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Title: Peggy from Kerry
Author: Meade, L. T.
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Peggy from Kerry" ***
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[Illustration: MOLLY AND JESSIE STOLE SOFTLY INTO THE ROOM TO LOOK AT
HER.—_Page 30._]
PEGGY FROM KERRY
BY
MRS. L. T. MEADE
AUTHOR OF “FOR DEAR DAD,” “THE GIRLS OF MERTON COLLEGE,” “KITTY
O’DONOVAN,” “OCEANA’S GIRLHOOD,” “A WILD IRISH GIRL,” ETC.
_WITH FOUR HALF-TONE ILLUSTRATIONS
BY MARTIN LEWIS_
NEW YORK
HURST & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1912,
BY
HURST & COMPANY
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. AT HOME 1
II. THE JOURNEY 10
III. AT PRESTON MANOR 16
IV. ADVENTURES AT FARMER ANDERSON’S 30
V. PEGGY LOST AND FOUND 42
VI. PEGGY’S ESCAPADE 55
VII. MARY WELSH TO THE RESCUE 69
VIII. PEGGY AND HER SCHOOL COMPANIONS 93
IX. THE IMP OF THE RED GABLES 109
X. THE HOWARD BEQUEST 125
XI. ADVENTURE IN THE HOCKEY-FIELD 135
XII. THE CULPRITS INTERVIEWED 153
XIII. PEGGY GOES TO THE UPPER SCHOOL 168
XIV. MRS. FLEMING’S TROUBLES 180
XV. THE CULPRITS IN COUNCIL 197
XVI. THE PRINCIPAL INTERROGATES 212
XVII. GRACE AND ANNE IN TROUBLE 225
XVIII. THE GIRLS AT PRESTON MANOR 242
XIX. “I’LL GIVE HER A CHANCE” 255
XX. RESTITUTION 274
XXI. PREPARING FOR THE COMPETITION 293
XXII. KITTY’S TREACHERY 306
XXIII. DISCOVERY AND FLIGHT 327
ILLUSTRATIONS
Molly and Jessie stole softly into the room to look at
her _Frontispiece_
PAGE
“That man, Peggy, is your father” 63
In an instant Peggy had sprung on his back and was
careering round and round the paddock 148
“Glory be!” answered Peggy; “you ask Kitty if she’d like
me to finish _that_ sentence” 243
PEGGY FROM KERRY.
CHAPTER I.
AT HOME.
“It’s really the most horrible thing!” said Mrs. Wyndham. “I don’t know
what to do about it; and your father is so determined! I can’t shake his
confidence that he is right, do as I will.”
“But what is it, mother? Whatever can be the matter?” asked Molly
Wyndham, a sweet, gentle-looking girl of about fifteen years of age.
“Yes, what is it?” chimed in Jessie, another daughter, one year Molly’s
senior.
“Why, it’s this, my dears. I assure you it has quite prostrated me, and
it’s all on your account.”
Jessie, brimful of curiosity, wanted to ply her mother with questions;
but Molly took a wiser course.
“Jess,” she said, “can’t you see how tired and fagged the mums
looks?—Sit in this easy-chair, mums, and take things quietly for a
minute.”
Mrs. Wyndham’s eyes filled with tears. She was a really kind-hearted
woman and was much loved in the neighbourhood of Preston Manor, her
husband’s beautiful house. She was kind to her poor neighbours, and
liked well her position as Lady Bountiful to the parish. But, with all
her open-handedness and generosity, there was a streak of worldliness in
Mrs. Wyndham, and that worldliness made what was just going to happen
intensely disagreeable to her. She was proud of her home, her children,
her husband, proud of her husband’s position as the Squire of Preston
Manor; and just now, as she considered it, that pride of hers was to
receive a fall. The girls Molly and Jessie, the Wyndhams’ only
daughters—there was a son called Jack some years older—were enjoying
their Easter holidays when the blow, so unlooked-for, so unexpected,
fell.
Molly knelt down by her mother and took her hand.
“What is it, darling?” she began. “Whatever it is, be sure of one
thing—we’ll stick to you whatever happens.”
“Oh, it’s nothing of that sort, Molly; I mean, I don’t quite know what
you’re alluding to, my child. But I may as well tell you. You have
surely heard your father talk of his great friend Peter Desmond?”
“Certainly we have,” said Jess.
“Why, of course, mother,” exclaimed Molly. “And haven’t we laughed and
laughed over Captain Desmond’s funny Irish stories? Oh, is it possible
that he’s coming to see us at last? That will be fun!”
“No, it isn’t that, Molly; it’s something very different, something very
sad. Poor Captain Desmond has just died of typhoid fever in India, and
now, my darlings, comes the crux. He wrote on his deathbed to your
father, making a sort of confession. He said that long ago, in Ireland,
in the County Kerry, he met a beautiful Irish peasant girl, fell in love
with her, and married her. They had one little daughter, and the mother
died at the child’s birth. The little girl was brought up by her
maternal grandparents until they died; then for the last five or six
years some people of the name of O’Flynn took charge of her, her father
paying them for doing so. The O’Flynns are very poor and common sort of
people. The girl is fifteen years of age, and has lived all her life in
Irish cabins in the County Kerry. Now, Peter Desmond on his deathbed
told your father that the child is penniless, except for a small annuity
which she will get from the Government as his daughter. He has asked
your father to adopt this poor girl, to bring her here—here!—and to let
her grow up as a lady; and your father says he will. Nothing will turn
him, no amount of imploring on my part; he has made up his mind. Captain
Desmond was his dearest friend. He is going to Ireland to-night to fetch
this child—Peggy, he calls her. Now, what is to be done?”
Mrs. Wyndham burst into tears. “To think of such a creature coming to
us!” she said. “Why, even the servants would be ashamed of her.”
Jess, the eldest girl, was quite silent; but Molly, after a moment’s
pause, kissed her mother’s flushed cheek and said:
“Well, mums, I do think that father could do nothing else.”
Mrs. Wyndham gazed at the child in despair.
“It’s very hard on mums, I must say,” exclaimed Jessie.
“Yes, of course,” answered Molly; “but still it’s right. Right things
are often hard,” she added.—“And, mother, we’ll look after her; you
mustn’t be worried,” continued the girl.
“But it is on account of you both that I am so unhappy. Oh,” continued
the good lady, “you have never seen an Irish peasant! She is a most
disgraceful creature!”
“Oh mother, but this girl is a lady by birth!”
“On her father’s side,” said Mrs. Wyndham; “but what about her mother?
Her father, as well as I can tell, has never troubled himself even to
see her, and now he hands her over to us. I do call it terrible!”
As Mrs. Wyndham spoke she rose from her chair and stood for a few
minutes looking out of the window at the peaceful landscape.
“Mother,” said Jessie suddenly, “couldn’t she go to school for a
bit—until she’s polished up a little, I mean? Oh, I don’t mean to our
school, of course, but to some other school.”
“I thought of that, my dears; but your father won’t have it. He says
that if the child comes here she is to be treated from the first as a
lady, as a daughter of the house; and if possible, and we can get Mrs.
Fleming to take her, she is to go to your school at The Red Gables.”
“Oh mother!”
Both girls looked rather dismayed at this prospect. Mrs. Wyndham soon
afterwards left them. She had to attend to her husband, who was making
preparations for his journey.
“Now, my darling,” he said, as he kissed his wife affectionately, “you
know, my dearest Lucy, there is nothing else to be done. Desmond was my
best friend, and I’d rather die than neglect his child.”
Soon afterwards Mrs. Wyndham was left alone to her own reflections, and
to the eager comments of her young daughters, who were full of curiosity
about Peggy Desmond, wondering what sort of young savage would soon
arrive at Preston Manor.
Meanwhile, Wyndham took train to Holyhead, crossed over to Dublin, and
then took train from Dublin to Kerry. He arrived in the neighbourhood of
the well-known town of Tralee in the course of the following afternoon;
and, having inquired for the O’Flynns, was directed to their “bit of a
house,” as the neighbour described it. Wyndham was a tall, well-set-up
man of about forty years of age; he had a pleasant, kindly face, bright
blue eyes, and was, in short, every inch a gentleman.
Now, no one in all the world knows better who is a gentleman and who is
not than the peasant of Ireland. He sees who belong to the “quality,” as
he calls it, and who does not, at a single glance; he also sees this
fact, although one man may be dressed in rags and the other have a
carriage and smart clothes, his ring with a diamond in it, and his swell
manners. Mr. Wyndham was pronounced by the old man who directed him to
the O’Flynns as a “oner.” “Why, thin, sure a gintleman to the innermost
bone of him.”
He entered the small lane—or, rather, as the man shouted to him,
“boreen”—and, walking down its narrow, pretty path, soon found himself
outside a small cottage, which was surrounded by a sort of ill-kept
farmyard. Some pigs were grunting and poking their noses into the soft
earth, a dog sprang up at his approach and ran towards him, barking, a
cat leaped out of sight and sprang into the branches of a neighbouring
tree.
A girl who was standing by the cottage door came forward.
“An’ what may yer honour want?” she asked.
Wyndham looked at her curiously and with a sort of tremble at his heart.
The girl bore a striking resemblance to his dearest friend, Peter
Desmond. She had very large, dark-blue eyes, the true heritage of a
Kerry girl; those eyes were put in, as is the proverbial expression,
with “dirty fingers.” The thick, curly, long black lashes were lowered
for an instant, then the eyes, bright as stars, fixed themselves on the
stranger’s face. The girl’s hair was of a tawny shade, with a very
slight touch, an almost imperceptible touch, of red in it; it was very
thick, very long, and curled in fascinating little waves all over her
small head. She wore a blue cotton frock which came down just above her
ankles, coarse white stockings, and hobnailed shoes. Under her arm she
carried a big dish filled with all sorts of farm refuse, which she had
prepared to give to the fowls. Her sleeves were pushed up as far as her
elbows, showing her pretty rounded arms, which were, however, reddened
through exposure to all weathers.
“I need hardly ask your name,” said Wyndham. “You are, of course, Peggy
Desmond?”
“Arrah, thin, I be,” answered the girl. “An’ what may ye be wantin’ wid
me, yer highness?”
Wyndham put out his hand and took the rather dirty little one of Peggy
Desmond.
“I have come from your father, my dear.”
“Ah! an’ wisha! have ye? Why, thin, I haven’t had a line from hisself
this many a day. Is he took with the sickness forby, or does anything
ail him at all, at all?”
“Peggy, do you love your father?”
“Why, thin, yes, yer highness; only I never clapped eyes on him since I
was a tweeny bit that high, yer highness.”
“My poor little girl, your father is dead!”
“Dead!” The girl started back. “Ah, thin, I want to let a screech out o’
me! Dead! is he dead? Oh, the holy powers! An’ is his sowl in glory?”
“I hope so, Peggy. I have heard from him. He was my greatest friend
always.”
“Ye look too mighty fine to have a friend like me father, that ye do.”
“But your father was a gentleman, Peggy.”
“Ah, well!” said Peggy. She drew a long breath. Suddenly the tears rose
brimming up to her eyes. “I don’t like to think that he is in the
ground,” she said. “Did they lay him out proper—at a wake, belike?”
“I don’t think so, my child. He died in India of fever.”
“Faver, was it? It’s a mighty cruel thing is faver.”
“Yes, Peggy; and before he died he wrote me a letter. He has given you
to me.”
“What!”
“Yes, you must come with me, my child; I want to be a father to you.”
The girl looked at him. Up to the present she had scarcely taken in his
words; now her face turned white and the tears dropped fast from her
eyes. She said, “Hould a bit! whist, for the Lord’s sake!” and rushed
into the cabin.—“Biddy O’Flynn! Biddy O’Flynn!” she cried, “come
along—ye and Patrick—this blessed minute. There’s a gintleman mightiness
from foreign parts come to say that me father’s dead, an’—oh
glory!—never waked at all, at all; nothing done proper for his sowl. And
me here to go away wid his highness. I won’t! I won’t! Biddy, ye won’t
let me go, will ye?”
A blear-eyed, very ancient woman rose from her seat by the fireside. She
was smoking a short black pipe, and came out presently into the sunshine
to stare at the stranger. She was followed by her husband, a little
crooked man, who limped, and supported himself on a crutch.
“Now, my good people,” said Wyndham, “I have come to fetch Miss Desmond.
Her poor father, Captain Desmond, is dead, and has put her into my
charge. I want to catch the next train to Dublin, and will take her with
me. You have been very kind to her, and I am prepared to pay you
handsomely for your services.”
“Never a bit o’ money I’ll take for the colleen,” answered Patrick
O’Flynn.
“Nor me nayther!” cried the old crone, “except what the Captain’s sent
us hisself, through the Protestant clergyman, Mr. Wynne, yer highness,
an’ that was a pound a month, no more an’ no less.”
“Well, if you won’t take money from me you must at least receive my
grateful thanks, and perhaps I may be able to show my gratitude in
another way. Perhaps Peggy can tell me what you want most?”
But Peggy’s black lashes were lowered, and one big tear after another
was dropping on the ground. She did not attempt to dry her tears, but
let them roll down her soft, delicately-tinted cheeks. Her whole
attitude was that of a terribly frightened and also half-savage young
creature. “I’m not goin’ along ov him,” she suddenly cried, “don’t ye
fear, Mammy O’Flynn darlint.”
As the child spoke she flung her pretty arms around the neck of the old
woman. “I’ll stay along wid ye,” she whispered. “What ’u’d the cows an’
the little hins an’ the turkeys, an’ the lambs do widout me, I’d like to
know? Oh mammy, I won’t go wid that mightiness to England, not ef ye pay
me in gould. Sure! an’ that’s the gospel truth I’m after sayin’.”
But Bridget O’Flynn had different views. She looked the child all over,
then she gave an earnest, comprehensive gaze at the handsome,
well-spoken gentleman. After a long pause, she loosened the little arms
from round her neck.
“Colleen,” she said, “ye’ll do what’s right an’ proper. Ef he can prove
that the father ov ye has handed ye over to hisself, why, wid him ye
must go. Oh sor, don’t I recall as well as it were yesterday when the
mother of this child married with his mightiness Captain Desmond; an’
wasn’t we proud of ’em both jest? Ah, sure, the mother were tuk when the
babe were born; but we had a beautiful wake over her, that we had, there
wasn’t wan present that didn’t get dead drunk at it—an’ what more can ye
want, yer honour?”
Wyndham gave a stiff bow.
Old Pat now came forward. “Faix, child,” he said, “ye must go wid his
honour ef his honour can prove that he is takin’ ye wid yer father’s
consint. Now, sure then, yer honour, it’s a Protestant we has brought
her up, though her mother was a Catholic; but it wor the Captain’s wish
that she should be trained in his own religion. Hadn’t ye better spake
to Mr. Wynne, the Protestant clergyman, that lives jest beyant? I’ll
take ye to him ef ye wish, yer honour. Ye can spake wid him, for he
knows the thwist o’ yer tongue, which is more than me an’ herself can
foller.”
This advice was gladly followed by poor Wyndham. The Reverend George
Wynne proved himself kind and sympathetic. He accepted a ten-pound note
from Wyndham for the use of the O’Flynns; and Peggy, who had been their
right hand, who had practically farmed their little bit of land for
them, had milked their cows, and attended to their hens, and sold their
eggs and butter, and kept the tiny cabin wonderfully clean, would soon
be on her way to Dublin—on her way to Dublin City, carrying with her a
broken heart, for sure she hated foreign parts, and what wish had she to
live “wid the quality?”
CHAPTER II.
THE JOURNEY.
When Peggy Desmond found, as she expressed it, “all the world set agen
me,” she shed no more tears. A look of proud resignation passed over her
face, and she went up to her attic, where she had always slept the
healthy sleep of a child who knew neither care nor sorrow, and packed
her few belongings in a shabby little black trunk which her father had
bought for her peasant mother to use during their brief honeymoon. How
little there was to put into the trunk, but how precious that little was
to Peggy! They were mostly tokens from the neighbours, who came flying
from every direction to see the colleen and to wish her God speed. Her
own little wardrobe was of the scantiest: two blue cotton frocks for
week-days, and a rough, coarse serge for Sundays; a shabby little hat,
trimmed with a piece of faded blue ribbon, which she never put on her
curly head except when she went to church to listen to “his riverance”
preach. “Sure thin,” she used to whisper to herself, “I’d a sight
rayther be goin’ to Mass with Mammy and Daddy O’Flynn.” But the old
people were very strict. Captain Desmond wished his daughter to be
brought up a Protestant, and a Protestant she should be. Peggy, however,
refused point-blank to attend Sunday school; but once every Sunday she
went to church, and she received a certain amount of tuition on
week-days at the board school until she was fourteen years of age, when
her education was supposed to be complete. She was a clever little girl,
and could read well, write well, and spell correctly; she also knew her
“tables,” as she expressed it, “an’ sure, what did a body want more in
the figurin’ line?” She was taught by the nuns of the convent near her
home, however, to make exquisite crochet lace, wonderfully like real
lace, and this she used to sell for the benefit of her adopted father
and mother. Yes, her simple life was truly happy, she loved every one
and every one loved her; she was exceedingly pretty, and when she was
older would be beautiful. But now what a cruel and torturing fate had
overtaken her!
But if pretty little Peggy Desmond shed passionate tears in her corner
of the first-class carriage, where Wyndham had placed her, there surely
were few men in the length and breadth of Ireland more perplexed than
he. With all his wildest ideas he had never dreamt of bringing a
creature like Peggy Desmond into his stately home. Her appearance, her
dress, her accent, her absolute and complete ignorance of even the
rudiments of refined life, appalled him. He could bear these things for
the sake of his dead friend; but what would his wife say? Already she
was angry at the intrusion of the girl into their midst, but then she
had not yet seen the girl. When she did! Poor Wyndham felt his heart
beat fast. What was to be done? How was he to train this poor little
creature? Was she, during their journey, to receive the first rudiments
of education, the first rudiments of introduction into that state of
life which, as her father’s daughter, she inherited?
After weeping till she could weep no longer, the child fell into a heavy
sleep, and the train was reaching Dublin when she awoke with a violent
start and a cry of “Oh wurra, wurra me! wherever be I, at all, at all?”
She looked with terror across the carriage at Wyndham, who now thought
the time had come to take a place near her and hold her hand. “Peggy,”
he said.
“Yes, sor—yer mightiness, I mane.”
“Don’t call me that, Peggy. Peggy dear, listen. Listen hard, I want to
explain things to you.”
She fixed her lovely eyes on his face. Until she opened her lips—and
yet, even then, her brogue was soft and winsome—how beautiful and
refined was her charming little face!
“Peggy, my child, I was your father’s greatest friend.”
“Were ye then? Bedad then, I don’t care.”
“But you ought to care, Peggy.”
“I can’t help it, yer honour, I want to be back in Kerry, along ov Mammy
an’ Daddy O’Flynn.”
“But you wouldn’t disobey your dead father, would you, Peggy?”
“No, I suppose the fairies would be at me if I did.”
“Oh no, that isn’t the reason at all. You see, your father, while he
lived, was poor and was not able to help you much; but he did a very
wise thing—he left you to my care, and I mean to make a lady of you,
Peggy.”
“Sure, thin, ye’ll niver do that, for I’d be but a peasant colleen, an’
wishin’ for nothin’ else, yer honour.”
“You are very young, Peggy; you will change your mind.”
“Sure thin, no, yer honour. I’m not wishin’ ye any bad luck, but me mind
is made up. I’ll stay wid yer honour for a bit, if it’s the will ov me
dead father; but it’s back to Ireland I’ll go when I have the manes.
Ye’ll niver make no lady ov me, yer honour.”
“I think, Peggy, you have a kind heart.”
“Bedad, I suppose so,” said the girl. She dropped her eyes and looked on
the ground, the faintest semblance of a smile visiting the corners of
her bewitching little mouth.
“And,” said Wyndham, pursuing his advantage, “you wouldn’t really hurt
me, who am your own father’s friend?”
“I’ve no wishes that way, yer honour, an’ if I was to try I couldn’t.
What am I? A colleen, as poor as they’re made, an’ wishin’ to stay that
same.”
“I want you to come to my house, to live with my girls.”
“Oh Lord ’a’ mercy! Be they grand like yerself, yer honour?”
“They are not grand at all, they are just nice girls.”
“Oh my! oh my! Arrah thin, yer honour, I’ll niver take to them, so don’t
ye be thinkin’ it.”
Poor Wyndham sighed. Suddenly it occurred to him that he would go to
visit a friend of his in Dublin, a certain Miss Wakefield, who was a
very kind-hearted woman, and who could advise him with regard to Peggy.
Of course this poor little wild creature could be tamed in time; but
before she appeared at Preston Manor she must at least be _dressed_
according to her new station.
“Peggy,” said Wyndham, after a long pause, “we are going to stay in
Dublin to-night.”
“Yes, yer honour.”
“We are going to a hotel.”
“Is it a public-house, yer honour?”
“No, a hotel; not a public-house.”
Peggy was silent.
They soon reached Dublin, the little black trunk was put on the top of a
cab, and they drove away to the Shelburne Hotel. There Wyndham secured
two bedrooms, one for himself and one for Peggy, and ordered a meal to
be served in the coffee-room. Peggy looked a strange little figure as
she entered the room. All eyes followed her as, accompanied by her
guardian, she approached a small table and slipped down awkwardly into
her chair. A waiter came up with a dish which contained eggs and bacon,
and presented it to Peggy. She looked at it and pushed it away.
“Sure thin, it’s ashamed of yerself you ought to be!” she said.
The man stared at her in amazement. Wyndham felt a catch in his breath.
“Sure thin, is it beautiful fresh eggs ye’d break like that? I’d like to
give ye a lesson in cooking.”
“Perhaps, Peggy, you would like a boiled egg best?” said her guardian.
“I wouldn’t, unless it was laid right into the saucepan, an’ that’s
thrue,” replied the Irish maiden from Kerry.
In short, the meal was fraught with misery for poor Wyndham; but Peggy
was tired, and was glad to go to bed. Wyndham saw her into her room, and
then went downstairs. He had a short talk with the young lady who had
charge of the bureau; he begged her to send a kind-hearted Irishwoman to
the little girl, giving her a very brief outline of her story. The girl,
all agog with curiosity, said she knew the very woman who would help and
comfort Peggy, and sent for her. The result of this was that Peggy and
Bridget O’Hara slept in the same bed that night, Peggy’s arms round
Bridget’s neck, and her little face lying against the good woman’s
breast.
“Why thin, the poor colleen, the poor colleen!” said the kind-hearted
Irishwoman.
As soon as ever he was alone, Wyndham hailed an outside car and drove to
Miss Wakefield’s address. He told her his predicament.
She was a good-hearted woman, very Irish and very affectionate. She
said, “My dear Paul, you _have_ put your foot in it! Well, I will do my
very best for the child. I will take her out to the shops to-morrow and
get her fitted out properly.”
“You need spare no money on her,” said Paul Wyndham. “Get her anything
she requires. I want to start to-morrow for Holyhead by the night boat.
Do you think you can manage this for me, Kathleen?”
Kathleen Wakefield promised, and the next day Peggy was taken from one
shop to another. She was extremely sulky now, hardly opening her lips,
scarcely uttering a word. However, Miss Wakefield, with plenty of money
at command, managed to fit the child with a pretty neat coat and skirt,
a nice dark-blue hat, and a few more articles of wardrobe, also a fair
amount of underclothing. She bought a new trunk for the girl, and told
her she had better leave the little black trunk behind her at the hotel.
At this request Peggy’s pent-up feelings gave way to a sudden screech.
“Is it to lave me mother’s trunk behind I’d be doin’? Not me. It’s every
single thing you bought me flung into the say; but the trunk goes wid me
to that cauld England, or I don’t set foot in it.”
Wyndham happened to be near, and assured Peggy that she need not fret,
for all her own special belongings would go with her to Preston Manor in
the little black trunk.
CHAPTER III.
AT PRESTON MANOR.
The Wyndham girls were considerably excited at the thought of the new
and strange companion who was to come into their midst. After their
first astonishment they were more pleased than otherwise; Molly,
especially, was determined to make the very best out of this strange,
new event in her career. At The Red Gables one of the girls happened to
be Irish. She was a well-educated, ladylike girl, but oh such fun! Her
name was Bridget O’Donnell, and wherever amusement was to be found
Bridget was invariably in the midst of it. Suppose this poor little
Peggy turned out to be a second Bridget! If so, all would go well. Molly
chattered over the subject with Jessie as the two girls were dressing on
the morning of the day when Peggy Desmond was to arrive. Their father
was expected with the new-comer about eleven o’clock that morning, he
having decided at the last moment to spend a little time in London, in
order to give Peggy a good sleep after her night-journey, and also to
buy her some more clothes. Miss Wakefield had furnished the child with
what the child herself considered “owdacious” magnificence; but Wyndham,
who knew his wife’s tastes, was clever enough to see that a good many
necessary things were left out. Accordingly, having seen Peggy sound
asleep in a bedroom at the Euston Hotel, he started off to visit his
wife’s dressmaker. He put Peggy’s case into this good woman’s hands, who
quickly and deftly made up a box of what she called “necessary
garments.” These consisted of white silk stockings, white satin shoes,
one or two pretty evening frocks, and a vast supply of delicate and
richly trimmed underclothing. Mrs. Ferguson also threw in one or two
muslin frocks, suitable to the hot weather which was coming on, and
finally trimmed up a couple of smart hats for the “Irish princess,” as
she laughingly called the poor little girl.
“She’ll be here soon—very soon,” said Jessie. “Do you know what it is,
Moll, I feel absolutely nervous about her.”
“Why should you be nervous?” said Molly.
“Well, I can see that mother is,” replied Jessie; “and suppose, Molly,
she eats with her fingers, or does anything dreadful before the
servants?”
“I don’t suppose for a single moment she’ll do that,” said Molly; “and,
even if she does, we’ll have to tell her not, and then of course she’ll
never do it again. She is in great luck to come to a beautiful house
like ours, and we’ll soon train her. I think on the whole it will be
fun. I’ll look upon it as a sort of adventure.”
“I have a terrible fear,” said Jessie after a pause.
“Whatever can that be, Jess?”
“This. You know how determined our darling dad is, and when he makes up
his mind to do a thing he’ll do it in spite of all the rest of the
world. You know what poor mother said, that if Peggy goes to school, she
goes to _our_ school—our nice, refined school. Oh, that would be awful!”
Molly was silent for a minute, then she said, “Well, when the trouble
comes it will be time enough to fret about it. Now, I suppose they’ll be
here soon after eleven o’clock. I tell you what it is, Jessie, let’s be
awfully nice to her, just like real sisters, and let’s pretend not to
notice any of her funny ways, then she’ll soon cease to be shy. And
let’s go out after breakfast and pick a lot of flowers to put into her
bedroom. There’s nothing like flowers to comfort a person if that person
is inclined to be homesick.”
“Homesick after a cabin!” said Jessie, a look of contempt spoiling her
nice little face for a moment.
“But,” answered Molly, with a wider comprehension, “you must not forget,
Jess, that the cabin, however humble, was her home.”
Mrs. Wyndham, having got over her first sense of dismay, was now fully
determined to do all that was kind and right for the orphan girl. She
acquainted her maid Ford with a few of the circumstances of the case,
and told her that if the new young lady was a little eccentric at first,
the servants, especially the men who waited at table, were to take no
notice. In short, the good lady acted very judiciously, and enlisted her
servants on the side of the new-comer, telling Ford how sad was her
story and how right it was that they should all do their best for her.
A room was selected for Peggy’s accommodation next to that occupied by
Molly and Jessie. It was a pretty and daintily furnished chamber, the
paper was of pale green and the curtains and draperies to match. There
was a moss-green carpet on the floor, and, in short, the little white
bed, the charming view from the windows, and the dressing-table with its
tall vases of flowers, all looked most inviting for any girl.
“How surprised and charmed she will be!” said Jessie.
But Jessie little guessed that the girl in question loved a tiny chamber
under a sloping thatched roof, with one wee, very wee, window, and a
little feather bed on an old wooden bedstead, the bedding covered with a
patchwork quilt. This was Peggy’s idea of a bedroom, the only one she
had ever cared to occupy. From there she could let out a screech to the
fowls if they tried to force their way in at an open window, which, as a
matter of fact, they often did. From there she would halloo to her
granny, as she sometimes called Mrs. O’Flynn, to inform her that Pearl
or Rose or Dandy had laid another egg. Peggy’s window seemed to her to
command her little world; a larger window would have been, in the girl’s
opinion, more or less “ondacent;” “for sure,” she was heard to exclaim,
once or twice, “ye don’t want to see too much of yerself when yer
dressin’ or undressin’.”
The girls got the room into perfect order, and were disappointed when a
telegram arrived announcing that Mr. Wyndham and Peggy would not put in
their appearance at Preston Manor until about six o’clock that evening.
He gave no reason for this delay in London. Mrs. Wyndham was pleased at
having a few hours more without the objectionable child, and, in
consequence, started off to see a special friend of hers, a certain Miss
Fox Temple, who lived about three miles away. This lady’s name was
Lucretia; she was very proud and stately, and lived at a beautiful place
called Mulberry Court, which she had inherited from her ancestors. Miss
Fox Temple was about forty years of age, had decided long ago never to
marry, dressed well, lived well, entertained lavishly, and was much
respected and looked up to by her neighbours. There were few people
whose opinion was as well worth having as that of Miss Fox Temple. She
was worldly without being silly; kind-hearted, but at the same time full
of practical common-sense.
Mrs. Wyndham arrived at Mulberry Court about twelve o’clock, and after a
brief interval, during which the two ladies exchanged commonplaces, she
told her friend what had occurred. “I am really shaking in my shoes,”
said the good lady, “you cannot imagine what it is to me. My dear
husband, you know, in some ways is a trifle unreasonable. He was always
devoted to that poor fellow Captain Desmond; and I don’t for a moment
wonder, for he was really altogether charming. But to think of the
Captain keeping the existence of that child a complete secret from all
his friends; to think of his marrying a mere peasant girl, and then on
his deathbed handing the child on to my husband as though he were giving
him a fortune, begging of my dear Paul to do all he could for his orphan
child! Of course every scrap of sentimentality in Paul’s nature is
aroused to the uttermost.”
“It is certainly extremely disagreeable for you,” said Miss Fox Temple.
“You say the child has lived all her life in a cabin in Ireland?”
“Yes, in the County Kerry, the very wildest, most uncouth part of
that—in my opinion—uncouth island.”
“Well, I do pity you,” said Miss Fox Temple; “but now, my dear Lucy,
won’t your husband be reasonable? If the child has lived all her life in
a cabin, if she is the daughter of an Irish peasant woman, she simply
cannot associate with your children.”
“That is precisely what I have said,” remarked Mrs. Wyndham, “but I
assure you, that hasn’t the least effect on Paul. He says the girls must
get accustomed to her and must train her, and when I suggested school he
said, ‘I am quite agreeable, but she shall go to the same school as the
children.’”
“What, to The Red Gables!” said Miss Fox Temple. “I really don’t think
Mrs. Fleming will permit it even for a moment. I tell you what. I shall
come over to see you to-morrow or next day, and I will have a talk with
Paul.”
“He has a very great respect for you; I must say that, Lucretia.”
“I shall suggest that the child is sent to a good-natured governess, who
will take her to the seaside and train her for a year or so, and at the
end of that time she’ll have got over the worst of her _gaucherie_, and
be fit to associate with your family.”
“I wish you would, Lucretia; and I do trust, my dear, that your advice
will be listened to, but I very much doubt it. You don’t know Paul as
well as I do. When he takes the bit between his teeth nothing can move
him.”
“Well, I am sorry for you,” said Miss Fox Temple. “All the same,” she
added, “it is very fine of Paul; it isn’t every man who would act as he
is doing.”
The two ladies had a little further talk together. Miss Fox Temple
suggested that if the new-comer proved quite unbearable, Molly and
Jessie should spend the remainder of their holidays with her at Mulberry
Court. This proposition Mrs. Wyndham hailed with delight, although, as
she did so, she doubted whether her husband would permit it. She lunched
with her friend and went back in the cool of the evening.
“Mother,” said Molly, rushing to meet her, as the time approached for
the travellers to appear, “what dresses shall we wear? Don’t you think
we ought to put on something very quiet?”
“No, I don’t think so at all,” said Mrs. Wyndham; “you will dress as you
dress for the evening, my dear Molly. Now go upstairs and get Ford to
put out your frocks. Nothing, after all, can be simpler than pure white.
I should like you to be in the hall when your father and that poor child
arrive.”
Molly and Jessie ran up to their room. Ford arrayed them in simple and
very pretty white silk frocks with high necks and long sleeves, they
wore round their waists sashes of pale blue, their stockings were silk,
and they had white satin shoes. Altogether, two more elegant looking
girls it would have been difficult to find.
Molly and Jessie Wyndham had from their earliest days been brought up
with extreme care by a devoted father and mother. They had never come
across evil or even eccentricity in any form. Their lives were spent in
the greatest happiness, all that money could bestow was lavished upon
them. But they were also taught the best things; for both Wyndham and
his wife were people of high principle. For the first years of their
young lives they had a governess, to whom they were devoted. Her name
was Miss Sherwood; she was gentle, kind, and very amiable. She was well
informed, and, above all things, she had the highest principles.
Molly was a little easier to guide than Jessie, who had a slight crank
in her nature; it was a curious crank and did not often appear.
Jessie—and her most intimate friends knew it—was in reality consumed
with intense vanity. She was not so very vain of her appearance as she
was of her position in life. The first thing she noticed with regard to
any new friend was how was that friend born, how much money had that
friend, how many chances had that friend to make a mark in society? At
school one or two of her greatest friends observed this failing in her
character; it was just the very failing which would be certain to come
to the surface when poor little Peggy Desmond appeared on the scene.
Jessie was a fair-haired, tall, slender girl. Her features were long,
her face very pale, her eyes wide-open and of a pale shade of blue-gray.
She was slightly aristocratic-looking, and was a contrast in every way
to Molly. Molly was rather dark, with quantities of thick dark hair,
brown eyes, a brown complexion, very rosy cheeks, and a round face. She
had a merry and careless laugh, she had the kindest heart in the world,
she was not a scrap vain or conceited. She looked forward with the
deepest interest to the arrival of Peggy Desmond. At school Molly was
the greater favourite; but Jessie had one or two sworn friends who would
almost die for her. These girls appear later on in the story.
But now six o’clock sounded from the stable-clock in the yard. The
_toot-toot_ of the motor-car would be heard any moment as it dashed down
the avenue. The two girls held each other’s hands as they appeared in
the wide hall. Mrs. Wyndham was wearing her garden hat, she had a pair
of scissors in her hand, and she cut off some withered roses from the
rosebushes which grew at each side of the front door.
“They’re coming, mums! coming!” suddenly cried Molly. “Oh dear,” she
continued, looking at Jessie, “my heart does beat!”
Jessie made no response. Her face suddenly turned white; she felt a
violent inclination to turn and run away, but Molly caught her hand.
“Let’s welcome her, let’s be nice,” she said; and then the two sisters,
hand in hand, came and stood at the top of the wide steps.
The motor drew up at the front door. Mr. Wyndham alighted and held out
his hand to Peggy.
“Why on earth! ain’t we goin’ straight home?” was Peggy’s first remark.
“This is home, my dear.”
“Please, yer—yer laughin’ at me!”
“I am not, my child. Now come, these are your two little friends.—Molly,
Jessie, come and assure Peggy Desmond that she is welcome to Preston
Manor.”
“Oh me word!” exclaimed Peggy, as she tumbled rather than stepped out of
the car, “I’m in a moil, an’ so I am!”
A moil—what was a moil? Jessie felt more than ever inclined to turn tail
and rush away; but Mrs. Wyndham came up, held out her hand to the child,
looked into her face, and bent forward and kissed her.
“Oh my, ma’am, what did you do that for?” exclaimed Peggy. “Why, ye
don’t know me at all, at all!”
“I want to welcome you to Preston Manor, Peggy.”
“And is this where you live?” Peggy looked all round her. “Would ye mind
if I let a screech in a minute?”
“I think, Molly,” said Mr. Wyndham, “you had better take Peggy up to her
bedroom. She is dead-tired.”
“Now thin, sor, I wouldn’t be tellin’ lies if I was you, because most ov
the day I was sound asleep on the bed at that big inn where ye tuk me.
I’m not tired a bit, not me. Well, I’ll go with ye, miss, if you like;
but you can’t expect me to have the manners of a place like this. Oh
mercy, mercy me! Glory be to heaven, however am I to get used to the
likes ov this?”
“You’ll soon get accustomed to it,” said Molly, in her gentle tone.
“Come now with me, I want to show you your bedroom.”
Peggy, dressed as she was, was not so remarkable. Her little face was
undoubtedly pretty, pretty beyond the beauty of most. Her eyes were
absolutely lovely, her eyelashes were wonderful; and, owing to Miss
Wakefield and Mrs. Wyndham’s clever dressmaker, her appearance was all
that it ought to be. But her speech! her untrained, wild, untutored
speech!
The next minute Molly and the Irish girl had disappeared upstairs, and
Wyndham and his wife and Jessie were alone.
“Why didn’t you go with your sister, Jessie?” said her father.
“I cannot, father. I cannot speak to her, really.”
“Now, Jessie, I will have none of this.”
“Father!” the girl’s pale-blue eyes filled with tears. “Father, you
cannot expect it, she’s not a lady—father, father!”
“She’s as much a lady by birth as you are.”
“I think not quite, dear,” interrupted the mother. “Remember the girl’s
own mother.”
“I am thinking of her father,” said Wyndham, who was now thoroughly
angry. “Of course the poor child knows nothing, and I should be ashamed
of any daughter of mine who laughed at her and made life hard at
present. Well done, little Molly! Jessie, if you wish to retain your
father’s respect and affection you will follow your sister.”
Jessie walked away slowly. She did not say a word, but instead of going
into Peggy’s room she retired into her own, where she flung herself into
a chair, covered her face with her hands, and burst into a flood of
weeping. “Oh dear! oh dear!” she sobbed, “I will never, never know
happiness again!”
Meanwhile Wyndham and his wife were alone.
“My dear Paul, you _have_ brought a creature here!”
“I admit it, Lucy, I admit everything; but she’s a beautiful little
thing, and has a warm, loving heart. Oh my dear, if you are kind to her
you will soon train her, and I assure you, my dear Lucy, she is quite as
sorry to come to us as you are to receive her. If you had witnessed that
poor child parting with her foster-parents you would know how full of
love her heart is.”
Mrs. Wyndham gave an impatient sigh. “The fact is,” she said, “I can’t
help saying it, Paul, you make a mistake in bringing that untutored,
rough child to our house. I quite agree with you that she ought to be
trained and looked after; but the kindest thing would be to put her with
a woman in her mother’s class of life, who would educate her. Then, of
course, as she becomes fit to associate with the gentry she might come
here occasionally. You are doing wrong, Paul, and you are doing the
worst thing for the happiness of the poor little thing herself.”
Molly, full of affection, determined to make the very best of Peggy, and
took her up to her room.
“I hope you will be happy with us,” said Molly. “I know you must be
feeling very sad at saying good-bye to your friends; but we mean to love
you—at least Jessie and I do—and I hope you will love us.”
“I can’t love ye, miss dear.” The great dark-blue eyes were brimful of
tears. “Oh my goodness glory me! ’tain’t a room like this I—I want. Yer
niver going to say to me that I’ll sleep here. Why, I can’t an’ that’s
true! Why, there ain’t even a little hin about nowhere!”
“A little what?” Molly shook her head.
“They that lay eggs. Did ye niver hear ov hins?”
“Oh hens! We have a lot of them about.”
“Then ye have thim! Thank the good God, I can live if I see hins. An’
have ye—tell me, for the good Lord’s sake, tell me—have you got pigeens
here?”
“I think there are pigs. I will inquire to-morrow.”
“Oh it’s me heart that’s broke intirely!”
She sat down on a chair, tears rolled down her cheeks. “You see, miss
dear,” she continued, after a minute, “’tain’t that I ain’t grateful,
’tain’t Peggy’s way not to be grateful; but it’s a big mistake takin’ me
from thim who belonged to me. I’m torn up by the roots, that’s what I
be, an’ I’m all bleedin’ like. Wouldn’t you be the same if ye was tuk
from yer grand, wonderful, awful mansion of a place, an’ put into my
speck of a cabin—wouldn’t you be feelin’ as I’m feelin’?”
“I expect I should; so you see, Peggy, I can understand you.”
“Ah, no! no! niver a bit, niver a bit; no one can understand me, no one
can. I’m all alone, alone! Oh wurra, wurra me!” The girl kept on crying.
“Look at your pretty room, Peggy,” said Molly.
“I hate it!”
“Peggy, look at the flowers. All the world over flowers are the same.”
“Be they now? Well, I’ll look at them. Oh I don’t know the names ov
them. Does ye get the Michaelmas daisy, an’ the London pride, an’ the
cowslip, an’ the buttercup, an’ the primrose, an’ the violet—them’s the
flowers for me. Oh no, miss dear, I’ll niver tek to ye nor yer ways. I
hope to goodness mercy me that ye won’t expect me to go downstairs an’
ate me males in front of ye, for I don’t know how to do it, an’ that’s
truth I’m tellin’. What sort ov males have ye?”
“I suppose the sort of things every one has.”
“Have ye got the Indian male stirabout? That’s what I’m partial to, an’
I don’t mind a couple ov eggs now an’ then when they can be spared.”
“But why shouldn’t they be spared if you have plenty of hens?”
“Now, missy dear, it’s jokin’ you must be wi’ me. Haven’t the little
eggs to be sold to get in the money? Didn’t I go round every day an’
sell the eggs to the neighbours, an’ bring in the money for me poor
grandad and grandma. Oh me, wurra, wurra, it’s a quare wurrald!”
“Look here, Peggy. Suppose I bring up something for you to-night, and
you have it all alone with me?”
Peggy raised large and terrified eyes. “Why, surely, for the Lord’s
sake, ye ain’t goin’ to ate again at this hour?”
“Of course we are, we haven’t had dinner yet.”
“Dinner! dinner! what’s the hour? Why, it’s past siven!”
“Yes, we don’t dine till close on eight.”
“Ah well, I can’t do it. I’m accustomed to me big male about twelve
o’clock ov the day, an’ a good drink of buttermilk and some brown loaf
at six in the evenin’, then me bed and sound slape, an’ glory be to God!
Miss dear, you’ll niver manage the likes o’ me in yer grand house.”
“Peggy, aren’t you fond of your father?”
“Sure then I be.”
“Well, he has sent you to my father, for him to care for you. Won’t you
try and do what your father and my father would like?”
The girl looked up at the other girl with bewildered eyes. “I don’t
understand at all, at all,” she said.
“Well, I would like to explain to you if I can. At first, of course, you
will find it very difficult, being with us and getting accustomed to our
ways; but after a time you will find it becoming easier and easier, and
your father up in heaven will be looking down at you, ever so pleased.”
“Will he smile, belike?”
“I think he will.”
“I’ve a picter of him. I’d like to see him smile. Have you got ghosties
and fairies round here?”
“Oh dear no, we don’t believe in those sort of things.”
“Yon tell me, miss, that you don’t believe in the magpie?
“One for sorrow,
Two for mirth,
Three for a wedding,
And four for a birth.”
“No, I have never heard that rhyme.”
“Oh me word! There be some things yer ignorant about, missy.”
“Well, I am going down to get some food for you and me, and you must
keep looking at me and eat just as I do, and then to-morrow morning when
you come down to breakfast I’ll teach you how to eat and what to do. I’m
going to love you, Peggy, so you must love me.”
The sweet brown eyes looked into the sweet blue ones, and at that moment
a swift, indescribable rush of sympathy passed from one girl to the
other.
CHAPTER IV.
ADVENTURES AT FARMER ANDERSON’S.
Peggy, notwithstanding the strangeness of her lot, slept softly and
soundly in that delicious bed. Never before had she known the cool,
delightful feel of fine linen sheets, never before had her curly head
reposed on a pillow of down. She slept, and in her sleep Molly and
Jessie stole softly into the room to look at her. Shading a candle, they
bent forward, and certainly their present view of the little face was
all that was charming. Not a trace of lack of refinement could be
perceived in those delicate features, those long, curly black lashes,
the true symbol of an Irish girl, and the well-formed, sensitive little
red mouth.
“Oh, we’ll win her yet!” whispered Molly. “And she’s worth winning,” she
added; “she’s a perfect darling.”
Even Jessie was silent with regard to the Irish child while the guardian
angel of sleep protected her.
But when Peggy awoke the next morning matters were very different. She
awoke early, as was her habit in Old Ireland. The stable clock had
struck four when she opened her eyes and stared about her. She had been
dreaming of the little old homestead and the hins and the turkeys—wasn’t
Colleen Bawn going to bring out her clutch of eggs that very mortal day?
“Twenty fluffy, downy chicks, as sure as I’m alive,” whispered Peggy;
and then she sat up in bed and stared around her. How far off—oh how far
off!—was Colleen Bawn and her brood of little yellow chicks; how far
away were the rest of the hins, and the pigeens—bless ’em—and the little
turkey poults, and the—the—oh all the home-things! What right had she,
Peggy Desmond, to be here, in this awful grand room, for all the world
like a palace fit for a king? How hateful was this soft white bed to one
accustomed to sleep on feathers, it is true, but with the coarsest
sheets and with the roughest blankets? And what right, for that matter,
had she to be in bed at all, at all, at this hour, instead of up and
busy? At home, wouldn’t her work come handy to her—cows to milk, calves
to cosset, lambs to pet, and all the other creatures to supply with
their breakfast? “Oh wurra me!” thought Peggy, “whativer’ll they do
widout me at all? Why, me grandma, she ain’t got the strength enough to
rise with the lark; it’s ‘Peggy mavourneen,’ she’ll be callin’ for an’
there’ll be niver a Peggy mavourneen to listen. Oh but I can’t stand
this, I can’t! And be the powers, what’s more! I’ll get up and dress me
anyhow. Then I’ll get out. Maybe there’ll be a hin or a cock or a bit ov
a wee calf for me to pet. I suppose they have a back yard. I’ll make for
it an’ see what sort o’ place they kape. Wouldn’t me heart light up if I
saw a big dirty pigeen?”
Accordingly Peggy put on her clothes. Their newness and softness drew
scornful remarks from her lips and anger from her heart. “Why, to glory
now, what do I want wid the likes of thim? It’s a morshial shame to
waste the good money on thim when ye can buy unbleached calico for
threepence a yard.”
But as Peggy had nothing else to wear she was forced to resort to the
soft clothing which had been purchased for her in London the day before;
and, finally, dressed in a little dark-blue serge skirt and a white
muslin blouse, she opened the French windows and stepped out. She found
herself on a part of the roof, which did not trouble her much, for she
was accustomed to climbing anywhere, and after some slight difficulty
she managed to spring into the welcoming arms of an old yew-tree, and
from thence to descend to the ground. The cool fresh morning air revived
her and raised her spirits; but, try as she would, she could nohow
manage to get into the back yard, for the simple reason that it was not
as yet open, the workmen not arriving until six o’clock.
Peggy sat down on a garden bench and looked around her. This was the
first time she had had any sense of liberty since her arrival. As long
as she was travelling with Mr. Wyndham she was nothing more nor less
than a prisoner; a prisoner surrounded by hateful luxury, it is true,
but still a prisoner. What she specially disliked in her present
surroundings was that sense of belonging to some one else, that sense of
being a prisoner. At home she could do exactly what she liked, the
O’Flynns never dreaming of interfering with their darling; but here all
was different. If she could retain her liberty she might in the end work
her way back to Ireland, and be once again a happy Kerry girl in her
cabin home. She thought and thought, and the more dazzling did the
prospect of liberty appear in her eyes. Presently she stole her hand
into her pocket, and to her relief and pleasure found that she was the
proud possessor of three shillings. Wyndham had given her the change the
day before, telling her that she might like to have the money to buy
stamps and such like things. Ah yes! but she would not waste it on
stamps. Was it not a nucleus which might be increased? To Peggy’s
ignorant little soul three shillings seemed a vast lot of money, and if
it were spent carefully it would go a long way. There was no doubt
whatever that Mr. Wyndham, kind gentleman though he was, and Mrs.
Wyndham, whom she did not take to at all, and Jessie, whom she
pronounced a foreigner out and out, and Molly, who was more to her
taste, but was also a foreigner, be the same token, all meant between
them, in some sort of fashion, to keep her prisoner. Now a prisoner she
would not remain, not while the good God had given her a strong pair of
legs, and there was liberty in the world. She made up her mind; she
would run away. There was no time like the present, “when all the
worruld of England seemed dead aslape, bad cess to it! But, be the same
token, this was the good-luck for her!”
She started from her seat, and, walking quickly, soon discovered a
stile, over which she mounted and got into a large meadow. Here some
bulls were feeding; there were three of them at least, and they all
raised their stout, stolid heads, and fixed their blinking little eyes
on the child. They had each of them a ring in his nose, and had short,
strong horns. Had the Wyndhams seen the bulls they would have rushed
screaming back into safety; but not so Peggy Desmond, she was no more
afraid of a bull than she was of a little bit of a heifer. Why should
she be at all, to be sure? She had put no hat on her curly head, and now
she stood still within an inviting range of the great beasts, looking
from one to the other with love and interest in her dark-blue eyes.
“Why thin, me darlin’s,” she called out, “is it lonely ye be, like
meself for all the wurrald? Ah wurra then, come along and let me pet ye!
Why thin, it’s home ye remind me of, and it’s the water to me eyes ye do
bring.”
It is a well-known fact that cows, and in especial bulls, are some of
the most absolutely curious creatures under the light of the sun; they
are, in short, at all times devoured with curiosity. To see a small
girl, therefore, standing calmly in their midst, and not running away
from them, as most small girls did, excited their curiosity to a painful
degree. They must investigate this person and find out what she was made
of, afterwards they could toss her or not just as the fancy took them.
Accordingly, bellowing slightly, and bending their heads, as was their
custom when after mischief, Farmer Anderson’s three fierce bulls came up
to examine that curiosity, Peggy Desmond. When they approached within
close reach of her, Peggy came up to the nearest, laid her hand on his
warm, soft red coat, said, “Ah thin, me darlin’, it’s mighty invitin’ ye
look;” and the next minute, laying hold of one of his short horns, she
sprang on his back, crept up toward his forehead, and began to pat him
between his horns, calling him endearing names and keeping her seat by
means of the horns. The beast gave an infuriated roar and rushed across
the field, his brothers following in an equal state of indignation.
Peggy patted, stroked, uttered endearing words, and by a sort of magic
kept her seat. The roar of the bull had been heard by Farmer Anderson,
whose house was quite close by; but when he appeared on the scene he, as
he afterwards expressed it, nearly died of the shock.
There was a pretty little strange girl seated on the back of Nimrod, who
was now going quietly about the field, having ceased to make any effort
to dislodge his unwelcome guest—or was she unwelcome any longer? Perhaps
her soft words and gentle, endearing expressions proved soothing rather
than otherwise to his turbulent spirit. Anyhow, he had ceased to attempt
to dislodge Peggy Desmond, who, laughing and singing, was thoroughly
enjoying her ride. The other two bulls were trotting after Nimrod, who
went round and round the great field a little faster each time.
Farmer Anderson stood as one stunned. “For the Lord’s sake, get down,
missy!” he shouted, “get down this minute, or Nimrod will bait you!”
But the dark-blue Irish eyes of Peggy looked calmly at Farmer Anderson.
She turned Nimrod by giving one of his horns a tug, and rode up to his
master.
“I’m likin’ me ride intirely,” she said; “and whatever’s the matter wid
ye? I’m doin’ no harm to the baste.”
“But the beast will do harm to you. Here, off you get! The Lord preserve
us, never did I see such a sight in the whole course of my life!”
As he spoke, the farmer, who was a big, burly man, lifted Peggy to the
ground, drove the bulls to the other side of the field, and taking the
girl’s hand led her into a narrow lane which happened to be an approach
to his own house.
“For the Lord’s sake tell me what you have been doing with my bull!” he
exclaimed.
“Why thin, it’s only a ride I was takin’ on him,” said Peggy.
“A ride on a bull! Wherever were you riz, girl?”
“In Ireland, sure, yer honour; we ain’t afeard of bulls in Ould
Ireland.”
“So I should say. You’re an uncommonly brave lass, you might have been
killed.”
“Not me. ’Tain’t any animal under the sun as ’u’d injure me. I’ve a
heart inside of me, ye see, to love thim all.”
The man looked at her attentively. “Whoever be you?” he said. “Your face
is strange to me.”
“Ah well, and that’s likely enough. I’m Peggy Desmond. I come from a
cabin in Ireland, County Kerry, as pretty a spot as ye could find on the
face of the globe.”
“And what are you doing here?”
“Nothing but killing meself wid grief.”
“I suppose you did want to kill yourself, and that’s why you got on
Nimrod’s back.”
