks rapidly out of the library, the dwindling sound of her rustling skirts succeeded by a brief silence; brief, for after a few moments, Carter bursts into solitary tears. She crosses her legs and squeezes, and squeezes again; the feeling is strange, but somehow comforting. She has been doing it rather often lately: it is her only distraction from the heaviness in her heart.
That afternoon, Clark meets Penrose in the study-room. Penrose smiles in delighted anticipation. She has her parasol ready. But Clark does not meet her smile. She is looking downcast, apologetic.
"I'm sorry, Vicky. I'd love to, but I can't. I just have to talk to Felicity... to Shipman."
"Oh Sarah!"
"I'm sorry, I really am. But honestly, she needs to talk to me. It can't wait. We'll go out together soon, I promise. Perhaps tomorrow."
"If dear Felicity doesn't need you tomorrow, I suppose."
"Why, Vicky dear..."
"Then I shall go out on my own, today and any other day I care to!" And Penrose flounces out angrily, before Clark can see how upset she is.
"Good evening, ladies," Miss Paulson greets the members of the Club at its next, extraordinary meeting. Despite the short notice, most have been able to attend. "As you know, the obvious utility of the electrical current was demonstrated at the recent battledore match against Thomas More. A number of you had approached me to see if we might meet more often, and so I consulted the Head Mistress. I trust that she will give her approval, but very reasonably she has asked for a demonstration of the process."
There are one or two gasps – notably from Shipman and Clark. Carter, Miss Paulson notices, is scarcely concentrating, instead looking wistfully at the newly-delivered parts for her electricity generating machine. It is clear that the dear girl can hardly wait to test her new device.
"I think it best," Miss Paulson smoothly continues, "if we were on this occasion to deliver the electrical stimulation to a... shall we say, less intimate part of the anatomy. I therefore suggest we demonstrate administration of the current to... the forearm."
There are one or two soft moans of disappointment.
"I am aware that the effects upon the arm are likely to be of lesser interest, and indeed a discontinuation of our previous line of enquiry, but I am anxious not to muddy the waters by inviting any indelicate and, I might add, wholly unscientific speculation to our entirely scientific enterprise.
"I should add, ladies, that although we have been investigating some interesting phenomena, our experiments will have no scientific value unless we can soon put forward a hypothesis."
"Please miss, what's a hypothesis?" asks Denning.
"Anyone?"
Carry Walmsley is eager with her reply. "It's an idea about how things might work, which we can test by means of an experiment."
"Very good, Walmsley. Later, we will look for some hypotheses to test in our future experiments. But for now, we will content ourselves with a simple demonstration of the galvanic principles. Perhaps, Walmsley, you would consent to volunteer to demonstrate the effects of the current upon the forearm."
"Gladly, Miss Paulson. However, my sleeve is I think too tight to draw up sufficiently."
"I take it that you are correctly dressed, Walmsley?"
"Of course, miss."
"Then it will be in order to remove your dress."
This is a calculated move on Miss Paulson's part. The happy combination of a well-worn and oft-washed school chemise and Carry Walmsley's magnificent chest will ensure the Head Mistress's rapt attention: of this Miss Paulson can be sure. And no sooner has Carry Walmsley stepped out of her tight regulation dress than the Head Mistress sweeps into the room. She catches sight of Walmsley at once. She is all smiles.
"Well!" she says. "Good evening, girls."
"Good evening, Mrs Cunningham," the girls chorus in unison.
"And what, pray, is the purpose of this, er, undress?" Mrs Cunningham gestures at Walmsley, but the question is addressed to Miss Paulson.
"We proposed to give you a demonstration of the galvanic reaction, Ma'am," replies Miss Paulson smoothly, "as applied to the nervous tissue of the forearm. However, the electrical contacts must necessarily be applied to the naked skin. Owing to the tightness of the regulation dress, it must of course be removed for the purposes of the demonstration."
"Of course. Hmmm." Mrs Cunningham admires for a moment the admirably firm curves of Walmsley's delightful breasts; the well-worn regulation chemise reveals the shadow not only of the bodice beneath, but of the young lady's large, tender areolae. "Charming," she remarks somewhat irrelevantly.
