Miss Strang Chapter 59
By Governess

liviaarbuthnot1@gmail.com

Copyright 2010 by Governess, all rights reserved

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This story is intended for ADULTS ONLY. It contains explicit depictions of sexual activity involving minors. If you are not of a legal age in your locality to view such material or if such material does not appeal to you, do not read further, and do not save this story.
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Chapter 59

A tear fell on his book. I watched as it slowly soaked into the page. Again he tried to hold his pen but his fingers were too numb and his hand shook. The minutes ticked by.

When the tide comes flooding in and the choice is between climbing the cliff face or drowning, most will attempt the impossible. Most will scramble up, bruising hands and feet, seeking desperately to insert bleeding fingers and broken nails into the rock face. Fighting for every toehold. Inching up. Away from the suffocating sea below.

John knew that he had no hope of completing the assignment he had been set. And so did Miss Strang as she worked at her own desk, leaving him to decide whether to attempt to scale the cliff before him, or to offer himself to the incoming tide.

A more determined boy, a boy who had some spunk and fight in him, might have attempted the impossible. Might have tried to steady the pencil with his mouth, might even have dared to ask whether he might wait for the numbness to ease before attempting the exercise. If he had shown but a soupçon of initiative, Miss Strang might have commended him. But it was not to be. He sat there limp and hunched, fidgeting with his hands, waiting for the tide to sweep him away. He was crying quietly. Tears of self-pity. Tears of hopelessness. Tears of frustration. A short while ago he had been elated, commended for an excellent piece of work. Now he was cast into the pit.

After a while, his governess looked up.

"Well, John, I see no attempt at work."

"I . . . I can't Miss Strang."

"Very well. Another exercise is left undone. How many long division problems were set?"

"Twelve, Miss Strang."

"And you have done none. Not one."

"But Miss Strang I can't."

"Then you must be punished."

"No . . no . . please Miss Strang."

"You think that I ought to spare you further punishment? Because you cannot hold and steady a pencil or pen? Is that right?"

There was a beguiling sweetness in her voice.

"Please, Miss Strang."

"I see."

There was a long pause. A pause in which she allowed hope to take root.

"But why is it that you are unable to hold a pencil?"

"Be . . because my hand has been strapped . . . Miss Strang."

"And why was that?"

"Because I didn't do the right exercise, Miss Strang."

"Yes. And why did you not do the right exercise?"

"Be . . because I went to the wrong page."

She raised her eyebrows questioningly.

" . . . Miss Strang."

"Yes. And why was that?"

"Because . . . I didn't listen . . . Miss Strang."

She paused.

"And you are suggesting that you should not be punished for leaving another complete test unattempted? Well? Is that what you are saying?"

That was what he believed. But he had the good sense not to say so.

"No . . no, Miss Strang."

"Good. That is as it should be. It is not for a boy to question the decisions of his governess."

She ran her hand up and down the back of his neck and he twisted like a cat being stroked.

"You do understand, John, that a child in the schoolroom is subject to his governess. Subject to her in all things. He has no duties other than to obey her. He has no rights other than those she confers. He has no freedoms other than those she permits. You do understand that?"

"Yes, Miss Strang."

She continued to rub her hand slowly up and down the nape of his neck.

"Then, I can see no reason why you should not have fifty strokes of the tawse applied to each hand until they are so bruised and raw that you will been unable to hold anything for a week? Do you?"

He hung his head, utterly defeated, his mouth dry so that he could barely speak."

"N . . no, Miss Strang."

She smiled, savouring his abject capitulation. He was completely still, hardly breathing.

"You see, John, the nursery and the schoolroom are my kingdom, and a governess makes and administers the laws of that kingdom exactly as she chooses. She may demand the last farthing or she may be merciful. And there is no appeal from her decisions. None. Your father agreed to that when I accepted the position. That I was to have complete authority over you. Do you understand?"

"Ye .. yes, Miss Strang."

"Sometimes it is good for a child to be set a difficult, even an impossible, task. Rarely do I remit punishment. It is not a kindness to do so."

She frowned.

"Today, children are treated with exceptional leniency. And grace is thereby destroyed. If a child is constantly given presents, then a gift becomes an entitlement and ceases to have the character of a gift. If a child is forever spared the rod then he will expect mercy as a right and be resentful when it is not forthcoming. But that is not my way."

She continued to rub his neck, sometimes gently scratching it. He sat still listening as if in the jungle fearing a leopard may be crouching nearby.

"In my grandfather's day children were subject to the same laws as adults. And the same penalties. A boy who made a habit of stealing or damaging property, a boy who was intentionally wicked, could be hanged."

She placed her thumb and forefinger around his neck and gently squeezed it.