“No, when I want really to kill meself I won’t go to Nimrod. I’m lookin’
out for a little bit of a place; do ye happen to know, sor, anyone who
would take a young girl who was accustomed to feeding hins and looking
afther the farm-work all by her lonesome? I can give a fine character of
meself from Mr. and Mrs. O’Flynn in County Kerry. You wouldn’t be
thinkin’ ov wanting wan like me, sor? I’d take small wages at first, and
I’d do yer biddin’, you’d find me rare an’ useful. I can’t help me
brogue, yer honour; but I’ve an honest heart, an’ I’ll work faithful and
long.”
“I should say you were accustomed to farm life,” said the man,
“otherwise you couldn’t possibly have ventured to mount Nimrod; but as
to your coming to us as servant—why now, you aren’t dressed like a
servant.”
“Oh for the Lord’s sake don’t mind me dress, yer honour. I’ve as nate a
little frock in me bit of a box as you could find. This is me best
Sunday-go-to-meetin’ frock, sor, an’ ef I’m to lose a good place because
of me dress, why, wurra, I don’t know how I’ll live, at all, at all!”
The man stared at the girl in perplexity. Her voice, her accent, what
she had done with regard to Nimrod, all seemed to speak to the truth of
her words. But she wore the dress of a lady. He had, of course, heard
nothing whatever with regard to the Wyndhams’ protégée; and, finally,
much puzzled, and knowing that he and his wife _did_ want just such a
sort of girl as Peggy professed herself to be, he took her hand and led
her toward the big farm-kitchen.
“You’ve a nice little bit of a boreen here,” said Peggy, as they walked
along.
“What are you calling it?”
“Boreen, just where we are standing now.”
“But we call that a lane in England.”
“Well, it’s a boreen in Ireland. I’m right glad ye’re takin’ me on.”
“I don’t say so for a minute, but I’ll speak to the missis about you.”
The “missis” was busy “scalding,” as she called it, a great dish of hot
meal for the fowls. She was a stout, red-faced woman, an excellent wife
of a farmer. As the farmer and Peggy entered the kitchen the dish, an
enormous one, nearly slipped from her hand, and a little bit of the very
hot meal scalded her fingers. In one instant Peggy had rushed up and
nipped the dish from her.
“Why, ma’am, for mercy’s sake, don’t hould it like that; ye’ll get
yerself scalded all to nothing! Let me go out an’ feed the hins. I’d
love to be at it!”
“Who in the world is the child?” asked the astonished woman; but Peggy
did not wait for any explanations with regard to her whereabouts or who
she was. With that dish of hot, comforting food in her arm, she was once
again back at Ballyshannon, as she called her home in the County Kerry;
once again the sniff of the warm meal assailed her nostrils, her
dark-blue eyes sparkled with ecstasy, and she ran into the yard and made
a peculiar shout to the fowls, the unmistakable shout which every highly
respectable fowl in the whole of Christendom understands, the shout
which means food, and nothing but food. They surrounded her in a
trice—geese, ducks, hens, chickens, turkeys. With the utmost carefulness
and the most splendid genius, she arranged her food, giving the fierce
gobblers the coarse bits, and reserving the dainty morsels for the
little chickens and the small “hins,” as she called them. The farmer and
the farmer’s wife watched her from the door of the house.
“I never did!” said the farmer. “If you believe me, Mary Ann, I might
have been cut in two by a knife at that minute, to see her sitting as
cool as brass on the back of Nimrod, with no more fear than if she were
sitting in the easy-chair by the fire! And now look at her with those
fowls. Whoever on earth is she? She’s more like a fairy than a girl.”
“We must find out who she is. She’s too well-dressed to belong to us,
and yet she’s the very gal after my own heart,” said the farmer’s wife.
“I want a hearty, clever, natty sort of creature who’ll do her work in a
jiff without having to be told anything.”
Peggy, having got the fowls quite satisfied with their breakfast, now
came up glibly. “Where’s the milkin’-pails?” she asked.
“Why, you bit of a girl, you can’t milk cows,” said the farmer, laughing
as he spoke.
“Can’t I? You try me.”
“Well, we’re a hand short this morning, and twenty cows to be milked,”
said the farmer’s wife. “You can go along to the sheds. I’m quite
certain that Tom and Sam will be glad of your help.”
Tom and Sam were exceedingly glad of the help of Peggy Desmond. What
wonderful knack was there in those slim little fingers! The most
troublesome cows, those who, as a rule, knocked over the pail, were as
good and quiet as mice under her gentle manipulations, and what a lot of
delicious, frothy milk she got them to yield to her gentle touch! The
farmer and his wife regarded her as a perfect treasure.
“I wish we knew who she is. If she is respectable-like we could keep her
until the hay harvest and the wheat harvest are over,” said the farmer.
“We could, for sure,” said the farmer’s wife. “Well, anyhow, she has
earned her breakfast.”
It was now past six o’clock. The farmer’s wife went into the kitchen.
She put a frying-pan on the fire, cut great slices of bacon, broke in
about a dozen eggs, and began to fry.
“Come, you want your breakfast,” she said to the girl. “You milked right
well, I will say. I never saw a neater touch.”
“To be sure, ma’am, an’ why shouldn’t it be?”
“You must be hungry for your breakfast.”
“Oh there’s no hurry, bless ye, ma’am! Shall I lay the table for ye?”
“I don’t mind if you do, but you won’t be able to find the things.”
“I tell you what would be better. You let me attend to that fry on the
fire, an’ you lay the breakfast. Yes, I’m a bit hungry, no doubt ov
that, at all, at all.”
“You come from Ireland the farmer says.”
“That same I do, ma’am.”
“You must be glad to be in a decent, respectable country like England.”
“Is it me!” almost screamed Peggy. “Dacent, respectable! that’s all you
know. Ma’am, if ye want to bring the water from me eyes an’ to torture
me broken heart ye’ll spake like that ov Ould Ireland!”
“I don’t want to do that, of course, child.”
The meal was cooked to a turn, the farmer, his wife, and the upper
farm-servants sat around the board. Peggy enjoyed herself vastly, and
her spirits rose.
But when the meal had come to an end, the farmer’s wife said, “Now, I
want a word or two all by myself with you.”
“Yes, ma’am, right you be!”
“Well, first of all, tell me your name.”
“Oh whisht! ma’am, what a short memory the Almighty has given you!
Didn’t I say Peggy Desmond a score ov times?”
“Perhaps you did; but where are you living, Peggy Desmond?”
“At the back of beyont.”
“I never heard of that place. Where is it?”
“I can’t tell ye more than that. ’Tain’t far off, an’ yet it’s a good
way off.”
“Have you any one belonging to you in the place?”
“Niver a sowl, an’ that’s the truth I’m telling ye. I was torn from thim
as I loved, an’ I lived last night at the back of beyont, and here I be;
an’ if ye’ll take me I’ll work for ye for next to nothing. I want to
earn a few shillings to go back again to thim I love. I ain’t demented
or anything of that sort; but I’m sore, sore at heart. Me roots have
been torn up, an’ they’re bleeding all the time, only nothing on earth
comforts them like feedin’ the fowls an’ milking the cows an’ runnin’
about in yer farmyard.”
“Well, to be sure,” said the woman, “you’re about the queerest child I
ever heard of; you certainly don’t look mad, but you speak as if you
were. At the back of beyont! What on earth do you mean?”
“It’s the way we have ov speakin’ in Ireland, ma’am. You can’t blame me
for having the manners of me counthry.”
“Well, I’ll keep you for to-day, and I’ll give you—let me see—a shilling
a day and your meals.”
“Oh ma’am, may the Lord Almighty bless ye for ever and ever!”
The girl sprang forward, fell on her knees, clasped Mrs. Anderson’s
hand, and pressed it to her lips.
CHAPTER V.
PEGGY LOST AND FOUND.
While Peggy was enjoying herself to her heart’s content at the
Andersons’, laughing and joking, and helping Mrs. Anderson in a dozen
ways—so that that good woman said she had never met her like before, and
never would again—a very different scene was taking place at Preston
Manor; for although it was the custom for the family not to think of
getting up until seven in the morning, yet that hour arrived all in good
time, and the very first thing Molly thought of as she opened her brown
eyes was of the stranger, the queer, beautiful, unpolished, and yet
altogether lovable Peggy Desmond. How had Peggy slept? How was she that
morning? Was she still lonely and heartbroken because of the Irish cabin
and the Irish friends?
At a few minutes after seven each morning the girls’ own special maid
came in, as her custom was, with two cups of nice, tempting hot tea, and
a plate of thin bread and butter.
“Shall I take some tea to the young lady next door, miss?” asked Ruth,
addressing Jessie as she spoke. But Molly hastily made reply, “No, Ruth,
bring Miss Desmond’s tea in here, and I’ll take it to her; I’d like to,
just for once,” she added, looking appealingly at Jessie.
Jessie’s face grew rather red and her lips and eyes rather cross; but
she made no remark until Ruth had left the room, having first placed a
little tray with tea and bread and butter on a small table by Molly’s
side.
“I suppose you’re going to spoil that girl,” said Jessie, when at last
the sisters were alone. “I hope, I’m sure, you won’t; it will annoy
mother and me dreadfully.”
But when Molly said in her sweet voice, “It’s only just for the first
morning, Jess,” Jessie’s crossness dissolved into a sleepy smile. Having
drunk off her tea she fell into another doze, for she need not get up
until half-past seven. Molly, however, rose softly, put on a pretty blue
flannel dressing-gown, and, holding the tempting little tray in her
hand, entered Peggy Desmond’s room.
“Well, Peggy,” she cried, “I hope you have slept well; and here’s your
tea, and——Oh good gracious!”
Hastily Molly put the tray on a table and gazed around her with a sense
of astonishment and dismay, for the bed had no longer an occupant, the
pretty soft nightdress lay on the floor, the window was wide open, and
the bird had flown!
For a moment a fearful thought assailed Molly. Could the child in her
despair have run away? But no—this must be impossible. Molly determined
not even to begin frightening anybody until she had had a good search
for Peggy in the gardens and farmyards. Accordingly, she dressed with
remarkable speed, and before Jessie opened her eyes again was not only
out of the room but out of the house. Wherever Peggy was she would find
her.
Easier said than done, for Peggy had been clever in her day and
generation, and had escaped out of doors and also out of Preston Manor
grounds before another soul was awake. Molly, therefore, rushing here
and there, and making what inquiries she could of every single
individual she met, could get no news at all with regard to Peggy. Her
heart began to beat fast, and fear took possession of her. The child had
been really unhappy on the previous night; she, Molly, had done wrong to
allow her to sleep alone. There was something terribly pathetic about
that poor little face, and her want of appetite and her long-drawn,
heavy sighs had gone straight to Molly’s warm heart.
After wandering round and round, and discovering no sign or news of
Peggy anywhere, she was forced to go back to the house. She had a wild
hope for a minute that Peggy might be safely ensconced in her bedroom;
but there was no such luck. Peggy was no more to be found in the house
than out of the house. What could have happened to her?
Jessie wakened at her usual hour, and when she missed her sister
concluded that she had gone to make friends with the stranger. She said
to herself, “How troublesome all this is!” and then had calmly and
quietly dressed, with the assistance of Ruth, who brushed her hair,
plaited it in two long, fair plaits, which were tied at the ends with
big bows of white ribbon. As the day happened to be a very hot one,
Jessie was arrayed in a white frock. She looked with pleasure at her
pretty reflection in the glass, and then went downstairs to join her
parents in the cheerful breakfast-room. Peggy, of course, must be
present during the meal; what enormities would she commit, what awful
solecisms would she be guilty of?
When, however, on her way downstairs, Jessie suddenly caught sight of
her sister Molly, with her hat hanging on her arm, her face very hot and
flushed, her hair in wild disorder, she stood still in amazement, and
then said, “Well, whatever can be the matter with you? Have you and that
horrid Irish girl been dancing a jig together on the lawn? You look like
it, you really do.”
“Oh don’t!” said Molly, “don’t! If you knew you wouldn’t speak like
that.”
“If I knew!” exclaimed Jessie. “If I knew what?”
“Why, she’s gone, she’s gone away, she can’t be found anywhere, high or
low! Oh dear, oh dear! she—she may have—have drowned herself! Oh I am
miserable!” And poor Molly burst into tears.
Even Jessie ceased to scoff at this turn in events. She took her
sister’s hand quite kindly, and said, “Of course she’s not lost, girls
can’t lose themselves in that fashion. Let’s go to father, and he’ll
soon find her.”
Jessie’s sympathy was uncommonly sweet to Molly just then, and the two
children appeared in the breakfast-room. Mrs. Wyndham was seated
opposite the tea-tray; and her husband was crunching some toast, eating
an egg, stirring his coffee, and reading his morning paper all at the
same time. He heard his wife say, “One of you girls had better go
upstairs and bring Peggy Desmond down to breakfast,” when suddenly a sob
from Molly’s lips caused the man to drop his paper and the lady to put
down the cream-jug and turn with a sense of dismay to hear the news.
“Father, I can’t find her anywhere.”
“Can’t find who?” inquired Mrs. Wyndham.
“Peggy Desmond, mother. I went into her bedroom this morning with a cup
of tea, but she was gone, gone quite away, I don’t know where! And I
have been searching all the place for her, and inquiring of every one. I
didn’t want to frighten you until it was necessary to tell; but I had to
at last. She’s gone, she’s lost, perhaps she’s drowned. Oh father!
father!”
“Molly, don’t be such a little goose,” said her mother. “There now, my
dear,” she continued, turning to her husband, “you see for yourself what
a great mistake you made when you brought that wild Irish creature over
to upset us all round and disturb the happiness of our own children.”
“Never mind that now, Lucy, we’ve got to find the poor little creature.
I am exceedingly sorry that I didn’t take better care of her.”
“Better care!” cried Mrs. Wyndham. “I’m sure no one could accuse you on
that account. You went to Ireland and fetched her over, and did all that
man could for her benefit, and this is the way she treats you!”
“Well, the great thing at present is to find her,” said Mr. Wyndham. “I
will go immediately and start inquiries.—Molly, sit down and eat some
breakfast. Stop crying, love, the child cannot be far away. I’ll bring
her back. When I do I’ve one request to make.”
“What is that?” asked his wife. She looked up at him, and noticed the
stern expression on his brow.
“That child is not to be scolded. She knows no better; she is a very
ignorant, very spirited, very affectionate creature. You can’t drive
her, you must lead her. I wish that to be _understood_. She is the
daughter of my dearest friend, and I won’t have the little creature
tortured. Now I’m off. I expect I shall return in a few minutes with
Peggy in my wake.”
“Well, this is a nice state of things!” said Mrs. Wyndham, when Wyndham,
having absolutely forgotten his meal, had left the room. “Dear me,
girls, sit down and eat, and don’t make things worse. I shall go
immediately after breakfast to Miss Fox Temple; she’ll tell me what I
had better do for this barbarian.”
“Mother,” said Molly suddenly.
“Well, Molly?”
“You must admit one thing.”
“Well, Molly?”
“She’s a very pretty barbarian, isn’t she?”
“My dear, I dare say. I hardly looked at her. She has no style, no
manners, no nothing. I can’t say whether she’s pretty or not.”
“She is pretty, mother, there’s no doubt of that,” said Jessie; “but of
course I’m quite sure that she’s going to be fearfully troublesome.”
“She certainly has gone the right way about it,” said Mrs. Wyndham.
“Help yourself to some fresh toast. I’m not going to let myself be
annoyed by the tiresome child.”
Jessie, as far as possible, tried to follow her mother’s example; but
Molly was too restless and miserable to enjoy her meal. The fact is, she
had fallen in love with the poor, wild, beautiful little Irish girl. She
was rather ashamed of her own feelings, and determined, therefore, to
keep her sensations to herself.
Meanwhile Mr. Wyndham wandered over the grounds, made inquiries of the
men, and could get no news about Peggy. It was strange, it was
unaccountable; no one had seen the child, not a soul knew anything
whatever about her; and meanwhile Peggy herself was enjoying life at
their very door. She had managed her own affairs with rare cleverness,
simply by not managing them at all. She had, by this very easy device,
put every one off the scent.
“I’m well shut of them!” she was heard to remark as she scrubbed pails
and polished the different farm-vessels in Mrs. Anderson’s roomy
kitchen.
“What a queer expression!” said the farmer’s wife; “and who are you shut
of?”
“They that lives away at beyont,” was her enigmatical answer. “Ah, an’
sorra a wan of _thim_ I want to see again!”
Up to the present, therefore, Mrs. Anderson had no clue whatever to the
real whereabouts of the child. It was harvest-time, and immediately
after breakfast her husband and all the men available on the place went
off to the harvest-fields; she and Peggy had sole possession of the big
kitchen. Never before had she so willing a maid, so capable and clever,
and “all there.” There was a great charm, too, about Peggy when she
liked. Her face was no longer sorrowful, it was beaming. Whenever she
passed Mrs. Anderson she laid her hand on that good woman’s shoulder or
her arm and gave it a squeeze. “Sure, then, it’s loving ye I be,” she
said.
And Mrs. Anderson looked into that charming, lovely face, and felt that
she also loved the poor little waif who had been brought to her door.
But where was “beyont”? Somebody surely knew the child.
Meanwhile Wyndham, not having got the slightest clue to the whereabouts
of Peggy, was forced to start off to the nearest town, where he had
important business to transact, business which should have been attended
to days ago, but which his visit to Ireland delayed.
Molly and Jessie wandered about the grounds, and Mrs. Wyndham stepped
into her carriage and drove to the house of her friend Miss Fox Temple.
Mrs. Wyndham found that good lady at home, and quickly revealed her
troubles. “Never was there such a miserable case before,” she said. “My
husband arrived late last night with that fearful Irish girl, who
behaved in a most disgraceful manner, set the servants giggling, and
would not do one single thing she was told; in short, she’s an absolute
barbarian. And to crown all, she has run away this morning. We haven’t
the least idea where she is.”
“Oh but surely you will try and find her, Lucy!” said Miss Fox Temple.
“Try and find her! We are doing our best. My husband says he will get
the police to search for the girl. And there are my own children! Molly
is almost breaking her heart about the creature. It is all terrible! Oh,
of course, my dear Lucretia, she will be found, there is no doubt on
that point; but the thing is this: what is to be done when we do find
her?”
“Yes, that is the thing,” said Miss Fox Temple.
“You must try and imagine for yourself the state of ignorance that child
is in,” was Mrs. Wyndham’s next remark. “She knows less than nothing;
there isn’t a servant in my establishment who does not think she is a
disgrace. She can’t hold her knife and fork. I questioned Molly, and she
confessed that Peggy eats with her fingers and she speaks like a young
savage; in fact, I don’t understand her language; it is an unknown
tongue to me. She has no knowledge of anything, as far as I can make
out, and only wants to go back to her state of savagery. Now, would you
believe it, my dear Lucretia, my husband wants that girl to go to The
Red Gables at the end of the holidays with my own two girls? Is it
reasonable, is it fair?”
“It certainly sounds to me the reverse of reasonable or fair,” was Miss
Fox Temple’s answer.
“You promised when I saw you before that you would have a talk with him.
Can you come over this evening and do so? I’m sure he will be reasonable
with you, he always is.”
“I will do my best. If I had the management of that child I should send
her to a quiet, respectable woman, a little above the people who brought
her up, and leave her with this person for about a year; from there give
her a good governess, say in the house of the same person; that might
occupy another year. Then, at the end of that time she might be able to
take up the position your husband wishes her to assume in your house.”
“Oh but he will never consent—never, never; I know him,” said Mrs.
Wyndham. “I must say I think men are trying at times.”
The two ladies talked and talked as ladies will. They soon left poor
little Irish Peggy behind in their special interest in one or two
subjects of local gossip. The time flew, the whole morning went by, Miss
Fox Temple induced her friend to stay to lunch with her, and Mrs.
Wyndham, nothing loath, agreed. “I do not want to go home now,” she
said, “while that horrible little viper is about.”
“But I thought you gave me to understand that the poor viper had
disappeared.”
“Oh my dear, she’ll come back, and be more viperish than ever.”
“But you don’t really want the child to be lost?”
“I don’t know what I want. Don’t question me about my feelings,
Lucretia; I am too miserable.”
Meanwhile the girls began to search for Peggy on their own account; it
was Molly who first propounded the idea.
“Jess, I do wish we could find her. Do you know what father said when he
went away—that if there were no news of her by the time he got back he’d
get the police to search for her? Oh I really don’t know what to do! I
wish we could find her. Won’t you help me to find her?”
“I don’t mind if I do, she must be pretty clever to have hidden herself
so completely. Is there a single place in the grounds you have
overlooked in searching for her, Molly?”
“Not one, not a single one, not one hole or corner. I’ve been in every
one of the summer-houses, and I’ve looked behind them, I’ve been in the
stableyard—in short, I’ve been everywhere. She’s not in the place.
Besides, if she had been there this morning she’d have been found long
ago by the gardeners and stablemen and grooms.”
“That’s true enough. Well, suppose we have the pony put to our little
basket-carriage and go for a drive. We can question all the farmers’
wives on our way; they may have seen her.”
“That’s a very good idea,” said Molly, “for there’s no doubt of one
thing. Peggy lost herself very easily by getting up early, and I’ve
always heard that farmers’ wives get up early, so perhaps they may have
seen her going by, and can give us some account of her whereabouts.”
“The nearest farm to us,” said Jessie, “is Anderson’s, but I don’t
particularly care to go there because of those wild bulls.”
“The bulls won’t hurt us, they’re in the field; we can drive round by
the road, and you can stay in the pony carriage while I run to the house
and ask Mrs. Anderson if she has seen a girl who looks like Peggy.”
“Well, all right,” said Jessie, “we shall be doing something. Do you
know, Molly, that often and often I think the holidays too long; we have
much better fun at school, where all our time is mapped out for us.”
But to this Molly would not agree. The pony carriage was brought round,
the children stepped into it, and very soon found themselves—that is a
little before noon that day—outside Anderson’s big farm. Peggy happened
to be at the back of the premises at that moment, and did not see them
arrive. Had she done so she would have quickly rushed away and hidden
herself either behind or under one of the haystacks. Molly walked up the
neat little path which led to the front door; she rang the bell, and
after a minute’s delay Mrs. Anderson came to answer it, and when she saw
Molly her face beamed with welcome.
“Miss, I’m delighted to see you. Is there anything you want, or your
dear mother or father? I’m charmed to see you, miss. We’re rather in a
fluster to-day, it being harvest-time; but, thank goodness! I’ve got a
very smart little girl to come in and help me.”
There was something in the tone of the woman’s voice which aroused
Molly’s suspicions. “What sort of a girl is she?” she asked. “When did
she come?”
“Oh miss, you wouldn’t be likely to know anything about her; she isn’t
in your class at all. My husband brought her in this morning, a queer,
wild little thing she is, but splendid at the work. Where do you think
he found her, miss?”
“Where?” asked Molly, her heart beginning to beat very fast.
“Why, miss, you’d never guess if you was to try till Doomsday; on the
back of Nimrod, no less, riding him round and round the field, and as
pleased as Punch, and as cool as though she were sitting in an
easy-chair at home!”
Just at this moment, before Mrs. Anderson had time to say a word more,
Peggy herself put in an appearance.
“Sorra a bit o’ me is goin’ back,” she said; and then she looked at
Molly, laughed, ran up to Mrs. Anderson, began to kiss her, and the next
minute flung her arms round her neck. “It’s here I’m goin’ to stay.”
“And you mean to tell me,” said Mrs. Anderson, “that you have anything
to do with the ladies at Preston Manor?”
“Yes, she has a great deal to do with us, and we have been very unhappy
about her. Oh Peggy, how could you treat us like that? I have been
crying about you all the morning. Oh I have been unhappy!”
“And if I’d suspicioned ye was really frettin’ for me,” began Peggy,
looking askance at Molly as she spoke, “faix! I don’t think I could face
it! If you really want me?”——
“Of course I want you, we all want you.”
“I thought it was too good to last,” said Mrs. Anderson. “Do you mean to
say, miss, that this young girl is a new servant you’ve got?”
“Mrs. Anderson, she’s not a servant at all, she’s a young lady by
birth.”
“No, I ain’t! I ain’t no more a lady than Mrs. Anderson herself, nor as
much. Then I’ll tell ye the whole story. As I was lyin’ stretched out
this mornin’, I began to think, ‘Now, how can I get away from this awful
hole of a place, at all, at all?’ An’ I thought an’ thought until at
last it came over me that there was nothin’ for me but to run away, an’
so I did, maining, if ye will belave me, to go to some one who’d give me
a trifle of money for me labours; for although I be ignorant of _ye’r_
sort o’ things, miss, there’s a sight o’ things I can do, as Mrs.
Anderson knows well.”
“Yes, I do; I can testify to that,” said Mrs. Anderson. “It seems a
great pity she’s no servant, because I never came across a better one.
But, my dear little girl, you see you can’t stay with me if you belong
to these young ladies. You belong to the quality.”
“Faix, I don’t, an’ niver will!”
“Oh fie, child! fie! You’ve no right to quarrel with the position into
which God Almighty places you. Miss, I’m more vexed than I can say; but
you’ll excuse me. I was took all of a heap, so to speak, and when the
young lady would only give out that she lived ‘back of beyont,’ how was
I to guess that she meant your beautiful place, miss?”
“So you won’t kape me then?” said Peggy, raising eyes of blank despair
to Mrs. Anderson’s face.
“Oh Peggy, you will come back with us!” said poor Molly.
“Will it make ye cry bitter bad if I don’t?”
“Yes, I think I shall be quite ill.”
“Faix, then, I’ll go, but I don’t like it a bit. Oh wurra, but I’m dazed
intirely, that I be! Good-bye, Mrs. Anderson, give my love to the little
hins. I can’t live your life, but I can’t love the life they live at the
back of beyont. Good-bye, Mrs. Anderson, dear.”
The sad little figure was soon walking down the path, and Molly,
half-triumphant and yet with a sinking at her heart, saw her safe into
the pony carriage.
CHAPTER VI.
PEGGY’S ESCAPADE.
Peggy was certainly very troublesome, there was no doubt whatever on
that point. Even Molly had to agree to this most patent fact. She did
not want even kind Molly’s attentions; and as to the rest of the family,
she openly said that she couldn’t “abide the sight o’ them.” These words
were not pleasant to hear, and Mrs. Wyndham was not the sort of person
to take them quietly. When the child refused to eat her meals properly,
and sat sulky and speechless in one of the beautiful drawing-rooms,
having first of all spilt a cup of tea all over one of the pretty frocks
which had just been bought for her, Mrs. Wyndham determined to defy her
husband and take the bit between her teeth. Accordingly, she marched up
to Peggy, took her hand, and led her up to her bedroom. There she pushed
her in with some violence, and said, “You’re a very naughty, ungrateful
little girl; but here you shall stay until you express sorrow for your
misdemeanours.”
“Whativer’s thim?” inquired Peggy.
“I’ll leave you to find out, you naughty, bad child!”
Mrs. Wyndham left the room, locking the door behind her and putting the
key into her pocket. She told her daughters that they were neither of
them to go near Peggy, and expressed anger and annoyance when Molly
began to cry.
“You make me sick, Molly,” she said. “Now do control yourself; take a
lesson from your sister. That girl’s spirit must be broken in, or I
won’t live in the house with her. Thank goodness, she’s safe for the
present. I declare, she has quite tired me out. Girls, you had better
take the pony trap and drive over to see the Wrenns and invite them to
tea to-morrow. I shall go and lie down in my bedroom.”
Mrs. Wyndham lay on her sofa close to the open window, and, the day
being warm and she really tired, dropped asleep. “For once I’ve got the
better of that Irish imp,” she murmured to herself as she dropped into
placid slumber.
But Mrs. Wyndham had reckoned without her host. When Peggy found herself
locked up in her spacious bedroom she first gave vent to some angry
words, and burying her little face in the bedclothes, “drownded”
herself, as she expressed it, in her tears. But tears with the Irish
girl were something like the showers of an April day. Soon she was
looking around her and smiling to herself. The window of her bedroom was
wide open, and had she not escaped by that same window before on that
very day?
“Faix thin,” she muttered, “it’s herself don’t know much. I’m not in
dread of her, not at all, nor any of the grand folk I’m likely to meet
here. Is it me that’s scared? Not me. Why, even the servants, they don’t
paralyse me; us in Ireland”—here she threw her head back—“ah! it takes a
dale o’ trouble to import us to a place like this. I declare, for the
love o’ goodness! I think I’ll run away again.”
No sooner had the thought occurred to her than Peggy resolved to act
upon it. She was out of the window and sitting on the roof, then she
managed to scramble until she got to a great stack of chimneys. These
she inspected with keen interest, not in the least regarding the fact
that her white frock was turning black. She had now mounted up to a good
height, and from where she stood she could get a glimpse of the yard.
Some fowls of different sizes and sorts were strutting about there in a
most important manner; a flock of geese came into view, led by a great
white gander; and, finally, the king of the farmyard appeared, in the
shape of a huge turkey-cock, who said, “Gobble, gobble, gobble,” as he
was followed hither and thither by his troop of wives.
“The Lord be praised!” cried Peggy, “glory be to heaven, but it’s
consoled I be.”
By turning and twisting and clinging, occasionally climbing up a little
way and occasionally going down a little way, Peggy found herself right
round at the back of the house and hanging over the farmyard. There was
a good drop, however—at least thirty feet—between her and the ground,
and this drop, try as she would, she did not dare to manage unaided.
Several men, belonging to the farm, were moving about, employed over
their several duties; not one, however, looked up to where the child
with the bright eyes and face much blackened with chimney smuts, was
regarding them wistfully. Presently, however, a burly-looking man came
and stood exactly under the portion of the roof to which poor Peggy was
clinging. He was a big man, at least six feet in stature. Here was her
opportunity.
“Yerra, Pat!” she screamed, “hould aisy, for the love o’ God; don’t
stir, man, as you value your immortal! I’m comin’.”
The next instant the man, who was christened Pat by the girl on the
roof, felt a sharp bump on his shoulders, and Peggy, clinging with her
dirty little arms to his neck, burst into a fit of laughter and tumbled
to the ground.
“Holy Moses!” she cried, “if I didn’t have a stitch in me side intirely
at the face of ye, Pat, when I let out that screech! But there, I’m all
right, and I have me liberty, praise the Lord! To be sure now, I was
dumfoundered how to get off that roof until ye placed yerself so handy.”
Several men and women now came flocking round the girl, and it must be
owned that they all burst into laughter, and one or two of them said,
“Well done, missy! it’s you that have the spirit.”
“You’d better let me wash you, my dear,” said a big, red-faced woman,
who had charge of the fowls. “You’re a sight to behold if you were to
meet any of the family.”
“But I don’t want to meet the family,” said Peggy; “I want to stay here
along wid ye an’ the dear little hins an’ the turkeys an’ the geese. Why
then, me fine master, an’ do ye think I’m afraid o’ ye?” Here she went
up to the great turkey-cock and pulled him by the tail. The fierce bird
tried furiously to peck at her, but she kept her ground, rushing round
and round in a circle, clinging on to the bird, while the servants and
farm-labourers held their sides with laughter. At last, however, Mrs.
Johns, as the red-faced woman was called, induced Peggy to come and be
washed; but, although the young lady’s face and hands could be restored
to a state of moderate cleanliness, the frock was past all hope.
“Whatever is to be done?” said Mrs. Johns. “The frock will tell on you,
missy dear.”
“I don’t care if it does,” answered the child; “now that I am here I
want to have a bit o’ fun. Can none o’ ye consale me for a bit if the
quality go by? I’m ragin’ with a hunger, too, bedad, for I couldn’t
swallow a bit at tea-time, wid herself scowlin’ at me. Oh now thin, Mary
asthore, it’s you that will be kind to me, won’t ye? Ye’ll wet a drop o’
tay an’ bring it out here to the farmyard, an’ I’ll dhrink it, for I’m
as dhry as a cinder; an’ I could do with a lump o’ cake, too. You run
an’ fetch thim for me, Mary asthore.”
“My name is Ann,” replied the woman, “but I’ll do what you want, you
poor little thing.”
Accordingly, Peggy, seated on a three-legged stool in the yard, enjoyed
herself vastly. She was surrounded by her satellites, the sort of people
she could appreciate and understand. She drank cup after cup of “tay”
and devoured many hunches of rich cake, chattering as she ate, and
throwing crumbs to the different birds that flocked round her. When she
was quite satisfied she rose and shook the crumbs from her dirty frock.
“I’ll come again to-morrow, God bless ye all, me darlin’s,” she said.
“An’ now, fetch a ladder, for I must be goin’ back by the road I come.
Pat, man, run. Why, man, have ye got joints in yer bones? Ye’ll have me
cotched if ye don’t stir yer stumps.”
Pat, whose real name was William, secured a ladder, and held it while
Peggy climbed. Soon she was lost to view in the intricacies of the roof.
The servants looked at each other after she had gone, and vowed an
unspoken vow that they would rather have their tongues cut out than tell
on the poor Irish missy.
“Please God, she doesn’t catch it from Mrs. Wyndham,” exclaimed Mrs.
Johns. “She’d have a hard and bitter tongue for an innocent child like
that.”
“She took me all of a heap,” exclaimed William, “when she jumped on my
back. But I do declare, she’s as pretty a little thing as I ever set
eyes on.”
Meanwhile the “pretty little thing” in question re-entered by the open
window, changed her dirty frock, put on a clean one, and sat demurely in
a chair, looking as though she had not stirred an inch since Mrs.
Wyndham had left her, when that lady appeared again on the scene. It is
true there was a wonderful brightness in the eyes of the culprit, and
not a vestige of sorrow on the small, defiant face; but Mrs. Wyndham
considered that she had gained a victory.
“Come, Peggy,” she said, “Mr. Wyndham is waiting to speak to you in the
study. I will take you to him. Come at once. I hope, Peggy, you are
sorry for your naughtiness.”
“Arrah thin, niver a bit,” replied Peggy, looking full up into the good
lady’s face.
Mr. Wyndham, poor man, had been given a most vivacious account of
Peggy’s iniquities, her conduct at the Andersons’ farm, her dreadful
exploit with the bull, the scene which the two girls had come across of
Peggy as maid-of-all-work to Mrs. Anderson; and finally, her behaviour
at tea, when she had spilt a whole cup down her pretty new frock, and
had not expressed a word of contrition.
“To tell the truth,” Mrs. Wyndham finally added, “unless you can manage
to make that child conform to our rules, Paul, I really shall be obliged
to say that I must go from home for the present, and take my girls with
me.”
“Oh it won’t come to that, dear,” replied Wyndham; but he felt a good
deal of distress, of pity for the child, and of pity also for his wife
and daughters.
“Send her to me. I’ll have a talk with her, and afterwards I will tell
you what I think is best to be done,” was his remark.
Accordingly, Peggy was fetched, and undoubtedly there was no sorrow on
the face of Peggy, and no sorrow in her defiant words when she was
ushered into Wyndham’s study.
“Here she is, Paul, and I greatly fear from her manner that she isn’t in
the least repentant,” said Mrs. Wyndham.
“Ah, thin, an’ that I’m not,” was Peggy’s response. Then the door was
shut.
Wyndham glanced up from his desk; he was busy writing a letter, and he
did not say a word to Peggy at first, but calmly went on writing. There
was something rather fascinating to the child in his manner. He was a
very handsome, distinguished-looking man. He wrote very fast. She had
never seen any one write properly before, and she had been taught
writing, after a fashion, herself, but never writing of this sort. The
words seemed to fly over the paper, and then what a funny sort of
machine he had close by, with queer little letters sticking up all over
it! Suddenly, having finished writing his letter, Wyndham put a sheet of
paper into the machine, turned on, as Peggy expressed it, “a kind of
tap,” and began making a loud noise and printing as hard as he could.
“Arrah thin! don’t go so fast!” said the child.
Wyndham did not take any notice of her, but went on typing his letter
until he had come to the end. Then he folded it up, put it into an
envelope, which he addressed, stamped, and laid to one side. Then, for
the first time, he looked up at Peggy. She was immensely interested.
“I wish you’d do that again,” she said.
“What am I to do again?” he asked.
“That tip-tapping-tap.”
“Oh, this is what they call a typewriter.”
Peggy shook her head. “Don’t know anything about it,” she remarked.
“Peggy, will you sit down for a little? I have”—he took out his
watch—“exactly a quarter of an hour in which to speak to you.”
“Bedad, thin, that’ll be long enough,” was her response.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because, if ye’re goin’ to be scoldin’ me all the time, I think a
quarter of an hour will be as long as will be good for yer breath. It’s
bad when ye riz the voice in passion, an’ a quarter of an hour’ll do the
business fine.”
“Peggy dear!” There was something gentle in the voice, something
reserved, and at the same time something pained.
It was that pained note that arrested the child’s indifference. From the
moment Wyndham had come to the Irish cabin, Peggy had been feeling that
little heart in her breast getting colder and colder and harder and
harder; but now, all of a sudden, it began to throb with new life.
“Peggy, instead of a quarter of an hour being too long for what I have
to say to you, it will be a great deal too short; I don’t want to waste
a moment. To begin, I have something here I should like you to look at.”
Now, if Peggy had one fault greater than another, it was the bump of
curiosity. Wyndham went to a drawer, took a key from his pocket, opened
the drawer, and took out a little brown morocco case. He opened the
case.
“Come here, Peggy,” he said. The girl advanced, he slipped his arm round
her waist. “I want you to look at this,” he said.
She looked down at the picture of a man, a man with a kind, brave, noble
face, the eyes were shining with a strange sort of wistfulness. The lips
were firm and beautifully curved, the brow was broad, but it was the
expression which made the face altogether charming.
[Illustration: “THAT MAN, PEGGY, IS YOUR FATHER.”—_Page 63._]
“That man, Peggy, is your father.”
“Glory”——began Peggy.
“Peggy, he was a gentleman.” The child was silent. “Your mother was a
very beautiful peasant woman; your father loved her and married her, and
afterwards, when you were born, she died, poor thing! Your father was
very poor then, very poor; he was in India with his regiment, and could
not come home to take care of his little baby, but he loved her very
much. He often wrote to me, and told me about her. He sent all the money
he could spare to the people who looked after you, Peggy, and when at
last he came to die he wrote me a long letter, a very long letter; it
was all about you and his love for you. He said in that letter, ‘I want
you to bring Peggy up as your own child, and, above all things, I want
her to be a lady. I want her to be good and never to tell lies, and to
put honour first, and I want her to learn all those things that ladies
ought to know. I want her to be a comfort to you and to your wife and to
your girls. I think she will be, if she is her mother’s child and mine.
Tell her when you see her, all that I want her to be, and give her, when
you think she is fit to receive it, the letter which I enclose for her.
It is a letter partly from me and partly from that poor, sweet young
mother whom she never saw. But don’t give Peggy either of these letters
until she is fit to receive them.’ In the letter which your father wrote
to me, Peggy, he said that I was to bring you up as I thought right; and
he further said that he felt that he, perhaps, would be not far away,
and would be listening to you, and watching you when you were striving
to overcome the many faults which you learnt when you were a little girl
in a cabin in Ireland.”
“And how am I to forget, bedad?” said Peggy. Her voice had altered in
tone, and there were tears in her eyes. “Give me that letter o’ me
father’s,” she said, “and I’ll run away an’ not bother ye any more.”
“I couldn’t do that, Peggy. Your father when he wrote said that you were
not to receive his letter until you were fit to read it, until you were
sufficiently trained to appreciate what he has written for your
guidance, until you love me enough to love his message to you. Peggy,
look at me.”
The child turned and stared.
“At the present moment I am afraid, my poor little girl, that you are
hating me.”
“Arrah no, not quite,” said Peggy, “but I hate _herself_ and Jessie. I
don’t mind Molly one way or t’other.”
“The person you speak of as ‘herself’ happens to be my wife. Jessie is
my daughter. Do you think that it is pleasant to me to hear that you, a
little ignorant girl, hate them when they wish to be so kind to you?”
“Bedad, it mayn’t be pleasant, but it’s thrue.”
“Now, Peggy, I have told you about your father. I have one or two other
things to say. Your father was my greatest friend; once he saved my
life. It was a long time ago. I’ll tell you that story some day. There
is nothing under the sun I would not do for your father; his death was a
very bitter grief to me, and the one consolation I had when he passed
away, was the thought of looking after his child; the only thing I am
sorry for is this—that he didn’t put you into my care a long time ago.
Peggy, my dear, I have no intention of letting you go; you must submit
to the new life. It is the life you were born to, remember.”
Peggy fidgeted restlessly. “I don’t like it a bit, yer mightiness,” she
said.
“Peggy dear, you must not call me ‘your mightiness.’ There are a great
many words you must forget.”
“An’ however am I to do that, yer—yer honour?”
“That is not a right way to speak to me either. You and I are, I hope, a
gentleman and a lady.”
“Bedad, thin, I’m no lady.”
“Then, Peggy, you honestly say to my face that you deny your own father,
for there never was, in the course of the world’s history, a better
gentleman than Peter Desmond.”
“I’m not goin’ for to deny it to him, but me mother.”
“Your pretty young mother was, it is true, a peasant by birth, but she
was well educated in a convent school, and, compared to you, was a lady.
She did everything that her husband told her. I saw her once, Peggy; it
was shortly before you were born, and I was touched with her sweetness
and gentleness. She would not have dreamed of saying ‘your mightiness,’
or ‘your honour,’ or ‘bedad,’ or ‘wurra,’ or ‘begorra,’ or any of those
words. Now, Peggy, I want to ask you if you will help me?”
“To be sure I will, Uncle Paul, if I may call ye that.”
“Yes, that will do splendidly. I should like you to call me Uncle Paul.”
“I’ll manage yer hins an’ milk yer cows. How will that do?” said Peggy.
“My dear little girl, that won’t do at all. I don’t want you to manage
hens or to milk cows. It was quite right for you to do those things when
you were living in the cabin with the O’Flynns; but now that you are
here you must act differently; you must allow yourself to be trained,
you must dress nicely and speak nicely, and obey those who know better
than yourself. At present you are so shockingly ignorant that I am
positively ashamed of you. Do you know that you might have been killed
to-day when you got on that bull’s back?”
“Oh, wurra wisha, not at all, your mightiness, there wasn’t a sthroke o’
malice in the poor crayture.”
“Now, Peggy, there you are again! Your language is to be completely
altered. How could I introduce a little girl like you to my friends? If
you love your father I will give you his letter as a reward; but I will
not give it to you until you have proved your love by learning how to
speak nicely, how to eat properly—in short, how to be a worthy daughter
of Peter Desmond. I don’t mean to punish you, I don’t wish to be unkind
to you; and in order to help you I have asked a great friend of mine,
Mary Welsh, to come here for the next fortnight.”
“I niver heard her name before. I’m moithered intirely wid the lot o’
fresh people ye’re bringin’ round me, Uncle Paul.”
“I think you will like Mary Welsh, and I will tell you why. She’s an
Irishwoman.”
“Oh thin, bedad, is she? An’ does she know about hins an’ turkey-cocks
an’ geese an’ little pigeens?”
“I dare say she will talk to you about those things; but there’s a wide
difference between her and you, for she speaks like a cultivated lady,
whereas you talk like a little girl of the people.”
“Sure thin, yer mightiness, if you’d only lave me wid thim I’d be as
happy as the day is long.”
“Now, my dear little Peggy, how can I do that when your father has
implored of me to bring you up as one of my own children? Now, Peggy,
set your wits to work—you’re quite clever enough—do you think that would
be carrying out your father’s wishes if I did as you wished now? But you
don’t know any better, you are just a silly, silly little girl.”
“Maybe you’re right, sor.”
“Uncle Paul.”
“Uncle Paul.”
“When Mary Welsh comes you can talk with her just as much as ever you
like about Old Ireland; she will stay here for one fortnight, and at the
end of that time she will tell me what she thinks had best be done
towards your education.”
“How many things must I larn, Uncle Paul? I was sent out from school
finished, so to spake.”
“Yes, but there are other schools where you would not be considered
finished.”
“Oh glory! All right, Uncle Paul, I’ll do me level best.”
“I think you will, my poor child. Now run upstairs, wash your face and
hands, then go to the schoolroom and try to copy the way Molly speaks
and the way Jessie speaks. They will be having supper together in the
schoolroom, and I want you to have it with them,”
“I’d like to confess a bit before I go, your mightiness.”
“To confess?”
“Why, this. It’s only right I should tell ye. Herself locked me up
because I spilt me tay down in the drawin’-room. She locked me up in me
room for many a long hour.”
“If I had been at home I wouldn’t have left you so long by yourself.”
“Oh blessings on ye, I didn’t miss ye. I wasn’t a bit unhappy when I was
on the roof, an’ jumped on the back o’ Pat, an’ had tay wetted fresh for
me by Mary, an’ lumps o’ cake to swallow, an’ the turkey-cock to pull by
the tail and run round and round wid it. It wasn’t lonely I was, yer
mightiness.”
“Little Peggy, you are absolutely the most distracting child I ever came
across. I don’t know who Pat is or who Mary is.”
“They’re the people in your own farmyard, yer honour. I jumped on Pat’s
back, an’ didn’t he let out a screech too, be the same token!”
“Well, all these things, my dear, you must not do again, that’s all. I
will not speak of this adventure, and don’t you, dear. Now go and get
ready for supper, and meet your cousins in the schoolroom. When Mary
comes I’m sure you will begin to say it is very nice to be a little
lady—to be an Irish lady, remember. If you don’t fall in love with Mary
Welsh you will be the first young person who ever did not.”
“Ah thin, there’s never no sayin’,” replied Peggy, and with these
ambiguous words she walked as far as the door. There she stood and
pondered for a minute, presently she came back. “Uncle Paul.”
“Yes, little child.”
“How long do ye think I’ll be gettin’ ready to read the letter of me own
father, what’s lyin’ in his cold grave?”
“That depends on yourself. When you are, in my opinion, fit to read the
letter, it will be given to you.”
“I’ll have a good thry,” said Peggy. “Kiss me, Uncle Paul.”
He did kiss her very tenderly. He looked into her wonderful, luminous
eyes, and there came back to him a memory of his boyhood, and Peter
Desmond, the merriest, cheeriest, jolliest boy in the public school
where they had both been educated.
“There’s nothing I would not do for that poor little thing,” he said to
himself; “and if there is any one in the world who can help me it is
Mary Welsh.”
CHAPTER VII.
MARY WELSH TO THE RESCUE.
The Welsh family lived about twelve miles away from the Wyndhams. Mr.
Welsh was a clergyman, with a very large country parish, and Mary was
his eldest daughter. He was an Irishman by birth, and Mary had lived in
Ireland, in the County Kerry, until she was seventeen years of age. She,
therefore, adored Irish people; and when, after the death of an aunt,
she was obliged to return to England, she loved to tell her brothers and
sisters stories of the life she led in the old country, and fired their
hearts with accounts of the kindly hearted peasants, of the bogs, of the
flowers, the mosses, the ferns—the marvellous things that grew in
Ireland and Ireland alone.
“Sure,” cried Irish Mary—or Irish Molly, as the other children chose to
call her—“it’s just the Star of the Ocean, the Pearl of the Sea!” The
others, all brought up in England, could not share Mary’s enthusiasm,
but they could adore Mary for herself.
Mary was one of eight children, there were two girls younger than Mary,
then there came two boys, then another girl, and then two baby boys. The
elder boys were at a preparatory school, Mary was now her father’s right
hand in the parish, and her sisters Marcia and Angela were both at the
same school as the Wyndhams. Marcia and Angela were very particular
friends of Molly and Jessie.
When “Irish Molly,” as they used to call the eldest daughter of the Rev.
Mr. Welsh, however, received a letter, on a certain sunny morning, from
Mr. Wyndham of Preston Manor, she read it in some amazement, and then
turned to her mother.
Mrs. Welsh was a gentle, sweet-looking woman, very young-looking for her
age. She had always been the darling of her children, devoting her life
to their care, living for them, adoring them as only the best mother
can. Mr. Welsh was an earnest and hard-working clergyman. Mary was a
sort of curate to her father, looking after the poor people; she was
their nurse in times of sickness and their playmate in times of
rejoicing. It was Mary who organised the village feasts, the
bean-treats, all the different amusements which took place in the
summer. “Miss Mary” was adored by young and old, by rich and poor. She
was “Miss Mary” with some, “Miss Molly” with others, “Miss Polly” with
others again; but by all she was loved, and there was no one who had not
a good word for Mary Welsh.
Now there was something particularly pleasing about this young girl’s
appearance; without being pretty she had a certain charm of face and
manner which could not but arrest attention. Her face was oval. She had
soft brown hair, a delicate sort of mouse-brown in colour; it was very
thick and was divided simply on her broad, white brow, and rolled up in
a great coil at the back of her head without any attempt at fuzz or curl
or ornament of any sort. Mary’s hair, when let down, fell far below her
knees, and was very much admired by her brothers and sisters; her one
object, however, was to coil it up as tightly as possible, hairpin it,
and have, as she expressed it, done with it for the day at least. The
broad, rather low forehead had a pair of delicately curved eyebrows, and
beneath the brows were two wonderfully soft, velvety brown eyes, the
colour of delicate brown velvet or of a hazel-nut. The eyes were large,
well opened, and very clear, and they were surrounded by thick and curly
black lashes. Her little features were neat and small, her mouth had a
dimple at one corner, and her teeth were white as milk. This little
face, which was altogether charming and yet not in the least beautiful,
added greatly to the effect which Mary produced on all who came in
contact with her. She was a well-grown, well-developed girl, she had a
neat waist and a firm column of a throat, her head was nobly set upon
the throat, and she walked like a young princess. The other girls and
boys were all good-looking; but Mary was, as her Irish mother was fond
of saying, “the cream of the crock and the flower of the flock.”
“Well, we shall have a busy day,” said Angela on this special morning.
“Why, Polly Molly Mary, what on earth’s the matter?”
“Oh, this, this—do listen, girls. I’ve had a letter from Uncle Paul.”
Now, Mr. Wyndham was not “Uncle Paul” in any sense of the word to the
Welsh family, but he was such a kind-hearted, good, affectionate man
that Mary had long ago christened him uncle, and insisted on his
speaking of her as “his affectionate niece.”
“Uncle Paul’s in a bit of a bother, and wants me to go over there at
once.—Daddy, can I have the pony trap? I ought to go as soon as
possible.”
“But, my darling child, you really can’t go to-day,” said her father.
“You know we’re having the infant school feast in the hayfield. How can
we manage without you?”
“Oh daddy, I really think I must go. Just listen to what he says.”
There were no secrets in the Welsh family, and what one knew all knew.
They not only knew the little things, but they knew the big things; they
knew, for instance, when Mr. and Mrs. Welsh were short of money, and
when money came in. They knew the people who were uncongenial to their
gentle mother, and the people whom she loved to meet; they were open as
the day to each other. But do not let it be supposed for a single moment
that they were demonstrative to outsiders, that the Welsh family secrets
went any farther. No, close as wax were all these young people with
regard to home affairs except to one another.
“It would be the meanest thing on earth to tell anything with regard to
our family affairs,” Mary Welsh had once pronounced; and Sam, the eldest
boy, immediately illuminated the speech in the most flowery style, with
a quantity of blue and gold and crimson paint, and stuck it up above the
schoolroom mantelpiece, so that every member of the Welsh family could
thus proclaim the sentiments of Mary to the others.
“This is the letter,” said Mary, standing up now and reading it aloud:
“MY DEAR POLLY,—I am in an awful fix. Dear Peter Desmond is dead,
and I went a few days ago to fetch his little girl from an Irish
cabin in County Kerry. She is a most difficult subject, my dear
Polly, and I don’t think any one on earth can help her if you don’t
come to the rescue; so, will you come to-day? Come the very minute
you get this, for I really don’t know what we shall do with the
child. You will understand me when I tell you that this morning she
lost herself and had exercise on the back of Farmer Anderson’s bull,
Nimrod! You will perceive that she is what is termed an
‘impossibility.’ You, being Irish yourself, can doubtless touch her
heart. For goodness’ sake, Polly, come and save us all, and in
particular poor little Peggy Desmond.”
“There, now, daddy and mum,” said Mary, after she had read the letter,
“this is a call which cannot possibly be neglected. I put it to the
family.”
“And the family say that you are right,” was her father’s response.
“I’ll go and get the pony put to the cart,” said Sam.
“And I’ll pack your things. You’ll want your best evening dresses,” said
Angela.
And so Mary started off on her visit to Preston Manor.
The children ran with her a good bit of the way, shouting to her and
giving her directions. She was on no account to be bullied or oppressed
by the grandeur of Preston Manor, and she was on no account either to
allow the heart of the poor little Irish colleen to be broken; she was
to keep herself to herself, as all self-respecting Irish maidens did,
and at the same time she was to be a comfort and consolation to every
single individual in the house. “And, above all things, Mary Molly
Polly,” cried Sam, “you are to come back to your loving family as soon
as possible, for we’ll be in a rare fix without you.”
“That we will,” said Angela.
But at this moment Mary pulled up the pony which she was driving. “I
think you had better all go back now,” she said to her adoring brothers
and sisters; “you have given me invaluable advice, and you may be quite
certain I will carry it out to the letter. And now I want to give you a
trifle of advice. It is this: I want you to see that the mums doesn’t
overtire herself, and that daddy has a good strong cup of tea, and
doesn’t sit in a draught, and doesn’t get too hot, pretending to be a
young man, which you know he often does when we are having our
school-feasts. In short, Angela and Marcia and Sam, you are to take the
burden of the infant school feast on your own shoulders; and you know
well what that means—cutting bread and butter and serving out buns, and
laying the cloths upon the long tables, and afterwards seeing that the
children have their games to their hearts’ content.”