"Kindly sit in this chair, Walmsley," prompts Miss Paulson. "Now, Head Mistress, in order to gauge the reaction of the subject's muscles to the stimulus of the electrical current, we place a bell upon the finger controlled by that muscle."
As she ties the bell to Walmsley's finger, it jingles slightly. Clark, she notices, makes a little "Hmm" noise as the bell sounds: the girl seems a little flushed already. A significant idea begins to take shape at the back of Miss Paulson's mind.
"Next, Head Mistress, we lightly moisten the area of the skin where the electrical contacts are to be placed." So saying, she moistens her finger and dabs it on to Walmsley's forearm, which lies along the arm of the chair. "Normally, we monitor the volunteer's heart rate while applying the electrical contacts. But in the case of this demonstration we may dispense with that formality. So, finally, we apply the electrical contacts in the chosen locations." Slipping on the gloves, she takes the wires and delicately points them into the smooth, white skin.
For Miss Paulson, this is an elementary experiment: the effect upon the flexor muscles was well known before ever she commenced her studies in Paris. But to a newcomer like Mrs Cunningham, it seems like magic. The finger curls, and the bell jingles. As it does so, Miss Paulson looks sharply at the girls, gauging reactions. Walmsley is pale, but that is easily understood: the close attention of the Head Mistress is no doubt a distraction. However, Shipman is flushed and breathless as before; and Clark seems to sag a little, letting out a little "uuh" sound.
"Anything wrong, Clark?" asks Miss Paulson.
"Uhh... no, miss – sorry, miss."
"So now, Head Mistress, I remove and replace the electrical contacts. Please observe the rhythmical flexion of the muscle as I do so." She lifts and lowers one of the contacts, and behold, Walmsley's finger curls and uncurls, jingling the bell delicately.
"Uuhh..." groans Clark again.
Miss Paulson looks at Miller, who is impassive. So are French and Penrose. But Clark seems to be in an interesting condition. Forgetting the Head Mistress's presence, and excited by her current train of thought, Miss Paulson seeks some data on which to found an interesting hypothesis.
"Clark!" she cries sharply.
"Oh! Yes, miss?"
"You seem distracted. Can you perhaps inform us of the current climate in Queensland?"
"In Queensland, miss?"
"Yes, Clark: a young lady with an interest in science knows the basic facts of geography, surely. What, pray, is the climate in Queensland, just at this particular time?"
"Oh... well, miss..." Clark stammers, "Just now it's... unusually damp."
"Thank you, Clark."
Suddenly uncomfortably aware of the opacity of this conversation, Miss Paulson looks to the Head Mistress, aware that some kind of explanation may be in order. But Mrs Cunningham's attention is clearly elsewhere. Following the line of her gaze, Miss Paulson at once finds her superior's preoccupation entirely understandable: for the outlines of Walmsley's engorged nipples are now clearly discernible through her thin chemise; and really the effect is most flattering. However, in the interest of science it is necessary to press home the advantage.
"And so you see, Ma'am, how the force of electricity is indeed the force of life and movement. I am sure it would be beneficial to our girls if the opportunity for studying its vitalizing effects were to be extended to, let us say, three times a week — particularly if, as I understand it, Thomas More has challenged us to a return match."
Mrs Cunningham seems unable to divert her gaze.
"I am sure that our girls would greatly benefit from such study. It is really... most becoming for a young woman. Permission is most certainly granted. Thank you, Walmsley... Miss Paulson... for your most eloquent demonstration. I have not seen anything so... perfectly fascinating in a long time." With quiet dignity, the Head Mistress takes her leave, doing Miss Paulson the especial honour of a particularly gracious return to her dutiful curtsey.
"Thank you, ladies," says Miss Paulson, by way of dismissal. "But, ah, Walmsley, perhaps I could ask you to remain behind for a few moments."
"Very good, miss."
After the last of the girls has taken her leave, Miss Paulson sits upon a bench. Carry Walmsley, still seated in the experimental chair, does not face her, but sits motionless, staring through the window into the evening sky, her lovely cheek smooth, her expression blank. Her recent charming tumescence appears to have subsided. Quietly, gently, Miss Paulson removes the little bell from the young woman's finger.
"Miss Walmsley: I had one or two questions to put to you, if I may."
"Very well, miss."
Carry Walmsley is looking obstinately straight ahead, blinking rapidly, as if to banish tears.