"My grandfather told me that when he was about your age, he was taken to see a boy hanged. The boy was small and probably aged about seven. Younger than you, John. He had burnt down a old woman's cottage. Fortunately, she escaped and was completely uninjured. But that was not enough to save him. He was brought out from the court house and a noose placed around his neck. And the other end thrown over a low beam of wood above him."

John was wide-eyed. There was no inattention now.

"And then the charge was read.

That you, John Arbuthnot, in the County of Northumberland, have been found guilty of wilfully, criminally and maliciously burning down the cottage of Mary Ann Stanley with no regard to the wellbeing of the said Mary Ann Stanley. And you have been sentenced by a court duly and legally constituted in this realm of Our Sovereign Lord, George, King of Hanover and of the United Kingdom of Great Brtain and Ireland, to be hanged by the neck until you be dead. And may God have mercy on your soul. Do you have anything to say?

My grandfather said that he had never seen a boy look so puzzled. He said nothing, simply staring blankly. Then the other end of the rope was jerked up and wound tightly around the wooden beam and nailed firmly in place. He was left helpless and dangling, barely on tip toe. The rope biting into his soft little neck. Can you imagine how he desperately fought for breath? How he tried to strain up on his toes? How he squealed as only a small boy can squeal? He could feel the cool air on his face. Air for all the world. Air to breathe in deeply and enjoy. But not for him, John. His hands had not been bound and he reached up with thin arms and tried to pull himself up on the rope. Can you imagine how he kicked and writhed, fighting for breath and for life. My grandfather said that he had never known a crowd so silent as they watched the boy struggle in desperate agony for nearly twenty minutes before he died. And then they left him suspended for two hours as a warning to other small boys to behave and to obey the law."

She paused, a little breathless by the narration.

"Rarely can it be right to spare a child the penalty due."

She paused.

"But on this occasion I choose do so. Albeit reluctantly. From it you may learn how utterly dependent you are upon my will and upon my favour. The exercise you have failed to complete will be done at another time."

I was barely aware of her words. Her account of the boy's hanging had left me feeling dazed and yet also as though my sensitivity had been raised to a new level. I knew that had I lived all those years ago, that I, too, would have been drawn to the sight of that small, seven year old boy being hanged. That I, too, would have watched with dry-mouthed fascination as the rope was placed around his neck. Watched his desperate struggles as the life was slowly choked out of him. And I suddenly felt an acute sense of loss that I never would be able to see such a sight.

Miss Strang was severe, but never gratuitously cruel. For her punishment was a gift of God given to restrain wrongdoing, to teach godly behaviour, and above all as a just retribution to cancel the power of sin. And it was able to do the last only because it ministered in an ineffable way the retribution exacted by God, the Father from His Son on the cross. And for Miss Strang, this severe truth gave a terrible beauty to punishment.

Adam and Eve were expelled from Eden for the mere stealing of an apple. The smallest sin, however slight, is sufficient to open the gates of Hell. That a small boy should go to the scaffold for his wrongdoing was not an affront to Miss Strang. Did not God sanction the tearing apart of the children who baited the prophet Elisha? And was not a child who raised a hand against a parent or who cursed a parent to be put to death under God's Old Testament law?

To punish an errant child was an act of mercy. For every stripe laid on his quivering flesh was a healing stripe. They healed because of the stripes that had been laid upon the naked and broken body of Christ. In some small way, a child participated in the passion of Christ and in His offering of himself to His Father as a sacrifice for our sins.

Miss Strang, with her calm imperious good looks and her commanding presence, had the authority and aura of an antique priestess. A priestess of Sparta who oversaw the annual flogging of young boys at the altar of Artemis Orthia, as a test of their endurance and virility. Punishment might be a means of grace, but it was, too, a training in manliness, in the ability to suffer without tears and complaint. And it was in this that she found my brother so sorely wanting.

"Stand up, John and come out here. There are four more strokes to give."

He rose and stepped round to the front of his desk, and stood where she indicted.

"Take off your shoes and socks."

When that was accomplished and the shoes had been placed neatly under the desk he was made to turn around and bend over the desk.

"Right over, please, John. And hold the far edge."

He did so, nervously nibbling his lips, tremulous and fearful. She walked across to her own desk, took something out, and dropped it into the pocket of her dress. For perhaps half a minute, she stood staring at the boy running the tawse through her hand.

Then, with a faint smile, she reached under the hem of the blue velvet dress and slowly, and with deliberation, slithered it up his legs, slipping her hands closely over his thighs. And then when the dress was well rucked up, she took two safety pins out of her pocket and pinned it to his shoulders. There was a cool gust from the open window. He shivered.

(To be continued)