“We’ll manage; we’ll manage,” cried Angela. “And now, good-bye, and God
bless you, Mary Molly Polly!”
So Mary went on her way, thinking a good deal of the loved ones she had
left behind, and a good deal also of the loved ones she was going to,
for Mary had such a very big and such a very warm Irish heart! All those
people she loved she cared for with a great zest, a rush of wholesome
affection. This was what made her so beloved and so looked-up-to by rich
and poor alike, for she never, never thought of herself, her one object
from the time she rose in the morning until she laid her tired head on
the pillow at night was what she could do for the benefit of other
people. She was not at all proud with regard to the fact that Uncle Paul
Wyndham had written to her in his distress. It was the last thing
possible for Mary to be proud; but she was exceedingly glad, and she
determined to do her utmost for the sad little Irish child who was to be
entrusted to her care.
It was, of course, known at Preston Manor that Mary Welsh was expected
at a fairly early hour that day. In consequence, the room which was
known as the “forget-me-not” room was got ready for her. There were
several lovely bedrooms in the beautiful house, but there was no room
quite so sweet as the “forget-me-not” room. The paint was all of a
delicate shade of forget-me-not blue, and the paper was of soft, very
soft, white, the hangings of the bed were blue forget-me-not in tone,
and so also were the curtains looped back from the charming French
windows. There were, of course, books in the room, and a very nice,
comfortable sofa, and a couple of easy-chairs; also, a small table,
where a girl could write letters or do needlework, just as she pleased.
In short, the forget-me-not room was essentially a girl’s room, and
essentially also a cheerful and pleasant room.
The room having been ordered to be in a perfect state of readiness for
Miss Welsh, the two young Wyndhams walked up the avenue to watch for
Mary’s arrival. They did not take Peggy with them.
Peggy was much quieter than usual that morning; she had been fairly good
the night before—that is, she had with a violent effort refrained from
using her fingers instead of a knife and fork, and, when she was about
to say “faix,” or “wurra,” or “wisha,” she clapped her hand to her mouth
and said, “Beg pardon, sure,” and then stopped talking altogether. The
girls tried to encourage her to talk as they did, but she only nodded
her head and was silent. She went to bed early, and, as far as they
could tell, she slept soundly. As a matter of fact, unknown to them, she
rose at her usual early hour in the morning, got out by way of the roof,
climbed down again by the yew-tree, and went straight round to the
poultry-yard. There she dazzled and amazed “Mary” and “Pat,” as she
insisted on calling these two good people, by announcing her intention
of coming every morning to see the poultry, in order to keep herself
alive.
“For, if I don’t, sure as I’m a breathing girl, I’ll burst!” said Peggy.
“Oh, indeed you won’t, darling; you won’t be so silly,” said Mrs. Johns.
“Yerra, thin,” said Peggy, “that’s all ye know about it. If I can’t let
out me feelin’s when I’m here, I’ll burst, as sure as me name’s Peggy
Desmond. Why, thin, now, didn’t hisself spake to me last night, an’ tell
me that I wasn’t niver to say ‘yerra,’ nor ‘whisht,’ nor ‘wurra,’ nor
‘faix,’ nor ‘oh glory!’ I can’t remember them all. Yes, though there was
more—nor ‘sure thin,’ ‘your mightiness,’ nor ‘yer honour’—in fact, there
was scarcely a word left in the language that I was to spake, an’,
however was I to let out me voice if I was to be pulled up with niver a
‘yerra,’ nor a ‘wurra,’ nor a ‘whisht’ passing me lips? I ask you that,
Mary, and, in the name of Almighty God, tell me how it’s to be done?”
“You must learn fresh words, honey,” said Ann Johns. “In our part of
England we don’t say the words you use.”
“Oh, thin, faix, to be sure, I expect ye don’t. Ye haven’t got what I
call a cosy, cossetty, nice, consolin’ sort ov word amongst ye; never
was there a colder place, an’ me heart’s broke intirely!” The poor child
burst into tears. “It’s Mary Welsh they’re going to put on me to-day,”
she said, after a pause; and, as she uttered these words, both Johns and
his wife approached the child and each took possession of an arm.
“What are you trying to say, missy?” asked Mrs. Johns.
“Oh, thin, wurra, nothing at all, only it’s Mary Welsh they’re putting
on me to-day. Whoever be she, bedad?”
“You’re in luck if _she’s_ coming! Why, she’s as Irish as yourself, only
she knows just how to manage. She’ll teach you beautiful. Oh, you’ll
love her!”
“Mary, for the love of heaven, don’t say another word about her, for, if
ye do, as sure as me name’s Peggy Desmond, I’ll hate her! Don’t ye
praise her, woman, for, if ye do, hate her I will! Now, thin, I’ll be
off. I suppose ye haven’t a nice little hin that ’u’d like a bit of
breakfast that I could give to the crature, it would ease me heart
like.”
Mrs. Johns rushed into one of the stables, filled a dish full of corn,
took it out to Peggy, and said, “There, dear, feed the little hens round
the corner, and then go back to your bed, because if the family see you
they’ll be really angry.”
So Peggy did go back to her bed, crept into it, and, what is more, fell
asleep, wondering as she sank into the land of dreams who this
extraordinary Mary Welsh was who would help her, and whom everybody
seemed to love.
“But I’ll hate her,” thought Peggy; “it’s the way with me. I hate thim
whom other folks praise; it’s a sort of twist I have in me nature,
bedad.”
A servant came in to call Peggy, and also offered to help her to dress,
and Peggy submitted, and was, on the whole, apparently quite a good
little girl this morning. The nice maid brushed out the child’s soft,
beautiful hair, and took her hand and led her to the schoolroom.
There Jessie and Molly were waiting for her. They all sat down to
breakfast, Peggy with her hands hidden in her lap; the other two were
seated one at the foot and the other at the head of the table. Molly was
pouring out the coffee, and Jessie turned to Peggy and asked her what
she would like to eat.
“Is it ate ye want me to? Have ye any stirabout?”
“What’s stirabout?” asked Jessie.
“Oh, wurra! I beg yer pardon. Don’t ye know stirabout in this poor sort
of a country?”
“No, I never heard of it,” said Jessie.
“It’s made of Indian male, bedad—I beg your pardon. I don’t think I’ll
ate anything, if ye don’t mind.”
“Oh yes, you really must, dear,” said Molly; “and you know when Mary
Welsh comes——”
“For the love of goodness, don’t!” said Peggy.
“Don’t what?” exclaimed Molly.
“Don’t praise her in the sight of me; ye’ll repent it if ye do.”
Molly looked in despair at Jessie.
Jessie shook her head; suddenly, however, she rose from her seat. “Now,
look here, Peggy,” she said. “Molly and I want to be kind to you.”
“Am I sayin’ that ye don’t?”
“Well, we can’t be kind while yon go on in this silly way. Here’s a nice
piece of toast which I am going to butter for you. Would you like some
salt butter on it, or would you prefer it plain?”
“It’s stirabout I’m wantin’.”
“You can’t have stirabout, there’s none in the house. If you have a
craving for it, perhaps there’ll be some ordered to-day. Now, here’s
some nice toast. Would you like an egg?”
“Is it an egg laid by a hin? No, I won’t touch it. Poor little doaty
things, to ate their eggs! Bedad, thin—I beg yer pardon.”
The girls thought it best to talk to one another, which they did, and
Peggy ate a very moderate breakfast, looking at them wistfully from time
to time. At last the meal was over, and the girls consulted together.
Jessie went out of the room and Molly was left alone with Peggy.
“Now, then, Peg, we’re going to have such a nice morning; and, first of
all, we must meet Mary Welsh. I’m not going to praise her, of course, if
you don’t wish me to; but we are very fond of her. Will you come with
us? We thought of walking up to the gate to see her come along; she’ll
drive over in the pony cart.”
“I won’t go with ye—no, thanks.”
“Very well, dear, you must please yourself.”
“Thank ye for that same, I will.”
“Peggy, you don’t know how anxious we are to make you happy!”
“Ah, thin, if I were you, I wouldn’t.”
“I don’t understand,” said Molly.
“I mane that I wouldn’t fret; for ye can’t make me happy if ye were to
try for ever and ever, amen.”
“But, why not, Peggy?”
“Because ye can’t, and I’ve no raison to give. But lave me; I’m much
more aisy in me mind when I’m let alone.”
“Very well, dear; I will let you alone; only, don’t you think I might
give you one little kiss?”
“Arrah, why should ye be kissin’ me? I’m not in yer class, at all, at
all.”
“Yes, you are, Peggy, you are quite in our class.”
“Ah, thin, I wouldn’t be tellin’ lies if I was ye.”
“Well, anyhow, whether you are in my class or not, I’m fond of you and I
mean to be fonder, and I mean to kiss you, whether you like it or not.
Come, Peggy, come; one warm kiss from an English girl to an Irish girl.
Come, Peggy, come!”
Peggy submitted to the embrace, and as Molly flung both arms round her
neck affectionately she suddenly felt a queer softening of the heart.
She did not respond to the kiss; but as Molly reached the door of the
schoolroom, on the way to her own room, the Irish girl rushed towards
the door and embraced her tightly, saying, “Here’s from an Irish girl to
an English girl!”
Peggy’s kiss was soft, her eyes were full of tears. Molly went soberly
to her own room. Oh, how earnestly she trusted that Mary Welsh would
come and tell her how she was to manage this wild young creature!
A few minutes later both girls walked slowly up the avenue. Peggy, from
her point of vantage on the roof—which she now liked best as an
exit—watched them. When they were out of sight, she climbed down by the
aid of the yew-tree; then she ran swiftly along the shrubbery, and a
good while before the girls reached the gates of Preston Manor Peggy had
got there, and, with the agility of a young squirrel, had climbed up
into a tall elm-tree. There she ensconced herself comfortably in the
branches, and looked down and watched what was going on.
“I’ll see what kind that Mary Welsh is, whativer I do,” she said to
herself. “Ah, thin, bedad, I can say the words comfortably while I’m
alone. The trees don’t mind, nor the sky, nor does God in His heaven;
but, thin, it’s moithered I am intirely!”
The girls, little knowing that Peggy was watching them, presently
reached the gates. There was a lodge just inside the big gates, and the
woman who lived at the lodge, Mrs. Jordan by name, came out and began to
talk to the young ladies.
Peggy, up in her tree, could hear most of the words which passed between
them. To her disgust, the words happened to be praises, extreme praises,
of Miss Welsh.
Mrs. Jordan said, “I’m right glad _she’s_ coming, miss; it’s good for
sair e’en to see her.” Then the woman began a long story about when Jack
scalded himself, and how wonderfully Mary Welsh managed, sitting up all
night to mind him, and dressing his wounds herself, and he never crying
at all when she touched him—that good he was—though a very torment when
Miss Welsh was out of the room. Presently, however, the woman began to
talk about Peggy. There was a little rustling sound in the elm-tree into
which Peggy had climbed; the time, however, was midsummer, and, as the
leaves were very thick on the tree, nobody noticed when the girl slipped
down to a branch a little nearer the ground.
“I may as well _know_,” she said to herself. “I suppose it’s a bit mane
of me to listen, but I may as well know.”
“You’ve got a wonderful young lady staying with you now, miss,” said
Mrs. Jordan.
Peggy began to whistle exactly like a thrush.
Molly looked up into the tree. “How sweetly that bird sings!” she said.
She could not possibly see even a glimpse of Peggy, who was surrounded
by a curtain of green leaves.
“I hope the poor little lady won’t be lonesome,” continued Mrs. Jordan.
Peggy now thought that she would venture to imitate a nightingale, and
she did so with rare success.
“Oh, do listen! listen!” said Jessie. “I hadn’t the least idea that
nightingales were so close.”
“Nor had I,” said Mrs. Jordan. “I’m very glad if they’re going to pair
so near us; it will be nice.”
“I’ll tell father about them when he comes in,” said Jessie; “he will be
interested.”
“And so will Mary Welsh!” exclaimed Molly.
Just then a cuckoo, the sweetest note imaginable, sounded on the girls’
ears.
“I never knew the birds sing in such a lovely fashion as they are doing
to-day, and such a variety of them, too,” said Molly.
Peggy had hard work to keep back a violent fit of laughter; she,
however, restrained herself. She began a low, clear note, which might
have belonged to a blackbird or to a lark; she did not venture to do
many of the lark’s notes, fearing that she would be recognised, for
larks do not sing so near the ground. At last, however, the sound of
approaching wheels was heard; Peggy made a tiny opening for herself in
her screen of green leaves, and the next minute the little pony trap
appeared in view. A boy was seated at one side—he was evidently a groom,
as he was dressed like one—and a girl in a brown holland dress, with a
brown hat trimmed simply with a band of brown ribbon, was holding the
reins. She stopped abruptly when she saw the girls, sprang lightly from
the cart, and flung the reins to the boy.
“Joe, you had better take Sally up to the house; she will like a feed of
oats before she goes home again. Well, my dears, here I am. I’m so glad
to come!”
“And, oh, we are delighted! delighted to see you!” said Molly.
“And so am I delighted to see you.—Joe,” she called, aloud, “have my
little trunk sent up to my room, please; don’t take it back again in the
pony cart.”
The boy laughed and nodded. Soon the entire party were out of sight, and
there was perfect silence all around; but Peggy remained up in her tree.
At last, however, she slipped down towards the ground and ran as fast as
she could to the house. She had liked the Irish tone of “Mary Polly
Molly’s” voice, and was anxious to hear it again.
About half-an-hour before lunch the said Mary Polly Molly was in the
“forget-me-not” room. She had unpacked her few possessions, and was
standing by the open window. She had not yet seen Peggy, although she
had heard a vast lot about her. She had listened to the despairing tones
of her friends Jessie and Molly, but she had also heard Mrs. Wyndham
declare positively that if something was not done she could not endure
the child in the house.
“It comes to this, Mary,” Mrs. Wyndham said, “that if she doesn’t
improve I must ask you to get her into your father’s house for a bit.”
“Oh, but, mother, that’s not fair!” exclaimed Jessie.
“We would have her with a heart and a half,” said Mary, “except that we
haven’t got even a scrap of a corner to put her in.”
“Of course, you haven’t, dear,” said Mrs. Wyndham, flushing slightly,
“and it was very shabby of me even to suggest it. Well, Mary, if you can
stay with us for a few days you will tell us what we ought to do with
the child?”
“I don’t expect she will be a bit difficult,” said Mary; and now, as she
stood by her window, she thought about Peggy. Just then there came an
imperious knock at the door. She said, “Come in.” A slight pause
followed her words, then the door was very slowly opened and a small
head of bright hair peeped round it—peeped round the door somewhat in
the manner of a very ignorant lower-class servant in Ireland.
“Why, thin, it’s me,” said a sweet little voice; and the body which
belonged to the head now showed itself. The little head and the slender
figure made altogether an absolutely enchanting study, the sapphire-blue
eyes were so very, very bright, the ruddy chestnut hair was such a mass
of soft curls, the lips were curved like a true Cupid’s bow, and the
pearly teeth were small and absolutely even. Then the young figure was
by no means devoid of grace; and, although there was an ominous stain of
green on the white frock, otherwise the little maid was neatly and
suitably dressed. Her tan shoes and neat tan stockings were the best of
their kind, and the fact that the small hands were very brown and
sunburnt did not in the least detract from the other fact that this
Irish girl looked, at least, a perfect lady.
“Mary Polly Molly,” gazed at Peggy for a moment in undoubted
astonishment; but then, alas! the small girl began to speak, and the
crown of young ladyhood tumbled down from the stately head.
“Why thin, but might I come nigh to ye for a minute?” was the first
remark of Irish Peggy.
“Of course, you may, dear,” replied Mary; “I am so glad to make your
acquaintance. I have been hearing about you and wondering when I should
see you. It is very, very kind of you to come to my room like this.”
“Yerra, not at all,” replied Peggy. “It’s in a bit of a hole I be, and I
thought, savin’ yer presence, yer ladyship, as ye’re Irish-bred yerself,
and I liked the looks of ye when I saw ye driving up to the gates in a
humble little gig, that perhaps ye’d help me.”
“Of course, I will help you, Peggy; but I’m puzzled to know when and how
you saw me.”
“Oh wisha, worn’t that aisy? Didn’t I just climb up into a tree belike,
close nigh to the big gates, and looked down on ye and the young ladies;
and afore ye come up, and when they two was chattering with a woman they
called Mrs. Jordan, didn’t I—to beguile the weary time—imitate the tunes
the bits of birds sing, the cratures! They was all in a moil with
wondering why so many birds set up singin’ in that wonderful tree, an’ I
was fit to choke with the laughter, for ye comprehend they couldn’t get
a sight of the smallest spalpeen of me through the branches.”
Mary laughed very heartily. “I think, Peggy, you are a very clever
girl,” she said.
“Me! Is it me clever? May Heaven forgive ye! Why, ever since I set me
fut in this bitter cowld country it’s nothing but a fool I do be makin’
o’ meself, an’ it’s on that account I ventured into yer ladyship’s
presence, for how I’m to spake at all, at all, beats me.”
“Whatever do you mean, Peggy dear?”
“Oh ‘Peggy dear’! ’Tisn’t that ye’ll be callin’ me for long; why, it’s
hatin’ me ye’ll be, like the rest of thim. Now listen. I can’t come
round yer tongue, at all, at all, and that’s the truth, an’ the words
that I mustn’t say—oh my, but I’m blethered!—I’m not to say ‘arrah,’ nor
‘musha,’ nor ‘wurra,’ nor ‘yer mightiness,’ nor ‘yer honour,’ nor ‘yer
ladyship,’ which, be the same token, I thought for sure would plase
herself, and she as proud as Lucifer; but there, Lord save us! I must be
dumb, for I don’t know no other way to express me feelings, an’ that’s
the bare truth!”
“Poor little Peggy! Sit down and let me talk to you; we have a few
minutes before lunch. I can understand so well what you feel, for you
see I am Irish myself. I think I can help you fine; but, first, before
all things, we must be friends.”
“Does ye mane it, Miss Mary Molly Polly? Oh for the Lord’s beautiful
sake, does ye mane it?”
“Most certainly I do.”
“Thin let me give ye a hug. There, now, thin; that’s consoling; I’m
better now, I am, truly. Me heart’s not so sore. Ye’ll tell me how to
spake yer tongue, for ’tain’t mine. How does the quality spake in
Ireland, Miss Mary Molly Polly? That’s what I’m wantin’ to get at.”
“Peggy, I’m afraid you will have a hard time before you. The ‘quality,’
as you call them, in Ireland, speak exactly as the quality speak in
England. Now listen, darling. All well-educated people speak somewhat
alike, whatever country they stay in.”
“Oh, thin, wherever’s the use o’ bothering about languages, when
iverybody spakes the same?”
“You must say ‘speak,’ not ‘spake.’”
“Speaks the same. Oh, me word, there seems no flavour in that!”
“Now listen to me, Peggy. I will write out a list of the words you must
say instead of the words you _do_ say; and I will ask Mrs. Wyndham to
let you sit next me at lunch, and whenever you say a word you oughtn’t
to say I’ll just give you a gentle little push with my hand. I won’t
correct you all the time, for you can’t possibly, my dear child, learn
our way of speaking all at once. But will you listen to me—you will try
and copy me, won’t you? For I love Old Ireland, and for that matter,
Peggy my dear, I love the very part of Ireland you love, for we both
have come from the County Kerry.”
“Oh, wusha, wurra, wurra, wurra! Let me dance up and down the room! An’
did ye see the mountains ov her, and the lakes ov her, an’ did ye see
the clouds come down, forming a nightcap on some ov the mountains; an’
did ye see the flowers all a-blowin’ and a-growin’, an’ the little
bastes in the fields, an’ the little hins? An’, oh my! wurra, wurra! to
think of it!”
“Now, Peggy, don’t you think you can express all these feelings without
saying, ‘my’ and ‘wurra, wurra’?”
“I can’t, Miss Mary Molly Polly, I can’t.”
“In the first place, dear, you mustn’t say ‘miss’; you are to say ‘Mary’
to me.”
“Mary! I wouldn’t take the liberty; not if you was to beat me black an’
blue.”
“But if I ask you?”
“I couldn’t, Miss Mary—I beg your pardon—Mary, that is.”
“There, now, you’ve said it, you see, and it isn’t so difficult.”
“There’s no colour in it,” said Irish Peggy.
“Wouldn’t you like, Peggy, to be a little lady some day?”
“That’s the worst of me; I don’t want it at all. I’d a sight rayther be
wan of the common people. That’s what I’m afther wishin’ for.”
“You mustn’t say ‘afther wishin’ for;’ you must say, ‘that’s what I
wish.’”
“An’ what’s wrong in ‘afther,’ Miss—Mary, I mane.”
“It isn’t good English, dear.”
“Oh, bedad!”
“You mustn’t say ‘bedad.’ That’s quite wrong.”
“I’d best be dumb, hadn’t I, miss?”
“I think, Peggy, for a short time when you are downstairs, you had
better just say, ‘yes,’ or ‘no,’ or ‘please,’ or ‘thank you,’ and when
I’m up in my room with you, or walking with you, or telling you stories
about Ireland, I will gradually tell you the words you mustn’t say, and
you will see, darling, at the end of a week that you will have learnt to
drop a lot of the words that now seem to you so necessary and you will
have fresh ones to take their place.”
“Very well, Miss Mary.”
Just then the luncheon gong sounded.
“Now, dear, I’m not ‘Miss Mary,’ and remember that the girls are Jessie
and Molly, and when you speak to Mrs. Wyndham you are to say, ‘Mrs.
Wyndham,’ not ‘ma’am,’ and you are to sit close to me, and on no account
to eat your food with your fingers.”
“Why for not? It’s twice as fast.”
“But that is not the question, dear; it isn’t done.”
“I can’t manage a knife and fork nohow.”
“Well, watch me. Will you try and eat like me and speak like me? Now, I
know you’re very clever—you can imitate. If you can imitate a bird,
surely you can imitate a girl. Well, now, imitate me, won’t you?”
“But that would be laughin’ at ye like.”
“No, no, not at all; it won’t be laughing at me. Try and speak the way I
speak.”
“I’d a sight sooner imitate that Jessie; she’s so stiff an’ stuck-up. I
don’t like her, not a bit.”
“Oh, you mustn’t imitate in that way; that would be very rude.”
“Or,” said Peggy, her eyes dancing, “I’d like best of all to imitate
herself. Me word! wouldn’t I like to strut into a room like herself, me
head thrown back an’ me chest bulged out, an’ meself very nearly fallin’
backwards? Would it be right of me to do it, Miss Mary—I mane
Mary—because, if it would, it would tickle me fancy mightily.”
“No, it wouldn’t be right at all, Peggy, and you’re not to do it.”
Presently the two girls went downstairs. Mary undoubtedly felt that she
had got a “handful” in Peggy Desmond. Peggy was wondering and looking
about her; she had caught a little of Mary’s spirit, and wished to
please Mary, and Mary had put a new idea into her head—she was to
_imitate_. She did not think for a minute that it would be much fun
imitating Mary herself; besides, whatever Mary said, it _was_ rude to
imitate. Her grandfather and grandmother and the O’Flynns had told her
that she must not ever “make game of folks,” as they expressed it.
Surely, then, she would not make game of dear, dear Miss Mary; not she,
no, indeed, not for the world. But who could she imitate? She was told
she mustn’t imitate Jessie, and she mustn’t imitate Mrs. Wyndham, and it
would be rude to imitate dear little Molly, for she quite liked Molly;
but there were the servants; she might imitate one of them.
There were generally two men to serve at lunch-time at Preston Manor.
Mary came downstairs holding Peggy’s hand, and with a nod to Jessie it
was quickly arranged that the little girl was to sit next her new
friend. Occasionally Mary took the small hand and pressed it. Lunch
began. Peggy was strangely silent. When she was asked if she would take
such a thing, she said, “Yes, I thank you,” and when she was asked if
she would take another, she said, “No, I’m obliged”; and on the whole
her behaviour was fairly good, but all this time her small mind was
exceedingly busy.
There happened to be a new footman in the room that day, and this man,
it so happened, had a rather painful stammer in his speech. Now, nothing
makes one so nervous as a stammer, and Peggy observed that the footman
flushed very red indeed when he passed things round, and also that when
he was spoken to, he said, “Y-y-y-yes,” and could not very well go on.
Suddenly it occurred to Peggy that it would be a delightful thing if she
imitated Joseph, as this servant was called.
The first part of the luncheon went off without anything special
occurring; but by the time the puddings and other sweets were handed
round Peggy had quite learnt her lesson.
“Will you have some pudding, Peggy, or some of this stewed fruit?”
inquired Mrs. Wyndham. She spoke in a somewhat languid tone and looked
at the child as she did so.
“I’ll have p-p-p-p-p—fr-u-it—’m,” said Peggy.
Mary turned and looked at the girl. The footman, Joseph, rushed out of
the room, and there was a sound of convulsive laughter in the hall.
Peggy looked up with her innocent eyes. “Did I frighten him?” she said.
“Ye told me I was to imitate.” She looked full at Mary.
“Oh my dear, I didn’t mean that. Forgive her, please, Mrs. Wyndham;
she—she’ll soon be all right.”
“No, I won’t; I’ll always be wrong,” said Peggy; “always and always and
always; there ain’t no use trying to bother about me at all, at all!”
And the excited child burst into tears.
But Mary, after all, had her way. Ever since she came into the world had
not Mary Polly Molly had her own way? She had it now with Peggy when she
took the girl up to her room, and got into an American rocking-chair and
rocked backwards and forwards with the angry child folded in her arms.
When the little girl’s passion was over, Mary began to talk to her in
gentle, sweet tones, telling her stories of Ireland—beautiful stories,
stories of its glens and vales, of its rivers and mountains, of its
meadows of emerald green, of its waterfalls, of its countless delights,
and the lonely Irish child listened, fascinated by the stories. Then
Mary, who saw her opportunity, brought in very delicately little fairies
and little brownies, and made up tales about them, and she suddenly
suggested to Peggy that nothing could be better for her than to have a
dear little fairy godmother who would remain with her day and night and
tell her what to do.
“We will call her the Fairy Princess Mona,” said Mary. “Where I lived
there was a dear little Irish girl called Mona, and I think the dear
little fairy of that name will be a sweet godmother for you, Peggy. She
will sleep in your bed at night, and she will make herself very
disagreeable when you are naughty, and she will make herself very
agreeable when you are good.”
“But is it nonsense ye’re talking, Miss Mary?”
“Not Miss Mary.”
“Is it nonsense ye’re talking, Mary, or is it sense?”
“It is sense, darling, and now I will explain it to you. The little
Fairy Princess Mona _really_ lives inside you. She has got another name;
her name is ‘Conscience,’ and she will tell you, with her dear little
clear voice, when you are doing wrong and hurting people; she will hurt
you a little bit herself then; and, of course, you being a sweet, true
Irish child, will stop immediately. Now, it was very unkind of you to
imitate poor Joseph to-day, and the little fairy, the Princess Mona,
must have been fearfully hurt when you did it. I’m dreadfully afraid
that poor Joseph, although he laughed then, did not laugh afterwards,
and he certainly ran out of the room in great confusion.”
“Whativer will I take him to make him happy again?” asked Peggy.
“Well, we’ll take him an ‘I beg your pardon,’ to-morrow,” said Mary,
“and I will be with you when you speak to him; and now, darling, try and
remember about the fairy princess, and don’t make her unhappy. You can’t
think how she will sing in your heart when you have done a kindness to
any one.”
“But I’m anxious to be always doin’ kindness. Sure, for glory’s sake——”
“Now, Peggy, that is not a right word. Say it without ‘sure’ and ‘for
glory’s sake.’”
“There’s no end to it without its beginning,” said Peggy, turning a
little sulky.
“Well, darling, I want you to try and speak like a dear little Irish
lady. You can’t forget all your pretty words at once, and some of them
you may say now and then—not quite all, but some—and then, dear, you
needn’t lose your sweet accent, for it is altogether charming, and you
needn’t lose your dear Irish blue eyes, for nobody who wasn’t an Irish
girl could have such sapphire-blue eyes as yours. My dear child, I am
certain you will be very happy if only you obey little Fairy Princess
Mona.”
By the evening of that day, Peggy had really made valiant efforts to
improve her language. Mary, however, allowed the girl to talk to her
pretty much as she liked.
In the evening Mary had a conversation about her with Mrs. Wyndham. “I
think,” she said, “that Peggy ought not to go to a regular school for at
least two months. During that time, if you are wise, you will let me
send her to my friend Nancy Grey. Nancy Grey lives with her father on
the borders of Wales; she is a dear, sweet girl, and has got two little
baby-brothers to take care of, and her father. Her dear mother is dead,
and Nancy would be glad to have Peggy to keep her company. At the end of
her visit she will be ready to come back, and, perhaps, go to school to
The Red Gables with the girls after Christmas.”
“My dear Mary, I think your plan is a splendid one! I never knew anybody
who had such patience. I only wish you could take the child yourself.”
“I wish with all my heart I could,” replied Mary; “but, as a matter of
fact, we have hardly standing-room in our crowded rectory. But I will
write to Nancy if Uncle Paul says I may.”
“Speak to him yourself, Mary; he is the most obstinate man in existence.
If he agrees, all will be well.”
CHAPTER VIII.
PEGGY AND HER SCHOOL COMPANIONS.
Strange to say, however, Mr. Wyndham’s obstinacy was too strong to be
overcome by Mary’s keen desire that Peggy should go to her friend before
she was launched into the terrors—as terrors they certainly would be to
her—of a fashionable English school.
“No, Mary; I hope you will stay with us for the remainder of the
holidays, and do what you can for the poor little thing; but I have
already written to Mrs. Fleming, describing Peggy’s character and
begging of her to be kind to the child. I have received a letter,
telling me that she will accept the charge of Peggy, and that she has no
doubt that in a very short time the girl will turn out all that is
satisfactory. She says there is nothing, after all, like school for
breaking a girl in. She promises to be very kind to the child, and
patient, and says that if the other girls laugh at her they will be
reprimanded. I am certain that I am doing right, my dear. The girl needs
to be educated and that without delay; she would never get the education
she requires at home, and will become interested in her life at The Red
Gables, will choose her own friends, and, in short, will soon be happy
as the day is long.”
Mary had to bring this information to Mrs. Wyndham, who, as may be
easily imagined, was anything but gratified when she heard of her
husband’s determination.
“Really some men are too annoying!” Mrs. Wyndham could not help saying;
then she was silent, for the simple reason that she had nothing more to
say.
The Red Gables was one of those select schools which are to be found
here and there in England; they are, as time progresses, growing rarer
and rarer. The high schools, the schools of the County Council, the
colleges, &c., seem to shut them out, to oppose them, to make them
undesirable; nevertheless, a few still do exist; the old-fashioned sort
of home-school, and of these there could not be a more delightful
specimen than The Red Gables.
The house was exceedingly old-fashioned, and was situated in a most
lovely part of Devonshire. From the windows could be seen a distant peep
of the sea and of some neighbouring hills; the grounds were extensive,
consisting of many acres; and the house itself belonged to a very much
earlier period than the date of this story. For nearly two hundred years
The Red Gables had been a school for girls, and one mistress after
another had taken possession of it; and it so happened that the girls of
the present day were the children of the girls of the past day, their
mothers, their grandmothers, even their great-grandmothers having been
educated at The Red Gables. The school was select and small; there were
in all only twenty girls, and these were divided into the Upper and the
Lower Schools, with ten girls in each. The Upper School lived quite
apart, having little or nothing to do with the Lower School except on
feast-days and on days of special ceremony.
The teachers were—first of all, Mrs. Fleming, who was the daughter of
the late head-mistress (a Mrs. Medbury, a very sweet old lady, who had
died some time ago). Mrs. Fleming had married early in life, had lost
her husband, had lost her children, and had been only too glad to take
possession of The Red Gables. She was essentially a teacher; she had
that inestimable gift of tact which is necessary for all good teachers.
She was very sympathetic and very patient; she had long ago discovered
for herself that there were no two girls alike, so she expected that
each girl who came to her would differ in character from her
predecessors. She watched these young characters most carefully, and as
far as possible she treated them in such a manner as she thought best
calculated to help them in their journey through life.
It was an exceedingly difficult thing to get into The Red Gables, the
school being so small; limited, in short, to twenty boarders, it was all
but impossible to admit any girl there on short notice. Mrs. Fleming had
often been implored to enlarge her borders, and had been assured that
she could just as easily take a hundred girls under her care as twenty;
but she was determined to keep to the good old rules, and not to
increase the numbers of her school. One reason, therefore, why Mr.
Wyndham was so very anxious that Peggy should go to The Red Gables at
once was the fact that there happened to be a vacancy suddenly in the
Lower School, caused by the serious illness of a little girl who had
been obliged to be moved in order to undertake her education at home.
Mrs. Fleming had written immediately to the Wyndhams to tell them of
this vacancy, and to ask them if they had any young friend they would
like to send to her school.
The Wyndhams happened to be some of Mrs. Fleming’s most esteemed and
loved friends. By a curious coincidence this letter of Mrs. Fleming’s
arrived on the day before Mr. Wyndham got his letter from poor Captain
Desmond, begging him to take compassion on his only child. The two
things seemed to Wyndham to fit together too closely to be disregarded.
He accordingly wrote immediately to Mrs. Fleming, describing most fully
the character of the child, and asking her to help him to bring Peggy
up. “She is fifteen,” he said, “and she is as wild as a young colt. She
has been taught after a fashion at a board school in Ireland, but what
her accomplishments are I know not. She would make a very excellent
servant, but she has not the most remote ideas of the part assigned to
her—the life of a young lady. But will you take her? Dare you put such a
little wild colt into the midst of your very orderly school?”
Now it so happened that Mrs. Fleming was rather fascinated than
otherwise by Wyndham’s description of Peggy Desmond. She wrote
immediately to say that she would take Peggy, and had every confidence
that she could train the “little wild colt” to her own views and wishes.
In short, without spoiling Peggy’s character, she would make her what
was most desirable—a real lady. “The difficulty will be this,” she said,
“I must on no account break her spirit, for the child, from what you
tell me, must have enormous spirit. I must train her without breaking
that.”
It was, therefore, impossible for Wyndham to accede to Mary Polly
Molly’s request. The girl must go to The Red Gables; if she did not
seize the chance she might not be able to go to the school at all.
Amongst the teachers at the school was a certain Miss Greene, a very
tall, graceful, and clever woman of about five-and-twenty years. She was
head-teacher to the Upper School; thoroughly understood English
literature and history, and was also a charming companion to the older
girls. She had been carefully trained, first at St. Hilda’s at
Cheltenham, and then at Girton College. She had now been only a year and
a half at The Red Gables, but already her influence in the school was
strongly felt. The next teacher, who exercised an enormous influence
over the girls, was Miss Archdale, the head-teacher in the Lower School.
Then there was Mademoiselle France and Fräulein Stott; these good women
taught in both schools, the Lower and Upper. Miss Smith was a sort of
nurse-teacher to the little ones. She was beloved by all the children,
and more particularly by the small girls. In addition, there was the
housekeeper, who had charge of the commissariat of the establishment;
but Miss Smith was the one to whom the sick and weary invariably went,
and they never went in vain. A German teacher of the name of Herr
Harleigh used to come twice a week to instruct the higher forms in
German; he also taught music; and there was Monsieur Romanes, a
Frenchman, who taught French in the Upper School, and painting as well.
The names of the special girls who figure in this story were, first of
all, Alison Maude. She was the head-girl of the school; was tall,
graceful, and just eighteen years of age. She would leave The Red Gables
in another year, and the rest of the girls did not know how they could
ever get on without her. Her dearest friend was Molly Wyndham, but she
was also fond of Jessie. Both these girls had been for a couple of years
now in the Upper School. Then there was Bridget O’Donnell, the Irish
girl about whom Jessie and Molly had spoken. Bridget was absolutely
charming. She was the life and fun of the place; her laughter was most
infectious, and her jokes were inimitable. She was a perfect lady and
yet she was also a perfect Irishwoman; she would not give up her native
land for all you could offer her. She was extremely pretty, with the
dark-blue eyes which are the sure accompaniment of the true Irish
maiden; but, unlike poor little Peggy, her hair was black as jet and
grew in profusion to far below her knees. Her complexion was that of the
brunette; she had a vivid colour in her cheeks, and lovely crimson lips
with a little dimple at the right corner, which, when she smiled, gave
the final touch to her charms.
Marcia and Angela Welsh were also members of the Upper School; and,
being Mary’s sisters, it was impossible for them to be anything but
lively and charming girls. They were fairly good-looking without being
the least beautiful. They were well-informed for their age, without
having any one special talent; in short, they were ordinary, very nice,
trustworthy everyday sort of girls. Although they had Irish blood in
their veins, they had, unlike Mary, never lived in the dear old country.
They were accustomed, however, to small means, to the hard work which
falls to the lot of girls who belong to a big family where riches are
unknown, and where it is only just possible by the utmost economy to
make two ends meet. Marcia was fourteen and Angela sixteen; but, in
mentioning the two, Marcia was invariably spoken of before Angela,
because she had far more character than her sister.
The Red Gables was an expensive school, and it would have been quite
impossible for Marcia and Angela Welsh to have gone there had not Mrs.
Fleming taken them practically without payment. Mrs. Welsh had been a
pupil of her dear mother, and this good woman was in consequence only
too anxious to help her friend. Marcia and Angela had received a long
letter from Mary with regard to Peggy, and were in consequence all agog
to see her, although they knew that as Peggy would be in the junior
school they would not, under ordinary conditions, have much to say to
her.
And now to speak of that Lower School, where the little Irish girl was
to dwell, was to cast off that curious and yet fascinating sense of
humour and peculiarity of language, which kept her apart from ordinary
girls in that new class of life where she was expected to walk. The
Lower School would, indeed, not prove itself a bed of roses for poor
Peggy. There was one girl who considered herself, whether rightly or
wrongly, the captain of the school. Her name was Kitty Merrydew; she was
twelve years old, and some people said that those glorious, great dark
eyes, that exceedingly dark skin, that hair of jetty black, the rich,
deep colour in each rounded cheek, pointed to Spanish ancestors.
Whatever her birth may have been, there was no doubt of one thing, she
was exceedingly mischievous, and her mischievous ways were joined to an
amount of cunning which made her young companions afraid of her—that is,
those who were not on her side. Kitty was far too clever to be found out
by her teachers. She was small and very slender. Her nickname in the
school was The Imp, although a few of the more venturesome of the girls
called her The Brat. In very truth, Kitty Merrydew deserved both these
names, and if Mrs. Fleming had had the slightest idea of this strange
girl’s influence over her younger pupils she would have dismissed her at
once; but Kitty was one of the people it is exceedingly difficult to
understand. Before her teachers and in the presence of the head-mistress
she could only be regarded as a gentle, low-voiced, rather sweet-looking
girl, a girl decidedly handsome, given to change colour violently, and,
in consequence, to be considered rather delicate; the sort of girl to be
adored by her mistresses and masters, because lessons, however
difficult, were a mere nothing to The Imp. She drank in all instruction
as a thirsty child will drink water, she played beautifully both on the
piano and violin, she recited with such exquisite pathos that those who
listened to her felt tears at the back of the eyes; and yet there was
not one girl in the whole school who did not know well that The Brat or
The Imp was up to mischief; so she had her own way with all those with
whom she came in contact, making them her slaves, and daring them to
defy her, or, as she expressed it, “to tell tales out of school.”
Kitty Merrydew’s special friends were Grace and Anne Dodd. They were
both of them exceedingly plain and exceedingly wealthy; they were
dull-looking girls, and not only looked dull but were dull; nevertheless
they were invaluable to The Imp, who used them on all occasions as her
tools.
The youngest child in the school was a most lovely little creature of
about six years of age. Her name was Elisabeth Douglas. Her father and
mother had to leave her behind when they went to India; and little
Elisabeth, who had been an only darling, and a much petted and much
loved treasure, very nearly broke her little heart when she found
herself alone at The Red Gables. All that money could do was done for
Missy Elisabeth’s comfort, and in particular she had a black servant who
had been her “Nanny” all her life to wait on her. It was very
unwillingly that Mrs. Fleming consented to the admission of Chloe into
the school; but at last she agreed that the woman should remain with the
child for the first year, and after that time she might see her during
the holidays. Little Elisabeth had her own bedroom, where she and Chloe
slept; Chloe curled up on a mat by the door, and the little one lying
fast asleep in her pretty cot, which the mulatto ayah had decked most
fancifully with curtains of the softest white muslin, looped up with
many-coloured ribbons.
When little Elisabeth arrived at the school The Imp began by sneering
and laughing at her; but after a very short time she changed her
tactics, for she perceived an expression in Chloe’s eyes and a certain
watchful manner which made the clever Imp see that she had met her
match. Accordingly The Imp took up little Elisabeth, and the child
quickly yielded to her fascinations. Elisabeth was the sort of little
girl who might be described as an angel. She had great, dark-blue eyes,
which looked strangely dark in that fair little round face; the pupils
of the eyes were very much distended, and the eyelashes were long and
very dark. Above the eyes were delicate, soft brows, most beautifully
marked, the little mouth was a rosebud, and when she laughed there
issued from those small lips a peal of something like angel’s bells.
Nevertheless, little Elisabeth was by no means in the best place in the
world for either her education or happiness, and all this was caused by
the secret and pernicious influence of Kitty Merrydew.
Now it was into this hornets’ nest that poor, wild, untutored Peggy
Desmond was to enter. There was a great deal to dazzle and even delight
the child who had all the wild imagination and poetry of her race. Could
any one, for instance, be quite so wonderful in appearance as little
Elisabeth, who was dressed according to her mulatto nurse’s ideas, and
made in consequence a vivid and even coquettish effect. The little face
was pale and full of reserve, strange and almost unnatural at her tender
years. She had been born in South Carolina; hence the presence of Chloe
on the scene. Her dark-blue eyes were big, wondering, and wistful; her
hair was thick and straight, and rather fair. She wore as a rule a frock
of orange and scarlet striped cotton, which came down just to her knees.
On her head she invariably had perched a small cap of scarlet, with a
great flaring bow of yellow of the most vivid shade. Wherever Elisabeth
appeared there came the stout, cumbersome form of Mrs. Chloe, in her
wonderful turban of crimson and gold.
Mrs. Fleming hoped to alter this strange attire on the part of both
child and maid before the next term had come to an end, but this she was
wise enough to know could only be effected by degrees.
Meanwhile Peggy was being fitted with a suitable wardrobe. This caused
much annoyance to the small person, and but for Mary’s soothing
influence it is doubtful if the clothes would ever have arrived at The
Red Gables. Peggy was at the age when dress was not of the smallest
importance to her; and to be called from Mary’s side to be fitted and
measured, to be turned to right and to left just because of the set of a
frock, nearly drove this small girl wild. “Lawk-a-mercy me,” she was
heard to say, “what do I care so that I’m just covered; for the Lord’s
sake, ain’t that enough? I don’t want fine clothes; that I don’t, Miss
Mary Polly Molly.” But then Mary looked at her sadly, and she dropped
her voice, lowered her long lashes, and said after a minute, “Does ye
want me to be a vain little colleen, Mary?”
“No, I don’t want you to be vain, Peggy; but I want you to be properly
dressed. It would not be at all pleasant for you to go to The Red Gables
not dressed neatly, like other little girls. You would be teased a good
deal if you did.”
“Is it tased? What’s that?”
“Well, they would make fun of you.”
Peggy’s sapphire-blue eyes sparkled. “Let them!” she said; “I can pay
them back in their own coin!”
“Now, Peggy, I’m quite sure you won’t do that. You’ve improved
enormously; you haven’t been in any sort of scrape for the last three
days, and I’m ever so proud of my pupil.”
“Are ye thin, miss?”
“Not miss, Peggy.”
“Are ye thin, Mary?”
“I am, Peggy. I am very proud of you.”
Peggy said nothing, but soon afterwards she took an opportunity to go
away to her own room. There she locked the door; then she flung herself
on her knees by her bedside, and burst into a stormy fit of weeping.
After she had dried her eyes she stood for a minute deliberating; then
said to herself, “I may as well do it, for I can’t do otherways. Mercy
me, ’t ain’t one dhrop o’ slape I’ll get to-night if I don’t do it.” The
next minute she was out of the window, had crawled along the roof, and
had come to the poultry-yard. She was bending down and waiting for Pat,
as she now invariably called him, to bring a ladder. Pat was accustomed
to his name; he liked the Irish missy, and so did his wife. The ladder
was forthcoming, and Peggy had a good time with the little “hins” and
“pigeens.”
“Is it true, Miss Peggy,” said Ann Johns, “that they’re sending you to
school at the end of the holidays?”
“Why, thin, it is,” said Peggy. “If I could run away, I would.”
“Oh, but it’s a beautiful school I’ve heard tell,” remarked Ann, winking
as she spoke at her husband to induce him to hold his peace.
“It doesn’t matter to me whether it’s beautiful or not,” said Peggy. “I
hate it; I hate all schools! Haven’t I had me larnin’?” she continued.
“Didn’t I know up to the third standard, and what more could any young
girrul want?”
“For a poor girl, of course, that would be plenty,” said Mrs. Johns,
“but then you’re a lady, missy.”
“And I tell ye, Mary, I ain’t, and I niver will be. When I’m a growed-up
woman I’ll run away back to the O’Flynns. They can’t niver make a lady
o’ me, try as they will!”
The servants clustered round as usual to listen to their favourite.
Presently a girl rushed up and began to whisper to Mrs. Johns.
“Well, I never!” she said. “I didn’t expect it till to-morrow morning.”
“What is it? What are ye whisperin’ about?” said Peggy.
“Why, missy, dear, you’re in the very luck of time; there’s the little
hen Charity has brought out her brood of chicks. We didn’t expect them
to be hatched until to-morrow morning.”
“Oh glory! oh let’s see!” said Peggy. She began to hop on one leg, to
pull Mrs. Johns by the hand to get her to take her to the spot where
Charity sat guarding her brood. The bright eyes of the little white hen
looked up with conscious pride and at the same time a touching mixture
of apprehension at those who were gazing down at her. Peggy smoothed her
delicate little top-knot, and then, thrusting in her hand, took out a
tiny chick, a ball of yellow fluff. She kissed it very tenderly and then
put it back again under its mother.
“Oh, an’ don’t me heart go out to ye, Charity?” she said, “an’ ain’t ye
a darlin’? Look ye here, Mammy Mary, mayn’t I stay an’ watch wid Charity
for a bit, an’ give her some hard-boiled egg to feed her little chicks
wid? Bedad, now, ye’ll let me, won’t ye, Mary?”
“I daren’t, darling, I wish I could.”
Peggy frowned. “Oh dear, wurra!” she said, “it’s a sad worruld!”
After a time, however, she was induced to go back, Johns and his wife
being, as a matter of fact, most anxious to get rid of her; if she did
not go back almost immediately they would be discovered, and then they
did not know what mischief might befall them. Accordingly, Johns put the
ladder up to the house and Peggy said good-bye to Charity, although
there was a very knowing look in her eyes, and then returned to her own
room.
Now these little escapades on the part of Peggy were never breathed even
to Miss Mary Polly Molly; and Peggy quieted that conscience of hers—that
fairy Princess Mona, who would speak and would not be quiet—at least she
tried to quiet her by disregarding her.
The days flew past, the holidays were over. Peggy, compared to what she
was when first she arrived at Preston Manor, was outwardly vastly
improved, but it is sad to relate that her nature was very much the same
as it was before. She did, however, cry very heartily when she bade Mary
good-bye, but no one else seemed to evoke any feelings in her breast.
Mrs. Wyndham said to her husband: “Mark my words, you will have trouble
with that child, that’s a certainty.”
Wyndham said, “I mean to do my utmost, and I am convinced that in the
long run I shall conquer.”
And then Peggy went off to school with her cousins.
They had a long journey from Preston Manor to The Red Gables, and the
three girls were tired long before it came to an end. Peggy went to
sleep in her corner, and Jessie and Molly began whispering together.
They had a first-class carriage to themselves.
Jessie said, “Well, I do wonder how she’ll get on.”
“Oh she’ll get on all right,” said Molly.
“But you see,” continued Jessie, “the difficulty is this. It was all
very fine while dear old Mary Welsh was with us, looking after her every
single minute of her time, but now things will have vastly changed. You
see, my dear, we two are in the Upper School, and have little or nothing
to do with the girls in the Lower School. I’m so terrified that she’ll
get into the power of The Imp.”
“Yes, I must say I don’t like The Imp at all in connection with Peggy,”
said Molly, “but I tell you what I’ve been thinking, Jess.”
“What’s that?”
“I might have a little talk with dear Mrs. Fleming, and perhaps she’ll
manage that I may sometimes see Peggy.”
“Perhaps she will,” said Jessie, “but there’s one thing certain, you
mustn’t tell any stories of The Imp.”
“Of course I won’t. Whoever heard of such a thing? You don’t suppose I’d
do that, do you, Jessie?”
“I don’t know, you’re such a queer girl, Molly; you take people up in
such a hot sort of fashion. You are almost as impulsive as that dreadful
little Irish thing in the corner.”
Now “the dreadful little Irish thing in the corner,” as it so happened,
opened, not the eyes of her body, but the eyes of her mind at that
moment, and heard the words which Jessie had pronounced. A sudden stab,
a sudden queer tremor took possession of her frame. She, who loathed
England, who had come over because she had been dragged there, was
called by one of those detestable English girls “that dreadful little
Irish thing in the corner.” Oh wouldn’t she give it to her! Without
opening her eyes she knew quite well who had spoken—it was Jessie. Molly
would not be so unkind. From the very first Peggy had hated Jessie.
“I’ll make things unpleasant for her at school,” she thought, “see if I
don’t!” Her cheeks flushed, her eyes brightened. “I’ll kape things dark.
Who’s The Imp? I’ll make friends wid her, if she’ll help me to punish
Jessie Wyndham,” thought the girl. Then she opened her bright eyes wide
and fixed them on the other girls. “How soon will we be there? I’m sick
of this jolting along,” she said.
“We won’t be there for at least an hour,” said Jessie, in a cross voice;
“and as to jolting along, I’m sure, my dear Peggy, you were never in
such a beautiful train before in the whole course of your life.”
“Wasn’t I? The trains in Ireland are twice as nice. They go
jogglety-jogglety, an’ stop just when ye want them. If there’s a little
pigeen lost by the wayside, why, the man stops the train an’ out he gets
to take it up. We’ve a heart of our own in Ould Ireland; ye haven’t a
bit of it in England, ye’re as cold, as cold as a lump of stone!”
“Well, you needn’t abuse us,” said Jessie, in rather a cross tone, “it’s
disagreeable enough to be going to school with you without your abusing
us too.”
“Don’t scold her, Jessie. Remember that, although this is our fourth or
fifth term at school, it is poor little Peggy’s first,” said Molly.
“Peggy, come over and sit close to me, and I will point out the
beautiful things as we pass them by.”
“There ain’t no beautiful things,” said Peggy; “there are no beautiful
things anywhere except in Ireland, bless its heart!”
“Oh come now, come and look at this view; isn’t this quite superb?”
But Peggy refused to admire. Jessie snatched up a school story which she
was reading and turned her back upon the other two, pretending to read.
Peggy whispered to Molly, “Why thin, I don’t like her. What’s put her in
that sulk now, you tell me?”
“You mustn’t speak against my sister,” Molly whispered back.
Then Jessie shrugged one of her shoulders, for of course she heard the
whispering, and made up her mind that, come what would, she would try to
induce Mrs. Fleming to send Peggy away from the school.
Thus these three young people were by no means in a state of harmony
when they arrived at The Red Gables.
CHAPTER IX.
THE IMP OF THE RED GABLES.
It was the custom at The Red Gables for the entire school to meet
together, and in the presence of their teachers to have tea together
during the first evening of each term. Afterwards the Upper and the
Lower School might still remain in the great central hall, talking with
their mutual friends and discussing how and where the holidays were
spent. This evening was looked forward to with deep interest by all the
old pupils; they had so much to say, to inquire about, to whisper
together. For the rules were very strict, and except in the case of a
holiday, or the Saturday half-holiday, the pupils of the Upper and Lower
Schools never met except on this one precious evening.
But while the old pupils delighted in these few moments of reunion, the
new pupils—when there were new pupils—did not find this time of mutual
confab so agreeable. They, poor things, felt strange and out in the
cold, and as a rule longed for the moment when they might cross the
quadrangle and retire to their own rooms.
The Red Gables was an old-fashioned house, built round three sides of a
square. This gave it a slightly foreign appearance. On the fourth side a
great archway was flung across where the square opened on to the long
avenue, which was very broad and straight.
Facing this was the school itself, where were the classrooms, the great
refectory, and the chapel where prayers were read morning and evening.