"When a strong and forceful idea frequently occurs in close proximity to another strong, forceful idea, the philosopher David Hume postulates that there arises in the imagination a connexion between the two."
"Is that so, miss?" Walmsley's gaze remains unfalteringly upon a distant infinity. She bites her lip and blinks.
"I think that I have observed something upon which a hypothesis may be built, Walmsley. A most interesting hypothesis."
"Yes, miss."
"When a certain, very special, kind of excitement has been reached, we have been accustomed to hear this sound..." Miss Paulson shakes the bell rapidly. The sound of its jingling, though quiet, seems to reverberate around the empty room.
At once Carry Walmsley blushes and begins to breathe faster. Miss Paulson watches her heaving breast, and sure enough, those charming nipples once again begin to attest their presence.
"Walmsley? Do you feel something when I ring this bell? Do you?" Miss Paulson rings it again, and Walmsley gasps, grasping the arms of the chair.
"Oh miss... do I have to answer?"
"Walmsley... I confess I feel something."
For the first time, Carry looks into Miss Paulson's eyes. "You do, miss?" She looks down, then, and away.
"Do you, too... Carry?"
"Yes, miss."
"In Queensland?"
"Flooding, miss."
"Flooding?" Miss Paulson's voice is quiet, almost hopeful.
"Yes." Carry's voice is a hoarse whisper.
"What does it mean, Carry?"
"I don't know."
"But Miller, Penrose, French... They haven't had the electricity. It does nothing to them. Only to us. That's... interesting, isn't it?"
"Interesting, miss." Carry seems abstracted, but Miss Paulson persists.
"But Kershaw, Benson, Shipman, Clark... and we..."
"We, miss?"
"We feel it."
"Yes."
"Do you feel it, now?"
"Yes, miss. And...?" Walmsley dare not ask; but Miss Paulson is searching for the truth.
"Yes, Carry. And I, too. I feel it now. It is like a madness within me. I can scarcely sleep. And Carry..."
"Yes, miss?"
"What do we do?"
"Do, miss?"
"I feel impelled to some... some nameless violence. Strange images come to me in the dead of night. I scarcely know my own mind any more."
"Oh, miss... you mean you've never... touched it?"
"Touched what, Carry?"
"Where it tingles?"
"Tell me, Carry."
"Oh miss..." Carry drums her heels upon the floor. "I can't... can't sit here any more..." Carry Walmsley is becoming tearful. Miss Paulson is confused. Why on earth is the girl being so emotional?
"Don't go, Carry!"
"I can't stay, miss."
"What's the matter?"
"It's getting worse and worse, miss."
"What, Carry, what?"
"The feeling, miss. I tried to... tried to... But it kept coming back, stronger and stronger every time..." Blinking away her tears, Walmsley is struggling into her dress.
"Carry, what are you talking about?"
"Don't you see, miss? It's not just that bell. That's not it at all. It's... O Lord! It's thinking of you, miss!" – and with a half-stifled sob, Carry Walmsley rushes precipitately from the room.
Miss Paulson is thoughtful. "It all makes sense: association of ideas – myself, the bell, strong feelings... Strange, how in learning about the science of the body, we find that we learn about the workings of our own minds. There is so much to be done! So much!"
"Ladies, we welcome Miss Smythe to our number. Since she is a member of the battledore team, I thought it would be interesting, upon Miss Walmsley's suggestion, to see whether the electrical current has a comparable effect upon her playing as upon the others. Welcome, Smythe!"
The other girls mutter words of welcome, Penrose and French in a somewhat surly manner.
"Before we introduce Smythe to the wonders of the electrical current, ladies, it occurs to me to investigate in a little more detail a curious phenomenon which we have observed in our noble volunteers. I refer to the dampness." Miss Paulson looks at her pupils to ensure that her meaning is understood.
"You mean, in... er... Queensland, miss?" asks Kershaw.
"Yes, Kershaw, exactly: in Queensland."
Miss Paulson surveys a charming array of girlish blushes – although Smythe naturally looks blank, and Miller tight-lipped.
"Remember, ladies, that in the pursuit of scientific knowledge, notions such as modesty must be disregarded as mere stumbling-blocks, placed in the way of women in order to fetter our understanding and hinder our natural progress."
Miss Paulson's eyes flash at these words, and she is pleased to see an answering glint in several eyes – notably Walmsley's.
"I have noticed, ladies, that some of you others appear to be somewhat affected when one of our brave volunteers receives the electrical current."
Clark's hand goes up at once. "Oh yes, miss, please miss, I find I get really wet and um..."
"Wet, you say, Clark? Would that be... in the place we were referring to before?"
"Ah, yes miss, in Queensland." Clark nods vigorously, trying to suppress a curious little smile that just twitches at the corners of her mouth.
Miss Paulson gazes curiously at her. "Well that is most interesting, Clark. I do believe I have noticed the same thing; and it may be that we are about to stumble upon a phenomenon of the greatest importance for science. Have any other ladies noticed this... reaction, when another person is undergoing the electrical current?" She looks at Kershaw, who blushes and looks down.
"I think so, miss," she says quietly.
"Benson?"
"Yes, miss," mutters Benson, a tinge of red upon her cheek.
"Is something wrong, Benson? Something bothering you?" Miss Paulson asks, apparently surprised at the prefect's embarrassment.
"No, miss. No, um... nothing wrong."
"Well, then. Ah, Denning?"
"Yes, miss, I notice it."
"And... Walmsley?"
Walmsley shrugs her shoulders prettily. There is a blush, too, upon her cheeks. She gives a rapid, nervous little nod.
"Penrose?"
"I hadn't really noticed it, miss."
"I see. Miller?"
"No, miss."
"French?"
"I'm not really sure where you mean, miss."
"No dampness anywhere that you're aware of?"
"No, miss."
"Very well. Is that everybody? – Oh, no: Shipman – what about you?"
"Well, miss, I..." Shipman, too, is flushed, but there is a glint of relish in her modest countenance.
"Shipman wouldn't know, miss. She's wet all the time," says Clark sarcastically, eliciting scattered giggles.
"Shipman, would you be willing to volunteer this time?" asks Miss Paulson.
"Certainly, miss!" Shipman hops nimbly on to the table.
"Walmsley, you apply the contacts, please. Penrose, here is the watch: you will take the pulse. We will use just one cell, I think, this time."
"Oh, miss!" Shipman sounds desolated.
"I just want to see whether you will be able to submit to the treatment a little longer, Shipman, if the current is a little less violent," the teacher explains.
"Oh, I see, miss. Longer, miss..." Shipman closes her eyes and braces herself as Kershaw ties on the bell.
"And just before we begin, Walmsley, let us just examine... Queensland, so that we can verify the changes before and after the application of the current."
Walmsley raises Shipman's skirts. "Looks dry to me, miss."
"Miller, just note what you see, please."
Miller looks quickly over the edge of her notebook, and then writes "Q: drought."
"Very well, Walmsley, apply the contacts as before, please."
Walmsley leans forward, reaching up under Shipman's skirts, until she finds the place which trial and error have shown most effective.
"Are they in contact?"
"Yes, miss."
"Oh, miss, I can't feel anything! It's not strong enough! It's... oh!" Shipman's complaints end prematurely in a little hiccup of surprise.
"Something wrong, Shipman?"
"Mmm..." Shipman closes her eyes and begins to stretch luxuriously. "No... it's all right, miss..." She appears to go to sleep, but occasionally her lips twitch into a smile. The room is very quiet.
"Ninety-two," says Penrose.
Shipman appears very relaxed. There is a long silence.
"One hundred."
After quite a long while, Shipman lets out a little silent giggle.
"Are you feeling something, Shipman?"
Shipman hums dreamily.
"What is the pulse now, Penrose?"
"Still one hundred, miss."
Shipman appears to be breathing a little faster; then, although she seems a little calmer, the bell begins slowly jangling.
"Just draw the skirts back for a moment, Denning," says Miss Paulson softly. "We'll see if there is any change... Well, Miller. Have a look at this!"
Miller notes the time and, having jotted it down, leans slightly as she looks over her notebook. "Oh!" she says, and steps a little nearer. "Oh!"
Miss Paulson murmurs, as if to herself: "It's quite different, isn't it? Quite, quite different."
Miller writes: "Q: abundance of flora. Inundated."
The bell jingles on.
"Are you finding it difficult to keep still, Shipman?" asks Miss Paulson anxiously.