To the right were the rooms occupied by the girls of the Upper School.
Here each girl had her own special bedroom. Here was the suite of rooms
appropriate to the head-mistress, and here also slept the English
teacher, Miss Green, the French governess, and the German governess.
Here was a lovely library of most choice books for the use and pleasure
of the girls, and here also was the private sitting-room sacred to the
girls themselves, and into which not even the head-mistress had a right
to enter without the special invitation of the girls. This room was most
carefully laid out in ten compartments, each girl owning one, and
keeping therein her own precious gifts and possessions. The room had
easy-chairs, a thick Axminster carpet, and in winter and spring a bright
fire burning in the grate. On the walls hung lovely pictures, many of
them the work of former pupils.
The left wing of The Red Gables was devoted to the Lower School. Here
also slept Miss Archdale, the clever and delightful second English
teacher. Here was to be found Miss Smith, the beloved of all sick or
sorrowful children, and here also, on the upper floor, slept the
servants of the establishment. The children here—with the exception of
little Elisabeth Douglas, who had her own small room on the second
floor—slept in two long and very cheerful dormitories. One dormitory was
on the first and the other on the second floor. At the end of each
dormitory was a small room occupied by a teacher. There was also a large
sitting-room downstairs for the use of the girls in wet or cold weather,
but this room was unlike the luxurious sitting-room of the Upper School.
It was plainly and almost severely furnished, and had a high
nursery-fender to keep the young and giddy children from going too near
the flames. This room was not private like the Upper sitting-room, but
was liable at all times or at any moment to be invaded by Miss Archdale
or Miss Smith.
The fact was this: Mrs. Fleming, having a reason in all she did or said,
made it a great object that her pupils should realise that promotion to
the Upper School was worth waiting for and worth striving for, so that
those girls who were really worthy, quite irrespective of age, might go
there. This being the case, there were now and then times in the history
of The Red Gables when up to twelve girls would be members of the Upper
School, while only eight remained in the Lower. Of late years, it is
true, this was not the case; and the good lady wondered, without in the
least knowing the cause—namely, the baneful influence of The Imp.
The Imp was a great correspondent, and had learned from her friends and
satellites, the Dodds, that a most peculiar Irish girl—a sort of raw
material—was coming to the school.
The Dodds lived in a huge, vulgar-looking place called Hillside, in the
same parish as the Welsh family. Mr. Dodd had made his money in pigs,
and had built Hillside some years before this story begins. His one
object was to get in with the County, and the object of the said County
was to avoid him and his vulgar, red-faced wife and singularly plain
daughters. The link between the County and himself seemed to John Dodd
to be the clergyman of the place, and in consequence he tried to make
great friends with the Welsh family. It was entirely on account of them
that he got his daughters admitted into Mrs. Fleming’s school.
The Misses Dodd were quite as commonplace as their name implied, and
being completely under the power of The Imp, rejoiced in writing letters
to her. Their luxurious home at Hillside was supplied with unlimited
carriages, motor-cars, horses, pony traps—in short, all that money could
buy. But it is well known that money cannot buy everything; it cannot
buy refinement of taste, it cannot buy those inalienable things which
come from long descent, from the heart and soul of the born gentleman or
lady. These things the young Dodds had not got, and nothing could ever
give them those inestimable possessions. Mr. Welsh was, however, the
sort of man who could not possibly be rude or unkind to any one; he told
his children that they were to be as nice as possible to the Dodds, he
allowed them to visit at Hillside, and the news that Mary Welsh had gone
to Preston Manor because a little wild Irish girl had arrived there
quickly reached the ears of Grace and Anne Dodd. For Grace and Anne to
know a thing was, of course, for Kitty Merrydew to know it as soon after
as possible. Accordingly, Kitty was prepared for the advent of poor
little Peggy in the school.
The first evening passed as usual. The girls assembled in the great hall
and stared at each other. Peggy found herself standing close to Molly,
who instinctively put out her hand and linked it in that of her little
friend. Peggy felt a warm rush of something like gratitude filling her
heart, then her bright eyes, blue as sapphires, shining like stars,
fixed themselves on the equally bold black eyes of The Imp. There was an
instant challenge between those two pairs of eyes. Peggy held herself
very erect. The Imp also drew herself up as high as she could—she was a
tiny creature, and really exquisitely made—and looked at Anne Dodd, and
Anne Dodd laughed. This laugh was very bad manners, and would not have
been permitted had any of the governesses been by.
The evening passed much as usual, and by-and-by the moment came when
Peggy had to say good-bye to Molly and go across the courtyard to the
left wing, where the Lower School lived. For the first time Molly was
startled by the passionate intensity of Peggy’s nature, as she said in a
low whisper: “For the Lord’s sake don’t let me go alone over there!”
“But I must, Peggy, and you know you’re no coward; and you also know—you
are quite sure, you are _certain_—that nothing will happen to you,
darling.”
“Oh I—I can’t go over there alone. Oh, _she_ lives over there!”
“Who do you mean by she, Peggy?”
“That thing with black eyes, that stare and stare at me.”
But just at that moment other eyes looked compassionately into Peggy’s;
they were the wistful, thoughtful, pleading eyes of the little creature
Elisabeth Douglas. She was wearing her peculiar dress of striped scarlet
and yellow. On her little head was placed her dainty scarlet cap. Her
pale face became suddenly illumined with a brilliant colour.
Elisabeth went up to Peggy and held out her little hand. “I will take
care of you,” she said.
There was something wonderfully touching in the tone of the almost baby
voice. Peggy looked beyond her, and encountered the affectionate gaze of
Chloe, the large, very stout mulatto woman.
“I’m all right,” said Peggy suddenly. “I’ll go wid her. She’s a little
duck, she’s almost as good for all the worruld as a hin. Good-night,
Molly; I’ll see ye some time to-morrow.”
Molly did not like to say to Peggy that she could not by any possibility
see her until the following Saturday except in school hours, when, of
course, the girls were not allowed to speak to each other. The
playgrounds for the Upper and the Lower School were quite apart; and the
only time of intercourse between the two schools was on Saturday
afternoons. As soon as the child had departed, holding the hand of
little Elisabeth, Molly looked wistfully after her, then she turned and
met the earnest gaze of Alison Maude.
“What a queer, nice child!” said Alison.
“Yes,” said Molly very eagerly. “I’m so glad you like her; but do you
know, Alison, I’m awfully frightened about her?”
“Why?” asked Alison.
“I can’t half tell you what she is or what she’s like.”
“Well, shall we go up to our sitting-room and talk?” said Alison.
“There’s so much we have to say, these summer holidays are so long; for
my part I am very glad to be at school again. Heigho! it’s my last year,
my very last; to think of it, girls—to think of it!”
“Well, don’t think of it to-night, Ally darling,” said another girl
belonging to the school, running up to Alison and kissing her.
Suddenly Bridget O’Donnell came up and spoke to Jessie. “Is that new
girl Irish?” she asked.
“Need you ask?” was Jessie’s reply.
“I thought she must be. I am ever so glad.”
“Are you?” said Jessie. “That’s because you don’t know her.”
“And you don’t know me,” retorted Bridget, “or you wouldn’t suppose,
even for a single moment, that I could be anything but glad to see a
fellow countrywoman in the same school.”
“A fellow country_woman_!” echoed Jessie, “fellow country _baby_, if you
like! Why, she’s a regular little brat, that’s all I can say. If I’m
glad of one thing more than another it is that she’ll be at the mercy of
The Imp.”
“Oh hush!” said Bridget, “it isn’t kind of you, Jessie.”
“I know it isn’t, Bridget; but you can’t imagine what we have been
suffering from that girl. Since her arrival, at the very beginning of
the holidays, we haven’t had one minute’s peace or comfort. Since she
came to live with us I can’t tell you what it’s been like!”
“Well, I have a lot of things to talk over,” said Bridget. “I want to
call a private council. Please may I, Alison?”
“Of course you may, Biddy, my dear,” replied Alison, looking with some
surprise at Bridget as she spoke.
Bridget suddenly darted about the hall, collecting her several friends,
and a few minutes later ten girls were assembled in a sort of circle in
the lovely sitting-room. How cosy and bright it looked! How homelike,
with its ten compartments each filled with the treasures of the girl to
whom the said compartment belonged! How brilliantly the fire burnt in
the grate! The easy-chairs were drawn up, the circle widened, the doors
were shut. Lights, except the light of the fire, were extinguished. Then
Bridget suddenly sprang to her feet. “Now I have got something to say,”
was her remark.
“Well, whenever you have anything to say, Biddy, I will acknowledge
this—it’s worth listening to,” was Alison’s answer.
“It’s about The Imp,” said Bridget.
They all looked very grave when she said this; a dead silence fell over
the room. The girls, including Marcia and Angela Welsh, pressed a little
nearer, and some quick, hurried breaths were drawn from more than one
pair of lips.
“The fact is this,” said Bridget, “I have been having my eyes on The Imp
for a long time. I haven’t pried on her, because it isn’t in my nature
to pry; but I know what I suffered from her even for the half-year that
I remained in the Lower School, and I don’t know that it is at all right
to have her spreading an evil influence over nine young girls, which is
what she is doing. She trades upon our good nature, upon that old
proverb which says that no one should tell tales out of school; but she
may trade a trifle too far, particularly now that she has got those
Dodds to uphold her—to be, in short, her satellites. I think that we
ought to speak about The Imp to Mrs. Fleming.”
“Oh but I don’t think we could,” said Alison, “you know what it would
mean, don’t you, Bridget?”
“Yes,” said Bridget. “I know quite well what it would mean. I have been
thinking it over at night during the holidays, when I have lain awake. I
have been thinking it over also in the daytime, when I ought to have
been enjoying myself, and I tell you, girls, it downright hurts me. It
isn’t right, that’s what it isn’t, and nothing will ever make me think
it’s right! When I got home to-day—for you know I call this darling old
place home—one of the first things I noticed was the wicked way that Imp
looked at poor little——What’s the name of your friend, Molly?”
“Peggy Desmond.”
“At poor little Peggy Desmond. She will make that child’s life
unbearable.”
Jessie burst into a peal of laughter. “Little you know, Peggy, if you
think any one will make her life unbearable! She’ll just have her own
way, and be a match for The Imp if any one can.”
“If I could think that!” said Bridget. “I wish I might have a talk with
her; but there, I daren’t—I daren’t appear to side with any one. What I
should like to do would be to consult dear, dear, kind Miss Smith, she
is so affectionate and so good to all those children; but at the same
time I don’t believe that she is really the right person to speak to. I
think the right person is Mrs. Fleming.”
“And now, suppose you did speak to her,” said Alison, “what would you
say?”
Bridget looked a little puzzled at this.
“There it is!” continued Alison. “We all suspect her, we none of us like
her; but there isn’t a single girl in the school who can lay any wrong,
absolute wrong-doing, at her door; all we can say about her is that we
don’t like her. And when it comes to that, have we a right to ruin a
girl’s future by making mischief?”
“But when every girl in the whole school dislikes her, except those
Dodds, there must be a reason for it,” pursued Bridget.
“Oh Biddy, you are Irish, you truly are!” said Molly, running up to her
friend at this moment and kissing her.
“I couldn’t bear the look on that other dear little Irish girl’s face,
that seemed to finish me altogether,” said Bridget O’Donnell at that
moment. “I wish you’d tell us about her, tell us something of her story;
how is it she has come to you?”
“Oh don’t let us wander now from the subject under discussion. I’ll tell
you her story in half-a-dozen lines,” said Jessie. “She is the daughter
of an old friend of father’s, and father has gone mad about her. Her
father is dead, she was brought up in an Irish cabin, she doesn’t know
how to behave as a lady, she has turned our house topsy-turvy, she has
made us all miserable, and no doubt she will make school miserable too.
However, Mrs. Fleming was told all about her—all her ways, her
queernesses, and everything else, and she’s absolutely willing to take
her in hand. That being the case, there’s nothing for it but to rest
satisfied and make the best of the worst. If The Imp does annoy Peggy a
little it will do her good, that’s all I can say.”
“You’re a very queer girl!” said Bridget. “Well, I must say that I don’t
like The Imp. I’m certain she works for evil in the school. I don’t know
what there is about her; but I never feel happy in her presence, and I
think she is doing her utmost to effect a bad influence over that dear
little child, Elisabeth Douglas.”
“Well, Elisabeth took to Peggy; she went away holding Peggy’s hand.”
“Yes, a nice quarrel there’ll be to-night between Peggy and The Imp,”
said Jessie with a laugh. “Fancy anybody daring to come in the way of
one of The Imp’s favourites!”
The girls talked a little longer on the subject of The Imp, it was
discussed more and more fully, and after a great deal of conversation it
was finally decided that for the present nothing was to be told with
regard to this peculiar girl, but that she was to be watched, and the
girls would have a further consultation at the end of a fortnight, when,
if necessary, they would speak to Mrs. Fleming on the subject.
Bridget O’Donnell went to bed that night feeling really unhappy. Her
little room was so cosy, everything was so nice and comfortable, but the
dark-blue eyes of the other Irish child seemed to haunt her. She wanted
to kiss that child, to put her arms round her, to say to her, “I too,
come from the Emerald Isle; I too come from the land of the mountain and
the lake; I too love what you love; I too have the warm, warm heart of
the Irish maiden.” But nothing of this could poor Bridget waft across to
Peggy Desmond.
Peggy herself, still holding little Elisabeth’s hand, went across the
quadrangle to the left wing, where the Lower School was situated.
There she was met by Miss Archdale, who spoke very kindly and said: “Oh
you are our dear, new little pupil,” and then, bending down, she kissed
little Elisabeth. “What is your name, dear?” she said in a kind tone to
Peggy.
“Why thin, me name’s nothing at all,” replied Peggy.
“I don’t quite understand you, dear. What did you say?”
“I said nothing at all, wisha thin.”
“Wisha thin!”
There came a mocking laugh. Peggy raised her blue eyes. There was The
Imp looking at her over the balusters—The Imp in a scarlet dress, in
which she looked more bewitching and imp-like than usual.
The Imp was bending forward. “Wisha thin!” she said, “Wisha thin! The
top of the mornin’ to ye, or the top of the evenin’ belike!”
In one moment, in a flash, Peggy had dropped the hand of her little
companion, had rushed upstairs, and taking The Imp by the two shoulders,
had shaken her violently, until the angry and enraged little girl had to
cry for mercy.
“Now thin, _that’s_ for yer bad manners, bad cess to ye! Don’t ye be
goin’ on like that, don’t ye be talking like that, for _I_ won’t have
it! Do ye hear—do ye hear—do ye hear?”
“Come, Peggy, come, you must stop this,” said Miss Archdale who had
discovered the girls’ quarrel from the actions of little Elisabeth, who,
white as a sheet, was crouching in a corner in absolute terror.
Peggy let go The Imp’s shoulders, pushed her violently towards Anne
Dodd, and then turned to Miss Archdale. “I’ve relieved meself a bit,”
she said. “Where am I to slape, tell me, please?”
Miss Archdale took the girl’s hand, little Elisabeth clinging once again
to Peggy’s other hand. They walked up the stairs in the direction of the
supper-room. “First of all I will take you to your dormitory,” said Miss
Archdale.
“What on earth’s a dormitory?” asked Peggy.
“It is where you are to sleep.”
“Is it sleep?”
“Yes, sleep.”
“Is there a bed there?”
“Of course there is.”
“Oh my! Well, I suppose I dished her; I shook her pretty rough.”
“You must not do that sort of thing again, Peggy, it won’t do.”
“Mustn’t I? But she mustn’t take me off, I tell ye, Miss—what’s yer
name?”
“Archdale.”
“I can’t go round that word at all, and it’s plain that I can’t.”
“Well, don’t mind it to-night, my dear.”
Just then some one crept up behind, snatched little Elisabeth violently
away from Peggy, and rushed off with her. The child began to kick and
scream, and Peggy would have flown after the two had not Miss Archdale’s
detaining hand kept her back.
“Come, Peggy Desmond,” she said, “this won’t do. I cannot allow fighting
in the school. I am the head of the Lower School and I insist on
obedience.”
“Ye mane by obedience that one girl is to do as she likes, and the other
is to do nothing? Bedad, I don’t see the sinse of that, nohow.”
“There is plenty of sense in what I say, Peggy. Now come, come, my dear.
The little girl will be with her nurse, and you shall see plenty of her
to-morrow. And I will speak to Kitty Merrydew. She must not attempt to
take you off. I certainly won’t allow it.”
“Faix ye needn’t bother. I’ll pay her out!”
“But that is just what you mustn’t do, you must leave those sort of
things to me.”
Peggy laughed. “Is it likely?” she said.
Miss Archdale pretended not to hear this last remark. They had now
entered the lower dormitory, where five girls slept; the upper dormitory
had only four inmates, as little Elisabeth and her nurse had a room to
themselves.
“You are rather lucky in one way, Peggy,” said Miss Archdale, “your bed
is next to my room. I sleep here. If anybody worries you or does
anything to annoy you, you have only to open your door and come to me at
once. I hope you _won’t_ be annoyed or frightened, my dear; I shall
speak to the girls about you. I am glad to say that Kitty Merrydew
sleeps in the dormitory upstairs, and has nothing to do with this room.
You will, therefore, be quite comfortable here.”
“Ah thin, thank ye, ma’am, for that same.”
“I hope you will be happy with us, Peggy; we want you to be happy.”
“Ye’re not at all likely to have yer wish thin, ma’am.”
“And why not, my child?”
“Because ’tis me heart is breakin’, ma’am; it’s breakin’ slow but sure,
the crack gets wider every day, an’ whin I see _her_ an’ hear her voice
trying to take off me blessed, beautiful tongue, why, _fire_ rises up in
me. Oh ma’am, did ye iver feel the fire rise up inside of ye an’ burn so
that ye could scarcely hold yerself together?”
“I’m afraid I have; but of course all good and brave girls learn to
conquer that, Peggy; if they cannot, they had far better be out of the
world.”
“Is that truth ye’re speakin’, ma’am?”
“I am speaking the truth. ‘He that ruleth his spirit is better than he
that taketh a city.’ The blessed, beautiful Bible says that, and it is
true.”
“Say thim words again for me, ma’am.”
Miss Archdale did so.
“May I go to bed now?” said Peggy.
“But wouldn’t you like to go downstairs and have supper first?”
“No, I thank ye kindly, ma’am, I’d rather go to bed. I’m that moithered
by the train and the addling ways of this new place, and the looks of
them stupid girls, an’—an’ the whole thing, that I’d rather lay me head
on me pillow an’ pray that I may go off into the land of dreams. If it
wasn’t for Mary Welsh, ma’am, you wouldn’t be able to stand me at all,
but she’s been teachin’ me an’ I’m trying to follow her. Good-night,
ma’am, I know ye mane well, I’ll try to do me best for ye, but don’t let
that _black thing_ come near me, for I can’t abide her, that’s the
solemn gospel truth.”
Poor little Peggy was allowed to have her way. She tumbled into bed now,
and her head was no sooner on her pillow than she fell into the land of
dreams.
Meanwhile The Imp, black with rage, called her satellites round her.
Little Elisabeth had been taken off to bed by Chloe. Little Elisabeth
had kissed The Imp, had looked gravely and steadily with her curious,
thoughtful blue eyes into The Imp’s face, and had said, “I love that
little new girl, I think she’s very pretty.”
“You’re a horrid little wretch if you love her as well as you love me.”
“I am not a horrid little wretch, and you mustn’t call me so!” The
little spoilt Elisabeth burst into tears.
“Think of her taking Elisabeth from me already!” said The Imp, looking
at the two Dodd girls.
“Oh isn’t it shameful?” said Anne Dodd.
“Well, good-night, child,” said Kitty, pushing little Elisabeth from
her. “I’m sure I don’t want your caresses, I don’t want anything
belonging to you. Get off to your new friend; go, go out of my sight!”
Little Elisabeth put a finger into her mouth, stared solemnly and with
great amazement at The Imp, and then backed into the affectionate arms
of Chloe.
“Is it my little darling precious that’s to be spoken to like that?”
cried the mulatto woman. She took the child into her arms, crooned over
her in a way that the child adored, and shut the door of the tiny room
which they shared together. Soon the small child was fast asleep in her
white bed, and the mulatto was rolled up on her rug by the door,
watchful to guard her dear one from any attacks of the enemy.
“Oh then, it’s me that hates that bit of a horrible black thing!”
thought the mulatto, “and that little Irish girl who gave it to her so
well—why, I like her, that I do!”
Meanwhile The Imp sat with a hand of Anne Dodd locked in hers, while
Grace stared full into Kitty’s face, and presently put out a hand and
stroked her curly black hair.
“Do you think I’m going to stand this?” said Kitty, looking with
flashing eyes at the two.
“Of course you’re not, darling; we’ll help you, of course we will.”
“We must think out a plan,” said Kitty.
“Yes, we must think out a plan,” exclaimed Anne.
“Look here, girls, there’s no good doing anything except when we’re by
ourselves. Then we’ll excite her, and we’ll be three to one. My arms are
black and blue from the way she shook me—but three to one! We’ll get her
down and whip her till she screams for mercy, as I screamed to-night.
Are you willing and ready to help me, girls?”
“Yes, that we are,” said both.
“Well, then, let’s coax her into the back playground after morning
lessons to-morrow. We must pretend to be very kind to her, and then
she’ll come fast enough. You manage to sit next her at breakfast and
don’t laugh at her whatever you do. We’ll manage fine.”
“Yes, we will,” was the reply.
CHAPTER X.
THE HOWARD BEQUEST.
Although Miss Archdale spoke very soothingly to wild Peggy she did not
feel so comfortable as her words seemed to imply. She was a very clever
and very conscientious woman, and saw immediately that a very strong new
element had come into the Lower School with the advent of Peggy. Whether
it was for good or evil remained to be proved. Miss Archdale was wise
enough to know that the best teachers in the world can only guide girls;
they can only, so to speak, give them a little push here and a little
nudge there in the direction in which they are to go. The girl is
really, when all is said and done, her own teacher, her own guide; if
she chooses to follow the paths of evil, not all the accomplishments in
the world, not all the knowledge, not all the loving-kindness, can keep
her back. God, inside the girl, must be the propelling force for good;
and, alas! Satan inside the girl must be equally the propelling force
for evil. Because Miss Archdale recognised this fact she was an
admirable and efficient and dearly loved teacher; and because Mrs.
Fleming recognised the same fact even in greater fullness she had made
The Red Gables the school that it was. Miss Archdale, to all appearance,
had taken little or no notice of The Imp and her ways. She called her
Kitty Merrydew, and was consistently kind to her.
Kitty’s conduct was always excellent before her teachers. She learnt her
numerous tasks with the ease of very pronounced talent; she was a
favourite with the occasional masters and mistresses who came to the
school, for her music was decidedly above the average, and so also was
her drawing and painting. She had a perfect genius for caricature, and
could make thumbnail sketches of the different girls and mistresses in a
way which convulsed the school with mirth. These caricatures she kept,
however, carefully hidden from the eyes of the mistresses. Kitty could
tell a story better than anybody else, she could sing a song to “bring
down the house,” she could act to perfection, and here her powers of
mimicry did her immense service. Up to the present Miss Archdale had
left The Imp more or less alone; she knew that the girl was peculiar,
difficult, and that she had a power in her which seemed to be more
directed to evil than to good; but, nevertheless, up to the present she
knew that she had no right to interfere. The Imp was The Imp, and as she
seemed not to cause any unhappiness, and was on the whole more a
favourite than the reverse, she judiciously let her alone. But now
things were different. The new girl was a power to be reckoned with, and
already between the new girl and Kitty Merrydew open war had been
declared. Miss Archdale was truly thankful that Peggy’s bed had been
made up for her in the lower dormitory, where some quiet, well-behaved
little girls slept. She would have altered matters at once had things
been different, and had the child been put into the dormitory where
Kitty Merrydew and the Dodds, her satellites, were placed.
It was one of the strictest rules of the school that the girls were
never to visit the dormitories during the daytime, and that no girl was
ever to be seen at night in any dormitory but her own. The rules of The
Red Gables School were not many, but they were very strict; to break
them was to get into dire disgrace and to be subjected to instant
punishment. Miss Archdale had, therefore, no fear of Peggy being
molested during the time devoted to slumber; and, in consequence, having
seen all the girls safely into their respective dormitories, she crossed
the quadrangle in order to have a conversation with Mrs. Fleming.
As a rule nothing would have induced her to trouble her dear
head-mistress on the first night of school; but this special occasion
needed special counsel, and Miss Archdale did not hesitate. Mrs.
Fleming’s beautiful suite of rooms was in a small wing on the ground
floor of that portion of the house which was reserved for the Upper
School. The suite consisted of a spacious and lovely sitting-room, which
looked out into the celebrated rose-garden, and had French windows which
in summer were always open; beyond the sitting-room was a bedroom, a
dressing-room (where Mrs. Fleming’s own special maid slept), and a
bathroom. Besides the sitting-room, at the opposite side of the passage
was a small room which went by the name of the library. Its walls were
completely lined with books from ceiling to floor, and Mrs. Fleming was
fond of saying that not one of these books had been purchased, they had
all been gifts from the different schoolgirls to the different
head-mistresses. The books were bound in calf and were all uniform in
appearance, and therefore looked extremely neat and tempting to lovers
of literature. There was a side devoted to fiction (almost all
classical), another side to _belles-lettres_, another side to foreign
languages, and another to religious works and philosophical treatises.
Behind the outer row of books was an inner row where obsolete volumes
were placed to make room for the newest and best books as they came
along. The sole furniture of the library, besides the books, was a large
roll-top desk, where the head-mistress kept her important letters, a
table on which a typewriter stood, a chair facing the desk where the
head-mistress could sit, and two or three other chairs, plain and stiff
and covered with green leather. It was in this room that Mrs. Fleming
received her pupils when they were in disgrace, or when, as sometimes
happened, they were in trouble; it was here, in short, that she
conducted all her business affairs, and it was here on this special
night that Miss Archdale sought for her. She was not to be found there,
however, and the governess was wondering whether she might knock at the
sitting-room door when the door was flung open and the head-mistress
came out, accompanied by Miss Greene.
“I think, Henrietta,” said the mistress, in her pleasant voice, “that
those ideas are quite excellent. I won’t keep you now, my dear, as I am
sure you have quite enough to do to get things into order. Yes, I agree
with you, the prize must be thrown open to the whole school, or it would
not meet with the wishes of our dear old friend.—Ah, Julia,” here she
turned and held out her hand to Miss Archdale, “I am glad to see you, my
dear girl. Were you coming to consult me about anything special?”
“I was, although I admit it’s a shame,” said Miss Archdale.
“Not a bit of it, nothing is a shame that is for the good of the school.
Well, Henrietta, as Julia has come I’ll tell her myself about the prize.
Good-night, dear.—Come in, Julia—come in.”
Julia Archdale felt her heart beating fast; she hated to worry her
beloved friend at this moment. Mrs. Fleming had a sort of dual
personality; she was one person in the library and another in this
lovely and gracious sitting-room, which was replete with every modern
comfort, the electric lights rendered soft by rose-coloured shades. Mrs.
Fleming drew a chair near the fire, which was by no means unwelcome, and
motioned to Miss Archdale to be seated.
“Now, Julia,” she said, “whatever your business may be, I have something
both pleasant and exciting to relate to you. I have already told
Henrietta Greene, and of course will mention the matter to Mary Smith
and to Mademoiselle and Fräulein. I will own, my dear, that the thing
has taken me rather all of a heap, and I sincerely trust that it will do
good, not harm. You know, Julia, that I have always hitherto rather set
my face against prizes, wishing to avoid in the school the spirit of
emulation which seems to me in a small place of this sort to be unworthy
and beneath the dignity of The Red Gables School. Nevertheless, the
thing is thrust upon me, and I could not neglect it without doing
dishonour to the dead, and”—here her voice trembled—“the dead whom I
loved—whom I _love_. You have heard me speak, dear, of my very old
friend Mrs. Howard. Her children and grandchildren were educated at The
Red Gables, and if there were any great-grandchildren they would
certainly be here to-day; but, alas! dear Mrs. Howard, in her ninetieth
year, has passed away, the last of her race, every child and grandchild
having gone before her into the world of spirits. She always took a deep
interest in the school, and there was never a summer holiday that I did
not find time to spend at least a day and night with her, talking over
old times and unforgotten memories. Well, my dear, she is dead, and
amongst the letters which awaited me here to-day was one from her
lawyers, in which they inform me that the school has been endowed by
Mrs. Howard with the munificent sum of twenty thousand pounds. This
money is to be spent in the education of five young girls who are
otherwise too poor to receive a first-class education. Mrs. Howard begs
that only the income of the money shall be used on the education of the
girls, so that it may go on into futurity and add to the honour of the
school. Each Howard scholar on her departure from the school is to be
presented with one hundred pounds to help to start her in life, and for
this purpose an additional sum of money is provided. The whole thing is
to be called the Howard Bequest, and the Howard scholars are only to be
admitted to the school after passing a strict examination in morals, in
knowledge of English literature, and the usual curriculum that a young
girl of fourteen ought to attain to. The Howard Bequest girls are to
remain at the school from the age of fourteen to eighteen, a special new
wing is to be built for their convenience, and they are to be treated,
not as paupers, receiving their education for nothing, but as scholars
of high distinction on whom many special honours are to be conferred. I
have, therefore, Julia, to break that rule which I kept so firmly to,
and which my ancestors kept so firmly to before me, of admitting only
twenty girls to the school. In future—that is, as soon as the wing is
built—there will be twenty-five girls in The Red Gables; these girls
will be admitted, after strict examination by a governing body of
myself, you, Julia Archdale, Henrietta Greene, and my dear and special
friend Mr. Wyndham, of Preston Manor. I expect him to call in two or
three days to talk this matter over with me, for it involves much. With
regard to the prize, however, that is an immediate thing, and must be
dealt with without delay. Mrs. Howard, dear soul, said to me that she
had a strong desire to be remembered in the future by the children whom
she loved. In consequence, once every year, a prize will be competed for
in the school, which is to be called the Howard Prize. It is to consist
of an exquisite little miniature of the old lady herself when she was
young and beautiful. The original picture (one of Conway’s) is to be
copied on ivory by a well-known miniature painter; it is to be set in a
diamond frame, with a golden back, and is to have a narrow gold chain
attached, so that the young possessor can wear it round her neck. In
addition to the miniature, the prize-winner will obtain a beautifully
illuminated scroll, which sets forth in old-fashioned language the
reason why she obtains the prize. The reason is threefold—for morals,
for intellect, and for beauty of person. This last clause may amaze you,
my dear friend, but Mrs. Howard had peculiar ideas on that score, and
said that a really lovely character invariably produced a lovely
expression of face. She particularly makes a clause in her will relating
to this prize, that she does not desire mere beauty of feature, it is
beauty of _expression_ which she demands. So valuable does she consider
these miniatures of herself thus won, that wherever the girl who obtains
the said miniature should happen to be in the future, she has, in case
of need, simply to put an advertisement in an English paper, and, as a
recipient of the Howard miniature, she will be entitled, not only to
pecuniary relief, in case such is needed, but also to unlooked-for
friendship because she is the possessor of the miniature. Thus it will
be a very valuable asset in the life of any girl who honourably wins it,
and none other can, for the rules are most severe. Now, my dear, I shall
announce this amazing prize to the entire school in a few days, and
after consulting Mr. Wyndham shall probably give the first of the Howard
prizes at the end of the spring term, so that the girls will have this
term and the next to work for it. It is rather surprising, is it not,
Julia?”
“It is. I am altogether amazed. I can hardly take it in,” said Miss
Archdale.
“You, my dear, and Henrietta, are the only people at present in the
school who know about it,” said Mrs. Fleming. “Yes, it means a great
deal of extra work on all our parts, but I believe it may do good.”
“It must do good,” said Julia with fervour. “It is a noble thought. That
dear old lady has left her money worthily.”
“She has indeed. I cannot tell you where the bulk of it has gone, but I
am given to understand that a considerable amount will be put out to
interest, in order to create a fund for the hundred pounds which each
Howard scholar receives on leaving the school; but also a fund is to be
collected to expend if necessary on those girls who receive the Howard
portrait, in case of need at any future time of their lives. This part
of the strange legacy is most carefully guarded in order to prevent
fraud occurring, or the portraits being sold or stolen. Only the
original proprietor of the portrait can receive any benefit from its
possession. And now, my dear, it is getting late; what is your trouble,
Julia?”
“How could you guess that it was a trouble, dear Mrs. Fleming?”
“My good Julia, I happen to have a strong pair of eyes, and can tell at
a glance when anything upsets the equilibrium of my dear teachers. Now,
what is wrong?”
“I hope nothing, but I am a little anxious.”
“Ah! well, tell me, my dear—tell me.”
“You know the Irish child, Peggy Desmond?”
“Unquestionably. What a charming little face she has too! I have not had
time yet to talk to her; but I took to her, my dear, amazingly.”
“You have not heard her speak, Mrs. Fleming?”
“No, but I am quite prepared for any eccentricity of language. Paul
Wyndham gave me her history, and it is a very sad one. The dear little
creature hasn’t got a penny in the world; she would be the very case for
the Howard Bequest, but I do not intend to take his privileges from
Paul. Peggy’s father was his dearest friend, and he left him the child
as a keepsake; he means to bring her up as though she were his own, to
put her in all respects on a level with his girls and to endow her with
an equal fortune. He does right. I respect a man who takes up a
responsibility as Paul does. He wrote to me at once on the matter, and
luckily little Violet Darrell’s illness gave me the opportunity to help
him. I intended to speak to you about the child before now, Julia. She
will have a difficult time, but she will succeed, and of course we must
help her. Fortunately, she does not look like a coward.”
“Coward!” replied Miss Archdale, with a laugh; “it might have been
better for her if she were more cowardly. Already we have had a scene,
and she has made an enemy in the school.”
“Ah! who is that?”
“Kitty Merrydew. It was Kitty’s fault, of course.”
“What did Kitty do?”
“Took her off, bent over the balusters and laughed at her, and imitated
her Irish. She was chattering to me, poor little soul, and holding the
hand of Elisabeth Douglas, who had taken one of her violent fancies to
the new girl. Suddenly Peggy looked up, and there was Kitty grimacing
overhead, laughing at her, and imitating her Irish. In one moment, like
a flash, Peggy was on her, had taken her by both shoulders and shaken
her as a dog shakes a rat, and screaming to her, Peggy’s face purple
with rage, ‘Take that for your bad manners,’ she said; ‘don’t ye be
talking like that, for I won’t have it!’ You never knew such a scene.
The Imp, as the girls call Kitty, was absolutely frightened.”
Mrs. Fleming could not help laughing. “Do you know,” she said, “it is
very wicked of me, but I’m rather glad to have some one in the school
with sufficient courage to stand up to Kitty Merrydew?”
“Oh, then you know?” began Miss Archdale, and stopped.
“My dear, of course I know.”
“But you have done nothing!”
“Nothing yet. I am biding my time. Perhaps my work will be done for me
by Peggy Desmond; in which case, God bless her!”
“But, my dear friend, forgive me, do you think it well to have a girl
like Peggy under the thraldom of such a very knowing girl as Kitty
Merrydew?”
“It won’t do Peggy any harm. Keep an eye on them both for the present,
dear, and say nothing. You did right to come to me. I shall learn a
great deal more about Peggy after Paul Wyndham comes here. And now,
good-night, Julia. Don’t take things too seriously.”
CHAPTER XI.
ADVENTURE IN THE HOCKEY-FIELD.
When Peggy awoke the next morning she could not for a long time make out
where she was or what had happened to her. She raised her head and
looked around her. The light had hardly yet begun to break, and Peggy,
accustomed all her life to wake at five o’clock, could not yet get over
the habit. It is true that it was now very nearly six o’clock; but even
so, six o’clock towards the latter end of September meant but a very
faint degree of light. The girl’s first wish was to spring out of bed,
to open her tiny attic window, and call to the little “hins” and the
“turkey poults” the welcome intelligence that Peggy was coming; but,
alack and alas! she was far, very far away from the hens, the turkeys,
the geese of her happy childhood. It occurred to her for a wild minute
that she was in bed in her large, luxurious, and hateful room at Preston
Manor; from there she had at least the consolation of getting on the
roof and making for the farmyard. But the window just opposite to her
bed was longer and more severe-looking, and the little cubicle in which
her bed reposed was plainly, though neatly, furnished.
“Ah wurra!” sighed Peggy, “I’m at school at long last, and it’s the
bitter day for me—the bitter, bitter day for me!”
She little guessed, poor little thing, how very bitter that day was to
be. She lay for a minute or two in her comfortable bed reflecting on the
changes which had taken place, wishing earnestly that her father had not
died and gone to glory, but had stayed in his “rigiment—a fine figure of
a soldier, bedad!”—and had gone on sending a pound monthly for her
maintenance to her good foster-parents. She looked round her little
cubicle. There was no use in wishing for the past; the past, bedad, was
over and done! “Why, I was finished off as nate as nate, in Ould
Ireland,” she soliloquised; “whyiver should I be comin’ back to a fresh
school at all? Bedad, I can’t make head nor tail of it, an’ I don’t like
it, not a bit.”
She lay very still while the light came in more and more broadly through
the window, which was open at the top. There was a fresh, delicious
breeze filling the long dormitory, and Peggy could hear the other four
girls snoring. They snored in a sort of concert, each taking a distinct
and different note. Peggy burst out laughing.
“Why thin, it’s bad manners they have in their slape,” she said aloud.
Then one of the snorers awoke, and listened to the words of wild Peggy.
Moving very softly, she stood on her bed and glanced for a minute at
Peggy over the curtain which divided the two cubicles. This girl’s name
was Hannah Joyce. She was a good-humoured, plain sort of girl; her face
was thickly powdered with freckles, and her hair was of a brilliant red.
Peggy, absorbed in her own thoughts, did not see her, but presently a
fresh bit of laughter on the part of the Irish girl caused Hannah to
giggle delightedly, and Peggy looked up and caught sight of her.
“Whativer be ye a-doin’ there?” she asked.
“Looking at you,” replied Hannah.
“A cat may look at a king,” responded Peggy. “I’m goin’ to have a bit
more slape.” She turned on her pillow and closed her eyes.
“No, don’t do that,” said Hannah, “I want you to laugh again. Whatever
were you laughing at?”
“At all of yez, to be sure.”
“Whatever did we do to make you laugh?”
“Shnored an’ shnored an’ shnored.”
“I don’t understand your language,” said Hannah.
“Poor ignorums!” said Peggy. “’Tain’t to be expected of the like of yez.
There! I’ve no more slape in me, I’m gettin’ up.” She sprang to her feet
as she spoke and began to pour cold water into her basin.
“But we don’t get up at this hour,” said the admiring and astonished
Hannah.
“Ye mayn’t, but I does.” Splash, splash went the water in the basin.
Peggy had submerged her little face and quantities of her glowing
reddy-gold hair.
“Ah wisha!” then she said, “that’s reviving.” She scrubbed at her cheeks
with a coarse towel, and then proceeded to dress. Hannah watched from
over the curtain, spellbound.
“Whatever will you do when you’re dressed?” she asked in a whisper.
“Go out, av course,” said Peggy in a loud, clear voice.
“But it’s against the rules.”
“Faix, I don’t care for thim.”
“Don’t you?”
Hannah had heard of Peggy’s courage with The Imp the previous evening.
She felt a wild glow of ecstatic admiration for this queer, new girl.
“May I come with you?” she asked.
“Plase yerself,” answered Peggy.
Hannah slid down onto her bed, put on her shoes and stockings, got into
her clothes with the rapidity of a very much hurried mouse who knows
that the cat will be out if she isn’t quick; and by the time Peggy had
noisily attired herself, Hannah, who had hardly made a sound, stood
fully equipped by the side of her cubicle. “Here I am,” she said. “Don’t
put on your shoes if you don’t want to be caught. Here, I’ll hold them
for you. We’ll creep downstairs, and I know a window by which we can get
out. If we’re not quick the maids will be up, and then we won’t have a
chance.”
“Is it me not have a chance?” said Peggy, curling her lip. “Well, come
along then, you lead the way if ye like.”
In consequence, Hannah, who had never done a daring thing before in the
whole course of her short life, but who did happen to be acquainted with
one special window which The Imp employed when she was up to mischief,
conducted Peggy through the silent house and into the quadrangle;
without saying a word the children crossed over into a big meadow to
their left, and there they walked slowly, Hannah shaking and trembling
with mingled feelings of ecstasy and terror, and Peggy looking languidly
and indifferently about her.
“It’s an ugly place this,” Peggy remarked after a time.
“Ugly!” cried Hannah, “why, it’s thought most beautiful!”
“Be it now? Ah well, ye’ve niver seen Ould Ireland.”
“No, I haven’t. Is it wonderfully beautiful?”
“Beauty ain’t in it,” said Peggy, “it’s that amazin’ an’ consolin’ that
it melts the very heart in ye. Think of Torc wearing his nightcap!”
“Turk!” responded Hannah, “who on earth is he? I don’t think he can be
very pretty with a nightcap on.”
“Ah, lave me alone,” said Peggy, “ye make me double up wid the laughter.
Is it a man ye think I’m spakin’ of? Why, it’s a beauteous mountain with
his head in the clouds, that’s why we call it his nightcap, an’ most
days he has it on, for most days it rains, God bless it!”
“But that can’t be at all nice—rain can’t.”
“Howld yer tongue, Hannah, don’t be abusin’ me counthry to me face, or
I’ll treat ye as I treated that black thing last night.”
“Oh Peggy Desmond, I admired you when you flew at her; we all did—me,
and Annie Jones, and Priscilla Price, and Rufa Conway—we all did, I
think, in our hearts, except those horrid Dodds.”
“Did ye truly now?”
“Indeed, indeed we did.”
“Well, that’s consolin’. I’ll do for that black thing if she ill-manners
me.”
“Oh Peggy, you don’t know what she is! We’re all afraid of her—we are
really.”
“Sit down here an’ tell me all about her,” said Peggy.
Hannah, nothing loath, obeyed, and soon to Peggy’s listening ears was
revealed a vast amount of the treacherous ways and the cruel doings of
The Imp. But before Hannah began her story she looked full into the
dark-blue eyes of the Irish girl and asked: “Have you ever been at
school before?”
“Yes, sure I have, an’ I’m up to Third Standard.”
“I only asked you for this reason,” continued Hannah.
“What raison? Out with it, an’ be quick.”
“It is this. You won’t tell anybody what I am saying to you now in
confidence?”
“Here’s me tongue,” said Peggy, putting out the pretty little red
member, “ye can cut it off if ye find me tale-bearin’.”
“That’s all right, Peggy, and now listen. I mean to like you and I know
lots of the other girls in the Lower School who will like you too, and
they’ll be, oh so thankful that you have come, for we are all terribly
afraid of The Imp; indeed, some of us call her worse than The Imp, we
call her The Brat, for you see she has got a sort of real power over us,
she makes us do just exactly what she likes. At all times and in every
place we have to do precisely what The Imp wants us to do, and we’re
real cowards to allow it.”
“So ye be, there’s no doubt on that point,” said Peggy.
“But you are not afraid of any one, are you, Peggy?”
“Yerra, niver a wan!” was Peggy’s response.
“And you won’t mind her if she laughs at you because you don’t speak
English like us?”
“Yerra, she won’t try that on again, or she’ll get more than she gives,
that’s all! I’m ashamed of the way ye all spake the beautiful tongue; ye
don’t know how to spake so as to put _colour_ into it, it’s exactly like
a gray day, a rainy an’ misty day, a soft day, as we call it in Ould
Ireland, the way ye spake; but when I spake, bedad, out comes the sun,
and the flowers bloom, and the sky is heavenly blue. Oh, give me Ould
Ireland an’ the way we talk the tongue in my land of the mountain and
the lake!”
Hannah stared at her little companion. “How beautiful you are!” she
said.
“Don’t ye be flatterin’ me up now, for I’m not goin’ to belave it, an’
that’s a fact. Tell me about that Imp—the black thing, I call her.”
So Hannah, nothing loath, complied. She gave a vivid, and on the whole a
fairly truthful, history of The Imp—of her conduct with regard to the
Dodds, who were enormously rich and toadied The Imp to any extent; of
little Elisabeth Douglas, who had been taken in hand by The Imp, and was
being fast spoilt by her.
“It is the very last straw, the child taking to you,” said Hannah, “but
I am right glad of it, for the poor little thing was learning nothing
but mischief from that dreadful girl.”
Peggy sat and thought. “Seems as though my work was cut out for me,” she
said. “Well, now thin, Hannah, I don’t pertend for one minute that I’ve
tuk to ye; I’ll have to prove ye well first; but as to bein’ _afraid_,
there’s niver a scrap o’ fear in me heart an’ niver were. But I’ve got
to please a young lady called Mary Welsh, an’ because o’ her I’ve got to
learn yer cold, colourless English, an’ because of her I’ve got to do me
lessons as well as I can; but she niver told me about any Imp. I’ll soon
settle her.”
“Peggy,” said Hannah at that moment, “we’d best be going home; it would
never do for The Imp to find us during your very first morning out of
doors without leave.”
Peggy hesitated for a minute. The delightful fresh morning air soothed
her, the companionship of Hannah was the reverse of disagreeable, the
knowledge that she certainly would have to get the upper hand of The
Imp, and would have to win little Elisabeth over to her side put a fresh
interest into her life. On the whole, therefore, she was satisfied to
return to the house with Hannah as guide. The girls managed to get back
again to the dormitory and to lie down in their beds, well covered up,
just as though they had not been out at all, before the housemaid came
round with cans of hot water, which she put into every room. She looked
slightly amazed when she saw Peggy’s basin quite full of soapy water;
but, beyond emptying the basin, took no further notice of it.
Meanwhile, upstairs a very different scene was being enacted. The Imp
had drawn her satellites round her, and their determination was to get
Peggy Desmond entirely under the control of this latter young person
before the day was out. The fourth girl in the upper dormitory was
called Sophia Marshall, and she was completely and absolutely under
the power both of the Dodds and The Imp. She was a mild,
good-humoured-looking girl, who always did precisely what she was
told, tried to learn her lessons well and to keep out of scrapes, but
was on the whole very much afraid of her room-fellows. Annie Dodd had
a short conversation with Sophia that morning. Sophia, who, in her
heart admired Peggy beyond description for fighting The Imp, was
forced to pretend to be altogether on the other side. A very slight
sketch was given to Sophia of what the day’s proceedings were to be,
and then the girls went downstairs. They all met soon afterwards in
the chapel which belonged to the school. There Mrs. Fleming read a
short prayer and a few verses of the Bible and the girls went into the
refectory for breakfast. Peggy, to her secret disgust, was put beside
The Imp at breakfast time. How this was managed nobody quite knew, but
it seemed to come naturally. At the other side of Peggy, to her great
delight, sat little Elisabeth Douglas.
“Oh I am glad to be near you,” said little Elisabeth.
Peggy bent down at once and kissed the sweet little baby face. “And I’m
glad to be near you, darling,” she said. Her soft, cooing voice, the
delicious, fascinating brogue, which was soft as her native island,
smote upon the fanciful ears of little Elisabeth. She clung to Peggy as
though she could not let her go. The Imp looked across Peggy, her black
eyes fixing themselves on little Elisabeth’s face. The child crouched a
little behind Peggy, as though to avoid the said eyes; but The Imp
insisted on continuing her gaze, and after a minute or two Elisabeth, to
her surprise, found herself smiling.
“Now, that’s right,” said The Imp. She turned and looked at Peggy. “Do
you know?” she said.
“What am I to know widout ye tellin’ me?” said Peggy.
“Do you know that I could hardly sleep the whole of last night?”
“Whyiver was that?” said Peggy. “What ’u’d keep _ye_ awake?”
“I was thinking of you.”
“Perhaps it’s yer shoulders were achin’ a bit; I know I caught them
rather rough.”
“Oh it wasn’t that; besides, they didn’t ache, you aren’t strong enough
to make them really ache. No, I was thinking how horribly rude I was to
you. I want to beg your pardon. I hope you’ll forgive me.”
“Ah wisha! ’tain’t worth beggin’ pardon about.”
“But what do you mean?”
“I mane what I say—’tain’t worth it. Let’s get on with our breakfast
now.”
“But won’t you be friends with me, Peggy? You see, we belong to the same
school, we both belong to the Lower School, and there are so few of us
in the Lower School that it would be horrible not to be friends.
Besides, I mean to do you a great kindness.”
Peggy’s sapphire eyes fixed themselves on the black eyes of The Imp.
“I’m wondering,” she said.
“What are you wondering about?”
“Oh niver ye mind.”
“Yes, but I would like to know.”
“Well, I’m wondering if you _can_ do me a kindness.”
“I will tell you what I am going to do. Do you know who was my dearest
friend in this school?”
“Ah, how can I tell? I neither can tell, an’ to be truthful wid ye,
neither do I care. Ye can have any friends ye like as far as I am
concerned.”
“But aren’t you fond of Elisabeth Douglas?”
The little hand of Elisabeth tugged Peggy’s hand at that moment.
“Why, to be sure I am.”
“Well, and so am I; but I’m going to give her up—up to _you_. Isn’t that
good of me?”
“Oh, oh, I say, Kitty, are you? May I love Peggy best? You won’t be
cross to me afterwards if I love Peggy best?” said little Elisabeth.
“No, Elisabeth, I wish you to love Peggy best. There, Peggy, isn’t it
kind of me?”
“Well, it sthrikes me like this, that ye can’t help yerself, an’ ye
think ye may as well do it with a good grace; but if it gives ye any
pleasure for me to say I’m obliged, why thin, I’ll say it. Now, what on
earth are those ladies glaring at us for?”
“Of course they’re glaring at us for talking English; we’re not supposed
to say anything except in French.”
“The Lord save us! What’ll I do? I don’t know a word of the tongue.”
“Oh you will soon.”
“Maybe, there’s no sayin’, I wasn’t born stupid, thank the Lord; I’m
sure if I was I’d be dazed enough since I came to this cold land. There,
don’t talk to me any more if it’s against the rules; let me ate me bit
of food or I won’t have strength to nourish me brain.”
The girls finished the rest of the meal in silence, the Dodds kept
glancing across at Peggy and then at The Imp, then at one another, and
finally at Sophia Marshall, who could not exactly make out what was
happening. As the girls, however, filed afterwards into the great
central schoolroom, where each class could be quite undisturbed by the
voices of the other class—so immense was the room—Grace Dodd fell back
and took Sophia’s arm.
“Sophy, will you do something for us?”
“If I can.”
“You know the back playground?”
“The field where we have hockey in the winter? Of course I know it.”
“Will you meet Kitty and Anne and me there to-day at recess? Will you
come there without fail, and don’t let _anybody else come_—come alone,
will you? Peggy is to be there too. We want to have a little secret
confab. You understand?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“You are on our side?”
“I suppose so.”
“You’d best be on our side. I’ve brought such a glorious lot of
chocolates back with me. You’re mad on chocs, aren’t you, Sophy?”
“Yes,” said Sophy, turning a rather greedy little face towards Grace.
“Well, put your hand down into my pocket, you’ll find some creams there;
help yourself to as many as you like, but don’t forget the field at the
back.”
“I won’t forget,” said Sophia.
That first day at school was not likely to be a very brilliant one for
poor little Peggy. She was, however, a remarkably smart and clever
child, although she had only been given an Irish education at an Irish
Board School. Yet, nevertheless, her learning was quite sound, she could
read fluently, she could recite poetry with a wonderfully pathetic sort
of lilt in her voice, she knew her history admirably, she spelt to
perfection, her writing was good, her geography and grammar were
absolutely up to the average, and there was not the slightest doubt that
with a little instruction she would be exceedingly musical. At present,
however, her musical education—except as far as her wild and lovely
voice was concerned—was completely neglected. On the whole, the teachers
who examined Peggy Desmond gave a promising account of her. As to
foreign languages she, of course, knew none. She must begin at the very
beginning and begin at once; French—yes, French certainly. After the
first term, French and German. For the rest of her education she might
go on with the head-class of the Lower School—in fact, there were
several subjects that she knew a great deal more about than did Kitty
Merrydew. Nothing could exceed Kitty’s final disgust when she discovered
that for almost all subjects Irish Peggy was in the same class with
herself. Peggy was informed by her teacher that if she took pains and
really applied herself to her studies she might have the great honour of
being moved into the Upper School before her first year was up; the only
thing that would keep her back was her absolute ignorance of foreign
languages. But Peggy, when she did make up her mind to study, could
study with a will; already she was eager to begin her French, to
overcome the grammar, to learn the pronunciation. She had a remarkably
correct ear, and this thing itself was a wonderful help to her. Mrs.
Fleming, who had a short conversation with the child, knew that the best
way of breaking Peggy from her barbarities of speech was to give her
another language besides English to learn. Accordingly it was arranged
that the child was to have special lessons to herself alone in the
French tongue each day, that she was to talk with Mademoiselle in the
French tongue; but during the rest of the time she was to be allowed the
freedom of her broken English, for it could scarcely be called anything
else. But what finally delighted and charmed Peggy was when she was told
that she was now to learn the piano. Miss Archdale sat down and played
something for her, and the child’s eyes filled with sudden tears at the
ecstasy which overpowered her at the sound. She bent forward, flung her
arms round her teacher’s neck, and kissed her several times.