"Oh... it's nice..." is all that Shipman can say.
"One hundred and eight."
"What do you want?" exclaims Denning rudely, as Carter approaches the table.
"I just wanted to ask Miss Paulson something — why, what is the matter with Shipman?"
"She's concentrating. Don't interrupt!"
Shipman's eyes are closed; her brow is tensed in a very slight frown; her lips are parted. She lets out a little moan.
"Oh Shipman, what is the matter?" whispers Carter, anxiously.
Shipman opens her eyes. She begins to moan louder and more insistently.
"One hundred and sixteen."
"Don't distract her!" cries Denning.
The bell jingles more vehemently; and now Shipman seems to be trying to curl up, dragging her arms and legs in towards her body. Penrose and Denning at the arms, and Kershaw at the feet, brace themselves to keep their volunteer in the correct position.
"One hundred and twenty-four," says Penrose in an ominous tone.
"Right! Contacts off now, please, Walmsley," chirps Miss Paulson, and Walmsley straightens, raising Shipman's skirts as she does so.
"O miss! It's... throbbing! O how it tingles! Oh! Oh!" Shipman sobs, "Please couldn't I just have one minute – one minute more?"
"No, Shipman, that's quite enough!"
There is a little commotion as Shipman snatches her right hand free of Penrose's grasp and begins to rub agitatedly at the source of the overwhelming sensations.
"Penrose, you fool! Get her hand!" snaps Walmsley; and after a brief struggle, this is done. Shipman seems to be in considerable distress.
"One hundred and twenty, miss," says Penrose.
"I'm not surprised, with all that struggling," Miss Paulson remarks in a mildly reproving tone. "Really, it is only a little tingling sensation: nothing to become so excited about. Now let us examine the area. Lift her skirts, Walmsley, please."
While Miss Paulson is distracted, Denning decides to blame their favourite scapegoat. "Look at her, Carter. It's all your fault. Why don't you go back to whatever it was you were doing, and leave her alone?"
"Why, what did I do?"
"She was fine until you came along and spoiled everything!"
Carter looks from one accusing face to another. Nobody says anything. Shipman is still sobbing, real tears now. Carter's face gradually collapses from righteous innocence into shamed defeat, and she returns to her bench, shoulders hunched.
Miss Paulson, who has been investigating quite closely, turns to Walmsley in a spirit of scientific curiosity. "Do you think you may be similarly affected, Walmsley?"
Carry Walmsley colours slightly and gives a little nod.
Miss Paulson straightens and addresses the girls. "Ladies: some of us may be suffering an unusual dampness. This is a point of great scientific interest. I would like Miller to note who is and who is not affected."
"Should I go round and check everyone, miss?"
"That is a good idea, Miller."
Miller busily takes notes as, with maidenly blushes, the girls one by one raise their skirts and allow her to assess the degree of dampness. She writes: "Q: Smythe, no. Penrose, hardly. French, no. Clark: plenty. Others: yes."
Shipman is standing now, still somewhat overcome; Clark comforts her. Carter occasionally turns and, unnoticed, casts angry glances in their direction.
"Next," calls out Miss Paulson, "I should like a volunteer from among those girls who have not yet come forward. This is entirely voluntary, but it would greatly help the cause of science. Well, ladies?"
French and Smythe, a little overawed by Shipman's reaction, turn pale; but Penrose offers herself "in the interests of science".
Wisely, Miss Paulson decides to keep Shipman's mind occupied. "Give the gloves to Shipman. She shall apply the contacts this time."
Again, the room quietens to watch as Shipman moistens the contact points. Almost all the girls seem to experience a thrill as a nervous shiver sets the little bell a-jingling.
"One hundred," says Clark, watch in hand. "Don't worry, Vicky," she smiles.
Penrose braces herself, eyes closed.
"Contact!" says Shipman suddenly, and Penrose's eyes fly open. She becomes still, and the bell falls silent.
"I can't feel anything at all," she says. Most of the girls look disappointed; only Shipman wears a confident smile.
"Down to eighty."
After a few moments, Penrose begins to speak again. "I don't think... Oh! Wait a moment..."
Clark leans over her, looking into her eyes, laughing quietly. Penrose's eyes sparkle with merriment now, and she lets out a soft giggle.
"Are you feeling something, now, Vicky?"
"Oh, it's just like... you know... Oh, I had no idea..."
"What are you feeling, Penrose?" asks Miss Paulson.
"I feel... the electrical energy... flowing into me."
"Is it uncomfortable at all?"
"Oh no... it's more like... a kind of itch."
"An itch?"
"Yes, it makes me want to..."
Clark's eyes flash a warning.
"To do what, Penrose?" persists Miss Paulson.
"Oh... to move about..."
"Yes, I think we all felt the same. Notice, Miller, how with the lower voltage, the feelings are less intense, and the girls are better able to describe the sensation."
"Oh, this is so lovely..." Penrose is naturally talkative, and Miller takes careful note. "It feels absolutely... wonderful. Oh... it's growing... growing inside me."
Miss Paulson is most interested. "What, Penrose? What is growing?"
"Oh, the feeling, miss, in fact I think I'm going to..."
"One hundred and twenty."
"Going to what, Penrose?"
"Oh no, it's dying down... no, wait, it's... oh, yes, I'm... oh, yes... oh my goodness..."
Penrose seems to be becoming almost uncontrollably excited, and the bell begins jingling. Shipman, Clark and a number of others seem flushed and agitated. Shipman, in particular, is also making strange motions with her hips. Miss Paulson herself feels an extraordinary elation, and a quick check reveals that her own pulse is racing.
"That's enough, Shipman!"
"I think she'd like just a little more, miss..." says Shipman respectfully, but —
"Shipman! I said enough!"
"They're off, miss," says Shipman sheepishly.
"Oh, miss, may I please be excused?" pleads Penrose.
"Excused? But I thought it was perfectly clear right from the third form that girls are to attend to all necessities before coming into any meeting or lecture. We cannot have disruption, Penrose. No, that is a rule, and we are not sweeping the rules aside for you."
"It is just the effects of the current, I believe, miss," explains Shipman, "I am sure that if she were just to sit for a few minutes, they will pass."
"Thank you, Shipman. Yes, there is a chair over by Carter. Go and sit down."
Penrose goes and sits, whimpering. Out of earshot of the others, who are now preparing Smythe for her first treatment, Carter whispers to the unfortunate girl:
"What's the matter, Penrose?"
"I need to be excused."
"Oh..." Carter clicks her tongue sympathetically. "I'll tell you what you should do: cross your legs tightly and squeeze. That works for me."
Penrose looks dubious, but tries it. "Oh, goodness, Carter!" she says after a few seconds. "However did you discover this?"
"Well, I suppose it was Shipman," admits Carter. "But you have to be careful: after a while you begin to feel rather strange."
"But it feels wonderful!"
"You mean you are feeling something already?"
"Absolutely. Mmm!"
"I thought it wasn't just me. But you do have to be careful, don't you know."
"Oh, you can trust me, Carter. You're a friend, you know. Thanks for telling me."
"Oh, that's all right." Carter turns to her generating machine. It is almost ready to test; connecting the coils has proved a little harder than expected, but she is getting the hang of it now.
"Um... Carter."
"Yes?"
"You know Shipman and Clark are always going out walking together?"
"I know very well. I don't want even to think about it... Oh, fiddlesticks!" her hand has slipped.
"Do you want me to hold that still for you?"
"If you wouldn't mind. Thank you."
Penrose moves her chair closer and holds one of the wires.
"Would you like to come for a walk with me tomorrow?" she whispers to Carter.
"I? With you? You wouldn't be ashamed to be seen with me?" Carter's voice is high and quiet.
Penrose bites her lip. She herself has often been unkind to Carter, both to her face and behind her back. Actually, Carter is not that bad, really.
"I'm sorry..." is all she can say.
Carter is intent on joining the wires. They do not speak for a few minutes. When Smythe's bell begins jangling, Penrose does not react: she is watching Carter's hands at their careful work. Eventually, it is done. Carter looks up. Penrose looks at Carter's deep violet eyes: yes, one of them is looking piercingly into hers.
"Thank you for asking me, Penrose. Yes, yes, I should like that."
Penrose smiles.
Carter smiles back, just a very little. The effect is beguiling. Penrose looks away and blinks: she has just made two very surprising discoveries.