“Oh, wurra, wurra!” she said, “stop that, will ye, for the Lord’s sake!
Ye’re breakin’ me heart intirely.”
“But why so, dear—why so?”
“Oh because it’s just _too_ beautiful!”
“You shall learn to make the lovely music yourself, Peggy.”
“Oh no, it’s jokin’ ye be.”
“No, I am not, Peggy dear. I see that you are a very clever girl; you
will have it all your own way in no time, I can prophesy that.”
And now at last the recess had come. For half-an-hour every morning the
girls could do as they pleased and nobody interfered with them. They
left their lesson-books and went out into the grounds. As a rule, during
the first day of school, there was so much to talk over that special
friend walked with special friend, games came on later in the day, but
now news of all sorts had to be imparted from one to the other.
Suddenly Grace Dodd ran up to Peggy, who was talking to Hannah Joyce.
“Peggy, will you come with me just for a minute, I won’t keep you any
time.”
“You come along too, Hannah,” said Peggy.
“No, no, no, we don’t want you, Hannah, we just want Peggy. Please,
Peggy, come—_do_. Peggy, will you? You’ll be a coward if you don’t.”
“Me a coward!” said Peggy. “You wait here for me, Hannah, I’ll be back
in a minute.”
She wrenched her hand from Hannah, who looked suspiciously at Grace’s
eager face. Grace took the little girl through the Lower School, on
purpose to blind Hannah’s suspicions, and then out through a small
paddock into the field where hockey was played in the cold weather.
The hockey-field was long, smooth, and flat; it was situated at some
distance from the other playgrounds; at one side of it was a paddock,
where a rough-coated pony was now nibbling grass, at the other side was
a high wire-fence; at the north was another fence, made of oak, about
ten feet high. The field was being already prepared for the autumn
sports; but at the present moment it was quite empty, the gardeners
being away at their midday meal. This fact The Imp was well acquainted
with, and knew that she and her satellites would have the field to
themselves. She stood now towards the farther end of the field, holding
in her hand her hockey-club; the other girls were also provided with
their clubs, they were playing hockey in a desultory sort of fashion, in
reality not playing it at all, but looking to an outsider as if they
were.
Peggy had never even seen a game of hockey. She entered the field now
through the paddock, her eyes fixed on the ground, Grace Dodd holding
her tightly by one arm. Suddenly she caught sight of the pony and
stopped dead. “Ah, wisha, Whinsie, Whinsie!” she called, addressing the
rough little animal by the name of her own pet pony on the O’Flynns’
little farm. “Ah, wurra, me pet,” she continued, “and the top of the
mornin’ to ye, Whinsie boy.”
The pony turned his gentle eye and fixed it on Peggy. In an instant
Peggy had sprung on his back and was careering round and round the
paddock, holding on to a tuft of Whinsie’s thick mane.
[Illustration: IN AN INSTANT PEGGY HAD SPRUNG ON HIS BACK AND WAS
CAREERING ROUND AND ROUND THE PADDOCK.—_Page 148._]
This was by no means what the expectant girls desired. The Imp whispered
a word to Grace and Anne, who rushed into the paddock, whirling their
hockey-clubs.
“Lave me alone, will ye, or I’ll ride ye down!” cried Peggy. She rode
Whinsie straight up to them, but the little animal shied violently and
the girls stepped back in terror. They were veritable cowards, and so
Peggy informed them. She sprang lightly off the animal’s back, patted
him tenderly on his rough coat, and entered the hockey-field with a
nonchalant air.
“Now thin,” she said, “whativer do ye want me for? I tell ye what,” she
continued, standing still and facing the four girls, “it’s mighty
cowardly ye look, grouped up together in a hape, and with them ugly
shillalahs in yer hands. Is it to strike me ye want to be afther? Or
what is it ye want at all, at all? For I can’t be idlin’ me time, I can
tell ye; it’s back to Whinsie I want to go, he suits me much better than
any of ye. Now thin, what’s up, what’s up?” She said this because she
suddenly found herself surrounded. The Imp and Sophia stood in front of
her, Grace Dodd and her sister stood behind, the hockey-clubs were
suddenly raised so as to form a railing to right and left.
Peggy’s great sapphire eyes blazed with suppressed fury, her pretty face
grew a trifle pale. She was quick enough to notice at once that she was
caught in a trap. “Now, out with it,” she cried. “What do you want wid
me at all, ye bits of cowards? Four to wan. Me word, we don’t do that
sort of thing in Ould Ireland!”
“We _are_ four to one,” said The Imp, “and we are not cowards, and don’t
mean to take it from you, you common little Irish cabin-girl. You have
no right to be in the school with _ladies_, and if you don’t do what I
want directly you will be punished by me and by my friends.”
Peggy held herself very erect. Lady or cabin-girl, she looked glorious
at that moment. Her arms were crossed, she flung back her small, stately
head. “Go on with yer haranguin’,” she said. “I’m mighty curious to hear
it out an’ out.”
“You know what you did to me last night?” said The Imp.
“Ah, to be sure, yes; I’m willin’ to do it again wid all the pleasure in
life—in fact, me hands tremble to be at ye!”
“Hear her, girls,” said Kitty Merrydew; “you are witnesses to her
dreadful words.”
“You’d better be quick, Kitty,” said Sophy, who in her heart of hearts
hated this scene, “the bell will ring in no time for us to go back to
school.”
The Imp glanced at a small jewelled watch which she wore in a bracelet
round her wrist.
“There’s a quarter of an hour,” she said, “plenty of time for our
purpose. Now then, Peggy Desmond, you have got to go right down on your
knees and fold your hands so and look up in my face and say, ‘Kitty
Merrydew, I beg your pardon from the bottom of my heart, and I’ll let
you laugh and laugh and laugh every bit of the ugly Irish out of me.’
That’s what you’ve got to say, Peggy, and if you don’t, why——”
“Why what?” asked Peggy. “I’m mighty curious to know what’ll happen if I
_don’t_ do what ye’re requirin’ o’ me.”
“This is what is going to happen. We four girls are going to force you
down on the ground, and one of us will sit on your shoulders, and
another on your legs, and the other two will give you a little taste of
a small riding-whip which we happen to have by us. That’s the
alternative. You beg my pardon, or Anne and Grace Dodd take turn about
to whip you, and whip you well, too.”
“Yes,” said Grace Dodd, “we can’t have our friend abused the way you
abused her last night, Peggy Desmond. You’ve got to know your place in
the Lower School, so now on to your knees, or we must set to work.”
“On to me knees! Never!” said Peggy. “Afraid of yez, ye cowards! not me.
Let me go, Anne Dodd, don’t ye dare to touch me. What’s yer name, ye
little spalpeen there, ye look as frightened as anything. Kape out o’ me
reach, or I’ll scratch yer face. There, there! Oh my, but it’s shameful!
One to four, I say—one to four!—Whinsie, me beauty—Whinsie, come along!
Whinsie, come an’ help—come an’ help!”
The poor child was not frightened, nothing living could make her that;
but with four strong pairs of arms against her one pair, with the
judicious aid of the hockey-sticks, one of which tripped her up
violently when she tried to run away, she was at last defeated to the
extent of being stretched on the ground.
“Oh, oh, _do_ stop!” said Sophia. “Don’t go on! Oh it’s horrid! And see
how white she is! I think that hockey-stick hurt her, I do really. Oh do
stop, Kitty! I’d never have come out with you if I’d known it was like
this. Oh what am I to do? I won’t sit on her legs—no, I won’t!”
But there were times when Kitty Merrydew was nearly mad, and such a time
was the present. To be defeated and defied by this brat of an Irish girl
drove her beside herself. She took out her whip, and with the aid of the
two Dodds was about to administer a severe cut across Peggy’s back when
there was a sudden noise and commotion, the trampling of hoofs, and the
quick sound of a pony approaching. For a few minutes Whinsie had looked
on in astonishment, too absolutely amazed to understand poor Peggy’s cry
for help, but within Whinsie’s heart there was a very faithful
pony-sense of justice. Four against one! And wasn’t the girl who sat on
his back Irish, and hadn’t he himself first seen the light in the
Wicklow mountains? With a spirited neigh he leaped the fence which
divided the paddock from the hockey-field and made straight for the
girls. Now was _their_ turn to be frightened. Seizing their
hockey-sticks and Kitty’s riding-whip, they rushed away, leaving Peggy
alone, pale, cold, and unconscious in the centre of the field. Whinsie
sniffed all round her and tried to lick her little white face; but she
lay, to all appearance, white and dead. The hockey-stick had done its
work, and had broken her leg just above the ankle.
CHAPTER XII.
THE CULPRITS INTERVIEWED.
Nobody specially remarked the absence of Peggy Desmond from school that
afternoon. It is true that beyond doubt the poor child would have been
found much sooner had not Miss Archdale been forced to go into the
nearest town on special business for Mrs. Fleming; but when school was
over, and it was time to go into the refectory for the midday meal, The
Imp knew well that some immediate steps must be taken, or her conduct
and that of her satellites would be discovered. She, therefore, during
the few minutes which were given to the girls to prepare for dinner,
sought her chosen ally, Grace Dodd, and told her that she must certainly
go and look for Peggy, and must get Peggy to promise to keep the whole
affair dark.
“She’s such an ignorant little cad,” said The Imp, “that she does not
know any of the rules of a school where ladies are trained. Of course,
if she were one of the other girls she would know that what has occurred
would be kept a profound secret, and that any girl who divulged that
secret would break the honour of the school. Go and find her as quickly
as possible, Grace. Tell her that of course the thing is at an end, and
that I’ll be decent to her in the future—that is, if she _doesn’t_ tell.
If she does, I declare I could almost kill her! But run, do run, Grace;
I don’t see her anywhere about, and we’ll be late for hall.”
Grace, feeling anything but comfortable, rushed off to the hockey-field.
It was essential for her to keep in with The Imp, or all kinds of
unpleasant disclosures with regard to her own conduct would get abroad;
but she had, almost as much as Sophy, disliked the proceedings of that
morning. She soon reached the hockey-field and her heart did stand still
for a minute when she saw the pony—whose real name was Sam, not
Whinsie—quietly cropping grass not far from a perfectly motionless
little figure. Was Peggy really hurt? Grace felt a queer, sick feeling
coming over her. She recalled quite vividly the whack she had given
Peggy with her hockey-club on her slender leg. Oh dear, oh dear! if
Peggy were really hurt, what was to be done?
She bent down over the child, who was conscious now and was looking at
her quietly.
“Have ye come back to finish me bating?” Peggy asked.
“Oh dear no, dear no! Poor dear Peggy! I’m so frightfully sorry. I do
hope you’re not hurt. After all, you got only one tiny stroke from
Kitty’s whip. Can’t you get up, Peggy dear, and come to the house? It’s
just dinner-time, Peggy, and you shouldn’t be lying on this cold grass
any longer. See, shall I help you to stand? Of course, Peggy, you’ll
_never_ tell what has happened? No honourable girl _ever_, EVER tells.”
“But ye said I was not honourable, so why shouldn’t I relave meself by
tellin’?”
“Oh but, dear Peggy, you couldn’t, it would be so awful. You see, we
never meant really to hurt you, it was nothing but a sort of a joke; and
we’re so very fond of Kitty we couldn’t quite stand your shaking her as
you did last night. But we only meant to frighten you a little bit, and
to give you perhaps _two_ little strokes with the whip. You’ll never
tell, will you, Peggy—you promise, don’t you, Peggy? If you did,
we’d—why, we might be expelled, Peggy, ruined for life all of us, just
because we wanted to have a bit of a lark with you.”
“’Twarn’t much of a lark,” said Peggy, “but I’ll not tell, make yer mind
aisy. Tell them cowards that the only wan I’ll tell the truth to will be
Whinsie, poor dear. Go along now, an’ ate up yer dinner. I can’t walk,
even to obleege ye. I think me leg’s broke—anyhow, I can’t put it to the
ground by no manner o’ manes. Ye lave me an’ go an’ ate yer dinner.”
“Oh but, Peggy, your leg can’t be broken!” Grace’s agony was now beyond
words.
“An’ why shouldn’t it be?” answered Peggy. “Didn’t ye hit out wid yer
shillalah, an’ didn’t I see ye lettin’ it fly like blazes when I was
tryin’ to get away from the whole four of yez?”
“Oh Peggy, Peggy, I couldn’t have done it!”
“But ye _did_ do it, Grace Dodd; an’ oh, for the Lord’s sake, lave me,
an’ don’t touch me leg or I’ll let out a screech that’ll frighten the
birds.”
“Oh Peggy, Peggy, I could die, I’m so sorry! Dear Peggy, do forgive me.
And you won’t tell, you promise you won’t tell anybody?”
“Niver so much as a spalpeen of a word; only lave me, for the Lord’s
sake!”
Grace very unwillingly crossed the field; she entered the refectory
where the girls were all enjoying an excellent dinner, glanced at The
Imp, gave her head an imperceptible shake, and then went up to where
Mrs. Fleming was seated at the top table in the sunny bay window. The
Imp could not hear what she said, and in consequence went through a very
awful half-hour. Grace had, however, collected her faculties. She was
genuinely cut to the heart at having injured Peggy, and the conviction
that came over her that nothing would make the poor little despised
Irish girl tell scarcely added at that moment to her happiness.
“If I weren’t in the power of The Imp, upon my word I’d tell
everything,” thought poor Grace; but, as it was, she knew she must be
silent.
Mrs. Fleming looked up in amazement when the tall, awkward girl came to
the head table.
“If you please, ma’am,” she said, “I’m afraid that new girl, Peggy
Desmond, is hurt.”
“Hurt?” said Mrs. Fleming.
“I’m afraid she is, Mrs. Fleming. I went into the hockey-paddock just
now, and found her lying on the grass; Sam the pony was there too, he
had got over the stile which divides the paddock from the hockey-field.
He may have kicked her perhaps. Anyhow, her leg is broken—at least she
_says_ so.”
“Thank you, Grace, for having told me. Go at once and take your place at
table, and listen. Do not speak of this to any one until I give you
permission. Oh, first of all send Miss Smith to me. Miss Archdale is
out, unfortunately; send Miss Smith.”
Grace departed.
Mrs. Fleming rose from her seat. “I hope Grace Dodd’s account may be
exaggerated,” she said, looking at Miss Greene, who was seated near her;
“but we must find out. Will you come with me, Henrietta?”
Accordingly, in a very short time Mrs. Fleming, Miss Greene, and Miss
Smith were seen crossing the hockey-field. Mrs. Fleming, who knew
something about surgery, very tenderly felt the poor little broken leg.
The gardeners were summoned, and Peggy, with great care, was lifted on
to a mattress, which mattress lay upon a door, and was thus conveyed
back to the house. The doctor from the nearest town was hastily
summoned, and the poor child’s leg was set. It was a bad double
fracture, and the doctor said that it must have been caused by a severe
blow or a sudden kick. He judged of this by the bruised state of the
skin surrounding the fracture.
Peggy had been moved to a lovely room in the main building, which was
kept as a sort of hospital, and was replete with every luxury. The poor
child was bravery itself during the setting of the broken leg, but when
it was in splints, and some of the worst agony had abated, Mrs. Fleming
sat down by her wild little pupil and began to question her.
“Now, my dear little girl,” she said, “you will just tell me how this
happened.”
Peggy shut up her pretty lips very firmly. She shook her head, not a
sound came from her.
“Peggy, I wish you to tell me, dear. You would not disobey me when I
issue a command to you, my dear child?”
“I’m afeard that I must, misthress dear,” said poor Peggy.
Mrs. Fleming was silent for a minute. To tell the truth, she was a good
deal disturbed, and now Peggy’s silence confirmed a suspicion which had
come into her mind. The girl was the victim of foul play. The Imp,
beyond doubt, was at the bottom of this, and the poor child had been put
on her honour not to tell.
Mrs. Fleming pondered for a few minutes, then she said gently: “I don’t
wish to disturb you in any way at present, Peggy, for you have gone
through a great deal; but I’m obliged to use my common-sense. Your leg
was broken by a blow or a kick, that has been proved by Dr. Hodge. I
don’t ask you if anybody could have been so savagely cruel as to give
you a blow, Peggy; but the pony being in the field may have kicked you.
Poor Sam is a very gentle beast; but if he did this I fear that his days
are numbered.”
“Oh merciful heaven, ma’am, what are ye talkin’ about?” Peggy half sat
up in bed and her eyes grew bright with fever. “Is it the baste ye mane,
the poor blessed powny? Why, ma’am, far from kickin’ me, it was
himself—Whinsie, I call him, after a little powny of the same breed at
home—it was hisself saved me life intirely, that it was, ma’am.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Fleming, rising, “we won’t say anything more about it
to-night, Peggy dear, and you needn’t be frightened about Whinsie—what a
pretty name!—for _he_ certainly sha’n’t be punished. Now you must try
and go to sleep. Miss Smith will sleep in your room to-night, Peggy
dear, and to-morrow I’m going to get a nurse for you for a few days, for
you must keep that poor leg very still. Now then, good-night, little
girl, good-night. I may look in again later on, and the doctor is going
to give you something to stop the pain.”
That evening Mrs. Fleming had a long and serious conversation with all
her teachers, and the consequence was that the next day after prayers
she desired the entire school to wait, in order that they might listen
to something of the deepest importance which she had to speak to them
about.
“It is a grievous thing,” she said, “a dreadful and terrible thing. I
think you must all guess to what I allude. A child came to our school,
to The Red Gables, to our happy school, where noble women have been
reared and have gone out into the world to do noble work therein. Girls,
there are but few of you present who have not had mothers in this
school, and brave and noble mothers mean brave and noble daughters; yet
a dark and really terrible crime has taken place in our midst, during
the very first day of our school life too. A child, a stranger, an exile
from her native land, and an orphan—for Peggy Desmond has neither father
nor mother—came here because the brave man who has undertaken her
education felt that he could not do better than give her to me. Ah,
girls, I was so proud of the trust, I was so proud to be able to do
anything for the child of Captain Desmond, V. C.”—the girls started and
looked at each other—“the daughter of a noble father I felt was worthy
of all the care I could bestow upon her. She came here bright, strong,
healthy, full of courage, full of marked individuality. She was brought
up, it is true, in an Irish cabin; but I thought that you girls would be
the very first to help me, kindly, gently, lovingly, to correct a few
phrases which she had learnt from her foster-parents in her early
infancy. Now, girls, you of the Upper School have nothing to do with
this matter; will you therefore leave the hall? Girls of the Lower
School, come forward, I have something very important to say to you.”
The Imp had one of those strange faces which never revealed emotion; she
was very pale now, but beyond that fact she looked as usual. Her
companions, the Dodds, however, not only looked but were considerably
troubled. They were the sort of girls who, with muddy complexions,
small, deeply-set eyes, large mouths, and clumsy features, must have
been pronounced ugly whatever their dress or whatever their wealth. Her
complexion was Grace Dodd’s special trial, it never served her in good
stead, flushing up vividly when she wished to look pale, leaving her
patchy and mud-coloured when she longed to look bright and rosy. Anne
was exactly like Grace, her characteristics only a little less prominent
perhaps. The commonplace origin of these two girls showed itself in
their walk, in their manner, their look. Mrs. Fleming had never wished
to admit _nouveaux riches_ to the school; but Mrs. Dodd, long, long ago,
when she was but a very poor girl, and in the days when Dodd himself had
not loomed on the horizon of her life, was daily governess to Mrs.
Fleming, then a young and rather naughty child. The rather despised
governess married Dodd in his poverty, he acquired wealth—vast
wealth—and Mrs. Dodd went up with him in the social scale. She loved the
feeling of affluence with a passionate intensity, and the one desire of
her life was that her two girls should be educated at The Red Gables;
hence, therefore, the reason of their presence; and Mrs. Fleming
earnestly hoped to be able to help them to use their wealth in the right
direction. The other girls of the Lower School were, besides those
already mentioned, Hannah Joyce (who had accompanied Peggy on her walk
on the previous morning), Annie Jones, Priscilla Price, and Rufa Conway.
These girls crowded round their teacher now, wondering what she was
about to say. Her quick eyes took them all in, and she was not slow to
discover that while Kitty Merrydew betrayed no emotion of any kind, the
Dodds looked intensely uncomfortable, and so also did Sophy Marshall.
Hannah Joyce also looked quite different from usual. Poor Hannah was now
the one sole point of danger, and in consequence she had been attacked,
not only by the Dodds, but by The Imp herself, that morning.
The Imp had described to Hannah what _might_ occur if she mentioned the
fact that Peggy had gone off mysteriously with Grace Dodd. “When you are
questioned you must keep the very little you know dark,” said Kitty; “if
you were to say that Grace had fetched Peggy while she was talking to
you the most horrible suspicions might get abroad—they really might,
Hannah! I don’t know how to tell you what an unpleasant position we
might all find ourselves in. When questioned you have got to be silent,
Hannah—_for the good of the school_, you understand—and when I assure
you that nothing at all happened to Peggy while we were with her you
will know how important your silence is. If it were known that Grace
called Peggy, there’s no saying what might not come to light. Peggy
herself is a brick, I will say that for her; she won’t let out a single
thing, just for fear that her friends—as she knows we most truly
are—might get into hot water. _She_ hardly knows us. _You_ have known us
for a long time. We all belong to the Lower School. You of course will
follow Peggy’s example.”
“But if there’s nothing to tell, how can I let out things?” remarked
Hannah, fixing her small, shrewd blue eyes on The Imp’s face.
“Oh my dear, don’t you know how people are suspected? Now, Hannah, you
must be silent, and you must promise me that you will. If you are, the
Dodds and I will make you one of our special friends; of course if you
are one of _my_ friends I can do any amount of nice things for you, for
the Dodds simply pour their riches at my feet. I’ve the greatest power
over them, I do assure you, and I can use it in your behalf too, Hannah,
and I will. You don’t like being poor. No more do I.”
“I don’t greatly care,” replied Hannah.
“Oh yes, you do, that’s all nonsense. I tell you what it is, Hannah, I
call it downright cruel that I, with my beautiful face, should not have
the Dodds’ money as well.”
“I don’t see that at all,” answered Hannah. “Why shouldn’t the Dodds
have their money? Why should one person have everything?”
The Imp was silent for a minute, her big, dark eyes fixed upon Hannah.
Then she burst into a ringing and very charming laugh. “I suppose you’re
right,” she said, “and the Dodds are useful; I’ve only to hint for a
thing and I get it. Hannah, they shall be fairy god-mothers to you also.
Meet me in the quad to-night and whisper to me what you want most in the
world, and I’ll guarantee that you get it. Now I must run; but—don’t
forget, we are sure to be questioned, and mum’s the word with us all.”
Hannah knew well that “mum” must be the word with her, she was far too
terrified to act in any other way; and now, with the colour coming and
going in her cheeks, she faced Mrs. Fleming while that good lady
questioned the Lower School.
Mrs. Fleming stood on the little raised daïs, which she always occupied
in moments of intense emotion, or when anything very special was about
to occur. Her face was pale; the girls all looked at her and then looked
away, they felt nervous thrills going through them. Mrs. Fleming had
that extraordinarily beautiful face which comes from a soul at peace
with God. She was one of those women who all her life long had given
herself up to God. The cares, the sorrows, the temptations of this world
were, therefore, more or less at a little distance from her. Morning
after morning, evening after evening, she laid her burden in the care of
One who could never fail her. She had laid the present burden in that
safe keeping, and now the gentle and yet sorrowful expression in her
eyes caused the girls to gaze at her with a curious wonder. There was a
struggle going on in almost every breast; it would be difficult to keep
back anything from so loving, so kind, so noble a teacher.
Mrs. Fleming waited to speak until the sound of the departure of the
Upper School had died away. Then, looking solemnly round at the nine
girls who formed the Lower School, for little Elisabeth was not admitted
into this conclave, she spoke: “My dear children,” she said, “I want to
tell you something. Your friend—for each schoolgirl in a small school
like this must be the friend of every other girl in the school, or she
ought to leave the school, and as Peggy Desmond has only just arrived I
don’t think that you can possibly regard her in any light except that of
a friendly one—your _friend_, my dear children, is, I am grieved to tell
you, in great pain, and to a certain extent also in peril. She lay so
long on the damp grass that acute pains and fever have set in, and for
the present she is exceedingly ill; I have been obliged to get two
nurses to come and look after her. Now, when I saw Peggy Desmond at
morning school yesterday she was as bright, as healthy, as happy-looking
a child as I could possibly see. My dears, can any of you throw light on
the marvellous, the terrible change which has taken place with regard to
her? Dr. Hodge says that the broken leg has been unquestionably caused
by a violent blow. Now, who could have done this cruel thing to Peggy?”
“There was the pony, of course,” interrupted The Imp.
“Yes, I also thought of the pony; but the pony did _not_ kick Peggy,
because I asked her the question, and she said it did not.”
“Oh,” said The Imp, with a toss of her head, “do you believe her?”
“I do. I do not lay it down to the pony.”
“I thought there was no doubt of it,” repeated The Imp again.
“Kitty Merrydew, I must ask you now to be silent except when spoken to.
Girls, will any of you who can throw the slightest light on the strange
thing which has happened to Peggy Desmond hold up your hands?”
There was a dead silence, not a single hand was raised.
Mrs. Fleming looked from one face to the other, she seemed to be reading
the souls behind the faces. “Are you afraid?” she said then. “Is there
any reason which keeps you from telling me the simple truth?”
No answer.
Suddenly, however, Priscilla Price spoke. “I don’t know anything,” she
said. “If I did know anything at all I should certainly tell.”
“Thank you, Priscilla; my dear, I believe you.”
“And I,” said Annie Jones, “know nothing either. If I knew, I don’t
think _anybody_ could frighten me into keeping silence.”
“And I, please Mrs. Fleming, know nothing either,” said Rufa Conway.
“Thank you, my dears; I believe you three absolutely. Do you mind, then,
my dear children, leaving the room? You have spoken so frankly and so
honestly that I have nothing further to say to any of _you_.”
“But is that fair?” suddenly interrupted The Imp.
“Kitty, I must request you to be silent; you really forget in whose
presence you are.”
Kitty gave an impatient sigh. Annie, Priscilla, and Rufa slowly left the
room.
“Now,” said Mrs. Fleming, “there remains in this room Hannah Joyce”—poor
Hannah shook from head to foot—“Sophy Marshall, Grace and Anne Dodd, and
you, Kitty Merrydew, that means five girls in all. I am going to ask
each of you in turn if you know anything at all about this matter; but
before I put such a solemn question to you I want you to realise what it
means.”
“Oh please, don’t, _don’t_ lecture us!” said The Imp.
“Yes, Kitty, I must tell you what I mean. If now any of you _dare_ to
conceal the truth, you do it in the face of an angry God. Children, is
it worth while making God angry? Think, my children, how short is life,
think how for ever and ever is eternity. Do you want to incur His
displeasure? My children, we none of us know how long we may have to
live; but for each of us will come the day when we draw our last breath,
and when our naked souls must stand in His presence. Think of that now.
Children, you may have been tempted to be unkind to that little Irish
girl, and if such were the case, and you were tempted, believe me, I
blame myself in the matter. I should have realised far more deeply than
I did how ignorant the child was, I should have realised the fact that
she had never before been at a school like this, and I should have
guarded her with my own loving care. So, my children, if now any of you
will confess what has happened, I promise not only freely to forgive
you, but to keep the matter secret from the rest of your companions.
Peggy will not tell, for Peggy is brave; _but_ Peggy knows. A girl
doesn’t get her leg broken without knowing how it happened. Now,
children, will you really, really hold your tongues, and brave the anger
of God? No, I don’t think that you will; I don’t think girls who have
been trained at The Red Gables School could do that. Think of your
mothers. Kitty, your mother was one of my favourite pupils, and you have
a look of her, my dear child; she is dead, poor Kitty, or you would not
have been the mischievous little girl you are. She was the soul of
honour, Kitty, and it was for her sake that I admitted you here. And,
Anne and Grace, your mother long ago used to teach me, and she begged
very hard that I would admit you to my school; and I did, for her sake,
for she was very good and very kind to me. I am quite sure she would not
encourage dishonour or cruelty. And, Hannah Joyce, your people are
upright and brave and good, your father fights for the king in distant
lands. And, Sophy, your mother is a great invalid, and the joy of her
life is getting a letter in which I can praise her little daughter. And
now, my children, think of those you love, and take courage. I am far
from perfect myself, so I think I will _try_ to understand. Could any
one have been cruel to that little Irish girl?
“Now I am going to question you. Hannah, do you know anything about this
matter? Hannah, I don’t think for one minute that you are implicated in
it, for I know your nature so well, and I don’t think you _could_ do
anything really cruel; but do you know anything that will throw light on
the circumstance; and if so, will you tell me, dear? Don’t fear your
fellows, my child; tell me as you would tell God. It isn’t worth while
lying down to rest to-night and knowing that God is angry with you,
Hannah Joyce.”
There was a quick silence, a silence that might be felt.
“Now, Hannah!”
“I—I don’t—I don’t know—I don’t know _anything_.”
“Very well, Hannah. I think you may go, dear.”
Hannah left the room, her head drooping, her face crimson. When she got
outside she rushed away until she came to a lonely part of the grounds,
there she flung herself on the grass and burst into a tempest of bitter
weeping. “Oh Peggy, Peggy, Peggy!” she moaned. “Peggy, if only I had
your courage!”
The question which Hannah would only answer in the negative was now put
in turn to each girl and each girl answered with more and more assurance
that she knew nothing whatsoever with regard to the circumstance.
“If I could tell I would,” said Kitty, when it came to her turn. “I’ve
no ill-feeling towards that girl. She wasn’t very nice to me, that I
will say. Why, anybody might just take a girl off, and that was all I
did, and she flew at me like a little dragon, and tried to shake the
very breath out of me. She’s twice as big and strong as I am, how could
I possibly hurt her? Do you suppose I kicked her until her leg was
broken?”
“No, Kitty, I do not think that. You needn’t say any more, you can
go—all you girls can go. But one minute. Before the rest of you leave, I
wish to say that although you have spoken as you have, _I do not believe
you_. I have no evidence to bring whatsoever to throw light on this
matter; but a very important prize is to be competed for shortly in this
school, and I greatly fear that until the affair of Peggy Desmond is
fully brought to light I cannot allow the girls of the Lower School to
compete for this most valuable prize. This is between yourselves, my
dears. Now go, and God grant you all the seeing eye which _cannot_ be
neglected, the hearing ear which _must_ listen to the truth. Farewell,
children, for the present.”
CHAPTER XIII.
PEGGY GOES TO THE UPPER SCHOOL.
For several days there was nothing talked of in the school but Peggy
Desmond and her serious injury. Peggy herself was so ill that for a long
time the doctor was anxious about her; he said the child had received a
most curious shock that he could not possibly account for, and that the
shock was as bad for her as the injury to the leg. After the first week,
however, Peggy slowly began to mend, and then her recovery became rapid.
Her greatest pleasure at this time was to have little Elisabeth in the
room—dear little innocent Elisabeth, who knew nothing, who liked to sit
by Peggy’s side and rattle off her pretty little ideas for Peggy to
listen to. The girl loved the child, and the child loved the girl. Molly
also came constantly to see Peggy, and one day the Irish girl’s eyes
brightened and almost filled with tears when Mrs. Fleming entered the
room, accompanied by Mr. Wyndham. It was impossible for Peggy even to
imagine how glad she would be to see Mr. Wyndham again. The colour
rushed into her little face, then left it white as a sheet.
“Why, Peggy, my child, you have been in the wars!” he said; and then he
stooped and kissed her, and sat down by her bedside, holding her hand.
Mrs. Fleming had had a long talk with him, and, on purpose, she left him
alone with Peggy.
“Now, Peggy,” he said, looking at her, “you will tell _me_ how this
happened, won’t you? Which of those abominable girls has been treating
you cruelly, poor little woman? You will tell Uncle Paul, won’t you?”
Peggy looked at him out of her wistful blue eyes. “I mustn’t tell,” she
said.
“But if I ask you, you will tell.”
“No, I mustn’t tell. I can tell you if you promise never to tell anybody
else at all, but you will tell—you will tell Mrs. Fleming, and then
she’ll tell the school. No, I can’t tell.”
“But somebody was unkind to you?”
Peggy nodded. Then she said impulsively, “I don’t want to talk of it.
How long are ye going to stay, Uncle Paul?”
“I am going to stay until to-morrow morning, Peg.”
“And how is everything at your house, Uncle Paul?”
“Very well, Peg; much as usual.”
“How are Pat and Mary?”
“I don’t know them, my dear.”
“Oh Uncle Paul, wisha now, of course ye know thim; they have the charge
of the poultry-yard. Why, Pat, he’s—he’s me favourite of the whole
place, although I love Mary nearly as well.”
“I think you must be talking now of the Johns,” said Mr. Wyndham with a
laugh. “They’re quite well, Peggy; but their names are neither Patrick
nor Mary. Mrs. Johns’ true name is Ann and Johns’ true name is William.”
“That’s not what I call thim,” said Peggy.
“You haven’t inquired for Mrs. Wyndham,” said her “uncle,” after a
pause.
“No, belike, and I don’t want to.”
“Why not, dear? That sounds rather—rather rude.”
“I’m sorry, Uncle Paul; ye see, I don’t love her.”
“You don’t love her?”
“No, Uncle Paul, neither she nor me fits, so to spake, that’s why I
don’t ask for her; I don’t want to see her at all, at all, nor to hear
her spoke of for that matter. Tell me how the little downy chicks are.
Oh Uncle Paul, aren’t creatures much nicer than men and women, an’ than
girls? I used to think, Uncle Paul, that perhaps girls were as nice as
kittens an’ little hins an’ little chicks; but now—they’re the worst of
all, the very worst of all. Oh Uncle Paul!”
“Poor child!” said Mr. Wyndham. He talked to her for a little longer and
then left her.
He said to Mrs. Fleming: “There’s no doubt that some of the girls have
treated Peggy very unkindly. If you would like, my dear friend, I will
remove her from the school. What do you think?”
But he was astonished at the bright colour which rushed into Mrs.
Fleming’s face. “By no manner of means,” she answered; “do you think
that I am going to be conquered by some of my own girls? No, indeed, my
dear friend, I will find out what happened before long, in some sort of
fashion. Certainly Peggy is not to go; when Peggy is well I shall make a
certain amount of fuss about her, and in that way punish those who have
treated her so unkindly.”
The subject of the great prize was kept in abeyance on account of Peggy
Desmond; but by-and-by she got slowly well, and before the half-term was
over was able to limp about the house again, although she could not run
as she used to do. The roses had faded from her face, too, leaving it
pale and very tired-looking. She was now passionately devoted to Mrs.
Fleming, would do anything in the world for the head-mistress, and she
also loved Mademoiselle.
“I want to learn the French,” Peggy said, “because I won’t be makin’ the
mistakes that are always croppin’ up in that English. Oh thin, ma’am,
it’s a poor tongue whin ye come to consider of it; it ain’t kept the
colour in it that the Irish has.”
“But, my child, you don’t talk Irish.”
“The Irish-English, ma’am, is what I’m manin’.”
“_Meaning_, dear—say _meaning_.”
“Now, ma’am, don’t that sound thin-like; isn’t _maning_ much richer?”
“But it isn’t the right way to say it, Peggy.”
“Oh, wurra, thin, wid yer right ways; it bates me intirely, ma’am, to
have to spake as ye spake.”
“But for my sake you’ll try to speak as I speak, and for my sake you
won’t say ‘wurra,’ and you’ll say mean, not _mane_, and speak, not
_spake_.”
“What a queer, colourless girl I’ll grow! But, for the Lord’s sake,
ma’am, if it makes ye happy, I’m willin’—there, I can’t do more.”
Mrs. Fleming, as a matter of fact, had given more thought to Irish Peggy
than she had given to any other girl who had come to reside at The Red
Gables. She began to read the character of the child and to find out for
herself how sweet and true and rich and human it was. She saw that Peggy
was endowed with great gifts; but they were the gifts which might
easily, if not carefully watched and directed now, lead to destruction.
The child’s passions were as strong as her affections were warm, the
extraordinary absence of fear in her nature was at once a source of
rejoicing to her governess and also a cause of uneasiness. Peggy, in
short, could only be guided by love, and with all that warmth and
strength of affection which she possessed hers was by no means a nature
to be easily won. She could take as violent dislikes as she could take
violent and tempestuous likings; she was also terribly outspoken, and to
have such a wild, untamed creature in a small school of carefully
brought-up and carefully educated English girls was, Mrs. Fleming knew
well, a task of no small difficulty to her. A head-mistress has to be
very careful to excite no undue jealousy in a school. Peggy, by every
right, ought still to belong to the Lower School; nevertheless, Mrs.
Fleming determined to do a somewhat daring thing, and to remove the
child at once into the Upper School. There she would be more or less
immediately under Mrs. Fleming’s own eyes, she would be in the same
school with the Wyndhams, her cousins, as they were invariably called,
although in reality they were not related to Peggy at all; she would
also be under the influence of that charming Irish girl, Bridget
O’Donnell. Peggy would have, in the Upper School, a little bedroom all
to herself, and would, of course, have the use of that lovely
sitting-room into which even the head-mistress could not enter without
invitation. To make such a remarkable change in Peggy’s favour must,
Mrs. Fleming knew well, cause a good deal of annoyance in the Lower
School; nevertheless, this fact did not deter her; on the contrary, she
felt that by removing Peggy altogether from the influence of The Imp and
her friends she was punishing them without appearing to do so.
Mrs. Fleming had a long talk with both Miss Archdale and Miss Greene,
and they both approved of her plan. The school, however, knew nothing at
all with regard to this until a certain morning in the first week of
November, when Peggy, having recovered her health, and being able to
walk once again with the slight assistance of a stick, entered the
school at prayer-time. There was a look of astonishment on every face
when they saw her, and Alison Maude, suddenly giving the lead, a violent
clapping of hands and stamping of feet began, and more than one girl
called out, “Welcome back, Peggy! welcome back!”
“It’s meself that’s glad to see yez,” answered Peggy, the pretty,
delicate colour rushing into her charming little face. As she spoke she
raised her starry eyes and let them rove from one face to another of the
assembled girls. Suddenly the black eyes of The Imp and the
sapphire-blue eyes of Irish Peggy met in a long, bold stare; there was a
distinct challenge in both pairs of eyes, and this fact was noticed and
commented on afterwards by more than one girl present.
“Peggy, you are not strong yet, my dear,” said Mrs. Fleming; “come and
sit by my side here on the platform.”
This was indeed an honour, and the black eyes of The Imp flashed a
wicked fire. Peggy took her seat with due modesty, and prayers began.
She looked sweetly pretty in her neat, dark-blue serge frock, her little
features, always refined, were rendered more so than usual now owing to
her late severe illness. Prayers began and came to an end. When the
girls were about to disperse, Mrs. Fleming raised her hand.
“I wish the attention of the school for a minute,” she said. She then
took Peggy’s little hand and led her to the edge of the platform.
“Girls,” said Mrs. Fleming, “I have delayed until now to speak to you
all on a matter of great importance. I have done this because of the
absence of Peggy Desmond from the school. I have a word now to say with
regard to Peggy, and then I can proceed to speak to you on the other
matter. It will take some little time, and you are permitted, girls, to
seat yourselves.”
The girls did so, all pressing eagerly forward.
“I am glad,” began Mrs. Fleming, “that you welcomed Peggy when she came
into the school this morning. I am glad that some amongst my girls are
endowed with a right spirit with regard to her. We all know the old
story now of that sad catastrophe which occurred during Peggy Desmond’s
first real day at school. Some girl, or some girls, in the Lower School,
are guilty of a terrible and most ferocious act of cruelty towards her;
a very little more of this violence and Peggy Desmond might not be
standing here. I have questioned the girls of the Lower School, but no
one will throw light on the matter; I have used what influence I possess
to bring the culprits to listen to reason, but no one will speak, no one
will tell me how Peggy’s leg was broken. She herself, brave child,
knows, but keeps silence, because of that _noblesse oblige_ which, girls
of the Lower School, some of you, alas! do not possess. Peggy has
recovered, and in a few days she will be as well as ever; but I wish to
let you all know now that there was a whole week during which the
doctors and I were more than anxious about her; we thought it highly
probable that she would not recover. Girls of the Lower School, think
what your feelings would have been had such been the case.”
At this moment an unexpected interruption occurred, for Peggy herself
burst into tears. “Ah, thin, wisha, why, ma’am,” she said, “don’t be
rubbing it into thim like that; for the Lord’s sake, ma’am, don’t! I’m
gettin’ strong as fast as possible, an’ the cratures needn’t be
frightened at all. If I had died, for sure an’ sartin I _might_ have
appeared to some of thim as a white ghostie; but there, I’m all right,
ma’am, so go on wid yer beautiful talk. Cratures, be aisy now, all of
yez.” Here she looked boldly at The Imp and her satellites.
The rage in the heart of the said Imp may be better imagined than
described, but far worse was to follow.
Mrs. Fleming allowed Peggy’s little outburst; then she said, gently,
“Dear, you must not interrupt again while I am speaking. It is not done,
dear, and I don’t wish it. Now, not a word, my love.”
Peggy subsided into her chair, where Mrs. Fleming had motioned her, and
then the good lady proceeded.
“The Lower School has been unkind to Peggy Desmond; I therefore, having
consulted with some of your teachers, have decided to remove her into
the Upper School, where I can at least guarantee that she will not
suffer again as she did in the past.”
There was an astonished silence; a breathless look of consternation was
most markedly visible, not only on the face of The Imp, who looked
forward to a great deal more fun out of Peggy, the Dodds, her
satellites, but also on the face of Jessie Wyndham, who glanced at her
sister, bent forward, and whispered something, and then was silent.
“Miss Greene,” said Mrs. Fleming, “you will undertake to arrange Peggy’s
lessons, and you will tell her the drift of the rules of the Upper
School. She is now well enough to study every day, although she must not
overtire herself. And now, girls all, to turn from Peggy Desmond, I have
something of the utmost importance to say to you. It is something which
I did hope would concern the whole school; it does concern the whole
school, but not quite as I had hoped during the first night of term. My
dear girls, you have heard me speak of my very old and very dear friend,
Agatha Howard. She was the best friend to The Red Gables School during
her lifetime, and, children, she, being dead, yet speaks. She has left
this world, doubtless to serve her heavenly Father in more extensive
spheres and in larger fields of usefulness elsewhere. With her present
occupations we have nothing to do, but we all have to love and bless her
memory. She has richly endowed our school and in various ways, some of
which need not concern the girls here assembled. She and I have met
once, at least, every vacation, and the prize which I now offer in her
name to the school has been most carefully thought out by us both. It is
a prize of sterling value, and can only be obtained by one girl each
year. My intention was that the Howard Prize was to be competed for
towards the end of the spring term; but, owing to Peggy’s illness, I am
now obliged to make the competition take place at the end of the summer
term. The prize itself is a miniature of Agatha Howard, done when she
was young and—very beautiful. It was done by the great miniature painter
Richard Cosway, and was one of his later works. The miniature is to be
copied by the best miniature painter of the present day, regardless of
expense; when copied, it is to be set in a frame surrounded by large
diamonds and with a back of pure gold. It will be suspended to a narrow
gold chain, and will form a most exquisite ornament to wear round the
neck of the lucky girl who obtains it. Now, this is the prize—_the
miniature of Mrs. Howard set in diamonds_. Some of you may think nothing
of it at the first idea, but let me explain its value. It will be very
hard to win, and yet each year one girl, chosen by a committee of
strangers to the school, people of the highest integrity and the
soundest learning, are to adjudge it. The prize is to be given, not only
for ability, but for conduct, and for—beauty of expression. This latter
clause will, my dear children, doubtless surprise you very much, for you
may say to yourselves that no girl can possibly help her expression; but
let me assure you, children, that this is very far from the case, and
that a brave, steadfast, and gallant soul, above all things the truthful
soul, cannot help shining in the eyes and being reflected on the lips of
a girl who otherwise may be quite plain. This beauty, this rare beauty
of the mind, may pass by a face otherwise charming, may have nothing to
do with bright eyes or a clear complexion or perfect features, but may
come to dwell with the homely and the otherwise almost plain. Mrs.
Howard in her lifetime so absolutely believed in real goodness of heart,
that goodness of heart which comes from serving God, loving Him and
obeying His commandments, that she determined to make it the first
essential clause in her great competition. She may have been wrong—she
may have been right—I have no opinion to give on these matters; I only
know that such is her ruling, and those who compete for the prize have
to take it into account. Now let me repeat over to you the three points
at issue.
“The girl who wins the Howard miniature _is to be brave, truthful,
loving, and chivalrous_. She is to be, as far as possible, _highly
intellectual_, and this fact is to be tested by a paper which she will
be set to write on a subject yet to be decided on. Finally, she is to be
_athletic and physically strong_.
“Now, my dears, this is a strange prize, and the competition for it is,
if possible, still stranger. The rules for the said competition will be
given to you all to-morrow morning after prayers; but before we close
the subject of the prize to-day, and return to our normal work, I have
something further to add. The girl who wins the Howard miniature wins a
great deal more than a beautiful painting, set in gold and diamonds.
Mrs. Howard has made certain conditions in connection with her prize,
and they are, let me assure you, girls, very vital. Mrs. Howard, dear
soul, passed out of the world the last of her race; but she had a strong
desire to be remembered in futurity, and in especial to be remembered by
girls, for the most passionate love of her heart was given to girls, she
herself having lost her only granddaughter, who was educated at this
school. Now the girl who receives the miniature and who sells it or
loses it or exchanges the very valuable diamonds for paste receives no
further benefits whatsoever; but, on the other hand, the girl who keeps
it as an inestimable treasure, and who eventually gives it to her
children or nearest of kin, possesses, both she and her heirs, in the
Howard portrait, _a fairy gift_; for it is arranged by Mrs. Howard that
the lucky possessor of a Howard portrait obtains with it a small sealed
parchment, which she is not to open until her hour of need. Whenever
that time comes, and she finds herself in want of _money_, or
_sympathy_, or _friendship_, she has but to put herself immediately into
communication with the trustees of the Howard Portrait Fund, who will
immediately help her according to her requirements. There may be at
present in this school girls who desire to do something big and great
and noble in their lives, and are kept back by that common evil, want of
funds. Let such a girl try for the Howard Portrait Prize, and see how
kind and great and munificent a fairy she will evoke. The girl who gets
the prize, on the other hand, may never want to use it herself, but some
of her children may. In short, my dears, the Howard Portrait Prize
points not only to the present time, but to futurity. It is meant to do
that; it is meant to spell _happiness_. One of you present will probably
win the prize and may _not_ need money—mere money, children, which
counts for so little; but you may need sympathy, friendship, counsel;
the Howard portrait will obtain one or all of these inestimable gifts
for you.
“I have spoken of it, my dears, as a fairy gift. The only thing it will
not bestow is health; but even that is very much quickened; in short, is
accelerated by happiness. The Howard Prize, children, in my opinion,
means the beginning of a good life; and whether that life be long or
short, who need fear? For Death, to those who follow the counsels laid
down for their guidance in this prize, will enter with a smiling face,
and say to them, ‘Good and faithful servant, enter into the joy of thy
Lord.’ Children, I shall be ready to answer any private questions with
regard to the prize any day during the next week. This is Saturday; but
those who wish to put down their names as competitors for the prize must
do so between now and this day week. I have one last word to say now
with regard to the Lower School. Any one who competes for the Howard
Prize must be prepared to say solemnly to me that she had nothing
whatever to do with the terrible event which took place in connection
with Peggy Desmond. I do not think that there is one girl here present
who would _dare_ to compete for _such_ a prize with that sin on her
conscience. My dears, I leave the matter between you and your God. And
now to lessons—to lessons, children.”
CHAPTER XIV.
MRS. FLEMING’S TROUBLES.
“Well, for my part, I think it’s abominably unfair,” said Jessie
Wyndham. She was standing in the room which she shared with her sister,
and there was a flush of great annoyance on her pretty face.
“But, Jessie,” exclaimed Molly, “surely you must admit that Mrs. Fleming
has the right to do what she pleases in the school.”
“Oh fiddlesticks!” exclaimed Jessie. “That horrid Peggy has a way of
bewitching people; it really is beyond endurance. I did hope that when
we got to school we wouldn’t be worried with her. What right has she to
be in the Upper School? I am certain Alison Maude doesn’t think it
fair.”
“Oh yes, she does,” answered Molly, “for I spoke to her about it during
recess, and she said that Mrs. Fleming had consulted her, and that
she—she _quite_ approved; so there! now you see that you’re wrong,
Jess.”
“But, if for no other reason, she doesn’t know enough,” said Jessie.
“You are quite out there, she knows a wonderful lot for her age. Miss
Greene says that her knowledge of history and geography would put us all
to shame. As to French, of course, she doesn’t know any; but she’ll soon
pick that up, she’s so clever.”
“Oh I see,” said Jessie, “you’re as mad about her as some of the other
people who come in contact with her; but I can tell you every one
doesn’t agree with you. This is Saturday, and I was able to have a long
chat with that nice girl, Kitty Merrydew, and she says that Peggy is a
horribly deceitful girl, that there’s no doubt whatever that her leg
_was_ broken by the pony; but just to get her schoolfellows into a
scrape she managed matters in such a knowing way that the fault was
supposed to rest on some of their devoted heads. Poor Kitty is in a
horrible way about it, because she says Mrs. Fleming, beyond doubt,
suspects her. Of course, she’s going to try for the prize; naturally—I
should think so, indeed—it’s most important for poor Kitty to get it,
for she’s anything but well off; but she says it’s _most_ painful the
way Mrs. Fleming doubts her, and that any one with eyes in her head can
detect the reason—it’s Peggy. Peggy declares that the pony did not kick
her, when she knew perfectly well that it did. Oh, I’m sick of her, I
really am! And to have her next door to us again, it’s quite
intolerable! I told that dear little Kitty pretty straight out what my
views were, and I think I comforted her a good bit. I’m going to ask
mother if Kitty may come and stay with us during the holidays. We can’t
see much of her at school. She would like to come, because she will be
close to her friends, the Dodds, who will probably ask her to go to them
after she has been with us for a week or so. Oh dear, oh dear, it’s
Kitty who ought to be in the Upper School, not that horrid Peggy!”
It was just at that moment that a rustling sound was heard in the room
next to where the two Wyndham girls slept. It was, as has been stated,
the rule in the Upper School for each girl to have a bedroom to herself;
but in the case of sisters this was sometimes altered, and Jessie and
Molly, in consequence, had a large and lovely room which they shared
together. The room next to theirs had not been used yet during the
present term; it was, therefore, with some astonishment that the
Wyndhams now listened to this slight rustle. Was it possible that Peggy
had been given the room next to them, and that she was in it, and that
she had overheard some of their remarks? The door between the two rooms
was a little ajar. How had this come about?
Molly sank down on her chair, feeling cold and faint.
“Oh Jess,” she whispered, “can she be there, and _could_ she have
overheard? Oh Jess, the poor, dear little thing! you were speaking so
unkindly of her.”
“Hush, nonsense!” said Jessie; “if she did hear, it served her right for
listening; eavesdroppers never hear good of themselves.” But she spoke
in a faltering voice, for even she did not want to be too unkind.
“I feel queer,” said Molly; “you forget how fond father is of her, and
how he loved her father; and even I didn’t know, until Mrs. Fleming
mentioned it the other day, that Peggy’s father was a V. C. Oh dear, I
think somehow she has inherited part of his gallant spirit.”
“Nonsense, nonsense!” said Jessie; “if you go on praising her I shall
positively hate her.”
“Jess, darling, do be kind! I do wonder who _was_ rustling in the other
room. Shall we knock and find out?”
“Of course not, we are not allowed to go into each other’s bedrooms.”
Meanwhile all sound in the next room had ceased, for the simple reason
that the girl who had been given that room as her bedroom had left the
apartment. She had stood for a few minutes like one stunned, listening
when she ought not to listen, drinking in knowledge which ought never to
have reached her. Oh, oh, was it in that way they thought of her? She
had told a lie to save the pony, she had—what had she not done? At least
one thing was quite clear to the poor child. She had no right to be in
the Upper School; dear, kind, sweet Mrs. Fleming had put her there in
order to make her happy; but she must not stay, of course she must not
stay. Jessie was right: she was an ignorant, silly girl, and Kitty ought
to be in the Upper School, not poor, despised Peggy Desmond. Tears
brimmed into those sapphire-blue eyes and rolled down her cheeks. She
was not at all strong yet; her illness had weakened her considerably. In
hospital all had been delightful—the pretty flowers, the nice
story-books, the company of little Elisabeth and of Chloe, who was so
funny and agreeable, and made her laugh, and had as much colour in her
speech as the Irish had in their speech. And then Mrs. Fleming had come
to her night after night and talked to her, much as an angel might talk,
and she had listened and resolved to do anything on earth to please one
so gracious and so kind. She would drop for her sake the language of
colour and take up the language of cold neutrality, that gray tongue
which sufficed for a gray race; but she would do it to please her
mistress; she would do anything for her.