Miller, too, has made an interesting discovery. She has been carefully noting the degree of wetness of all the girls: Smythe, after her first treatment, was decidedly damp, and only the briefest of pats was necessary to confirm the similar state of all but French. Clark, however, insisted that she feel properly, and even went so far as to press her fingers quite hard against – and it must be said, into – her most tender person. The act of touching seemed to cause Clark extreme gratification, and Miller was surprised at how agreeable was the sensation upon her fingers of the warm, succulent, sensitive flesh. She was reminded of one of Mr Bentham's classifications of pleasure mentioned by Shipman in a recent lecture, and has noted in the margin: "Pleasure of touch". And now, much to her surprise, she has noticed an unfamiliar sensation in her own personal Queensland, one which may well merit some private investigation later, when she can obtain some privacy. It would be pleasant indeed, would it not, if her own parts could afford her fingertips such a delicious sensation? And is not the investigation of pleasure a most worthy aim of science?
But now French has finally been induced to conquer her fears, and submit to the electrical force which has so reinvigorated the other girls. The pattern repeats itself in a manner most gratifying to the scientific mind: Smythe, who is holding French's violently twitching hand, is clearly as affected as all the other girls; and even Penrose, sitting over by Carter in a strange, contorted posture, seems to be in some sort of sympathetic delirium. This is curious, for she is not directly observing the proceedings.
"Miss?"
"Yes, Miller?"
Miller points at Penrose. "Obviously affected, miss, even though she's not directly watching. Could it be the sound of the bell, do you think?"
"Miller," declares Miss Paulson with a triumphant gleam, "I do believe you have the makings of a scientist. It requires imagination, which you as a poet seem to have in abundance." Miss Paulson is amused to see Miller's pretty blush at the compliment. "It would seem that in those who have received the treatment, even the sound of the bell, by association of ideas, produces a sympathetic reaction. This is an important observation, which may lead to further great discoveries in the future."
"Yes, miss."
"And now you had better just check the girls, to confirm our theory."
"Very good, miss."
Quickly, and as delicately as she can, she makes her rounds. As before, Clark invites a more thorough probing, which Miller is happy to accept, until, seeing Miss Paulson's questioning eye, she pushes Miller away and smoothes her dress decorously.
Having completed her entries, Miller suddenly remembers that surely she, too, should be part of the experiment; and so, modestly, she turns away and feels her own personal corner of Australia. It is a dazzlingly pleasant, but inconvenient discovery. She can scarcely believe what she feels: for not only is she quite as damp as Clark had been, but her fingers seem unable to tear themselves from their exploration, as if they cannot believe their own evidence, but must constantly move back and forth, confirming her own engorged and slippery condition.
"Is something the matter, Miller?" asks Miss Paulson, noting their faithful scribe's apparent preoccupation.
Miller tears her hand away and wheels round, slightly flushed. "Sorry, miss, just completing my notes." And, exercising that poetic imagination of which Miss Paulson so approves, she writes: "Miller: dry." For sometimes the prosaic truth is damaging to the beauty of scientific theory.
"Thank you, ladies," Miss Paulson dismisses the girls once the equipment has been tidied away. As usual, Carry Walmsley is the last to leave.
"Oh miss," she says softly, her blue eyes lustrously appealing.
"Yes, Walmsley?"
"I was wondering if you could explain something to me, miss?"
There it is again: that little sideways movement of the jaw.
"Of course, Walmsley. Come, sit down."
"Miss, I'm not sure I quite understand this hypothesis about sympathetic reaction. Could you just rehearse it for me?"
"Certainly, Walmsley. As you know, Hume believed that if two ideas are constantly conjoined, the mind forms an association. So, for example, if we experience a sensation such as that induced by the electrical current, and our bodies naturally react in a certain way, let us say by producing a particular fluid, and this occurrence is conjoined by the ringing of a little bell..."
"Tied to our toe..."
"Just so, tied to our toe... then it is possible that the idea of the sensations, and the idea of the sound of the bell, may become associated in our minds. So, for example, if I just take the little bell and ring it..."
As she jingles the little bell, Carry begins to rock to and fro, clutching her hands in her lap. "Oh, miss... Oh miss! I feel it!"
"You are becoming a little damp again?"
"Oh, miss, I feel such a tingling and such an aching inside when I hear that sound!"