Peggy had not known that she was to be moved into the Upper School until
this morning, and when Miss Greene had shown her the bedroom and told
her that it was next door to her cousins, and that Bridget O’Donnell,
the nice Irish girl, slept at the other side, Peggy supposed it was all
right. She had, it is true, a little nervousness at the back of her
heart with regard to both Jessie and Molly; but still she really did
like Molly, and she supposed that Jessie would be kind to her. What she
heard, therefore, was a horrible revelation. Her small belongings had
not yet been sent up from the hospital; it was, therefore, easy to slip
out of the room unheard and go downstairs. She found herself presently
in the big hall, and by-and-by one of the junior teachers came hurrying
past. She stopped when she saw Peggy; every one in the school knew Irish
Peggy, and was interested in her on account of her accident and her
peculiarly rare and vivid beauty.
“Do you want anything?” said Miss Armstetter, stopping to speak to the
child.
“Yes,” answered Peggy, “I’m wantin’ to spake wid herself, if ye plase.”
“Herself?”
“Yerra, to be sure.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Peggy. Who do you mean? Who is
‘herself’? Has she a name?”
“Why thin, yes, for certain. Ye’re ignorant when ye spake like that.
She’s Mrs. Fleming, belike ye may have heard of her.”
“Of course I have. I am sorry, Peggy; shall I take you to her?”
“Will she be enthralled with work just now?”
“I hope not. I think she will see you.”
“Thank ye kindly, miss.” Peggy dropped a peasant girl’s little bob. But
when Miss Armstetter held out her hand she took it. Presently she raised
the soft hand to her glowing red lips. “I’m liking ye entirely,” she
said.
“Thank you, Peggy, and I like you. This is Mrs. Fleming’s room; shall we
find out if she’s here?”
“Ye needn’t, miss; I can do that me lonesome.”
The governess departed, and in a minute Peggy found herself inside the
lovely sitting-room, which as a matter of fact she had never seen
before.
Mrs. Fleming was writing letters, and she looked up. When she saw
Peggy’s face she rose at once and came towards her. “My dear little
girl, what’s wrong?”
“Ah thin, ma’am. Wisha dear heart, but ye’re wrong intirely.”
“In what way am I wrong, Peggy?”
“In putting me up, ma’am. It’s down I should go. Ye take the black un,
ma’am, and put her in my place. It’ll plase thim others, Mrs. Fleming
dear; and it’s best, it is truly. Ye can’t make out, dear Mrs. Fleming,
how things conthrive themselves; but it’s down I must go. So I’m saying
good-bye to ye, darling, an’ _caed mille afaltha_ for all yer kindness.
I’ll come to school reg’lar, dear, an’ I’ll learn the gray tongue ’cause
ye wish it, but I must go to me own place, so I must.”
“Peggy, what utter nonsense you are talking! Do you know, darling, you
really almost annoy me? I have made all arrangements for you, and I am
the head of the school, dear child, and no one can do anything except
what I wish. I _wish_ you to be in the Upper School, Peggy, so in the
Upper School you must stay, and you must learn to like it, my child, and
not to be silly any more. Now, I’ll ring the bell and ask Miss Greene to
take you up to your bedroom. You are looking very tired, Peggy, so you
must lie down, and Miss Forrest will come by-and-by and put you to bed.
You must have your supper in bed to-night, Peggy. Now, good-night,
good-night.”
“I can’t go, misthress dear.”
“But what does this mean, Peggy?”
“I can’t lie alongside of thim.”
“Of _them_? I am puzzled. What do you mean?”
“I heard them colloguing about me, an’ I can’t do it, misthress.”
“Who are the people you are talking about, Peggy?”
“Thim Wyndhams, no less.”
“What! your own cousins?”
“Ah, my lady swate, they ain’t true cousins to me at all, at all. It’s
with the people of the soil I ought to be, an’ not with ladies at all. I
have nothing to say ag’in Molly; but Jess, she said I shouldn’t be in
the Upper School, that Kitty should be in the Upper School, an’ that I’d
bother her intirely.”
“You heard your cousins speaking? Was the door open?”
“I suppose so, a tweeny bit.”
“Did you open it, Peggy?”
“Faix thin, no, ma’am, is it likely?”
“I shouldn’t think it was likely. Well, Peggy, my dear, you must be
sensible. Whatever the girls said to one another they didn’t mean you to
hear, therefore you must act as though you did not hear it, and I must
act as though you did not hear it, and you must not repeat another word
of it to me. I am extremely sorry, my child, that anything should have
happened to annoy you, and now I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You shall
sleep to-night in your dear old hospital, and to-morrow Biddy O’Donnell
shall go into the room next to your cousins, and you shall sleep in her
room. Come, is that better?”
“Oh Mrs. Fleming, ain’t ye a wonder, to be sure?”
“No more tears now, Peggy. Ah! here comes Miss Greene.—Henrietta, this
poor little child is not as strong as I could wish. Will you kindly ask
Lucy Forrest to sleep in the hospital with her to-night, and will you,
Henrietta dear, take her there at once now, and see that she goes to
bed? Don’t leave her until Lucy Forrest has charge of her. Now, then,
good-night, my Irish pickle.”
But when Peggy had gone, and Mrs. Fleming found herself alone, she sat
for a long time lost in thought. She pressed her hand to her brow and a
look of distress flitted across her eyes. This was quite unusual in her
case, for she was such a very placid woman. There came a tap at her door
in the course of the next hour, and Henrietta Greene entered.
“Henrietta, you are the woman of all others I want. Do you know, I am in
a bit of a quandary?”
“What about, dear Mrs. Fleming?”
“About that Irish child.”
“I think she’s all right now,” answered Miss Greene. “I have left her
playing a very merry game with Lucy Forrest and little Elisabeth and
Chloe. I am sure she is all right.”
“I am sure she is all right at the present moment,” was Mrs. Fleming’s
reply, “but that she is not all right always is equally the case. What
is the reason that the poor child is disliked and treated unkindly? I
could stand it and think nothing about it if it were only that
intolerable girl Kitty Merrydew; but the thing seems to be growing in
the school, and I must say it is like an evil weed and ought to be
eradicated; it _must_ be eradicated.” Here Mrs. Fleming stood up and put
her hands behind her. “Henrietta,” she said, “advise me.”
“To the best of my power, dear friend. What advice do you want?”
“Well, things are like this. The child came down, having overheard
through a mere accident some very unkind words spoken of her by one of
her cousins.”
“Oh yes, I am sure of that,” replied Miss Greene. “She must have heard
Jessie talking. I know Jessie doesn’t like her, but Molly does.”
“But Jessie’s not liking her will cause a great deal of mischief in the
Upper School,” said Mrs. Fleming. “I have moved her into the Upper
School before she is really quite, _quite_ fit for the responsibilities
and the life which the Upper School entails; but now, if one of her own
cousins is her enemy, things will be almost as difficult for her in the
Upper School as they were in the Lower.”
“What do you think ought to be done?” asked Miss Greene.
“I am very much puzzled to know. You see, I can’t let either of the
Wyndham girls suppose that Peggy has spoken to me about them.”
“Of course not.”
“And that is what makes the difficulty,” continued Mrs. Fleming. “It is
altogether most unpleasant. I little knew when I wrote to my dear friend
Paul what a hornets’ nest I was bringing about my ears, and yet a
sweeter child never lived, more generous, more loving, more true. How is
it that the school has taken this extreme dislike to her?”
“Of course, her language——” began Miss Greene.
“Henrietta, dear, I didn’t think that you were so small-minded.”
“I don’t think I am, but you must remember we have to deal with
schoolgirls who, whenever they get a chance, laugh at any one.”
“For my part,” said Mrs. Fleming, “I think her funny little words quite
sweet; I assure you I watch for them. Of course, she must be broken off
them, she mustn’t utter a word of that sort in a year’s time; but how
girls can turn against her because she twists her tongue into the Irish
style and speech beats me. I should have imagined that she would have
been highly popular.”
Miss Greene sat and thought. “It is a very puzzling situation,” she
said. “The child has got an enemy in both schools; but of course the
worst enemy is in the Lower School, and there she is completely away
from your supervision.”
“Yes, I thought of all that, and that is why I put her into the Upper
School; but then I did think that her own cousins would look after her.
I declare, Henrietta, this is more than I can stand. I will just send
for those two children and speak to them.”
“Oh Mrs. Fleming! pardon me, dear, are you wise?”
“I won’t get Peggy into a scrape—no fear of that; but I must talk to
them.”
“I will go and find them and ask them to come to you.”
“You may trust me, my dear; I will manage things all right.”
Miss Greene, in spite of herself, felt a little doubtful; but then Mrs.
Fleming never did do anything wrong, although she had that extraordinary
impulse which drew her so very close to little Peggy Desmond. Her
character was also strong, warm, true, chivalrous. She sat for a long
time thinking of that One who helped her through every trouble; she
uttered a short, very fervent prayer, the sort of prayer that goes
straight home, that never misses its mark. Then there came a tap at the
door, and Molly Wyndham came in.
“Glad to see you, Molly; where is Jessie?”
“Jessie is practising hockey.”
“I should like to see Jessie as well as you, Molly; tell her to come at
once.”
“I will, Mrs. Fleming.” The girl withdrew.
A little frown came between Mrs. Fleming’s brows. “I sent for them
both,” she said to herself, “and Jessie disobeys me. This will never
do.”
Two or three minutes later both the girls came in. Jessie was in her
hockey costume, and looked very handsome. The colour was high in her
cheeks, and her long, soft fair hair was tumbled partly over her face,
partly over her neck and shoulders.
“I am sorry to interrupt your game, Jessie.”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter at all, Mrs. Fleming.”
“Sit down, both of you; I want to have a little chat with you.”
The girls seated themselves.
“Quite confidential, you know,” said Mrs. Fleming, with her sweet smile.
Molly felt as though she longed to rush to her and kiss her, but Jessie
sat very cold and still. The colour had faded now from her cheeks; she
was annoyed at her game being interrupted, and she showed it by her
manner.
“I want to talk to you both about your cousin.”
“Our—I beg your pardon—our what?” said Jessie.
“Your cousin, Peggy Desmond.”
“She isn’t our cousin,” said Jessie.
“Oh, I didn’t know, I thought she was.”
“She isn’t our cousin really,” said Molly; “although, of course, I wish
the dear little thing were; but she is no relation, although father says
that we are to consider her our cousin. Father was simply devoted to her
father; they were boys together at school at Rugby, and afterwards they
were in the same college at Oxford, and all their lives they seem to
have been together until, well, until the last few years. Father was
just devoted to ‘Peter,’ as he called Peggy’s father; he used to tell us
Irish story after Irish story about him, and when he died father was in
a dreadful state. He went at once over to Ireland to fetch Peggy.”
“Yes,” said Jessie, “that’s the case. You see, she’s no relation; there
is no particular reason why we should be fond of her, is there, Mrs.
Fleming?”
“Every reason, I should have imagined, my dear.”
Jessie looked down, and pushed her little foot in and out. There was
impatience in her attitude, impatience in her face, impatience in her
manner. Molly looked at her sister and was silent.
“Well,” said Mrs. Fleming, “of course you clearly understand that Peggy,
being the daughter of Peter Desmond, captain in his Majesty’s Second
Punjab Border Regiment, and having won his V. C., which he did, I
understand, in a most glorious way, by carrying a brother-officer away
from under the fire of the enemy and thus saving his life, receiving
himself a bullet-wound through the shoulder which crippled him for the
remainder of his days—this gallant fellow was _indeed_ a father that any
child might be proud of.”
“I am not saying anything about Peggy’s father,” said Jessie, looking up
again; “but the question is, as far as we are concerned, have we any
reason to be proud of Peggy?”
“Assuredly yes,” was Mrs. Fleming’s reply.
“Proud of Peggy?” repeated Jessie.
“Yes, Jessie, I should say so. You have great reason to be proud of
her.”
“But why, please, Mrs. Fleming?”
“First of all, my dear, will you answer me a question?”
“Of course I will, with pleasure.”
“Jessie, you have a regard for me?”
“Oh, of course, Mrs. Fleming.”
“I mean by that, dear, you—you respect me, you consider that I am a fair
judge of character?”
“I think so indeed, Mrs. Fleming.”
“Well, that being the case, my dear child, don’t you think that if I see
good in Peggy Desmond you ought to believe me and see good in her too?”
“I wish I could,” said Jessie; “but, you see, you haven’t seen her at
home.”
“I have seen her where you have not seen her, on her sickbed, tortured
with acute pain and never murmuring, bearing it with the patience of a
martyr, never once betraying those cruel, _cruel_ girls who very nearly
sacrificed her life.”
“Oh, surely, Mrs. Fleming, surely,” exclaimed Jessie, “you don’t really
think any girl did such a dreadful thing!”
“I was wrong to speak as I did,” said Mrs. Fleming, “and I hope, girls,
you won’t let it go any further. But I may as well tell you now, plainly
and absolutely and from the bottom of my heart, that I don’t believe in
the pony theory; that was not the way Peggy’s leg was broken.”
“She might have jumped over a stile,” interrupted Jessie, “or there may
be fifty other ways of accounting for the accident.”
“No, beyond doubt the fracture was caused by a severe kick or a blow
from some instrument.”
“How could a girl do that, Mrs. Fleming?”
“Jessie, I am not going to enter upon the subject with you, I can only
say that _some one_ did it, who that person was I do not know, but I
hope ere long to find out. However, we will drop that. I don’t wish
Peggy to remain any longer in the Lower School; I have, therefore,
brought her into the Upper School, and I hope that you, whether you are
cousins or not, will take a cousin’s part and be kind to her. Anyhow, I
expect you both to be kind to her, _both_ of you.”
Jessie turned very white; she did not speak at all for a minute. Molly,
on the contrary, felt extremely red, hot, and uncomfortable.
“My dears, I have sent for you, and I will tell you why. Simply because
you are supposed in this school to be Peggy’s cousins, and if you take
her part the rest of the school will follow suit; if, on the contrary,
you go against her, the rest of the school beyond any doubt whatsoever
will follow in your steps and make her life miserable. You, I know,
Molly, don’t wish that.”
“Indeed, I don’t; indeed, I am very fond of her.”
“And you, Jessie?”
“I suppose I will do my best, Mrs. Fleming. I can’t say honestly that I
feel with Molly in this matter. I am not fond of Peggy; her vulgar ways
disgust me, she is a very rude, rough, ungovernable peasant child. I
never thought that father would expect us to associate with such.”
“Jessie, you amaze me; and now I wish to tell you that I don’t agree
with you at all. I don’t consider Peggy in any sense of the word vulgar;
I don’t consider her in any sense of the word a common, everyday child,
she is very much out of the common. She has unquestionably a way of
expressing herself which is not usual in our class of life; but even now
her accent is most sweet, most charming. She will very soon drop these
little peculiarities, and when she does—I regret it—she will also drop a
little bit of her charm. Yes, I must say it. Then look at her charming,
exquisite face, think of those glorious eyes, that sweet, enchanting
smile! Jessie, you ought to be very proud of your little cousin—your
little friend, anyhow. Your father loves her, he intends to adopt her as
a daughter, and you have no right to be unkind to her.”
“I will do my best,” said Jessie.
“Then that is all right, my dear Jessie, I believe in your best.”
Jessie started and looked attentively at her mistress, and a queer stab
went through her heart. “But,” she said, “I must be honest. I must tell
you that, notwithstanding every wish to the contrary, I don’t like her.”
“And I do,” said Molly, “and I’ll help Jessie all I can to be kind to
her, and I will try and influence the Upper School in her favour.”
“Thank you, Molly; my child, you are a real comfort to me. And now let
us talk a little bit about this lovely prize. I hope you two are going
to compete for it.”
Jessie was silent. After a minute she said: “I don’t know that I shall.”
“I am going to,” said Molly.
“That’s right, Molly, it will be a splendid incentive to work.”
“But ought girls who are extremely well off to compete for a prize of
that sort?” interrupted Jessie. “Now, the girl in the whole school whom
I should like best to get it would be that poor, exceedingly pretty,
dear little Kitty Merrydew.”
“Oh, I don’t think she’s at all likely to get it,” said Mrs. Fleming.
Jessie looked at her, contracting her light brows and giving the head
mistress a puzzled, reflective, and by no means amiable glance.
“Teachers aren’t perfect any more than other people,” thought the girl
to herself.
“We shall know in a few days who is and who is not going to compete for
the prize,” said Mrs. Fleming. “Of course, sometimes it may fall to the
lot of a girl who doesn’t value it for its intrinsic merits; but to such
a one it will be always a very valuable reminder of a very happy life, a
memento of a very noble woman, and there is no saying in futurity, my
dear Jessie, whether your grandchildren may not be glad of the Howard
Prize to help one of them out of a difficulty.”
“Well, I can’t help that,” said Jessie. “I don’t think I will try. I
suppose one in a family is enough.”
“Certainly, and it gives a better chance to the others. Now good-night,
my dears.—Jessie, don’t forget, I hold you to your word.”
Jessie said nothing. A minute or two later they were out in the
quadrangle. On this night the two schools met. In a minute’s time Kitty
had rushed to Jessie’s side.
“Well, what did the old thing want?”
“Oh, I can’t tell you—I _can’t_ tell you. Don’t ask me.”
“I can guess, though. You look very cross, Jessie.”
“If I am cross it’s because of you, Kitty.”
“What about me?”
“You know perfectly well what a rage I’m in, and you know the reason.”
“What is it?”
“I want you to be in the Upper School; why, it would be perfectly
heavenly! And do you know?—it’s the final straw—they have put _her_ into
the room next to us, and you’d have got that room! Think of it, isn’t it
dreadful?”
“I don’t think I have a chance of going into the Upper School yet, and I
do call it abominably unfair; but then, everything’s unfair in this
world!” said Kitty.
“Kitty darling, there’s one thing—I hope you will try for the Howard
Prize.”
“Rather!” said Kitty. “I mean to try, and, what’s more, I mean to get
it; and when I get it I shall instantly write to those blessed trustees,
or whoever they are, and get all the money and all the other things I
can. I’m full of ambition. I’m just wild to have a lot of things that I
haven’t got. I’ve got a little aunt who will be delighted when I tell
her about this prize.”
“Kitty, I tell you what.”
“Yes?”
“Do you think your aunt would let you come to us for a week or ten days
at Christmas?”
Kitty looked full at Jessie. Beside Kitty’s peculiar, dark Spanish
beauty, Jessie looked extremely pale and washed-out. After a minute
Kitty said, in a tremulous voice: “Wouldn’t I love it! Is it true, do
you think they’d ask me?”
“I’m going to write to mother to-morrow to beg of her to do so; but you
must write to your aunt and get permission.”
“Oh, she’ll give it fast enough, poor old thing! But I haven’t any grand
frocks, you know, Jessie, and I suppose your house is magnificent? I
suppose you have no end of parties, no end of gay times? You always look
so handsome yourself.”
“Oh, I don’t think dress much matters,” said Jessie in a slightly
abstracted way.
The girls walked quietly side by side for a few minutes longer. Molly
was talking to Hannah Joyce. The one subject of conversation on every
side was the prize—the great prize, the startling, amazing prize, the
Howard miniature. Oh who would get it, who would be the lucky individual
to possess such an inestimable treasure?
CHAPTER XV.
THE CULPRITS IN COUNCIL.
While Kitty and Jessie were having a confab of deep interest to
themselves, a conversation which was, indeed, to mean tremendous results
by-and-by, Hannah Joyce and Molly walked together. Molly had taken a
fancy to Hannah; she belonged, of course, to the Lower School, and could
never be a great friend like Alison Maude or Bridget O’Donnell, but
nevertheless she could be a friend, and there was something which
attracted Molly now in Hannah’s rather plain little freckled face. It
struck Molly as she watched the girl that Hannah would have a very great
chance of winning the prize on the score of _expression_, for Hannah’s
small blue eyes were honest, and when she smiled her lips had a
wonderfully kindly curve about them, and when she looked her friends in
the face her friends were quite certain that Hannah Joyce would never do
a mean or shabby thing. But, nevertheless, Hannah looked troubled
to-night; she had indeed looked troubled ever since that terrible
accident which had occurred during the first day of term. Yes, it was
invariably spoken of as an “accident;” no one dared think of it in any
other way, to do that would be too unspeakably dreadful.
“Now, Hannah,” said Molly, slipping her hand inside Hannah’s thin little
arm, “what do you think about the big prize? Isn’t it altogether too
astounding?”
“It is indeed,” said Hannah, and she sighed.
“It would be the very thing for you, Hannah, if you got it.”
“Yes,” answered Hannah gravely, “it would be the making of me. You don’t
know, Molly, for I have never told you, how difficult it was for father
and mother to send me to The Red Gables at all. You see, mother won’t
send a girl to a school without paying the full terms, and it is also
one of Mrs. Fleming’s rules that there is to be no abatement of terms in
any case whatsoever. She says she can and will help in other ways, but
not in that. Every girl must stand on her own merits in this school, or
not be here. Well, I can’t describe to you how father and mother have
toiled and saved and denied themselves to send me here. You see, I’m the
only girl, and the boys—Jack and Tom and Harry—are all much older; and
mother was at this school herself, and simply said, the moment I was
born, that I must come here to be educated. From the very first she and
father saved up for this object, and here I am. But, oh Molly, it is
quite too torturing to think of that prize! If what Mrs. Fleming says is
true, it would make _all_ the difference—all the difference.”
“Of course what Mrs. Fleming says is true, Hannah; how can you even
imagine anything else, you silly girl? And why shouldn’t you try for the
prize and win it too? I suppose I oughtn’t to tell you; but I know the
literary part of the prize is to be won by a sort of graduated scale—I
heard Miss Greene talking about it—so that each girl, whether of the
Lower or the Upper School, should have an equal chance. You mustn’t
think too badly of yourself, Hannah, I am sure your abilities are quite
up to the average; and then this prize doesn’t only mean ability, it
means other and greater things.”
“I know, I know,” said Hannah, “and it isn’t for a single moment that I
think so very badly of myself; it isn’t on that account at all, Molly,
but I can’t—try for the prize.”
“You can’t! Nonsense, Hannah! what do you mean?”
“Don’t ask me any more, dear Molly. I’d give anything in all the world
to try; but I can’t, so there’s an end of it. Oh no, Molly, I’m not
going to tell you why. Dear Molly, you mustn’t inquire; it makes it
harder for me if you do, only I can’t compete, that’s all. I can never
compete,” she added in a low voice.
Molly looked at Hannah as she was speaking, and now it was very strongly
borne in upon her that during the whole of this term Hannah was changed.
She was a very gay, bright, commonplace sort of little girl before; but
now she was neither gay nor bright, nor was she exactly commonplace any
longer. There was a look of suffering about her face which rather
improved her appearance than otherwise. Molly was wise, and did not
press the matter; after a minute’s pause she turned the conversation,
and began to speak about Peggy. Here she found an enthusiastic admirer
in Hannah.
“I’m very glad she’s in the Upper School. I’m very glad she’s with you!”
was Hannah’s comment.
Molly felt a prick at her heart. Had the poor little Irish girl any
reason to rejoice in the fact that she was close to her so-called
cousins? Alas and alas! no. Molly felt more and more certain that
Jessie’s cruel words had been overheard by Peggy that day. She was glad,
however, to talk about the child with Hannah, and soon it was time for
the girls to go indoors, and the Upper School could have nothing more to
do with the Lower School until the Wednesday half-holiday.
The next day was Sunday, and Sunday was considered a very pleasant day
indeed at The Red Gables. The holy day was kept with no old-fashioned
severity; nevertheless, each girl in the school felt that Mrs. Fleming
herself looked upon Sunday as one of the red-letter days of her life. An
omnibus came round immediately after breakfast to take the girls to
church, and after church the two schools went for a walk with their
respective governesses; then, when early dinner was over, they were
allowed to do exactly as they pleased, even to play together in a quiet
fashion, to read story-books, to exchange confidences, to chat with
their friends. After tea came _the_ time of the day, when Mrs. Fleming
herself gave religious instruction to every girl in the school, even
little Elisabeth was present at this. The great hall was made cosy, the
fire blazed high in the inglenook, and the girls sat round in a wide
circle. The religious instruction was of the pleasantest kind, and was
calculated not to fatigue any brain, although it was possible that
occasionally some consciences might be pricked. But when the few earnest
words had come to an end, then followed the witching hour. Each girl
recited a short poem, chosen by herself, for the benefit of her
mistress. These recitations were so good as to be almost famous, and
many and many a time a teacher crept into the hall unbidden to listen to
the ringing and enthusiastic words.
But after the girls had recited, the crowning moment arrived. Mrs.
Fleming either recited something herself or went on with a story which
was always in hand, and which was intimately connected with the school.
It was a very strange, imaginary romance, in which the girls now at the
school were _supposed_ to have entered on their future lives, and to be
carrying them on according to Mrs. Fleming’s own ideas. This continuous
tale was full of adventures and hairbreadth escapes and deep
excitements. It was a sort of modern _Pilgrim’s Progress_, and the
character-drawing was so good that no one could possibly miss a word.
The story itself was never spoken of afterwards, this was part of the
honour of the thing; it was a mutual tie between Mrs. Fleming and her
girls, and the teacher who had listened to the recitations was always
obliged to leave the hall before it began. A few of the girls, it is
true, tried to take down some of the beautiful thoughts in a peculiar
shorthand which they had invented for themselves; but Mrs. Fleming
preferred that they should not do this. In short, the Sunday evening
hour was a great hour with the girls, and even the wildest and most
difficult to manage never cared to miss it.
On the Sunday after Peggy Desmond had been admitted to the Upper School
and the subject of the great prize had been broached, Kitty Merrydew and
her satellites sat together in the room which was devoted to the special
use of the girls. It so happened that Priscilla Price, Rufa Conway, and
Annie Jones had gone out for a long walk, accompanied by Miss Archdale.
They would be home in time for tea, and of course in time for the Sunday
class. Kitty had the place of honour by the fire, as the day was a
bitterly cold one, with a north-east wind blowing. Kitty lay back in the
deep armchair, the only one that the room possessed, Grace Dodd sat at
her feet, her two pretty little feet reposed in Grace’s lap, and Grace
rubbed the fine black silk stockings up and down. These stockings had
been a present from Grace and Anne Dodd to their darling. Kitty looked
particularly smart in her short frock of crimson cashmere, which set off
her glowing, dark face as only such rich colour could. Anne fondled one
of Kitty’s small hands, and Sophy Marshall looked on, a little jealous,
a little disgusted. She admired Kitty, of course, but she by no means
like the scrape into which The Imp had brought her.
Kitty lay back with her eyes closed, the dark lashes resting on her rosy
cheeks. Suddenly she opened her great eyes wide, and said: “Well, of
course we’ve all agreed to do it.”
“Oh yes, darling, don’t worry,” said Grace Dodd.
“It was you, Gracie, who really smashed her leg, you know,” continued
Kitty, with a wicked glance at her adorer. “I saw you hit out with that
club. You needn’t have been so violent.”
“I don’t see why you should scold me,” said Grace, who had not much
spirit where Kitty was concerned, but nevertheless had a little. “I did
it for you. She’d have escaped otherwise.”
“For goodness’ sake, don’t let’s talk about it,” said Anne; “it makes me
sick. Why, if it were known, Grace would be expelled.”
“Not only Grace,” said Sophia, in a shaking voice, “the whole of us—the
whole of us. Oh dear, oh dear, I never was so miserable in my life!”
“And what on earth are you miserable about now, pussycat? I own _I_ even
didn’t feel too nice the day she was so bad, and they prayed in church
for her; but I got fright enough, I can tell you, when you—you goose of
a Grace!—fell flop down in a faint on the floor of the pew.”
“I couldn’t help it,” said Grace; “it came over me. Oh it was awful! I
thought that if she died——”
“Well, she hasn’t died,” interrupted Kitty; “don’t let’s talk any more
about that! She’s as well and hearty as ever. Why, my dear girls, we did
her a good turn. Tell me, would she be in the Upper School now but for
us? But, for goodness’ sake, let’s drop her. It’s the prize I want to
talk about. We must all try for it, that’s a certainty, and _I_ mean to
get it. Girls, you’ll none of you really fight against me, will you?”
“Of course not, little sweetheart,” said Anne Dodd.
“But there’s that awful fresh lie we’ve got to tell,” said Sophia
Marshall; “it’s that that’s terrifying me. I don’t want to tell any
_more_ lies. How can I listen to Mrs. Fleming Sunday after Sunday and
act as I’ve been doing lately? I can’t—I tell you, I can’t!”
“Come along, Sophy, and sit here by me,” said Kitty. “You’re blue with
the cold out there. You squat on the floor and take my feet on your
lap.—You have had your turn, Gracie.”
Grace withdrew meekly.
“How cold you look, Sophy; why don’t you wear a warmer dress?”
“I haven’t got one. Mother wrote to say that I must do with what I
have.”
Kitty turned and pulled Anne Dodd down to talk to her, and whispered in
her ear. “It’s worth it,” she said finally; “it’s for Grace’s sake,
remember.”
“Of course, of course,” said Anne.
“Listen, Sophy,” continued Kitty. “Would two big golden sovereigns buy
you a frock? For, if they would, they are yours.”
“Oh wouldn’t they just?” said Sophia, her eyes sparkling.
“Well, come close to me and let me hug you.—Now, Anne.”
There was an instant silence, a quick movement on the part of Anne, and
then Kitty pushed Sophia from her.
“Put your hand in your pocket,” Kitty said with a laugh. Sophia did so
and produced two sovereigns. “There, didn’t I say there were fairies
about? Now, Sophy, my dear, you’ve got to do what the rest of us do,
whether you like it or not. If your conscience was so tender you should
have thought about it many weeks ago. It’s quite settled that we all
compete for the miniature, and do what’s necessary to enable us to
compete for it.”
Sophia wiped some tears from her eyes. “I hope I’ll do it right,” she
said. “Even two sovereigns don’t seem to make up to me for it. I don’t
know how I’ll look father and mother in the face at Christmas; and,
anyhow, even if I do what you wish, there’s Hannah. What about her?”
“Hannah Joyce! Good gracious, what a mercy you remembered her, Sophy! Of
course she must join. Dear, dear, what a worry things are!—If only you
hadn’t been so violent that time, Grace! What a job the rest of us have
trying to shield you!”
“I don’t think Hannah will do what you want,” said Sophia. “Hannah is
looking very unhappy lately.”
“She must do what we want,” was Kitty’s remark. “Let some one fetch her
without delay.—You’d best go, Grace, as you are the culprit, the rest of
us have done nothing except try to shield you. Now trot, my dear Grace,
trot.”
Hannah Joyce had been asked by her other room-mates to join them in
their walk, they wanted to consult her about the prize. Hannah knew
quite well that such was their thought, and for that very reason, if for
no other, she refused to go. She was feeling intensely unhappy; she knew
that she was throwing away a splendid chance; she knew well the
capacities of every girl in the Lower School, and she was thoroughly
aware of the fact that, now that Peggy was removed, she herself had the
most marked ability and the greatest firmness and steadiness of
character. Priscilla, Annie, and Rufa were very nice, good, everyday
sort of girls, but they were younger than Hannah to begin with, and were
none of them at all clever. The Dodds were simply parasites, no more and
no less. Did they happen to be poor, how soon would Kitty have spurned
them from her friendship! Sophia was weak—Hannah felt rather sorry for
Sophia—and then there remained Kitty, or The Brat. Kitty was, beyond
doubt, wonderfully beautiful, and she had that sort of cleverness which
belongs to a treacherous, selfish, and designing nature; beyond that she
had nothing. She was not a steady worker, she could not write an essay
in decent English to save her life. Yes, if Hannah chose, she had a
fair, a more than fair, chance of the prize.
When the girls went for their walk Hannah entered the little school
library—it was too cold to go out with no object in view—and began to
think about the prize. She could not help that, she could not turn her
thoughts to any other subject. Try as she might, this was absolutely
impossible. She pictured the scene at home if things were different, and
if she had a right to compete for this delightful miniature, the
difference in her future it would make, the difference in her present
life it would make, the pride of her father and mother and of her
brothers. Oh, if only those wicked girls would confess and let her try!
Once she started to her feet with the idea of persuading them, but then
again she sat down. It was so useless! And, after all, she had already
to a certain extent committed herself. When questioned immediately after
the supposed accident she had said she knew nothing, when she did know
something, when she did know that Grace had come for Peggy and taken the
girl away, and would not allow her, Hannah, to accompany them. If she
mentioned these things now, doubtless the necessary clue would be
forthcoming; but she had already yielded to the entreaties of those whom
she knew were her false friends. She had, therefore, debarred herself
from trying for the Howard prize.
“Well, I have been searching the house for you; where on earth have you
hidden yourself?” said Grace, coming into the library and speaking in a
very cross tone. “Ugh! what a cold room!” she continued, pretending to
shiver as she spoke. “We thought, of course, you had gone for a walk
with the others, Hannah. Why on earth didn’t you join us? We are having
such a jolly time in the sitting-room.”
“I didn’t want to,” replied Hannah. “I am all right here, thanks.”
“Well, you’ve got to come with me now,” said Grace. “You’re wanted.”
“Wanted?” replied Hannah. “Who wants me?”
“Kitty wants you.”
“Kitty! Tell her if she wants me she can come here and see me. I’m not
going to her.”
“Nonsense, Hannah, you must go; it’s really very important.”
“I don’t see it, and I’m not going,” said Hannah. She crouched up close
to the heat which was produced by a little stove, and held out her thin
hands towards it.
Grace longed to snatch one of the hands and drag the girl across the
hall into the sitting-room. “Hannah,” she said, “you really must come,
it’s awfully important. We’re talking about the prize, you know.”
“Oh, I thought you were! Well, then, less than ever do I want to go with
you, for I am not interested in the prize.”
“Not interested in the prize!” exclaimed Grace, backing a pace or so and
looking fixedly at Hannah; “that does seem ridiculous, Hannah—it really
does. Why, of course you’re going to try for it with the rest of us.”
“I don’t know what the rest of you are going to do, but I know what I am
not going to do.”
“And what’s that?”
“I am not going to try for the Howard portrait prize.”
“Hannah!”
“No, Grace, I am not, and there’s an end of it, as far as I am
concerned. If you want to sit down I can’t prevent you; but I am going
up to my room to lie down.”
“You know you’re not allowed in the dormitories in the daytime?”
“I know that quite well, except when I have a headache, as I happen to
have. I shall let Miss Archdale know when she comes back. Good-bye,
Grace.”
“No, no, you can’t go like that, Hannah. Hannah, please, _please_ let me
speak to you! Hannah, it’s most awfully important. You see, we are all,
all, all of us mixed up in this thing.”
“In what thing? I am not mixed up in anything with _you_, so don’t you
think it.”
“I think you’re most horribly, beastly unkind,” said Grace. “I don’t
know what’s the matter with you.”
“I know quite well what is the matter with myself. I should not have
made you that promise; if I hadn’t, I should have tried for the prize.
As I have made it, I am not going to try. It would have been exceedingly
important for me to get the prize, far more important than you have the
least idea of; but I have done for myself now. All the same, if you
think I am going to tell any more lies you’re mistaken. I suppose no one
in the Lower School will try, unless perhaps Prissy and Annie and Rufa.
They’re all right, of course; dear little Elisabeth is too young.”
“Oh dear, what is to be done?” said Grace. Her face clouded over, then
it got very red, and she felt considerably frightened. “But please,
Hannah, do let me speak.”
“You may speak as much as you like, I’m not preventing you.”
“Yes, but won’t you listen?”
“I am listening. Do go on.”
“Well, you see, Hannah, if—if _you_ refuse to compete for the prize you
will have to give a reason.”
“I don’t see that at all. I don’t intend to give any reason. I’ll simply
say that I’d rather not try.”
“Oh, but really, really! Mrs. Fleming, she’s very suspicious now. I know
she’s just—just _looking out_ for things, and your refusing to compete
will certainly give her a clue, and we’ll get into trouble.”
“But how can my refusing possibly make things worse for you? You surely
have got to refuse too.”
“To refuse!” cried Grace. “I assure you we are not going to do anything
of that sort.”
“You mean,” said Hannah—she rose abruptly, she turned and faced the
other girl—“you calmly stand there and tell me that you mean to compete
for a prize which means what that prize means, which means honour,
kindness, charity, love! No, Grace, you can’t do it; you really can’t. I
don’t believe even _you_ would sink as low as that.”
“I must do it,” said Grace. “I have no help for it.”
“Grace, for God’s sake, don’t do this thing, I beseech of you,
don’t—don’t! Grace, it isn’t worth it; Grace, it isn’t, really! Do you
know how badly _I_ want that prize? Do you know that I have a mother who
isn’t at all strong, and if I got the prize she’d have relief all during
the rest of her life, relief and peace and rest? Do you think it is
nothing to me to give it up; but no—even for mother—I won’t tell another
lie, that I won’t!”
“You must come and see Kitty; if you speak to Kitty perhaps it will be
different. Do come and see her—do, do!” said Grace.
“All right, I will come and see her. I may as well give her a piece of
my mind.”
Hannah got up. She had never felt so strong before in the whole course
of her life. She walked behind Grace, pushing the rich, vulgar girl in
front of her. She opened the door of the sitting-room and marched up the
room.
Kitty was joking—she was taking Peggy off. “Arrah thin! The top of the
morning to ye, me pets,” she said, raising her eyes and fixing them on
Hannah. The other girls roared with laughter. Hannah looked gravely at
Kitty.
“You don’t suppose,” Hannah said at last, “that you are really taking
off Peggy Desmond? She doesn’t speak in the least like that.”
“When I want you to tell me how Peggy Desmond speaks I’ll ask you,”
replied Kitty, her face crimson with passion.
“You have sent for me. What do you want me for?” asked Hannah.
“Oh, I don’t want to be bothered long with you. You are going to try, I
suppose, for the prize, like the rest of us?”
“No, I am not; I haven’t an idea of trying.”
“Hannah!”
“I am not going to try. Kitty, I presume that if it is impossible for me
to try—and I regard it as impossible—it is much, much more impossible
for you to try.”
“It isn’t at all impossible for me to try, and I mean to try. How dare
you even to presume that I have done anything wrong?”
“Very well, Kitty, you can please yourself; but I certainly intend to
please myself. I am not going to try, and I think any girl in this room
who dares to try, knowing in her heart of hearts what has happened—oh,
you needn’t tell me, I am not quite a fool—knowing in her heart of
hearts what has happened, is indeed unworthy. Kitty, you may try, but
you won’t succeed; you may try, but I don’t think I’d imperil my
immortal soul for a trifle of that sort! Girls, I have nothing more to
say to any of you; you can go your own way. That’s all. I am very
sorry.”
She turned and left the room, and the girls stared after her. There was
a pause, a long, uncomfortable pause. All of a sudden Grace burst out
crying. It was Grace’s rather loud sobs which awakened the sort of
trance which fell over the girls.
Kitty sprang to her feet. “Now, look here, Gracie, you don’t intend to
go on in that silly way because a girl like that common, poor,
good-for-nothing creature chooses to set herself up against us! She
can’t do _us_ any harm; the only thing she’ll effect will be that, in
all probability, suspicion will be fastened on her. I mean it to be
fastened on her too. I shall see about it; it isn’t at all impossible.
No, I shall say nothing at the present moment, but I’ll say something
presently. You wait and see—you wait and see.”
With these words Kitty stretched herself, yawned, and left the
sitting-room. The other girls looked at one another. Grace had now
stopped crying.
“I didn’t like it a bit,” said Sophia.
“Nor I,” said Grace.
“Nor I,” said Anne.
“I wish,” said Sophia, “I was as brave as Hannah. I respect Hannah more
than I ever thought I could respect any one.”
“I wish one thing,” said Grace, “and it is this—that Kitty hadn’t such a
fearful hold over me.”
“And over me too,” said Anne.
“Look here, Anne,” suddenly said Sophia, “you have given me two
sovereigns to buy a frock. I’d rather you took them back; won’t you,
please; won’t you?”
“Oh I don’t mind; but you can keep them if you like; it won’t make any
difference.”
“No, I’d really rather not have them; but don’t tell _her_ that I’ve
given them back to you.”
“No fear, Sophy. I want to say something to you. Do you know that last
summer Kitty was with us for a week? Father won’t let her come any more.
I can’t make out what father found out; but she’s coaxing us now—she’s
coaxing us both—to get her an invitation for Christmas, and _we can’t do
it_. It’s jolly awkward, because, of course, we are very fond of her.”
“I’m not fond of her,” said Sophia. “I wish she wasn’t so powerful
though, but I suppose we must go on with this.”
“We certainly must; there’s no help at all for it; it wouldn’t do to
have Kitty for our enemy,” said both the Dodd girls.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE PRINCIPAL INTERROGATES.
Before the week was up the girls who intended to compete for the Howard
miniature prize had given in their names. All was managed very quietly,
without the least fuss or excitement. Mrs. Fleming did not wish to have
excitement come into the matter, as she knew that such would be against
the wish of her dear old friend. The rules were drawn up with extreme
care, and were given to each competitor. The intellectual part of the
competition would not begin until after Christmas; there would then be
two terms for the girls to work in—the Easter and the summer term. The
15th of June was fixed as the day when the prize would be awarded, and
this would be a very special day in the school. The fathers and mothers
of all the competitors would, if possible, be present; in addition there
would be some art judges and judges of music and recitation. Then there
would be the judges for the competition itself; these would be six in
number, three men and three ladies; they would all be people well known
to the literary world, and the mere fact of such distinguished people
awarding the prize would largely add to its distinction. As well as the
prize itself and the sealed parchment, there would be a beautifully
illuminated certificate, which would be set in a frame of a simple band
of gold. This would give the names of the judges, the date when the
prize was won, and such other particulars as would make the prize of
great value in the future.
The last girls to appear in Mrs. Fleming’s study to put down their names
as competitors for the Howard miniature were Kitty Merrydew, Sophia
Marshall, and the two Misses Dodd. Kitty looked charming and insouciant.
Her black hair was tied carelessly back from her charming little face
with a wide bow of crimson ribbon; she wore her favourite crimson frock
and embroidered black stockings and very neat little shoes with black
satin rosettes. Nothing could be smarter than her appearance; no eyes
could be brighter than hers. With her straight little features, her
beautifully curved lips, her teeth white as pearls, and an additional
crimson colour in her cheeks, she made altogether a picture which ought
to attract any eye. Even her expression seemed at the first glance to be
altogether frank, lively, good-natured; but Mrs. Fleming knew that face
well, and wished the dark eyes did not look at her so boldly, and wanted
to see less of that spirit of defiance round the proud mouth. She
altogether distrusted Kitty, and yet she had no loophole, not the
slightest, to account for her prejudice.
Kitty had taken immense pains with her attire on this auspicious
occasion, and she was equally careful that the Dodds and Sophia Marshall
should not outshine her. The Dodds were allowed by their affectionate
parents to spend any amount of money they liked upon dress; but,
unluckily for them, they had money without taste. When Kitty was in a
good humour she took pains with their toilets, taking good care whenever
she did so to get them to present her with a frock or a ribbon or a new
bauble for her trouble. The girls were quite willing to do this, for she
really attracted them immensely. On this special day they were
astonished to see Kitty making herself so smart.
“_We_ had better put on our best frocks too,” said Anne, after looking
for a minute at her idol.
“Oh, I don’t think so at all,” replied Kitty. “You’ll do absolutely in
those old dowds; but, let me see—_perhaps_ not. You might put on your
green frocks.”
“But, Kitty, you said the green frocks made shows of us.”
“Still, they must be worn, and they’re very handsome,” said Kitty.
“You’d better put them on. Miss Archdale said we might go to our
dormitory on this occasion to dress if we liked. What a fuss there is
being made over this old prize! Well, girls, you hop into your green
frocks. I think brown stockings would look nice with them, and brown
shoes.”
“Wouldn’t black be best?” said Anne.
“No, no; you really mustn’t copy me; it must be brown. Now go and
tittivate.—By the way, what are you going to wear, Sophy?”
“That’s nothing to you,” answered Sophia.
“Oh my! how grand we’ve become! My dear child, I’m sure I don’t care;
that rusty cashmere of yours will be in holes if you don’t get a new one
soon. You’d better write to your beloved parents on the subject. I saw a
hole under your arm and another just by your elbow on Sunday.”
Sophia marched out of the room. “Isn’t she huffy?” said Kitty, looking
at the two Dodds; “and, oh, don’t I feel gay, gay, gay! What fun this
is!”
She began to dance about the room in her exquisitely graceful fashion.
Suddenly she danced up to Grace. “Do you know,” she said, “that Jessie
Wyndham had a letter from her mother this morning, and I’m to go to them
to spend Christmas? Isn’t it glorious? You’ll have to fork out, my
cherubs, to buy your darling some new frocks. I can do with three—one
extra morning frock and two evening. Twenty pounds will do the business.
We had better go and see Miss Weston about it, or she may get filled up
with orders. And, by the way, afterwards, of course, Gracie, I’m coming
on to you. Why, how glum you look! Surely you’d love to have me?”
“Of course I would, and so would Anne; but the fact is, we are not
allowed to ask anybody without father’s leave.”
“Well, write to him and tell him that I’m coming.”
Anne turned very white and looked at Grace.
Grace said, in a nervous tone, “We’d best go and dress.”
“You have written to your father,” said Kitty. “I see it in your faces.
Well, what did he say?”
“He said—he said—oh, Kit, we are fit to burst with rage—he said you were
not to come.”
A very rich colour now did indeed spread over Kitty’s face. She was
thoughtful for a minute; then she said quietly, “What will you bet me
that I’ll not go straight from the Wyndhams’ to you, and that Daddy Dodd
won’t fetch me in his motor-car—the new Mercedes that you told me he had
bought?”
“Oh Kitty, we don’t want to bet.”
“You must bet—you must, you must! I’m going to bet ten pounds with you
that I’m going. Now then, now then! You’ll each of you pay me ten pounds
if I go, and if I don’t I pay you ten pounds between you. Come, that’s
fair. Settle it quick, settle it quick.”
“Very well, Kitty,” said Anne; “but you’ll lose your money, you know,
for daddy never changes his mind.”
Meanwhile Sophia had gone up to her room. She was about to put on her
shabby frock when there came a tap at the door. Hannah stood without.
“Sophy, I do pity you so dreadfully. Have you quite made up your mind?”
“Yes, I have. I wish I needn’t. You’d best not stand there talking to
me, Hannah.”
“Well, if you have,” said Hannah, “and there’s no way out of it, I want
to help you in a little trifle. I have nothing to do this afternoon, and
I want to mend your cashmere and wash it over with ammonia; it will
bring out the colour like anything; and, as you and I are exactly the
same height, will you wear this frock of mine when you go with the
others to see Mrs. Fleming? See, it is quite new; it came to me from
mother this morning by post.”
“Oh Hannah, you are a duck! And what a pretty colour! But ought I to
wear it first of all?”
“Yes, please do; it will make me a little bit happier. Let me help you
to hook up the eyes; it fastens up the back, you know.”
A few minutes later Sophia was arrayed in a dark-blue cashmere frock,
which suited her exactly. She gave Hannah a sort of choky kiss; she
tried to murmur some words, but none would come, and then she left the
room.
The four girls were, as has been said, the last to enter the little
library and to express their willingness to compete for the Howard
miniature. Mrs. Fleming looked them all over, beginning at Kitty and
ending with Sophia. The Dodds looked sullen and ugly; their green
dresses were hideous, and made them look, as Kitty knew well, their very
worst. The dresses were made of rich double _crêpe de chine_, a most
expensive material, and had on the bodices some handsome real lace and
little knots of yellow ribbon. The colour of the green was a sort of
yellow spring tint, which would really have tried a Venus, unless she
were as fair as Peggy Desmond, who could have carried off one of those
queer frocks to perfection. Sophia was the only one of the party
suitably dressed, and this was owing to Hannah.
Mrs. Fleming, after looking at the girls one after the other, said
quietly, “You are anxious and willing to compete for this great prize?”
“Yes,” said Kitty, in a cheerful voice, “I wouldn’t miss it for
anything.”
“I am glad to be able to tell you,” continued Mrs. Fleming, “that all
the girls in the Lower School intend to compete, with two exceptions—one
is dear little Elisabeth, who, of course, is far too young; the other is
Hannah Joyce. I am very sorry indeed about Hannah, and—_surprised_.”
“I’m not,” said Kitty.
“You are not what?”
“I mean I’m not surprised.”
Mrs. Fleming gave the girl a glance of almost contempt; she knew that
Kitty longed to say more, but was resolved on no account to listen to
her. “It is not our affair,” she said, “why Hannah does not compete; she
is a very nice, good girl, and I have no doubt has wise reasons. I
should have liked her to have won the prize, for it would have helped
her and her dear mother; but she may perhaps feel differently another
year. Now then, to business. You have each of you a copy of the rules of
competition?”
“Yes,” said Anne.
“Speak up, Anne Dodd; don’t mumble.”
“Yes, Mrs. Fleming.”
“You know how severe these rules are, with regard to conduct, past,
present, and future?”
Sophia clutched her chair very tightly. Kitty, who was sitting next to
Sophia, gave her a nudge, and said at once in a very cheerful voice, “I
don’t pretend for a minute to be perfect. Indeed, far from that, I’m
afraid I’m rather a naughty little girl; I’ve such an eye for mischief;
but at least I’m honest and aboveboard, and those are the main things,
aren’t they, Mrs. Fleming?”
“They are the indispensable things, Katherine.”
“And,” continued Kitty, “I mean to have a tremendous try for the future.
I can’t tell you how hard I shall work to overcome my faults—not to
mimic, you know, or anything naughty of that sort, and to be very kind
and generous to others. Don’t you think that’s what I ought to aim at
most of all, Mrs. Fleming?”
“It is what you all ought to aim at. But now, Kitty, I need not listen
to your resolutions for the future. You have but to follow the rules
with a humble prayer to God to help you. But, my dear children, what I
am coming to is this: You know that in the case of you four I have to
demand more, far more than from any other girls in the school. I have to
ask each of you once again to assure me, solemnly and before Almighty
God, that you had nothing to do with that accident which so nearly cost
the life of Peggy Desmond. The prize is great, no doubt, but it is less
than the dust compared to the iniquity, the awful sin, of competing for
it unworthily. Now, my dears, you know. I don’t want to press the matter
any further home. God is your Judge whether you are speaking the truth
to me to-day; whether I believe you or not, I shall have to act as
though I believed you. You will, all four of you, have the same chance
of winning this prize as any other girl in the school; but let me tell
you, girls, that if unworthily you attempt to compete for it it will be
a curse to you, not a blessing. Now, children, I have spoken. I have
spoken with pain, for I am unhappy. There is a mystery, and I cannot get
to the bottom of it. I lie awake night after night, thinking of it,
wondering and wondering what serpent has come into my Eden. Oh my
children, I love you so dearly; do not be tempted for a little worldly
gain and honour to imperil your souls!”
There was a profound silence in the room. The four girls looked down.
Sophia was shaking from head to foot, and but for Kitty’s restraining
hand placed upon hers she would have fallen.
Mrs. Fleming now rose, and, taking a small Bible from where it lay by
her side, she put it into the hand of Kitty Merrydew. “Kitty, can you
tell me from the bottom of your heart that you know nothing whatever
with regard to the mischief done to Peggy Desmond? Remember the book you
are holding. Answer me, my child, truthfully.”
“I know nothing,” said Kitty; “nothing whatsoever.” She sprang to her
feet as she spoke, and put the Bible on the table; she almost pushed it
from her, as though it stung her. Her cheeks were crimson, her eyes
unnaturally bright.
The two Dodds went through the same ceremony; and, following Kitty’s
example, said that they knew nothing.
It now was Sophia’s turn. Sophia stood up, shaking. “I’d rather not
compete,” she said. “I’ve nothing to say, nothing at all; but, please,
I’d rather not compete. Hannah and I will stand out together.”
“You must have a reason for this, Sophy.”
“I’ve nothing at all to say except that I won’t compete. Please, please,
let me go. The room is so—so hot—I—think I’ll faint.”
“I will see you again after a time, Sophy.” Mrs. Fleming opened the door
herself for the girl, who slipped out as though she were beaten.
“I’m glad of this,” said Kitty.
“Glad! What do you mean?”
“I suppose, Mrs. Fleming, you don’t wish me to be a tell-tale? Please
may we go? This has been a very unpleasant scene.”
Mrs. Fleming said, in a haughty voice, “You can go, girls, and—if you
see Miss Archdale, send her to me immediately.”
Sophia flew to Hannah’s side; Hannah was busily employed mending the
little girl’s old cashmere frock. She was a very neat worker, having
been taught by her careful mother. She looked up with a start of extreme
surprise when she saw Sophia. Sophia flung herself on her knees by her,
put her head into her lap, and burst into a passion of weeping.
“Oh Hannah, Hannah, darling,” she said, “it—it was your frock did it;
it—it saved me!”
Hannah turned a little pale. “What do you mean, Sophy?” she asked.
“Oh I can’t quite tell you everything. It was too awful; it was
like—like the Judgment Seat. Oh Hannah, you couldn’t have borne it for a
minute! Mrs. Fleming was so splendid, so—so like Jesus Christ somehow,
so sorry for us and so longing for us to do what was right. I could hear
it in her dear words and see it in her dear face, and how _they_ ever
held out, I—I cannot understand. Somehow, Hannah, all of a sudden my
greatest fear left me. Oh I’m a sad, sad coward, and I’m just awfully
afraid of Kitty; but nothing seemed worth while then but to do right. I
thought of you, who really know nothing at all, and I thought of myself,
and what I know. And—can you realise it, Hannah?—Mrs. Fleming, after she
had spoken, oh so solemnly and so lovingly!—she got up and brought the
Bible to us, and Kitty held the Bible in her hand and had to say she
knew nothing; and the poor Dodds, they followed her example; but I—I
couldn’t—I felt like a whipped cur, so mean and dreadful, but there was
no help for it. I couldn’t tell, of course, but I could at least do what
you are doing. I said I wouldn’t compete. I was asked, of course, to
give a reason, and I said I had no reason that I could give. I am sure
Mrs. Fleming suspects me awfully; but I don’t mind anything now; I don’t
even mind Kitty. Of course she’ll try to frighten me to-night in the
dormitory. You don’t know what she does when we don’t obey. She just
covers her face with some stuff that makes it shine, and oh she makes us
scream; but I—I don’t _think_ I mind her. Anyhow, the other is
worse—much worse. Don’t you think so, Hannah?”
“Yes,” said Hannah. “I want to kiss you, Sophy,” she added.
“Come for a walk with me, Hannah, won’t you?” said Sophia.
“I will. I have just finished your dress, and it looks so tidy. Let’s
fetch our hats, both of us, and go out.”
Meanwhile Mrs. Fleming sat very quiet and thoughtful in her library.
There came a tap at her door, and Miss Archdale entered.
“Julia, my dear,” said the head-mistress, “I never felt in such a pickle
in the whole of my life.”
“Why, what can be wrong now?” asked Miss Archdale.
Mrs. Fleming then related the scene which had just taken place. “I must
tell you quite plainly,” she said, in conclusion, “that I am now
convinced of Kitty’s bad influence in the school, and yet the terrible
thing is that I have no positive proof, and cannot obtain a proof
without spying and prying, a thing which I cannot possibly stoop to, nor
allow any of my dear assistant teachers to stoop to. My belief that real
wickedness comes to light in the end is as strong as ever; nevertheless,
a great deal of mischief may take place before this desirable state of
things arrives.”
“The simple thing,” said Miss Archdale, after a pause, “would surely be
to ask her people to remove Kitty. You could give a good reason for this
without in any way injuring her character.”
“That is just what I cannot do, my dear Julia. The girl is going to
compete for the Howard miniature, and would be naturally very furious if
she were dismissed now. I would send her away to-morrow if I could find
proof; but I cannot get proof; that is the awful thing. I know the child
is poor; her mother was a very nice woman, and was loved in the school;
I know nothing about her father. On her deathbed her mother wrote to me
and begged of me to take Kitty, if in any way possible. How then can I
dismiss her now? She goes in the holidays to an aunt, an unmarried
woman, a sister of her father’s. I have never seen Miss Merrydew, but I
rather fancy that she has very little influence over her niece. No, my
dear, we must keep her for the present, although my heart aches at the
thought. There is no doubt whatever that there is a conspiracy in the
Lower School, and that Kitty Merrydew is at the head of it. She is
helped by the Dodds, weak, poor children, with heaps of money. Sophia
and Hannah were both rather in her power, but have broken loose. I
consider that Sophia behaved with great bravery to-day; the poor child
was evidently sick with fright. And now I want you, my dear, to get her
right away from Kitty’s influence. She must sleep for the future in the
lower dormitory, in the bed which was occupied by Peggy Desmond; and
Priscilla Price, an admirable, trustworthy girl, must go and sleep in
the upper dormitory. I will myself speak to Priscilla about this.
Indeed, it would not be at all a bad plan to put both Rufa and Priscilla
into the upper dormitory; it would never do to have that room handed
over to the machinations of Kitty and her satellites. Will you speak to
Miss Smith at once about these changes, dear, and send Prissy to me when
you see her? Oh dear, I am tired, Julia. The management of a school is
no sinecure.”
“You poor darling,” said Miss Archdale, “it is worse than a sin to worry
you.”
Mrs. Fleming was in her luxurious sitting-room when Prissy arrived. She
was a tall, rather handsome girl, with straight features and good,
honest eyes. Integrity and uprightness shone all over her young face.
She had something the look of a young knight who had girded on his
armour, and, with his sword ever by his side, was ready to fight in the
cause of righteousness.
“Priscilla dear,” said the head-mistress, “I’m going to ask you and Rufa
to do something which I’m afraid you won’t at all like.”
“You mean, Mrs. Fleming,” said Priscilla, “that you want us to sleep in
the upper dormitory? We don’t mind at all—that is, if it will help you.”
“It will help me very much, Priscilla.”
“Then it’s settled, of course,” said Prissy, in her pleasant voice.
“I don’t give you any reason for this change, dear,” said the
head-mistress, looking at her pupil.
“Of course not. Why should you?”
“Every girl wouldn’t speak like that, Prissy.”
“But every girl hasn’t got a head-mistress like you,” answered
Priscilla, and she bent gracefully on one knee, and taking her
mistress’s hand raised it in her young, stately fashion to her lips.
“Priscilla, child, you know I can’t bear tale-bearers.”
“Of course you cannot,” replied Priscilla.
“But—if you and Rufa observe anything going on in the upper dormitory
which you think I will not like you are bound in honour to uphold me;
and, if such upholding fails, you are equally bound in honour to tell me
what has occurred.”
“I think I understand,” said Prissy, speaking very slowly. A minute
later she left the room.
“Why are we changed?” asked Rufa, when she met her friend.
“I think,” said Priscilla, in a low tone, “because Mrs. Fleming wants
us, if possible, to discover a conspiracy.”
“But even if we do, Pris——”
“In that case, Rufa, we’ve got to be plucky.”
Rufa was silent for a minute; then she said slowly, “I don’t like this
change at all.”
“No more do I, but what does that matter if we can help?”
“Help!” said Rufa.
“The good,” answered Priscilla.
“I think I understand,” said Rufa in a low tone.
CHAPTER XVII.
GRACE AND ANNE IN TROUBLE.
It was Christmas-time and the holidays were in full swing. For the time
being The Red Gables was closed, the busy hum of young life was silent,
although workmen of all sorts and descriptions were busy erecting that
new wing which was to accommodate five foundation scholars of the great
Howard Trust. Mrs. Fleming herself, in consequence, remained at the
school during the winter holidays, and poor Peggy looked with longing
eyes at her mistress, wishing much that she could stay with her.
“Why, thin, it’s meself that would like it,” she said; “ye have done me
more good than any one else in all the wide world.”
The child looked at her mistress out of her large, loving eyes, and Mrs.
Fleming felt a great pang at parting with her. There had been a time
when she almost felt inclined to write to Paul Wyndham to ask him to let
her keep the little girl for the first holidays, at least; but on second
thoughts she made up her mind to trust Peggy, and to give her this
trial, which, in reality, would be best for her character.
“It’s going to be very hard intirely,” said the child.
“Oh no, Peggy; you know now how to act, and you will always have my
loving sympathy; and if you are in any difficulty you have only got to
write to me, dear, and I will immediately tell you what I would advise
you to do.”
“But ye don’t know, perhaps, ma’am, that The Imp is going to stay part
of the holidays at Preston Manor.”
This was a considerable shock to Mrs. Fleming, and she had to confess
that she did not know it.
“It’s Jessie who’s done it,” continued Peggy. “Of course, The Imp wants
to go somewhere, and so she came round Jessie, and she’s coming along
with us to-morrow. Oh thin, wurra!—I beg your pardon, ma’am—oh, thin, ye
know how she hates me?”
“She won’t show her hatred, I trust, Peggy dear, and you must just keep
out of her way.”
“I’ll try to do that same, dear madam.”
But Mrs. Fleming felt very uncomfortable, and fervently wished that she
had been told sooner of Kitty’s visit to Preston Manor; it was now too
late to interfere.
Kitty was in the highest possible spirits; she had won her way so far,
although the invitation which she expected from Hillside was not, so
far, forthcoming. “It will come, though,” said Kitty, as she was packing
her things on the evening of the day before the school was to break up;
“you leave it to me, and you see if it doesn’t come.”
The Dodds, however, were by no means so confident.
The next day there was a general breaking-up, saying good-bye to one
another, and gay cries of “Merry Christmas” on all hands; and the school
omnibuses drove away to the nearest railway station, from whence the
young people were to be conveyed to their respective homes.
Kitty’s aunt, Miss Merrydew, was a woman who lived in a boarding-house
at Folkestone. She had lived there for years, and was one of the
greatest gossips that any of these houses of entertainment contained.
Being such an old inhabitant, she was treated with a certain amount of
respect, which was a good deal, however, mixed with fear, for it was not
at all good for the ladies of the boarding-house if they fell out with
Miss Gloriana Merrydew. Miss Gloriana was very fond of talking about her
niece; she was proud of showing the photographs of pretty Kitty; she was
fond of expatiating on the marvellous school where the child was
educated; she was fond of relating all her small witticisms, and, as far
as possible, making her out to be a great heiress. The other boarders
listened, some with belief, some with a considerable amount of derision,
a few with scepticism; but all liked to listen and all wondered how Miss
Gloriana could have afforded to place Kitty at such an expensive school.
“It is two hundred per annum, I assure you,” said Miss Gloriana; “but
her father, poor dear man, when he was dying, left special money for
Kitty’s education, and I wouldn’t deprive the precious lamb of so much
as a penny. She’s so beautiful that she’s likely to marry young, and I
expect she’ll make a very good match. She’s the idol of the school, I
can assure you.”
“And are we likely to see this charming young lady during the Christmas
holidays?” asked one of the boarders, a certain Miss Glynn.
“No, I regret much we are not; but the fact is,” said Gloriana, “Kitty
is in such immense request that she cannot spare her poor old auntie
even a single day. She’s going to spend the greater part of the holidays
with her friends the Wyndhams, at Preston Manor. You, of course, know
the Wyndhams; they are some of our county people, some of the best folks
in the whole of England. Afterwards she intends to go on to stay with
the Dodds.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound a very aristocratic name,” said Miss Glynn.
“I’m not saying that it does, Miss Glynn, but sometimes people, even in
our station of life, have to put up with mere wealth. The Dodds are
enormously rich, and have taken such a great fancy to my Kitty that it
is with the utmost difficulty I can keep Mr. and Mrs. Dodd from adopting
her. That, of course, I could not consent to for a moment, but you can
imagine how greatly the child is adored.”
Kitty, therefore, had very little difficulty in getting her own way;
but, although Miss Gloriana could not deny the girl’s wish to spend the
Christmas holidays with the Wyndhams, she put down her foot very firmly
when it came to a question of expense.
“My dear,” she wrote, “I haven’t got it to give you. I have barely the
money which your father set aside for your education; and when it is
spent, unless you can get one of those Dodd girls to let you live with
her, I’m sure I don’t know what you are to do. However, my dear Kitty,
there is plenty of money to keep you at The Red Gables School for the
next three years at least, and there is no good, in my opinion, looking
farther ahead. As to fine dresses, I can’t give you another sou for your
clothing; but surely you can get what you want from the Dodds?”
Now Kitty did most earnestly intend to get what she wanted from the
Dodds, but for the first time the Dodds were frightened. They had, it is
true, during the early part of the last term, been extremely lavish with
regard to Kitty; they had spent all their pocket-money upon her and had
given her several of their own dresses, which could easily be altered to
fit her exceedingly charming little figure. But Mr. Dodd had written a
severe letter, first to Grace and then to Anne, on the subject of their
expenditure. He said that it was contrary to all reason to have to pay
such enormous bills for mere schoolgirls.
“When you come out, my dears,” he said, “there’s nothing in the world I
will deny you; but at present you are only schoolgirls, and I am not
going any longer to have bills of the sort that Miss Weston is sending
in; so don’t you think it. I have been showing them to your mother, and
she says they’re outrageous.”
After this letter, Grace and Anne had to refuse Kitty’s demands for ten
pounds to put into her pocket in order to have plenty of money in hand
for her visit, and also for another evening frock.
“I’d give it you with a heart and a half,” said Grace.
“I’d give you every dress I possess myself,” said Anne; “but you don’t
know what daddy is when he puts down his foot. He’s ever so cross. I
can’t imagine what you did to him last summer, Kitty; up to then there
was nothing he wouldn’t do for you; then, all of a sudden, he turned
against you.”
“I tell you it will come right; it will come _quite_ right,” said Kitty.
“I tell you I can manage it; I am certain on the subject. There, I
suppose I must do with what I have. You couldn’t let me have five
pounds, could you?”
No, the girls could not even let her have five pounds; but, after much
consultation, they managed to put three pounds into her pocket.
“And you must do with that, you really must,” said Anne, “until we meet
again after the holidays. Oh dear,” she added, “what fun! Next term
we’ll be trying for the prize as hard as we can. I hope the subject of
the essay won’t be too difficult.”
“Well, I don’t suppose it matters much to you whether you win or not
with all your enormous riches,” said Kitty.
“Oh but it does, I can assure you; it is just the very sort of thing
that will delight dad. There’s nothing he won’t give us if we win the
prize.”
“I wonder if he’d give me anything if I won it?” said Kitty.
“I expect he’d give you a great deal. He wrote me one letter about it,”
said Grace, “and he said it was the most splendid thing he ever heard
of, and he hoped both his girls would try for it.”
The Dodds, the Wyndhams, Kitty Merrydew, and Peggy Desmond occupied a
carriage to themselves as far as the station where they were to
separate. There the Wyndham motor-car was waiting to receive the four
girls; it was a splendid new motor, covered in so as to shut away all
cold winds. The Dodds also had a very smart motor-car waiting for them.
Good-byes were said, Molly and Jessie invited the Dodds to come and see
them during the holidays, which the Dodd girls promised to do—“that is,
if daddy will consent”—and then they got into their car and drove home.
The last thing they saw was the anxious and sweetly pretty little face
of Peggy Desmond looking at them. She was whirled past in the Wyndhams’
motor-car.
“There! we’re alone at last!” said Anne. “Upon my word, I’m relieved.”
Grace did not speak at all for a minute; then she said, “You know, Anne,
there is something very haunting about that Irish girl.”
“You mean Peggy Desmond?”
“Yes, of course; who else should I mean?”
“I agree with you,” said Anne. “I never saw such a pretty girl. I could
be frightfully fond of her if it weren’t for Kitty.”
“I wish daddy would allow us to ask Peggy Desmond to stay with us at
Hillside!” exclaimed Grace.
“Oh, what _would_ be the use of that?” said Anne; “think what an awful
time we’d have with Kitty when we went back to school!”
“That’s true enough. As a matter of fact, Gracie, I’m getting rather
tired of Kitty.”
“Tired of her!” exclaimed Anne. “I’m sick of her; but there’s no getting
out of it now.”
“I think,” said Grace, “she’s about the meanest girl I ever came across!
The way she puts down that accident to poor little Peggy to me! You know
what she’d have said if I’d let Peggy escape that time. I never meant to
hurt her at all; but she ran so closely, and dodged me, and before I
knew where I was I’d given her that awful blow. Oh it makes me sick! I
can hear that bone crack in her leg now!”
“Don’t—don’t speak of it!” said Anne.
“I wish I didn’t dream of it,” said Grace. “It is awful to be going in
for that prize with that load on my soul. I never felt so bad in my life
as that day when we had to hold the Bible and say we knew nothing about
it.”
“I wish I had the courage of Sophy,” was Anne’s remark.
“And so do I!” exclaimed Grace. “Oh there’s daddy! Doesn’t he look
pleased to see us? One minute, Anne,” she continued. “We’ll be very
careful what we say about Kitty, won’t we? We mustn’t encourage daddy to
turn against her; it would never, never do.”
“You may be certain I won’t say anything against her,” said Anne; “I
wouldn’t be so silly.—Daddy, here we are at last!”
“And welcome, my pets!” said Daddy Dodd, coming forward to welcome his
offspring. He was a large, stoutly-made man, of between fifty and sixty
years of age. His hair was grizzled and grew back from a lofty forehead;
he had bushy eyebrows, small twinkling brown eyes, and a very large
moustache. His shoulders were enormously square, and he had great brawny
arms; those arms in their day had wielded heavy instruments, for Daddy
Dodd had made his fortune by hard and unremitting toil. He had stood on
the lower step of the ladder, and had gone conscientiously up and up and
up, until he found himself in his present position. He was not “County;”
oh no, but he was next door to County, and his girls should be County if
he knew the meaning of the word. Through his wife’s influence he had
managed to get them into the most select school in England. To him they
were by no means plain—in fact, he thought Grace downright pretty. Grace
reminded him of her mother, as she was when he was courting her; he
adored Mrs. Dodd, and told her so about forty times a day. She was a
gentle, good-natured, fairly ladylike woman; she and her John had stood
shoulder to shoulder in the early days of their married life; for his
sake she had denied herself every possible comfort; she had aided his
ambitions, had fostered his toil, and encouraged his work; she had
praised his endeavours, and had been the best of good wives to the best
of husbands. She loved him devotedly, and now that the toil was over,
and great wealth his, she rejoiced, because her John had really earned
his riches. He had earned them in the sweat of his brow, and he had been
_straight_. She loved Hillside, which had been built under John Dodd’s
special supervision. She loved every scrap of the gaudy furniture, every
token of wealth which surrounded her, because these things were John’s
presents to his wife, and she loved John better than she loved her
daughters, although she loved them, too, very dearly. She came out now
to greet them.
“Oh, my dears,” she said, “welcome home! You must be very cold.”
“No, mother, we’re not cold a bit,” said Grace.
“Don’t they speak elegant?” said the father, moving back a space in the
great hall and looking at them with satisfaction. “Grace, let me take a
good long look at you.—Don’t you think she’s improved, mother?”
“Well, I think she’s about the same as she always was,” replied Mrs.
Dodd.
“Now, not a bit of it, mother, not a bit of it; she’s coming on; she’s
going to be a beauty like yourself, my dear.”
“Oh no, daddy,” exclaimed Grace, “I’m not a beauty at all; if you were
to see the girls at school—Kitty and Peggy, yes, and even Priscilla—you
wouldn’t call me pretty.”
“Kitty! Is that Imp still at the school?” said Dodd, his face puckering
into a frown as he spoke.
“Why, of course, she is, father; why shouldn’t she be?”
“Ah, well, I could turn her out if I liked.”
“Daddy, why don’t you like poor little Kitty? She’s very fond of you.”
“No, she ain’t; she ain’t fond of me a bit; she’s fond of my money;
that’s all she’s fond of. Now don’t let’s talk of her any more; but if
there’s a thing which would make me send you two girls from The Red
Gables it would be the thought of your spending so much time with Kitty
Merrydew.”
“Your father has taken a dislike to her, children; don’t worry him on
the subject,” said Mrs. Dodd. “Come upstairs now; you must be hungry.
I’ve ordered a high tea for you both; your father and I are going to
have tea with you instead of late dinner to-night.”
“Oh what fun that will be!” exclaimed Anne. She tucked her hand inside
her mother’s arm, and they went up through the lofty, spacious house
into an enormous bedroom, most beautifully furnished.
“I’m glad to see you home, my pets,” said the mother, kissing them both,
and then looking at them with satisfaction. “I want you, my darlings,
just for yourselves; but your father has set his heart on one of you
being a beauty and the other a genius. What is all this talk about a
prize?”
“Oh mother, it’s a very long story; we’ll tell it you presently,” said
Anne.
“Mother,” said Grace, “I wonder if you can find out for us why daddy has
turned against Kitty.”
“I can’t. I asked him once or twice, and he said I wasn’t to plague
him.”
“But it seems so queer, because he began by liking her.”
“Well, I can’t satisfy your curiosity, girls, for I don’t know myself.
All I can say is that she did something which turned him against her
that time when she was here in the summer. Oh there isn’t a hope of his
asking her back, not any hope; and, my dear girls, I trust you will make
it clear to him how you spent such a frightful lot of money; you seem to
have been very extravagant. As he said to me, ‘My purse would not be the
long one it is if my wife had been like my girls are now.’ You mustn’t
do it, children. Your father will ask you to account for every farthing
before he pays Miss Weston’s bill, and I thought I had better prepare
you for it.”
Grace felt herself turn a little pale. Anne looked at her sister and did
not utter a word. The two girls had reason for their troubled looks;
even home, even the beloved home, was not all that it should be just on
account of Kitty. Why should Kitty’s evil influence follow these two
poor girls everywhere?
When they were undressing in their lovely room that evening, they sent
their maid away.
Grace jumped on the bed, and, stretching her long legs and folding her
arms on the brass rail at the foot of the bed, looked straight at Anne.
“Now,” she said, “however are we to manage about Miss Weston’s bill?”
“I haven’t an idea,” said Anne.
“It is something frightful,” continued Grace, “from what mother tells
me, father is going to talk it all over with us. Miss Weston must be
paid; and, more than that, the things that are ordered in our names
belong to Kitty. How _are_ we to get over the matter?”
“Has the bill come yet?” inquired Grace.
“Yes, Grace, that is the worst of it. Miss Weston, it seems from
mother’s account, has sent in the bill she has sent for years—‘To
account rendered,’ &c.—but father was very angry at the total being so
large, and told mother to write and ask for items. That bill hasn’t come
yet, but, of course, it will almost immediately. Of course, Miss Weston
has no suspicions—why should she?—and she’ll just enter every item.
There are our pretty white evening dresses, and those green things that
Kitty made us get, I am certain, because she knew we’d be frights in
them; but what about her crimson frock and that new dark-blue velvet
which she insisted on getting in the middle of the term, trimmed with
real lace too? And then, there’s that new pale primrose evening frock
and two white India muslin frocks. She got those things quite lately, in
order to be properly dressed at the Wyndhams’. Those items will swamp
the bill. What is to be done?”
“I wonder,” said Grace, after a long pause, “if it would be any use
confiding in mother? Mother would not like to see us ruined just for the
sake of a few frocks.”
“I know that,” replied Anne; “but you know quite well, Gracie, that you
and I would not be exactly ruined in the matter. We’d have a bad time,
no doubt; but, still, nothing could part us from our father and mother
and our home. No, it’s Kitty Merrydew I’m thinking about. For some
extraordinary reason father has turned against Kitty, whom he used to be
so fond of, and if he discovered that she had been buying frocks at our
expense, why, he’d just go and see Mrs. Fleming and get her expelled
from the school, or he’d take us away. Somehow or other I really think
that poor Kitty is getting into hot water all round, and I’ve no doubt
whatever if this awful thing were known that Kitty would go. That would
ruin Kitty—ruin her for ever. Grace, we must not let it happen; at any
risk we must prevent it. I don’t pretend that I love her as I did; but
she used to be a great, great friend, and we must not let this happen.
What is to be done?”
The girls pondered over this puzzle of puzzles, coming to no solution of
any sort, and in consequence lying awake for some time even after their
heads pressed their downy pillows. But perhaps the person who was even
more anxious than the girls themselves was honest Mr. Dodd. He paced up
and down his luxuriously furnished drawing-room, his hands thrust into
his trouser-pockets, a frown between his brows. “Mary Anne,” he said to
his wife, “I’m in a bit of a fluster.”
“And what’s that, John, my man?”
“Well, it’s about the girls.”
“I’m sure, John, I don’t know why you should be in a fluster about them;
they look remarkably well.”
“It isn’t their looks; it’s nothing to do with their looks. I think
Grace will be a very handsome woman, very like what you were, Mary Anne,
in the days when I was courting you.”
“Handsome or not,” said Mrs. Dodd, “the great thing for Grace is to be
good.”
“Oh, of course, my dear; do you think I’d own a girl who wasn’t
straight? Of course, they’re both straight, straight enough; but I tell
you what it is, Mary Anne. I don’t know how long they’ll stay straight
if that Imp remains at the school; that’s what’s fretting me—it’s
fretting me more than enough. Positively, I assure you, it’s taking my
rest from me. I’m convinced, I’m positive, that that girl has a bad
influence on my girls.”
“I wish, John, you’d tell me why you turned against Kitty. How well I
remember when she came last summer you were so taken up with her; it
was, ‘Kitty this,’ ‘Kitty that.’ Don’t you remember going to town one
day and bringing her back a lovely gold hunter watch and a massive gold
chain; and I said that, seeing she wasn’t rich, the present was a bit
too handsome for her, but you wouldn’t listen to a word. Then what on
earth can have changed you, John?”
“I have my reasons—I have my reasons,” was the response.
“And you’re not going to tell the old wifie?”
The ex-merchant went over and patted “old wifie” very fondly on the
shoulder. “No, my duckydums,” he said, “no, I’m not going to tell
anybody. There, let’s forget it. Of course, I can’t send the girl from
the school.”
“Send Kitty Merrydew from Mrs. Fleming’s school! Why, my dear John,
you’re mad! I assure you it was extremely difficult to get our girls
into a school of that sort, and if we begin to interfere with Mrs.
Fleming as regards her pupils, I tell you what it is, John, the sooner
our girls are dismissed from the school the better pleased she’ll be.”
“You don’t think so really and truly?”
“Yes, and, what’s more, I am certain of it.”
“Oh well, that clinches the matter. I am as proud as Punch to have them
at the school, and, what’s more, I’m thinking that after they leave
they’d better go straight to Girton. I’m told it gives a girl a fine
polish to send her to Girton. You see, in our case money is of no
consequence, but we want to polish up—to polish up what’s rough, to rub
away the rust, just to make the girls into fine ladies; that’s what we
want.”
“To make the girls into good women,” said Mrs. Dodd.
Dodd stared for a minute at his wife. “I declare,” he exclaimed, “I
declare, Mary Anne, how different you make things look! It’s quite
wonderful how neatly _you_ settle things. Yes, that’s it, and I’m a
silly old man, thinking of turning my girls into fine ladies! If they’re
women like you, Mary Anne, they’ll be blessings to their husbands some
day, and to their children. Oh dear, what a silly old man I am, to be
sure!”
“You’re not a silly old man, John, and I won’t allow you to say it. And
now, if you’re not tired, I am. I’m going to bed.”
The girls thought and thought over what was to be done. Any minute Miss
Weston’s bill might arrive, and any minute, as Anne remarked, “the fat
might be in the fire.” The only thing possible to do was, after all, to
consult with Kitty. Anne spoke to Grace on the subject.
“Gracie, there’s no way out of it.”
“Out of what?” asked Grace. “Has it come?”
“No, it hasn’t come this morning, and I have got mother to promise that
she won’t open it until we are present, and do you know what I mean to
do?”
“What—what is that, Anne?”
“I’m going to send a telegram to-day to Miss Weston, to ask her not to
enclose the bill for a few days.”
“I never thought of that,” said Grace. “Still, I can’t make out what
good it will do.”
“It will do this,” said Anne, “it will give us time.”
“But it must come in the end, and if she delays too long daddy will
begin to champ. You know one of his fads is to have every debt he owes
in the world finished off and paid up before the last day of the year.”
“I know that, and, of course, it will only give us two or three days;
but, still, Christmas hasn’t come yet, and there’s time sufficient,
anyhow. The next thing I am going to do is this: I’m going over to
Preston Manor to-day. I’m going to ask dad to lend us the motor-car; I’m
going to drive over. Jessie and Molly have both invited us, and,
although it is a little soon, I am going, under the circumstances, to
take advantage of it.”
“Well, all right, Anne; but, do you know, I don’t think I’ll go.”
“You won’t go?”
“No. I’ll stay with mother and daddy; they’d be so disappointed if both
of us went away this first day of the holidays.”
“Perhaps you are right,” said Anne. “Well, anyhow, I must go over; I
must see Kitty.”
Accordingly Anne’s plan was carried out. It was announced by both girls
at breakfast. Mr. Dodd opened his eyes; for a minute he was inclined to
storm.
Then his wife said, “But I say, my dear, it is a very great honour to be
invited to Preston Manor; that’s what I call a real lift for our girls.
They have never been at Preston Manor before.”
“No more they have, no more they have. Well, if you take it like that,
Mary Anne.”
“Of course, I take it like that. But, Anne, child, wouldn’t it be better
for you to wait until a proper invitation comes from Mrs. Wyndham?”
“Oh no, mother,” replied Anne, “because, you see, Jessie and Molly are
at perfect liberty to invite any one they like, and they begged and
implored of me—of us both—to come and see them immediately. The fact is,
we are concocting some little amusement for the Christmas holidays, and
we must talk it over, and the sooner the better.”
Grace looked with some wonder at her sister, who was inventing very
nearly as cleverly as Kitty herself. But now the result of Anne’s
cleverness was that an hour after breakfast she was whirling away in the
beautiful motor-car in the direction of Preston Manor. First of all,
however, she stopped at the post-office. There she sent a long,
explanatory telegram to Miss Weston. The telegram ran as follows:
“Don’t send detailed account until you hear from me again, on any
account whatever. Don’t take any notice of this telegram, but wait
until you hear.
“ANNE DODD.”
The telegram had been sent off; it was clicking away, indeed, on the
little machine when Anne came flop up against her father, who was
entering the post-office.
“Whither away, girlie?” he said, when he saw Anne.
“Oh, I was sending a message, daddy, to a friend.”
“Well, child, you needn’t get so red about it. I’m sure I’m the last to
pry into your confidences. But don’t stay out too long, girlie, because
I want you back again. Now let me put you in the car.”
He tucked her in, looking at her with pride. Really, she would be
good-looking; she would be quite handsome with that colour in her face.
But how very red she had got! Dear, dear, were his girls going to be
afraid of him? That would be very unpleasant, the very last thing he
would wish; he wanted them to adore him. Didn’t he think of them
morning, noon, and night? Weren’t all his thoughts brimful of them, and
yet his girl Anne had got scarlet, just as though she were afraid of
him. It was too absurd; but, of course, she could not have been really
afraid.
“It’s a very handsome motor,” he said, as he watched it out of sight. “I
only wish I were going to Preston Manor—but there! of course, the girls
will go where their old dad and the dear old mums can’t go. It’s the way
of the world—the way of the world! I’m very pleased—very pleased with
them on the whole, very, very pleased, and I thank the Almighty God for
His great blessings. I’ve got a nice pair of girls. I’d have liked a
boy, too, but it wasn’t the will of Providence to give me one, and girls
get into less mischief—that’s what she says, dear old wife! Oh dear, oh
dear, if they’re as handsome as she is, I’ll be satisfied, and I’ve
every reason to imagine that they will be.”
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE GIRLS AT PRESTON MANOR.
The Wyndhams were out in the grounds when Anne Dodd’s handsome motor-car
was seen whirling down the avenue.
Molly uttered an exclamation. “Dear me, who can be coming now?” she
thought.
Jessie, however, who was far sharper than her sister, saw the colour of
the car, and said, in a disgusted voice, “Why, if that isn’t the Dodds’
car! Well, really, I never knew anything so cheeky! They have certainly
not lost time.”
“Did you invite them to come, Jess?” asked Molly.
“Oh, in a kind of general way,” replied Jessie. “I simply said that I
knew mother would be glad to see them at Preston Manor during the
holidays.”
“But what can you expect from those sort of people?” here interrupted
Kitty, who, in her handsome crimson frock and smart little squirrel-cap
and jacket, all of which she owed to the Dodds, was standing by. “Those
kind of people haven’t the slightest idea how to behave themselves. Give
them an inch and they take an ell.”
[Illustration: “GLORY BE!” ANSWERED PEGGY; “YOU ASK KITTY IF SHE’D LIKE
ME TO FINISH THAT SENTENCE.”—_Page 243._]
“Well, I suppose you are glad that one of the Dodds is coming,” said
Peggy, who was also walking up and down before the drawing-room windows,
and wondering eagerly when she could escape to the poultry-yard. “They
are your friends, you know,” she added, “however low down you may
consider them. Oh, wurra, then,” she continued, “and I like them, too;
that Grace isn’t half bad, although——” She stopped and fixed her bright
eyes on Kitty.
Kitty turned first red and then white. Oh how she hated Peggy Desmond!
“What were you going to say, Peggy?” asked Jessie, who saw that Kitty
was annoyed; “you ought to finish your sentences, you know.”
“Glory be!” answered Peggy; “you ask Kitty if she’d like me to finish
_that_ sentence, bedad.”
“Don’t bother about her,” was Kitty’s indignant remark. She put a hand
through Jessie’s and dragged her along. “Oh,” she said, “I know it’s
wicked of me, but I almost hate your cousin.”
“And I tell you she’s not my cousin, Kitty.”
But Kitty was sharp enough; she was not going to be under the thumb of
any one. She had got her _entrée_ into Preston Manor, and now she meant
to make the best of it. Hitherto she had been very subservient to Jessie
Wyndham; but now she might as well get the girl a little bit under her
power. Only a trifle, of course, but still it must be done.
“All I can say is this,” Kitty remarked now, “that whether Peggy is your
cousin or not matters very little—less than nothing, in fact—when she’s
so fussed over by your father. Did you see the welcome he gave her last
night? Why, he took her in his arms and kissed her over and over, and
inquired how she was—oh in such a loving voice! And then he—after
dinner, you know—he took Peggy away with him into his smoking-room, and
I heard them chattering like a pair of magpies and laughing like
anything.”
“But how could you hear if you weren’t in the room?” said Jessie.
Kitty coloured faintly. “I hope I didn’t do wrong,” she said; “but I
couldn’t sleep. I suppose I was too excited at coming to this heavenly
place, so I thought I’d go down to the library and find a book, in order
to read it to put me asleep, and the door of the smoking-room was a
little open; that’s how I heard them laughing. They were talking about
me, too, for I heard the word Kitty quite distinctly; but I’m far too
honourable to listen, of course.”
“Good gracious!” exclaimed Jessie, “_of course_, you’re too honourable
to eavesdrop, Kitty; do you think if you did such a thing you’d be
allowed to come here? But it was very funny about the smoking-room door
being open, for daddy always shuts it, as mother can’t bear the smell of
smoke.”
“Well, it was open,” said Kitty; “you don’t suppose I opened it?”
“Of course I don’t, Kitty.”
“Well, then, I think you needn’t speak to me in that tone; it isn’t very
pleasant for me; and if you have any suspicions I’d better go to poor
auntie; she’s breaking her heart about me; she _was_ so looking forward
to having me with her for Christmas.”
“Kitty, I don’t suspect you of anything. Of course the door was open,
because you say so; but you really have a funny way of contradicting
yourself, doubtless without meaning it, for when mother sent you an
invitation to spend Christmas here, and I said that I was afraid your
aunt would be disappointed, you said that, on the contrary, it would be
the greatest possible godsend and relief to her, as she was going to
visit some titled friends in the north who had forgotten to give you an
invitation. You ought to remember these things, Kitty, for in this house
we _always_ say what we mean. Father and mother wouldn’t allow anything
else.”
“Then, however do you get on with the Irish girl?”
“Get on with her!” cried Jessie. “We don’t get on with her, at least I
don’t; but if she has a fault it is that she is too straight. She’s the
opposite to you in every way, Kitty.”
Just then one of the footmen appeared. “If you please, miss,” he said to
Jessie, “Miss Dodd has called from Hillside, and she hopes it isn’t too
early, but she particularly wants to see Miss Merrydew for a few
minutes.”
“Oh, then, she didn’t call on us,” said Jessie. “We’ll see her, of
course, in a minute or two; but you had better have a chat with her
first, Kit. I suppose it’s one of your innumerable secrets that you and
she are always confabbing over.”
“I’ve shown Miss Dodd into the blue drawing-room,” said the servant.
Kitty, feeling extremely cross, shook out her crimson skirts, tossed
back her mane of black hair, and walked in the direction of the blue
drawing-room. It was a large room facing north, a beautiful room in
summer, because it opened onto a great expanse of flower-garden; but
dreary at this time of year, notwithstanding the fact that it was heated
with hot pipes.
Anne was standing, feeling very restless and nervous, by one of the
windows. She knew she ought to have asked for one of the Wyndhams as
well as Kitty, but in her agitation had forgotten this until it was too
late. She glanced apprehensively round the room; she was accustomed to
wealth and show, and this room bore traces of wealth; but there was no
attempt at show; it was essentially quiet, restful, and refined. The
paper on the walls was of a delicate shade of blue, the paint one or two
shades darker. There was one lovely landscape over the mantelpiece, and
no other picture in the room; but that landscape was a gem, done by one
of our greatest landscape painters, and was worth thousands of pounds.
Anne knew nothing about art, but the whole effect of the room depressed
her. She knew she could never live up to such a room.
Just then the door was opened and Kitty flashed in; wearing the finery
which Anne had bought for her, she looked at once radiant and very
cross. “Now, what have you come about? Don’t you know you oughtn’t to do
it?”
“Oughtn’t to do what?” asked Anne.
“To come here like this the first morning of the holidays, although you
were asked in a kind of way.”
“Oh, don’t scold me, Kitty; I’ve come about you, to save you. After all,
it doesn’t matter so vitally to Grace and me. At the worst we’ll only
get a bad scolding; but you—it will ruin you, Kitty, and it must be
stopped.”
“What _are_ you talking about, Anne? Oh dear!”
But just then the door was opened, and Molly, looking very pretty and
sweet, entered.
“Mother sends her compliments to you, Anne, and hopes now that you have
come that you’ll stay to lunch. Mother is sorry she is not down to
receive you; but she seldom comes down until lunch-time. Would you like
to come round and see the greenhouses? We have some lovely orchids in
bloom.”
“Yes, of course, you’d like that,” said Kitty. She was really now on
thorns to be alone with Anne, but knew better than to show her fear. The
three girls went from one orchid-house to another, and by-and-by the
great luncheon-bell rang, and Anne was taken upstairs by Molly in order
to wash her hands and brush her hair. Molly acted the part of a very
charming little hostess, and Kitty could not get a word alone with Anne.
She was inclined to tear her hair, her brain was in a perfect whirl.
Molly and Jessie were under the impression that they were doing their
guest a great kindness by ridding her of Anne’s society, and Anne
herself was dimly wondering how she could accomplish the object of her
visit. Kitty, however, was not The Imp for nothing. Imps can squeeze
their way into round and square holes alike.
As lunch was drawing to an end, Kitty looked up suddenly. “Oh Molly,”
she said, “I’ve got such a good idea!”
“What is that?” asked Molly.
“Well, you know the charades that we are to act on Christmas Eve in the
hall for the benefit of the servants. I can drive into Downton with Anne
when she’s going back, and choose some bright-coloured cheap sort of
stuffs to make up for our costumes. If you will trust me with a pound or
so I can make the money go a long way, and we ought to begin to-night,
if we are to have anything effective.”
“But how are you to get back from Downton?” inquired Molly, “for I’m
ever so sorry, but all our carriages will be out this afternoon. Mother
has to pay calls, and she wants us both to go with her, and the
motor-car and the omnibus are going to the train to meet our cousins,
the Franklins and the Arbuthnots.”
Kitty did not know anything about these arrivals.
Anne now came to her aid. “I can have the use of the car for the greater
part of the day,” she said, “so I can drive you back from Downton to the
lodge-gates, after you have made your purchases, Kitty.”
“How kind of you, Miss Dodd!” said Mrs. Wyndham, in her stately tones.
“Yes, that would be a real help. I am very much obliged.” She spoke
cordially to the girl, who, plain as she was, rather took her fancy.
Thus it came to pass that Kitty and Anne found themselves alone.
“Kitty, you are clever!” exclaimed Anne, as the smooth-rolling car took
them quickly over the king’s highway. “I was puzzling my brains to know
how I could possibly manage to be alone with you; of course, I came over
for no other purpose. Even I know that it was a little forward, a little
pushing of me to call at the Wyndhams’ to-day; but there was no help for
it. I had to see you, and alone. Oh Kitty, you are clever! I believe if
any one in the world can get us all out of this scrape, you are the
girl.”
Kitty gave a profound sigh. “Sometimes,” she said—a queer, unexpected
look of pathos visiting her handsome little face—“sometimes,” she
continued, “I almost wish I were not so clever. I tell you what it is,
Anne, it’s an awful mistake for a poor girl, a poor girl like me, to be
in a school with rich girls like most of the rest of you.”
“Oh but a lot of us aren’t rich,” interrupted Anne. “Priscilla, I know,
isn’t, and I don’t think Rufa is, and Hannah is poor, and so—so is
Sophy.”
“Don’t talk to me about either Hannah or Sophy; they’re a pair of cads,
both of them.”
“I don’t think so,” faltered Anne; “I think, on the contrary, they’re
very courageous.”
“Courageous!” echoed Kitty. “I wonder if you will believe in their
courage when you feel yourself in that scrape which sooner or later must
happen? But, as I said, I am often sorry that I am clever; I should not
have done half the things I have done but for my cleverness. Mother
wasn’t a bit like that. I don’t remember her very well, but I have a few
of the letters which she left, not to me but to father. Perhaps I take
after father; I never saw him, you know, but I do know one thing, and
that is that Auntie Gloriana is very like me, only not a quarter as
sharp and smart and knowing. Oh dear; oh dear! When a girl is handsome,
as I know I am, and is put in a school with a whole lot of rich
girls—for most of you are rather rich, whatever you may like to say to
the contrary—she is in a nest of temptation, nothing less. And then,
when I see, as I do see, how easily I can get the upper hand of you all,
why, I just _get_ the upper hand, and there I am. But now, my dear Anne,
what is the mystery? It must be pretty bad or you wouldn’t have come
tootling along here this morning.”
“It is pretty bad. You know Miss Weston?”
“The dressmaker? Rather. That reminds me that I really think, after a
time, we ought to go to a more stylish person. I was looking last night
at Mrs. Wyndham’s dress, and though, of course, what suits an elderly
lady is not suitable for a schoolgirl; nevertheless there is a cut about
them that Miss Weston, with all her trying, could never aspire to. Yes,
I really do think we ought to go to a better class of dressmaker
by-and-by.”
“Kitty!” said Anne, “Kitty!”
“Oh my dear Anne, what a doleful note! Well, here’s Kitty, Kitty.”
“Don’t laugh at me, Kitty, for goodness’ sake! Do you really suppose
that Grace and I are always to dress you, to provide you with your smart
things?”
“I don’t know what you feel about it,” was Kitty’s rejoinder; “but for
the present I look upon you both as the people who clothe me. It’s very
funny, isn’t it?” Kitty gave a merry laugh. “And very nice too,” she
added; “and your father is doing a lot of good without knowing it.
What’s that verse in the Bible which says, ‘Let not your right hand know
what your left hand doeth.’ Well, that’s what your father is doing for
me.”
“Oh Kitty, I wish you wouldn’t talk like that! Do you know, it’s
dreadful!”
“Is it dreadful, poor little Anne, poor little Anne?” Kitty stroked
Anne’s arm as she spoke; but Anne pulled it away with almost violence.
“No,” she said, “I can’t stand it—I can’t, Kitty. I have something
dreadful to say to you, and I must say it. Do you know that father is
awfully angry about our account being so large at Miss Weston’s? Now you
know perfectly well that the account wouldn’t be large at all but for
you, Kitty. It’s that frock you’re wearing now, and the blue velvet with
the real lace—oh surely you might have done with imitation lace!—and
that primrose evening dress, and those two white muslins, besides lots
of odds and ends—those black silk stockings, for instance, and those
nice little shoes. Oh dear! oh dear! and that hat you have on your head
now, with that great big ostrich feather in it! It’s those things which
have run up the bill.”
“Very likely, my dear—very likely, but what of that?”
“Only this, Kitty, that father intends to see the items; he intends to
see: ‘One crimson cashmere dress, to Miss Katherine Merrydew; one blue
velvet dress with real lace, to Miss Katherine Merrydew,’ &c. And when
he sees those items, do you know what will happen?”
Kitty was very pale now, and very silent. She did not speak at all for a
minute.
Anne looked at her. “The letter with the items will arrive any day now,”
she continued. “What are we to say about Miss Katherine Merrydew?”
“I suppose you are too timid to tell your father that you made poor
little Kitty Merrydew a couple of trifling presents?”
“A couple of trifling presents, Kitty! Why, they have cost pounds and
pounds. That red dress that you are wearing came to over five pounds,
and the blue velvet to more than eight, and the—— Oh I can’t count them
all; but I know that the very few dresses we got last term came to
hardly anything, for we stinted ourselves in order to clothe you.”
“And didn’t I tell you, Anne—didn’t I tell both you and Grace—that you
were to be sure to make Miss Weston put ‘To account rendered.’ That
would make it so easy. What was the difficulty? Why didn’t you do it?”
“We did do it, Kitty—we did; but father saw the total, and he
immediately desired mother to write to Miss Weston and get the items
from her, and mother has written. And oh, oh, oh Kitty! what is to be
done?”
Kitty sat very quiet.
“I know quite well what will happen,” pursued Anne. “It will be dreadful
for us; but it will be ten times worse for you, poor Kitty, because, for
some extraordinary reason, father has taken a great dislike to you. What
did you do to turn him against you, Kitty? Why, this time last year he’d
have given you those frocks and not said a word, and he’d have given you
a lot more, and he’d have invited you to spend all the holidays with us.
What have you done to turn him?”
“Never mind,” said Kitty.
“You know what you have done?”
“I guess it.”
“Kitty, won’t you tell me?”
“No, no; you had much better not know. He has never told you, has he?”
“No, he hasn’t, and he hasn’t told mother either. We both asked mother
last night, and she says she hasn’t the least idea, not the slightest.
We can’t make out what it is; we can’t make out what is the matter.”
Kitty breathed a short, sharp sigh of relief.
“And,” continued Anne; “oh dear! we’re nearly in the town now, and we
haven’t done anything at all yet. I tell you what I have done, Kitty, I
tell you what I have done, dear. I am sorry for you; I am sorry from the
very bottom of my heart, and this morning I sent a telegram to Miss
Weston telling her on no account to forward the items until she heard
from me again.”
“Did you really do that for me, Anne? Well, you are a brick!” Kitty bent
forward and suddenly kissed her companion. “I have despised you
sometimes, Anne; but you are a brick,” she repeated. “That was a very,
very good thing to do—I—that helps me; yes, that helps me.”
“Well, I wish you’d tell me how it will help you, for, of course, if
Miss Weston doesn’t send the bill in at once father will write a stormy
letter himself. You know one of his fads is every last day of the year
to look round at us all and say, ‘Here I am, and I don’t owe a farthing
to any one in the wide world.’ He prides himself on that; he’d no more
allow Miss Weston’s bill to remain unpaid before the New Year than he’d
fly. It will be Christmas Day in three days from now, and you know how
quickly New Year will come round. We have no time to lose, and father is
harping and harping on the matter. He spoke to us both about it before
we were five minutes in the house. Oh Kitty, what is to be done?”
“Suppose nothing is done, what will happen?” said Kitty.
“Well, I tell you what will happen. Father will go straight to see Mrs.
Fleming.”
“But isn’t Mrs. Fleming away?”
“You know she’s not; she’s staying at The Red Gables the whole of these
holidays to watch the building of the new wing. Father will go and see
her, and he will tell about you, and you will be expelled. Oh Kitty,
Kitty, it is true! There’s a feeling against you in the school. I can’t
really make out why, but there is; and, Kitty, I don’t believe Mrs.
Fleming would be very sorry to expel you.”
“I dare say not,” said Kitty. Her hand trembled a little. After a minute
she said, “Can we go to the post-office when we get to Downton?”
“Why, of course.”
“I want to write to Miss Weston, and I want to post the letter, and when
the reply comes, will you and Grace promise me one thing?”
“What is that?”
“To make no remark of any sort. You will see when the account comes in
what I have done, and you’re not to make any comment. It is the only
thing to be done; if you do anything else I’ll tell about the black silk
stockings. You know what I mean.”
“Oh, you couldn’t—you couldn’t!” said Anne, turning crimson.
“My dear, when I am desperate I can and will. A person who is drowning
catches at straws, and if I am expelled from The Red Gables it is much
the same as if I were drowned. There will be no mercy in me towards you
unless you show mercy to me now.”
“Kitty, you can’t accuse us of not showing mercy. I’m sure all our days
we were doing everything for you.”
“Well, all you have to do now is to be silent when Miss Weston’s account
comes in.”
“Oh dear, I wish you’d tell me what you are doing about it.”
“No, no; I should not think of doing such a thing. However, I shall
require from you and from Grace twenty pounds when we return to The Red
Gables. Can you manage to get that for me?”
“I don’t know. I feel afraid to promise anything.”
“You can easily do it. You have but to sell one of your jewels. I can
manage that for you.”
“Oh I don’t think we need sell our jewels. I will see what I can do.
Well, I do feel pretty miserable!”
“It will be all right. You will be blamed a little, but the worst will
be avoided. Now then, shall we drive to the post-office?”
The girls did so. There Kitty spent some time writing a letter to Miss
Weston.
This letter was received by the dressmaker on the following morning. She
read it in great amazement, she pondered over it for some time, she said
to herself, “No, no, no, I won’t do that; no, I won’t do that.” Then she
went out and took a walk. She came in after a long walk, still murmuring
to herself, “No, I won’t do it.”
As the day wore on, she began to feel a certain weakening of her
resolution, and she murmured once, “Poor child; after all, it would be a
frightful thing for her, and she’s very pretty; and, after all, twenty
pounds would be a great help to me. People think that dressmakers make
no end of money; but if they knew the expenses they have, and what a
long, long time they’re left out of their money, they’d say differently.
Anyhow, it would be an awful thing to lose Mr. Dodd’s custom, and he
does pay so sharp to the very day; although people say that he was a
poor man, as I am a poor woman, yet he does pay up, I will say that.”
CHAPTER XIX.
“I’LL GIVE HER A CHANCE.”
There is an old saying that when a person begins to hesitate that person
is lost. Certainly such was the case with Miss Weston—Miss Clarissa
Weston, of the High Street, Gable End, called thus, doubtless, on
account of its proximity to The Red Gables. The town was pretty and
bright, and very nice people lived in the neighbourhood; and in
consequence Clarissa Weston had quite a nice little business. She and a
certain Miss King vied with each other in supplying the young ladies at
The Red Gables with their dresses. Miss King was a much cheaper
dressmaker than Miss Weston; and, in consequence, it was to her that
several of the girls went for their odds and ends of clothing. The
Wyndhams were supplied entirely from home; but Alison Maude employed
Miss Weston, and so did Bridget O’Donnell; whereas Priscilla, Rufa, and
Hannah got what small things they required at Miss King’s. But of all
the young ladies who bought smart frocks at Gable End there were none to
compare with the Misses Dodd—the Misses Dodd and Miss Kitty Merrydew.
Whatever the school suspected, none of them knew that Kitty’s smart
clothes were put down to the Dodds’ account. Kitty showed off her finery
to such great advantage—whereas the Dodds, however expensively they were
clothed, did not show it off at all—that Miss Weston would almost have
dressed her for nothing. Had she not—by means of Kitty’s charming
appearance in church, in her crimson frock and squirrel-fur jacket and
cap—obtained the custom of two ladies of title who lived not far from
Gable End; and did not the blue velvet, with its shady hat and long,
long ostrich feather secure for Miss Weston the custom of another large
family who lived about a mile away from Gable End at the other side?
They were _nouveaux riches_, just the people Miss Weston delighted in;
and when they saw Kitty at a bazaar in her blue costume they managed to
find out who had dressed her, and went straight to Miss Weston to order
four velvet frocks and four velvet hats for their own commonplace girls,
to be made up exactly like Miss Kitty Merrydew’s. Yes, yes, Clarissa
could not lose Miss Merrydew.
A couple of days later Miss Weston’s bill arrived at Hillside. Anne
recognised the writing, and felt that her very heart stood still. They
were all collected round the breakfast-table; the snow lay white and
pure on the ground outside; to-morrow would be Christmas Day. The girls
were going immediately after breakfast to motor down to the village
church in order to help to decorate, but Anne could scarcely break her
toast or crack her new-laid egg. Mrs. Dodd took the head of the table,
and began to pour out tea and coffee; Dodd was in what he called his
“rollicking humour,” fit to shout with laughter and to joke with and at
everybody.
“Now, papa, here comes your precious letter,” said his wife.
“My precious letter? Why, what do you mean, duckydums?”
“Oh the one you’re hankering after, the full and detailed account of our
girlies’ little bits of finery.”
“Oh that!” cried Mr. Dodd. “Remind me, Mary Anne, to send the dressmaker
a cheque to-day; I hate to keep poor people waiting for their money, and
it Christmas-time and all.”
“Well, then, John, you may as well take the letter at once,” said Mrs.
Dodd. “It’s your account, after all, not mine.—Pass that letter along to
your father, Anne, my darling. Anne, child, how cold your hand is!
Aren’t you well?”
“It’s a very cold day, mums, but I’m quite well.”
Dodd looked up at Anne; his small, brown eyes fixed themselves on her
face. He did not know why the memory returned to him at that moment, but
he seemed to see again a girl with a scarlet face rushing out of the
post-office. There was nothing whatever to connect that face and this
letter; nevertheless he got, as he expressed it, “an attack of the
fidgets.” He tore open the envelope and spread the sheet of items before
him. The girls pretended to take no notice, and Grace, in particular,
kept her mother talking on all kinds of matters. Suddenly Dodd, who had
thrust out his lower lip and arranged his glasses over his eyes, looked
up with a frown.