"I confess, I do myself, a little," admits Miss Paulson with a little chuckle. "And that is because the sound is associated with the sensation, and the sensation with the bodily reaction."
"But miss, I feel the bodily reaction at other times, too: not only when I hear the bell."
"Oh, Walmsley? Perhaps it is associated with other ideas."
"I feel it, miss... Oh, I feel it whenever I think of you."
"Oh Miss Walmsley, you cannot be serious."
"Oh but I am, miss. I am just looking at you now. And inside, I feel such strong emotions that they amaze me. Oh miss: do you think that I am beautiful?"
"Carry! You must not ask me such a question!"
"Am I ugly, then?"
"O Lord, no! No, Carry – never ugly: you are the sweetest, the most... O Lord!" Miss Paulson claps her hand to her mouth, but the word is out.
"Oh Miss Paulson: you cannot imagine! You cannot imagine how I burn when I look upon you. It is as if the electrical current is surging through my body!"
"Oh Carry! You must not say such things!"
"Why not? Why not, when it's true? See me, I burn for you! And more! Oh, I... I melt for you!"
"Carry, darling, hush!"
"I can show you. Look: look and see." Delicately, Carry reaches to her knee and raises her skirts. As her pretty calves are revealed, Miss Paulson feels her heart fluttering, a strange tightness in her chest.
"Oh Carry, I can't..."
"Am I ugly, miss?"
"No, Carry, no... My fingers, I..."
But Carry draws her skirts higher, gathers them about her waist, jubilant at Miss Paulson's helpless gasp. "Do you like me?"
"Oh Carry, so fine, so fine! They look so smooth, so..."
"Touch them, miss. Tell me if they are as smooth as they look."
Miss Paulson reaches out, then hesitates. But Carry's head is back a little, her breast heaving, her eyes closed, her lips parted in sweet anticipation.
"Oh Carry, how I have fought your beauty! Night and day! But now, your mouth... so red... I can no longer..."
It is her first real kiss. Afraid of its instinctive passion, and still more of the power in such yielding softness, of the unfamiliar thrills that threaten to convulse her, Miss Paulson draws back a little.
"Touch me," Carry breathes. She pursues her with her lips until they lightly brush; and even this lightest touch sends thrills of such piercing pleasure through Miss Paulson that she falls upon her beautiful pupil in a yet warmer passion. Only Carry's excess of pleasure, and the need to gasp endearments, force their lips apart for the briefest of intervals before resuming their ardent union.
"My fingers, my fingers... They cannot resist you... How is it that you are so wonderfully beautiful?"
"Oh Miss Paulson... I feel such delight in your touch! Do not desist, I beg you!"
"Oh Carry... I cannot stop myself! What is happening to me?"
"Dear Miss Paulson... I feel just as if the electrical current were flowing into me! The touch of your gentle fingers seems to inflame my entire body! I ache for you: it is an all-consuming hunger!"
"You ache for me? O what is happening to us, Carry? What is happening?"
"Oh miss, even the very thought of you does this to me. Look, and see!"
"Oh, Carry!" For a moment, their embrace is broken, and Miss Paulson's eyes are naturally drawn to that most delicate, hidden area. Gently she parts Carry's legs with her thumbs, her face aglow with wonder. "It's beautiful! I had simply no idea!"
"It is alive, miss. It throbs and it yearns; it aches for your tender touch... whenever I think of you. It gives me no rest. I can think of nothing else."
"Why, Carry, this is terrible. Then you must stop thinking of me!"
"But how can I? Your slightest frown wounds my heart. Your least smile thrills me through and through. It is as if your every sentiment is magnified tenfold within me. How can I not think of the lady who rules my heart? I ache for your kiss: I will die without it – Oh! Again! More!"
Miss Paulson's lips are tender, worshipful; Carry's, avid.
"Oh Carry you are so, so beautiful..."
"What you do to me... Here... your hand... feel me..."
"Oh Carry, what..."
"Feel me! O touch me! Soothe away my pain!"
"What, Carry – what must I do?"
"Just here... O I beg you... Aah! Your touch is such bliss!"
"Just there, Carry? Really? Just there?"
"Just there, miss."
"Like this?"
"Oh, miss, you cannot imagine... I beg you... I beg you not to stop, it is so..."
"Oh Carry you feel so delicious... Kiss me again..."