“I say, Mary Anne, how much used you to pay in the old days for a bit of
a muslin rag?”
“A bit of a muslin rag, my dear? I don’t understand.”
“Well, a gown, my dear—a frock—whatever you like to call it.”
“Oh I don’t know,” said Mrs. Dodd; “it would depend, of course, on how
it was made and how trimmed, and, of course, prices are very much higher
now. Yes, I remember getting a very pretty muslin frock for three
guineas, and you thought it a lot of money, old man, at the time, didn’t
you?”
“Did I? Did I ever stint you in your clothes? But three guineas _versus_
twelve guineas! Come, fashion or no fashion, that’s a pretty big jump.”
“Oh come, my dears,” said the mother, looking at the two girls, “Miss
Weston cannot have charged twelve guineas apiece for those plain muslin
frocks. It’s quite impossible, darlings!”
“Look for yourself, my dear, look for yourself. Seeing is believing,”
and the angry Dodd flung the bill across the table. “There’s some green
finery, which I haven’t seen yet, put down at thirteen guineas each. It
makes me sick. And one dozen black silk stockings for each of you at
fifteen shillings a pair!”
“We didn’t ask the price, daddy. I’m ever so sorry,” said Grace, in a
tremulous voice.
“Then all I can tell you is this, Grace, you’re a fool, and don’t
deserve a hard-working man as your father. Why, look at these items! I
never saw anything like it. Robbery, sheer robbery! I don’t work to pay
thieves. I must have this thing seen into.”
Anne suddenly burst out crying.
“There now, what’s the matter with you, girl? Mayn’t your father say a
word when he’s robbed right and left?”
“It isn’t that, daddy; it isn’t that; it’s that I’m so—so dreadfully
sorry.”
“There, now, poor little thing, we mustn’t make her unhappy on Christmas
Eve, father. No bill is worth that.”
“You’re right, wife, of course, you’re right, but really _such_ a
thumping bill is enough to put any one into a fury. Well, now, you
listen, girls. You’re a pair of young fools, and I’m very cross with
you, but I’m not going to scold any more. What’s done is done, and spilt
milk can’t get back into the jug. I’ll pay that thief’s confounded bill,
but it will be the last thing I’ll ever get from her, and it will be the
last thing you’ll ever get from her. You’d better tell her so, missis,
when you’re writing. There; wait a minute till I get my cheque-book. I
must have this off my mind, or I’ll be as cranky as a bear with a sore
head during the whole of Christmas.” Dodd left the room.
Mrs. Dodd was looking over the enormous bill. “Really, girls,” she said,
“it is scandalous, and you’ve got hardly anything to show for that
money. Those muslin frocks are just pretty, no more; they haven’t a
scrap of real lace on them. Of course one might pay any price for real
lace, and I’ve a passion for it myself, but there isn’t a yard on those
dresses, and I don’t like the green—_crêpe de chine_, you call it. It’s
a very poor quality; expensive _crêpe de chine_ is lovely stuff. Oh, and
there are your little fur jackets; I don’t much care for them either. I
think your father has a right to be angry, and as to those silk
stockings, a dozen pairs each! Have you got as many black silk
stockings, girls? I’d better speak to Dawson.”
“Oh don’t, mums, don’t!” whispered Grace; “we gave some of them away;
only don’t tell daddy.”
Dodd re-entered at this moment with his cheque, which he tossed to his
wife.
“How, Mary Anne,” he said, “get rid of that woman; that’s the very last
straw of my money that _she’ll_ see. ’Pon my word! ’pon my word!”
When the girls, an hour later, arrived at the parish church, they found
the entire party from Preston Manor had also arrived. They made a gay
and lively set of young people. Quantities of holly and ivy and white
cotton-wool lay on the floor of the church, and the rector’s daughter, a
tall, handsome girl of nineteen, took the lead, measuring out the work
that each person was to do, and smiling in her pleasant, good-humoured
way at the clumsy attempts of the beginners. She and her father—who was
a widower and she was his only child—wanted the church to look specially
beautiful this year, and Mr. Dodd had sent them a substantial cheque for
the purpose, as well as a most liberal allowance of coal-tickets,
grocery-tickets, blankets, pounds of tea and packets of groceries, and
plum-puddings and joints of beef for the poor. Certainly Mr. Dodd was a
godsend to the parish; never before had the Ladislaws known such
liberality; and, in consequence, never before had the poor people been
so happy. When the two Dodds arrived, Margaret Ladislaw went down the
length of the aisle to greet them.
“I am pleased to see you,” she said, “and I think you will find some
friends here. I don’t know how to thank your good father and mother for
their generosity; they have just helped me in the very way I like best
to be helped. There’s many and many a poor person who will eat a good
Christmas dinner to-morrow who would go to bed hungry but for the
liberality of your parents. Now, what would you like best to do, Miss
Dodd? I don’t know which of you is Miss Dodd,” she continued, with a
smile.
“I think you’d better call us by our Christian names at once,” said
Grace, “for we are twins, you know. I am Grace and this is Anne, and I
really don’t know which of us is the elder; anyhow, it’s a question of a
minute or two.”
“I’d much rather call you Grace and Anne. You have a great look of each
other too, and, what is more to the purpose, a look of your dear mother.
What a sweet, kind face she has! it is a perfect comfort to talk about
the poor to her; she seems to understand them so.”
“She does,” said Anne suddenly. “We are not a bit ashamed of it, you
know, Miss Ladislaw; but long, long ago father and mother were very poor
themselves. Father says that in those days he made a vow that if ever he
came in for money the first thing he’d do would be to help his poorer
brethren, and I’m sure he does.”
“He does; you are right!” said Miss Ladislaw; “it is grand of him. I
wish there were more people in the world who had his spirit; then the
poor would not suffer from neglect and want of thought as they do now.”
While the girls were talking, another girl was eagerly watching, eagerly
and impatiently watching. This girl was Kitty Merrydew. She had been
given some rather delicate work to do; she was to help to make a wreath
of holly on a white ground to go round the edge of the pulpit. Now holly
berries are fragile and require more or less delicate handling in order
to prevent their being knocked off. Kitty was an extremely stupid
worker. Peggy was standing not far from her.
“Oh you oughtn’t to do it like that,” said Peggy. “Let me show you.
That’s not a bit the way; ye hold it so, and—and——”
“Nonsense!” said Kitty, in an angry voice; “I don’t want you to show me;
you always pretend you know more than any of the rest of us.”
“I’m sure I don’t, Kitty; I couldn’t: but I used to help at home.”
“Oh! when you lived in that cabin.”
“When I lived at home.” Peggy’s little voice was very haughty, and she
threw back her lovely head and looked at Kitty out of her indignant
eyes. “I’m not ashamed of the cabin,” she said.—“Yes, Miss Ladislaw, do
ye want anything?”
“You are our little Irish friend, and you say you have done work of this
kind before; then there’s something _very_ important I want you to do.
Come with me and I will show you.”
Miss Ladislaw took Peggy’s hand and led her away.
“I’m glad I am with you,” said the girl.
“And I am glad to have you, Peggy; I have heard so much of you, dear.”
“I’m better than I was,” said Peggy “I don’t spake—speak, I mean—with
the same colour that I did.”
“Colour, love?”
“No, ma’am; they don’t want colour in this cowld—cold—land. It seems
strange to me like, but there, I suppose where you’re born that’s the
way you like to go. It was a cruel twisht—twist—to me when I was brought
over here; perhaps you can understand it, Miss Ladislaw?”
“I think I can, and I think that you—you look much happier than you were
when I first saw you.”
“Ah, then, I am. That’s because of Mrs. Fleming; she’s the most
beautiful lady entirely; never did ye clap eyes on her like, true and
sweet and good she be, and for her sake I’m dropping the colour and all
the quare—queer—ways that I have brought over along with me. But even
for her I can’t be staying here for ever. When I’m growed up I’m going
back again; yes, back again to Pat and Biddy O’Flynn. Ah, then, if ye
could but see their cabin—cabin, indeed, they call it here!—but it is
downright beautiful. Of a cold night we’d have the little hins in to
sleep along with us—it kept them warm, poor things; and in the morning
the first thing when I got up——But there, I’m chattering, to be sure,
and you want the work. What is it you want me to do for you, miss, dear?
I’ll do my best; you may be certain of that.”
Miss Ladislaw gave the girl some very important work to do, and Peggy’s
deft little fingers were soon busily and happily employed. Mr.
Ladislaw’s nephew, a handsome boy of about fifteen years of age,
presently came up and offered to help Peggy.
Peggy said, “Is it yerself has got thumbs instead of fingers?”
“Thumbs instead of fingers?”
“Yes; some people are all thumbs. Do ye see that little mite of a thing
in the red frock yonder? She’s mighty pretty, but she’s all thumbs when
it comes to work.”
“Well, I don’t think I am. Shall I sit down on this bench and help you
with this long wreath?”
“To be sure, and it’s kind ye be. Do ye know Old Ireland?”
“No; I have never been there.”
“Ah, then, what a cruel loss for ye! Ye don’t know what beauty is. If ye
was to shtretch and shtretch your eyes ye couldn’t see the beauty
anywhere else, and that’s the truth I’m telling ye!”
While Peggy thus absorbed the one boy of the party, to the secret
indignation of Kitty, who had wished to adopt him as her own squire of
dames, the said Kitty managed to reach the Dodds at last. They had been
given some work to do in the lower part of the church, and were standing
knee-deep in holly and ivy, which they were cutting into lengths and
preparing to make a great broad wreath to go round and round two pillars
that supported the lower part of the church. It was a lovely old church,
built long, long ago; one of the oldest churches in England. It had
lately been restored, but required more to be done to it, and it was
rumoured in the parish that Mr. Dodd intended to make the restoration of
the old parish church one of his special gifts to Almighty God for His
goodness to him. But this was not known to the public at present.
“Here I am,” said Kitty. “I can’t stay with either of you for a minute.
I just want to know if it has come.”
“Don’t talk quite so loudly,” said Grace.
“Well, I don’t see why I should whisper; no one could guess what it
means. Has it come?”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“I have nothing to say,” remarked Grace.
“You have nothing to say! You are not thankful to me for getting you out
of a scrape?”
“You have done a horrid thing, Kitty—a horrid, horrid thing!”
“A very clever thing, I think.” Kitty began to laugh; she laughed louder
than ever, and presently peals of mirth echoed through the church.
Miss Ladislaw walked quietly down. “Forgive me, girls,” she said, “but
you know where we are?”
Kitty looked at her out of her saucy eyes.
“We mustn’t forget,” continued Miss Ladislaw, “even while we are
working, that we are in God’s house.”
“Oh I beg your pardon,” said Kitty; she did not wish to offend Miss
Ladislaw. Anne and Grace evidently intended to be cross to her, but,
beyond doubt, they had got out of their scrape; why should she hear the
disagreeable particulars? She had her frocks, her silk stockings, her
handkerchiefs, all her endless and lovely finery, and Mr. Dodd had paid
for them. Oh it was beyond a joke! What a clever girl she was! What fun
it would be talking the thing over by-and-by with Miss Weston! She went
back again to join her own party.
By this time she was thoroughly at home at Preston Manor. On the whole
she liked Jessie, who was the person instrumental in bringing her there,
and had, of course, to do her very best to give Kitty a good time, and
Kitty knew exactly how much to flatter and how far to go. She saw that
it was essential that she should become very friendly with Mrs. Wyndham,
for Mrs. Wyndham really ruled the house. Accordingly, in the course of
the day, when her little fingers smarted a great deal, owing to the
rough work of putting holly and ivy together, when she discovered in
very truth that Peggy was right, and that her fingers were all thumbs,
she went up to Jessie. “Jess, I do hope you won’t mind.”
“What am I not to mind?” asked Jessie, who was exceedingly busy, and
just glanced up at Kitty and then resumed her work.
“Well, this. Your mother—I thought she would like me to go back and have
lunch with her; she’s not very well, and she told me last night that she
often felt so lonely. Don’t you think I might go back?”
“It’s two miles and more away; are you prepared to walk the distance?”
asked Jessie.
“But the Dodds’ motor-car is outside, and I could use that to go back to
Preston Manor.”
“Oh, by the way, I have a message from mother to the Dodds. I will go
and give it now, and then you can ask if they’ll lend you the motor.
But, really and truly, Kitty, if you like being here, mother, I am
_sure_, would not wish to take you from your fun.”
“Oh I think it is only right that children should think of their
elders,” said Kitty.
The two girls walked down the aisle. Jessie held out her hand to Anne
Dodd.
“How do you do?” she said. “Grace, how are you? Mother has sent a
message. She wants to know if you will both come up to our place
to-morrow to see the charades; I think they’ll be quite amusing. Would
your father mind—your father and mother I mean—mind your coming?”
“I don’t know; I will ask them,” said Anne.
“Can you let us have a message back by to-morrow morning?”
“Yes, we’ll send a messenger round,” said Anne. “I expect father and
mother will be pleased,” she added, “and if so we’ll come.”
“Anne, duckie,” said Kitty at that moment. Anne pretended not to hear.
“Now, I declare, I’ll have to talk to ye in Irish,” said Kitty, who
observed that Peggy was approaching; “to be sure now, _alannah_!—Peggy,
Peggy, how do they say it in Irish? I want to ask a great big favour.”
“Ye couldn’t say it in Irish if ye talked yerself blue,” said Peggy. She
turned her back on Kitty and went on talking to Ralph Ladislaw.
“Look at her; how she’s flirting with that handsome boy!” said Kitty.
“Well, I’m sure I don’t care; he must have a funny taste to like her.”
“I don’t agree with you,” said Anne; “she is remarkably handsome, and
has, in addition, the most sweet face.”
“Well, anyhow, we needn’t bother about her face now,” said Kitty. “I
feel wonderfully happy; I feel somehow that I ought, being happy myself,
to help others. There’s some one at Preston Manor whom I want to help,
and might I have your motor-car just to go down to Preston Manor? You
won’t be returning to your home for some time.”
“Oh yes, of course, you may have the motor,” said Grace; “but don’t keep
it, please, and send it back to us at once.”
“I will. Thank you a thousand times. You will be sure to come to-morrow;
I shall want to show you the lovely Christmas presents I am getting. By
the way, it’s _the_ time for giving presents all round. Do you know what
I want more than anything? I want a dozen pairs of the very best kid
gloves—or suède, I think—some with four buttons and some with ten. It’s
only a hint, but hints are useful. Ta-ta, girls, never forget how clever
Kitty is.”
Kitty left the church, the motor-car was at her service, and she was
soon bowled over the roads, and arrived at Preston Manor just as the
great luncheon-gong was sounded. Mr. Wyndham and his wife were seated at
table when Kitty poked in her charming little face. They had been
talking about her and had the manner that people generally have when
they are caught in the act. Kitty guessed at once that she had broken up
a conversation of interest to herself.
“Aren’t you well, Kitty? I didn’t know you would be back until
tea-time,” said Mrs. Wyndham. “I have sent luncheon for you all to take
in the parish room adjoining the church.”
“It wasn’t that,” said Kitty; “I didn’t think about lunch at all. I—I
thought I’d like to stay with you a little, if you don’t mind.”
“With me, my dear child?”
“Yes, perhaps I have made a great mistake; in that case I can—I can”—she
coloured—“_walk_ back; it is only two miles.”
“But what do you mean, Kitty?”
“Well, you know, you said yesterday that you often felt lonely, and
somehow I thought of it last night when I was in my darling snug bed,
and I thought that the girls would be absent all day long with their
friends, you know, and that you would have no one——But _perhaps_ I have
made a mistake, perhaps you don’t want me; in that case—I am sorry—I can
go back.”
“It was really very kind of you, Kitty, very kind. As a matter of fact,
I don’t mind being alone; but, as you have come, my dear child, of
course, I must give you a welcome. Have you had lunch yet?”
“No, but that doesn’t matter at all, and if you’d really rather——”
“Oh nonsense, Kitty; now that you have come, of course, you will stay.
Ring the bell, will you, my dear?”
Kitty did so. Mrs. Wyndham gave some directions; Kitty sat down to the
table, and Wyndham left the room. As soon as he had gone, Kitty took her
plate, knife, and fork, and put herself close to Mrs. Wyndham.
“You will forgive me, won’t you?” she said, looking up at her with her
appealing dark eyes.
“Yes, of course.”
“I can’t help, you know, being awfully fond of you,” said Kitty.
“My dear little girl, I haven’t seen a great deal of you.”
“But one can get fond of a person without seeing a great deal of her,
cannot one?”
“I suppose one can, but, to tell you the truth, Kitty, I am not a very
impulsive person myself, so I don’t quite see how you can be fond of
me.”
“But you don’t mind if I am?”
“Oh no, no, I don’t mind at all, Kitty. That is a very pretty frock of
yours, and a remarkably nice jacket and cap. You gave me to understand,
my dear child, that you and your aunt were not well off. Those clothes
must have cost a good penny.”
“Well, shall I tell you how I got them?”
“Oh no, dear, don’t; pray don’t; I am really not in the least
interested. I just admire them, and I thought they must have cost a good
deal; but don’t tell me your secrets, my love; I am quite prepared to be
satisfied with all your dress.”
Kitty was silent. She had a very neat little untruth ready; but, after
all, if it wasn’t required, why tell it? She sat, looking thoughtfully
and sadly out of the window.
“It isn’t very nice being an orphan, is it?” she said suddenly.
“I think it must be nice for any girl to be at The Red Gables School,”
was Mrs. Wyndham’s answer. She had no wish to have a sentimental Kitty
flung upon her for the afternoon. “And now, my dear,” she added, “finish
your lunch. When you have done you will find me in the inner
drawing-room. I shall be lying down, and it is possible I may be asleep,
in which case you can sit in a cosy chair by the fire and read one of
several books which I shall leave ready for you.”
“And then, when you awake, will you let me give you your tea; will you
let me pour it out for you? You will let me wait on you, you will let me
be a little daughter to you?”
“Yes, dear, I shall be quite willing.”
“Poor, dear, sweet Mrs. Wyndham!” said Kitty.
Mrs. Wyndham smiled rather vaguely. She left the room.
“There’s something nice about that child,” she said to herself. “I
wonder why it is that Paul doesn’t seem really to take to her. I can’t
understand it. She is worth fifty of Peggy, and yet he does nothing but
praise Peggy, and whenever I speak of Kitty he runs her down; but there,
whatever he may say to the contrary, Peggy would not have given up her
pleasure in decorating the church to-day to come back and sit with a
lonely old woman.”
Kitty, meanwhile, finished a most luxurious and tasty lunch, and then
went up to her bedroom. Here a fire blazed all day; here was every
imaginable comfort. She sat down in an easy-chair, took off her cap and
coat, and stared into the blaze.
Yes, she had done right; she had been really very clever. There was no
doubt the Dodds were angry; the Dodds would not be as nice as usual at
the beginning of term; but she’d soon bring them round, and there was
that affair of the stockings. Yes, it wasn’t such a great thing, after
all; but if Mr. Dodd knew it! She sat and thought.
“I mustn’t tell him; I promised faithfully I wouldn’t,” she said to
herself. “There is something about me that I think is, after all,
_quite_ straight, for I could get an invitation to Hillside if I said
what I know; but there, I have promised. If I told it would shatter our
friendship for ever. Here’s a brilliant thought. Why did I never think
of it before? I’ll work it during the holidays. I’ll put it into Grace’s
head and into Anne’s that they should ask their father for an allowance;
thus they could buy their own dresses, or, rather, they could buy my
dresses without anybody knowing anything about it. Let me see, now, how
much ought they to ask—how much could I do with? That’s the question. I
have taken the school by storm with my handsome dresses, and it would
not do to come down a peg—never, never! I wonder if auntie would help
me? I might write to her; there’s one good thing about Aunt Gloriana;
she’s nearly as fond of clothes as I am. I might write to her. I wonder,
too, if Mrs. Wyndham would help me. I might confide in Mrs. Wyndham
to-day. I know they’re not coming in to tea; they won’t be home until
it’s time to dress for late dinner. No, not one of them will be home
sooner, and afterwards we’ve got to rehearse. How sick I am of those
charades! But I might tell Mrs. Wyndham how dreadfully ill-off I am just
now for money. I don’t want fine clothes; I’ve plenty for the present;
but I do want money. It gives a girl such power! Then, if I only could
get Mr. Dodd to invite me to Hillside! I wish I could. I must think of a
way. I’m generally rather clever at that sort of thing; but it was so
unlucky his seeing me that day! Oh I could have bitten my tongue out! Oh
it was dreadful, dreadful!”
Kitty sat back in the easy-chair. The day in question rose before her
mental vision. What a favourite she had been then! How Mr. Dodd—“Old
Daddy Doddy,” as she called him under her breath—how fond he was of her!
How often she made him laugh, how liberal he was with his presents to
her, as well as to his own girls! And then, then there came the blow! It
happened on the very day before she left. She had had her pleasant
visit, and she had just gone too far. She wanted some money very badly;
when did not Kitty Merrydew want money? She wanted to send two pounds to
a girl from whom she had borrowed it. The girl had been plaguing her
with letters on the subject, and when several letters came from the same
person it was the rule of the school that the letters were brought to
Mrs. Fleming in order that she might see what they were about. She never
interfered with a letter from a mother, a father, an aunt, or an uncle.
But other letters, the silly letters that schoolgirls might write,
letters from strangers—she did not want to be overprying, but when
letters came over and over in the same handwriting she always insisted
at last on seeing such letters.
Now Kitty had received a letter from a girl whose friendship she had
made during the last holidays, which she had spent with Aunt Gloriana.
The girl had lent her two pounds; Kitty had promised to return the money
in a week, then in a fortnight, then in a month, then in two months. But
time went on and there was no sign of the money being returned, for the
simple reason that Kitty had not got it to send back. Whenever Kitty
received money it seemed to fly; it had a process of melting through her
fingers, of disappearing. She might go out with a couple of pounds, but
she invariably came in again with nothing. This was the case, and on the
present occasion, just at the end of the summer holidays, she had got a
frantic letter from Miriam Dobell, the girl to whom she owed the money.
This girl had threatened to write to Mrs. Fleming on the subject if it
were not paid to her before school began. Kitty was in an agony. She
wrote a frantic letter, imploring and imploring of Miriam to have mercy,
and then she suddenly found that she wanted an envelope to put her
letter into. She ran quickly downstairs and entered Mr. Dodd’s study.
She had no intention when she went into the room of touching any of his
money, but lying on the table was a great pile of gold and of notes. In
one swift, flashing minute the deed was done. Kitty had secured two of
those precious sovereigns, had thrust them into her pocket, and had left
the room. As she was leaving the room she came face to face with Mr.
Dodd, who was entering.
Oh why had she coloured? If she could only have looked calm! But she had
coloured up crimson, crimson, and he had glanced at her in some wonder,
and then he had looked at the money on the table; but, even so, his
voice was kind and pleasant.
“Did you want anything, Kitty?” he said.
“I wanted an envelope,” she answered. He asked her no more questions and
she left the room. He said to himself, “It is impossible, but what a
queer colour she got! Then he began to count the money; it was money he
had just drawn from the bank to pay the different servants in the house
and outside as well. There were two sovereigns missing!”
He did not say a word to any one, not to a soul, but he knew just as
distinctly as if he had seen her take the gold that Kitty was the
culprit. She had taken the money. He made up his mind not to tell any
one, although his first furious thought was to denounce her. But there
was something about the expression of her eyes, something about her
little face, which made him refrain from ruining her.
“She’ll tell me, she’ll confess, of course. I’ll give her the chance.
Poor child, I used to know myself the pinch of not having a sovereign to
my name. Yes, I’ll give her a chance, and if she tells me I’ll forgive
her.”
He watched anxiously all that evening; he even gave Kitty a chance
himself in the course of the evening, for he took her into his study to
show her some new books which he had purchased, and which were very
beautiful and exquisitely bound; but Kitty had not spoken. She went away
the next day to The Red Gables School in the company of his daughters,
and it was with the utmost difficulty that he could refrain from
telling, from speaking his mind to Mrs. Fleming, but even then he said
to himself, “I’ll give her a chance; she’ll write to me, perhaps. It
would be a dreadful thing to ruin her, and, of course, it would ruin
her.”
But Kitty did not write.
CHAPTER XX.
RESTITUTION.
Kitty, during her talk with Mrs. Wyndham, managed to inspire that good
lady with a great many of her own charming sentiments; in particular she
praised both Molly and Jessie, praising Jessie the most, as was but
natural, seeing that Jessie was her friend. It happened also that of the
two girls Jessie was her mother’s favourite. She was not nearly so
affectionate as Molly, but Mrs. Wyndham did not want gushing,
affectionate girls; as a matter of fact, she could not bear them. She
liked Jessie’s stately, quiet way, and considered it ladylike. Then
Kitty, feeling her way very quietly, approached the subject of the
adopted child, Peggy. She had to be careful here, for she knew she was
treading on dangerous ground. She was far too sharp not to have
penetrated already into the true state of the case. Mr. Wyndham was
devoted to Peggy, and Mrs. Wyndham could not bear her. But none the less
on that account might Kitty, apparently not knowing anything, confide a
few little things to Mrs. Wyndham about Peggy’s conduct at school.
At first Mrs. Wyndham pretended to be not at all interested, and in
short let the subject drop; but when Kitty said abruptly, “Well, I can’t
help it. I do think it’s awfully _partial_ of her,” Mrs. Wyndham’s cold
eyes seemed to blaze for a minute, and she said, with real interest in
her tone, “What do you mean? Whom are you speaking about?”
“I’m speaking about Mrs. Fleming, and I know a little girl oughtn’t to
speak against her mistress, ought she?”
“Certainly not.”
Kitty looked up attentively. There was no real anger in that emphatic
“not,” and there was a great deal of curiosity.
“She is sweet beyond words,” said Kitty, “and, of course, we all adore
her, but in that one case I do think she was partial—I do think it, I
do. We all feel alike about it in the school.”
“Really, Kitty, I ought not to listen to stories of that sort; but as
you have begun you may as well tell me what you are alluding to. What
has Mrs. Fleming done that you all consider partial?”
“Oh Mrs. Wyndham, you must know. She has moved Peggy Desmond into the
Upper School. Of course it was very sad for the poor little girl to
break her leg, and we’re none of us likely to forget it, but why that
should have given her the _entrée_ into the Upper School puzzles us all.
We feel a little—a little hurt about it. Of course she doesn’t know
anything like as much as the rest of us.”
“On the contrary,” said Mrs. Wyndham, “Mrs. Fleming has told my husband
that Peggy is very highly educated up to a certain point.”
“Oh well,” said Kitty, with a smile, “of course, when a girl has such
_shocking_ manners and speaks in the _awful_ way she does, one can
scarcely think her educated. I’m sure you agree with me, dear Mrs.
Wyndham. I often see you quite shudder when Peggy speaks, although you
keep it in so beautifully and bravely. Oh do let me settle this
_couvre-pied_ over you, your dear feet will get so cold! Now, isn’t that
comfy? Ah, I wish I had a mother to pet!”
Kitty suddenly went on her knees, took one of Mrs. Wyndham’s slender
hands, and pressed it to her lips. “You must forgive me,” she said, and
she raised dark eyes, brimful of tears, to the lady’s face.
“She is a dear little thing,” thought Mrs. Wyndham, “and how sensibly
she talks about Peggy; no rancour or bitterness, but just the feelings
of a nice, ladylike girl. I like her very much indeed. I am glad my
children should have her as a friend.”
“Kitty,” said Mrs. Wyndham, after a long pause, “can you throw any light
on that mystery of how poor Peggy broke her leg?”
Kitty dropped her long eyelashes and remained silent. After a minute she
raised her eyes and fixed them on the lady’s face.
“I _could_ tell something, but—I mustn’t.”
“Indeed, my dear! You mean you could explain this mystery? I understand
that it has caused a great deal of misery in the school.”
“Oh indeed, indeed it has. Ah, if you only knew half, if I could tell
you, if I _could_ confide in you! We of the Lower School have all been
rendered miserable on account of it. Dear Mrs. Wyndham, you don’t know
what we have lived through, how we have been suspected, and even now are
suspected! But we’ve made up our minds, we will at any risk keep our
knowledge to ourselves. We have quite made up our minds.”
“But is that right or fair, Kitty? Is it right that you should allow
wickedness to go on unpunished in your midst?”
“Oh, please, please, I can’t explain; I oughtn’t to have said as much as
I did, only you are so sympathetic! There, I must not say any more. You
see, if we are patient all may come right, and we cannot ruin people,
can we?”
Mrs. Wyndham looked distressed, and Kitty thought it well to change the
subject.
The next day was Christmas Day, which was kept in a truly old-fashioned
style, and each girl and boy staying in the house received various and
handsome presents. Kitty came off very well indeed, with boxes of
handkerchiefs and a case of lovely scent, to which she was very partial.
Mrs. Wyndham gave her a lovely little coral necklace, which exactly
suited her piquant appearance.
Mr. Wyndham, standing at the head of the breakfast table on Christmas
morning, said, “My dear children, I am anxious to give you all what you
really want. I think it a mistake to give presents that are not useful;
for instance, one girl may adore books, and another not care a bit about
them, and so on. So I determined to wait until Christmas Day, and then
to ask you all to write down on a piece of paper what you wish most for,
and, if possible, and within my means, I will give it to you.”
The children all looked rather surprised at this speech, and one or two
were even a little disappointed; but Kitty’s eyes glowed with intense
pleasure, for a sudden thought darted through her mind. Soon after
breakfast she found herself alone with Peggy.
“What are you going to ask for, Peggy?” she remarked.
“To be sure, I have it fixed up,” answered Peggy, “but for certain I’m
not going to enlighten ye.”
“Peggy,” said Kitty, in her most coaxing voice, “why should you always
be so cross and disagreeable to me? I can’t make it out, I really
can’t.”
“Can’t ye?” answered Peggy. “I thought ye had the ordinary amount of
brains; but if ye haven’t I’m sorry for ye, poor thing. I can’t
enlighten ye, if the reason doesn’t blazon in your face.”
Kitty gave a heavy sigh. “There’s no use,” she said. “I’m always trying;
there’s not a bit of use. There’s Aunt Gloriana now, as bad as she can
be with bronchitis, and wanting money terribly, and I haven’t five
shillings in the world, and yet it will look _so_ bad if I ask that my
present should be money. It is money I want more than anything in the
world; even a little sum like five pounds would put me right, for, you
see, I’ve got to leave here in a few days, and I’m not exactly sure
where I’ll be going when I do leave.”
“I thought for sure ye were going to the Dodds,” said Peggy.
“I wish I could, but nothing is settled. Don’t you say a word to them
when they come here to-night, will you, Peggy?”
“Not me, to be sure, but if it’s money you want, why don’t you say so?
Uncle Paul won’t mind.”
“Couldn’t you ask for money too, Peggy? If we both did it, it wouldn’t
look so remarkable.”
“Is it me ask for money!” exclaimed Peggy, with a sharp little cry,
“when me whole soul is wrapped up in a little Irish terrier? It’s
himself then that I’m craving for, to sleep in me room and comfort me,
and much I need his presence too, dear heart.”
“But you can buy the terrier out of the money.”
“I’ll manage it me own way, thanks,” said Peggy. She got up as she spoke
and left the room.
On the afternoon of that same day Mr. Wyndham was alone with his wife,
the young people were all very busy putting the finishing touches to
their charades, and, of course, the Dodds, Margaret Ladislaw, and her
father, and last, but not least, dear Mary Welsh, were to join them in
the evening. Mr. Wyndham took a piece of paper from his pocket and
opened it.
“What is that?” asked his wife.
“It is the list, my dear, of the presents that our young friends would
like. I shall have to run up to town the day after to-morrow to get
them.”
“I can’t think, Paul,” said his wife, “why you did not buy anything that
took your fancy, instead of putting yourself to this unnecessary
trouble.”
“I always like to do things in the best possible way,” was his answer.
“A present can mean a great deal to a little boy or girl, and,
carelessly given, it means little or nothing. Now I know what the
youngsters want, and I must say their requests are modest, poor dears.”
“Show me the list, will you?” said Mrs. Wyndham. Her husband put it into
her hand. She ran her eyes quickly down the different items, and
suddenly she uttered an exclamation. “Surely, Paul, you are not going to
give Peggy an Irish terrier?”
“Surely I am. Why, shouldn’t the poor child have a pet? I can get her a
nice dog at the Army and Navy Stores.”
“Oh, but don’t you know what a fool she will make of herself over it,
and I positively cannot bear dogs in the house.”
“My dear wife, you sha’n’t be worried with Peggy’s dog. I’ll see to
that.”
“You’ll ruin that child, Paul; you’ll rue it yet. I wish you only knew
what poor little Kitty says about her. Now that’s a nice child, if you
like!”
“Honestly, my dear wife, can you tell me that you would compare Peggy
and Kitty?”
“I would not. Paul, Kitty is a lady.”
“And the other?”
“Oh, there’s no use speaking; you are daft on the subject of that girl.”
“Well, at least,” said Mr. Wyndham, “Peggy had the grace not to ask for
money for her Christmas present.”
“Who has asked for money?”
“Look at the list, my dear; the name is plain enough—Kitty Merrydew. See
what she writes: ‘A little money would be a great boon.’”
“Poor child!” said Mrs. Wyndham. “Yes, of course, I’m sorry she has done
this, but I fear she is really badly off, and yet she does not look
poor; she dresses quite beautifully and with such taste.”
Wyndham took back the paper and slipped it into his pocket. “Miss
Merrydew need not wait until Wednesday for her present,” he said, and
presently he left his wife alone.
At tea-time a flat envelope, addressed to Miss Merrydew, lay on her
plate. She opened it to see a five-pound note. She coloured with a
mixture of anger and relief; she knew she had done a horribly low-down
thing to ask for money, and all the reward she had got was five pounds.
Her dreams had pictured twenty, perhaps thirty. When she saw Mr. Wyndham
next she tried to thank him, but he pooh-poohed her words and left her
abruptly, calling to Peggy to come out with him as he did so.
It had been arranged that Kitty must leave the Wyndhams’ in the course
of a few days; she could stay until the last day of the old year, but
not longer; then her room would be required for other guests. Now what
was she to do? The Dodds had taken very little notice of her the night
before when they came to see the charades, and Kitty had received on the
following morning a long letter from Aunt Gloriana, in which she
expressed satisfaction at her niece being in a nice, rich house.
“Whatever you do, my dear girl,” said Aunt Gloriana, “don’t come to me.
I’m as poor as a church mouse, if not poorer. I have been obliged to ask
Mrs. Pirie to give me a smaller bedroom, for I really cannot pay more
than a pound a week for my lodgings and bit of food, and I must say
she’s been rather nasty about it, sticking me in an attic at the top of
the house, where I just perish with the cold. I wonder, Kit, if you
could spare me ten shillings to buy a little shawl and an indiarubber
bottle to keep my poor feet warm at night? I can’t afford a fire in my
bedroom—sixpence a scuttle, outrageous! Try and send me ten shillings,
like a good child. You must have got lots of lovely Christmas boxes.
But, whatever you do, Kitty, don’t come here, for there literally isn’t
a corner for you. I’m glad you’re happy. Make the best of your time at
school and with your fine friends, and for the Lord’s sake get that
prize you told me about, for it would be the making of you.”
Now this most uncheerful letter caused Kitty to make up her mind. She
was desperate. She could not go to Aunt Gloriana; she could not remain
where she was, and through her own folly she had lost her _entrée_ to
the Dodds’.
The different young people, all happy, merry, and thoughtless, who were
arranging how they would spend their day at Preston Manor, little knew
what anxiety was weighing down the heart of the prettiest, and
apparently the brightest, of that group. There was Kitty, with her
cheeks flushed, partly from health, it is true, but a good deal also
from excitement, wearing her charming blue velvet frock with its deep
real lace collar, her raven-black hair in two great plaits hanging down
below her waist, and tied with blue ribbon to match the colour of her
frock, her lovely little feet encased in priceless shoes and clothed in
lovely silk stockings. No girl could look more refined and more
beautiful, and yet this girl was, at the present moment, practically
homeless. She could not return to The Red Gables, for Mrs. Fleming had
decided, after all, to take a fortnight’s holiday before the school
reopened, and the entire house would be shut up. This news was related
in Kitty’s hearing by one of the Wyndhams, who had heard it from their
governess. Had Mrs. Fleming been at home, Kitty, as a last resource,
would have gone back to her; not that she would have liked it—under
existing circumstances, indeed, she would have loathed it—but any port
in a storm.
Now it so happened that Kitty had made a great deal of Aunt Gloriana.
She had always allowed the girls of the school to imagine that she was
extremely well-off; the only girls who had really the least idea of her
poverty were the two Dodds; the other girls supposed that Kitty was rich
of the rich, and her dresses certainly pointed to that fact. Then Aunt
Gloriana lived in a private hotel at Folkestone, where she had every
possible luxury and was surrounded by adoring friends. It had been, on
the whole, something of a deprivation to Kitty to give up going to
auntie for Christmas; auntie and her friends were really pining for her;
but, of course, she could not refuse the dear, dear Wyndhams when they
asked her; for the sake of the dear, dearest Wyndhams she would go to
them for a little; but darling auntie, she would postpone some of the
gaieties until Kitty arrived. Having made up that story with regard to
the stately way in which Miss Merrydew resided, Kitty could not,
therefore, make a poor mouth about her, nor could she explain to her
friend Jessie that she really would be glad to have a room in one of the
attics at Preston Manor rather than leave that luxurious house. Molly
and Jessie both came up to Kitty after breakfast.
“We are so sorry you have to leave on New Year’s Eve,” they said, “but,
of course, you will enjoy it, won’t you? Your aunt will be glad to have
you for a short time. She’ll have you for nearly a fortnight, won’t
she?”
“Yes—that is, if I go to her.”
“Oh but you wouldn’t disappoint her when she’s _so_ anxious to have
you.”
“No, of course not. I was thinking of going to see the Dodds this
morning. I suppose it isn’t possible for me to have any sort of a trap
to drive there? I can walk, but——”
“Indeed you sha’n’t walk,” said Molly; “you can have the pony trap. If
you want to go alone, you can have it at once. Will you be staying there
long?”
“No, I think I shall be back to lunch. I don’t want to lose the time
with you.”
“What train will you be taking for Folkestone on Thursday?” asked Molly.
“Will you take a morning or an afternoon train?”
“I’ll look up the trains when I come back from the Dodds’,” was Kitty’s
answer, and then she went out of the room.
Molly looked at Jessie. “I don’t think Kitty is very happy,” she said.
“Why do you say that?”
“I don’t know; she doesn’t look it.”
“I can’t imagine why she’s not going on to the Dodds’,” was Jessie’s
remark; “she was full of it a short time ago; she told me when we asked
her that she had, of course, two invitations, one to her poor aunt and
the other to the Dodds.”
“I suppose she doesn’t like to disappoint her aunt,” said Molly; “but
don’t let us bother about her now; we have so much to do. I’m so
delighted that Mary Welsh and her sisters are coming to stay with us. I
don’t think anything is quite so nice as when we have the Welshes with
us; they’re such delightful girls.”
Meanwhile Kitty went to her room. She put on her plainest dress,
discarding for the nonce the crimson frock and squirrel jacket and cap.
She wore a neat dark-blue serge; she had, as a matter of fact, no shabby
dresses, having been clothed by the Dodds for over a year now. The
dress, however, was the sort that no one could possibly speak of as
anything but extremely plain; it was her little school everyday coat and
skirt. Her hat was plain, with a piece of dark-blue ribbon round it.
She ran downstairs. Her dress made such a difference in her appearance
that one or two girls who were standing about did not recognise her at
the first moment.
“Oh, it’s you, Kitty,” said one, and then the other asked her how long
she’d be away, and then they watched her as she drove up the avenue,
accompanied by Sam, one of the grooms.
“I want, please, first of all to drive to the post-office,” said Kitty
to the boy.
He obeyed her. She jumped out of the little governess-cart and went in;
there she bought six pennyworth of stamps and changed her five-pound
note. She slipped the precious money into her pocket. She then desired
Sam to drive her to the gates of Hillside.
“Stop at the gates, please,” she said, “I shall walk up the avenue.”
They arrived there in about three-quarters of an hour. Kitty got down.
“Shall I wait for you, miss?” asked the boy.
“I don’t know how long I will be,” said Kitty. “Yes, wait for one hour;
if I am longer than that time, you can go away and say that I am staying
to lunch at Mrs. Dodd’s, and that they’ll see me back in the afternoon.
You will be sure to give that message, won’t you, Sam?”
“Yes, miss, thank you, miss,” said the boy. He turned the pony’s head
and drove under a clump of trees, where he arranged to wait for Kitty.
Kitty now entered the long avenue. Hillside was rightly called; the
house itself, perfectly modern, having been built by Mr. Dodd for his
own convenience and according to his own ideas, stood upon the extreme
rise of the hill. It had a lovely view of the surrounding country. As
Kitty walked up this avenue, this avenue where she had so often gone
riding, driving, walking with the Dodd girls, walking sometimes with her
hand inside Daddy Dodd’s arm, laughing, chatting, merry, happy, a prime
favourite, she now crept up slowly, as a culprit might. She reached the
great house. She was thankful to see that there was no one about, her
dread being at that moment to come across either Anne or Grace. She rang
the front door-bell, and a man in livery threw open the door. He knew
Kitty, of course, and welcomed her with that sort of half-smile which
the well-bred servant alone permits himself to show.
“Do you want the young ladies, miss? I think they’re in the
morning-room.”
“No, I particularly want to see Mr. Dodd.”
“I will inquire if Mr. Dodd is in, miss. Will you walk in?”
Kitty entered the hall, and the man went as far as his master’s study.
Dodd was busy with his accounts. These were great days for him, he was
busy planning his gold so as to use it to the best possible advantage.
He was a strange man in his way, and to him there was no more solemn
text in the world than the one which declares that “The earth is the
Lord’s, and the fulness thereof.” He had never stood by the Bank of
England without looking up at these solemn words written over the
Exchange, he had thought them the finest sentence in the world, and he
had determined to make this motto his own. “The earth _is_ the Lord’s
and the fulness thereof.” And those whom the Lord prospered should give
of their abundance to Him. There was no poor person who ever went in
vain with a tale of suffering to Daddy Dodd; there was no real, genuine
tale of woe that he turned a deaf ear to. But he was no silly, weak
philanthropist; he gave judiciously of the money he had so hardly
earned. He adored his girls, above all things on earth he adored his
wife, and for these precious ones he had special funds which he would
not touch, and which were to be used altogether for their benefit. But
outside and beyond the money which he had devoted to his wife and girls,
he had a large sum yearly which he gave to charities, to those charities
which really needed help. Then, again, he had another fund which he
devoted, as he expressed it, to “individual want”—to this man who wished
to send his boy to college, to this woman who needed to have her
daughter educated, to this poor, suffering old lady to whom ten pounds a
year would make all the difference between destitution and comfort. This
fund was his delight, he personally superintended it, he looked into all
the cases for whom he intended to spend it. These people were his
special friends, he corresponded with them, he wrote to them always once
a year; the time when he sent them their money was the time between
Christmas Day and the New Year. He pictured them receiving their
cheques, watching for them, smiling when they got them; he pictured
their happy faces, and his own face glowed with delight as he thought of
theirs. It was worth working hard when he was young when he could do so
much good now. The earth _was_ the Lord’s and the fulness thereof.
It was, therefore, an extremely busy man who was now interrupted.
“What is it, Clothier?” he said to the servant, raising his face, which
was slightly flushed.
“It’s that little lady, sir—little Miss Merrydew. She has called to see
you.”
“Say, with my compliments, that I—I am engaged this morning.”
But before the man could utter a word, Kitty herself had forced her way
into the room. “No, you are not engaged,” she said. “I mean you will see
me for a minute.” As she spoke she removed her hat; her hat made her
look almost commonplace. When it was off the masses of that thick,
raven-black hair, the pathetic expression in the eyes, the colour of
excitement in the cheeks, caused the man to drop his jaw for a minute
and to look at her in unfeigned astonishment. So _she_ was what the
world would really call a pretty girl. And he had believed that Anne
might be thought beautiful, and that Grace might aspire to that
distinction—Grace with her little eyes, Anne with her freckled face!
Here was real beauty, those big eyes, so dark, so pleading, so
unfathomable; those red, red lips, that pathetic smile which came and
went; the colour which faded out of the little face that had been so
flushed a minute before.
The man gave a great sigh, rose, and shook himself. “You can shut the
door. Go, Clothier,” he said.
Clothier withdrew. Servants are supposed not to know anything about what
goes on in their master’s and mistress’s presence; but this man knew
perfectly well that there was a little tiny bit of tragedy about to be
enacted in that study, and that his master would be engaged with pretty
little Miss Merrydew for more than a minute or so.
Kitty walked a few steps into the room, then she stood perfectly still.
Dodd got up and looked at her. He did not speak, he did not offer to
shake hands; on the contrary, he folded his arms deliberately across his
chest, and thus the two faced each other. It seemed to Dodd at that
moment that he was looking into the little creature’s soul. A very queer
feeling came over him, he recalled a circumstance which had taken place
not long ago.
He was very, very careful over his prayers; he was, in truth, a
sincerely religious man, he always went up to his room half an hour
before bedtime, and there shut the door and fell on his knees before his
Maker. He devoted this special time to praying for those people to whom
he did _special_, _marked_, and _individual_ good—the little boy in the
hospital, the girl who was to pass a very important examination at
Newnham, &c. All these he brought individually, as he expressed it,
“before the throne of grace.” But one night lately, he didn’t know why,
he had been forced, as it were, to ask Almighty God to turn Kitty
Merrydew from the error of her ways. He had hated Kitty Merrydew from
the moment he had discovered that she had stolen his money, but now he
remembered that he had prayed for her.
Kitty watched him intently. She was trying with all her might and main
to read into his deep and great nature. She, with her shallowness and
cunning, could no more understand a man like Dodd than she could fly;
but she possessed, in her own way, a great deal of genius. Suddenly she
saw that she had done the great, the only thing by coming to speak to
him individually and alone.
She spoke hurriedly.
“It is Christmas-time, and I am miserable.”
Still no reply of any sort from the man.
“Perhaps you don’t know, but in the summer I was tempted. You are so
rich, you can’t tell what it means to be awfully poor, poor as I am,
with an auntie who has to live in a little attic. And just because I am
at The Red Gables School people think I am rich, and I did want two
pounds. I will tell you. I know, perhaps, you will—send me to—_prison_;
but I had borrowed it from a girl, and she—she wanted it back, and I
hadn’t it for her, and she threatened to write to Mrs. Fleming, and Mrs.
Fleming would have sent me from the school, and I’d have lost _all_ my
chance. I was writing to her, begging of her not to do it. Although I
looked so happy, for you were all so sweet to me, _I—was—not_. I found I
wanted an envelope, and I came here to get one, and there was a—lot
of—_money_ on the table, a _great_ pile; and—oh, oh Mr. Dodd!—I _took_
two sovereigns. I _did_! I have been so unhappy ever since; perhaps you
saw how red I got when you came into the room. Oh Mr. Dodd, I have
brought it back—here it is—the money I took. I won’t be so unhappy now
I’ve paid you back. Oh I was a—thief! I suppose you’ll tell Mrs.
Fleming. There, that’s all.”
Kitty laid the money on the table, and she looked up at him in the most
beseeching way. As he was still silent, not glancing at the money, but
with his hard face gazing at hers, she repeated her remark: “Of course
you’ll tell her.”
Then at last he spoke. “Wench, if I’d meant to tell her I’d have done it
before now.”
“What!” said Kitty, with a start, “did you know it?”
Dodd laughed. “Do you suppose, my wench,” he said, “that I’d be living
in this house—I, who was once a poor boy, a boy who often was hungry for
his breakfast—and yet that two pounds could be taken from me without my
missing them? That isn’t the way men get rich, lass; that isn’t the way
men get rich.”
“Then you knew about it.”
“I knew about it, lass.”
“And what did you think of me?”
“I expected, _perhaps_, you’d tell me.”
“I have told you. I will go now.”
“No, sit down a bit—sit down a bit; you look white and shaky. Is it true
that you’re very poor?”
“Yes, indeed, auntie and I are very poor. I will say good-bye now. I’m
leaving the Wyndhams’ on Thursday. I’m very, very fond of Anne and
Grace. I suppose you’ll tell them.”
“No, wench, I won’t tell them; I haven’t told anybody yet, and I won’t
tell now. You’ve brought me back the money. You were late in doing it,
and I felt very bad about it—very bad about it, and I made up my mind
that you should never darken my doors again; but I didn’t tell ’em, I
didn’t want you to be injured. You’d best not try this game on a second
time, wench; you’d best not try thieving, it leads to no good. You’ve
got your own gift, you’re a very beautiful lass, you’ve got a way with
you, and you can twist an old man round that little finger of yours; but
don’t you try your beauty too far. My mother, she was a Bible woman—she
went by the Bible—over and over she used to say: ‘Favour is deceitful,
and beauty is vain; but a woman who feareth the Lord she shall be
praised.’ She never had a daughter to say it to; she used to say over
and over to me: ‘See you serve the Lord, John; see you serve the Lord.’
And now, that’s what I have to say to you. You’ve brought me back the
money, and we’ll consider that the debt is wiped out; wiped out, lass;
the _slate is clean_. Good-bye, lass, I’m busy; good-bye.”
He held out his hand to her, she grasped it, tears were brimming into
her eyes. Suddenly she stooped and kissed his hand, then she left the
room. She walked slowly down the avenue, she got into the little cart
and drove back to Preston Manor.
On that day nothing happened at all; the next day passed, and the next.
On the evening of the third day Dodd spoke to his wife.
“Mary Anne.”
“Yes, my man.”
“There’s that child, Kitty Merrydew, staying at Preston Manor.”
“Yes?”
“We might as well have her along here for a few days; she can go back to
school then with our girls. You might write her a bit of a note, if you
like.”
“Oh, John, I’m glad you have forgiven her, then, whatever she has done
wrong.”
“Now, listen to me, Mary Anne. I never told you that the girl did
anything wrong; I never told you anything at all about her. I say that
she may come here for the rest of the holidays; I don’t say that I am
going to be friends with her. I say nothing about that; I say she may
have houseroom here, and I dare say she’ll be glad to have it. I say
that she’s to be treated as she was always treated, and I say you may
write her a note, and be quick about it, and send it over by messenger.”
Kitty was out when the note arrived; it was lying on the hall-table when
she returned: “Miss Kitty Merrydew.”
“I say, Kitty, here’s a letter for you,” exclaimed Molly. “It has come
by messenger. Who could have sent it?”
Kitty opened it. She did not know why her hand shook so much, but it did
shake. She opened it, and her eyes glowed. She looked full at Molly.
“It is a letter from Mrs. Dodd. She has heard that I am leaving here,
and wants to know if I will go to them for a bit.”
“But can you go? Won’t your aunt be terribly disappointed?” said Jessie.
“I can go to Aunt Glory for a few days afterwards; it would not do to
offend the Dodds, would it?” Kitty’s heart was fairly bursting with
glee.
“Oh I suppose not,” said Jessie in a careless tone. “Very well, then, in
that case we can countermand the order for the carriage to take you to
the railway station. You would like, however, to send a reply to Mrs.
Dodd, wouldn’t you?”
“Mrs. Dodd says that if I will accept her invitation she will send her
motor-car to fetch me at half-past twelve to-morrow,” said Kitty.
“That is very kind of her. We can easily send a messenger there
to-night. Will you write now then, Kitty?”
Kitty did so.
CHAPTER XXI.
PREPARING FOR THE COMPETITION.
The next term at The Red Gables School passed without anything very
remarkable occurring. The girls were all extremely busy, working for the
prize; it was the sort of work which must occupy them not only during
school hours but also in play hours, at all times, and during all
occasions. As far as the outward eye could see, the competition for the
Howard miniature seemed to have a sobering and beneficial effect on the
school. The girls wondered and wondered amongst themselves who would be
the happy possessor of this great distinction. There were many private
talks on the subject, and the see-saw of public opinion was very
strongly in favour of Alison Maude in the Upper School. There was only
one doubt with regard to Alison. Her conduct was perfect, her character
serene and lofty; but she was by no means specially clever, and genius
was undoubtedly required to play its part in this great competition.
Molly was willing to try, although she did not consider she had a
chance; Bridget O’Donnell was keen on the subject, and odds were very
largely in her favour. In the Lower School all eyes were fixed on Kitty;
if any one in the Lower School got the prize it would beyond doubt be
Kitty. She had an extraordinary and wonderful power over others, which
power seemed to increase with her growth, and which had been much
intensified during her recent visit to Hillside. Dodd had been true to
his word during that brief visit, and had taken little or no notice of
the girl, simply allowing her, as he expressed it, “the run of the
house,” and according her a careless nod morning and evening. But on the
night before she returned to school he called her into his study for a
few minutes.
“A word with you, wench. Stand up and take it like a woman.”
The girl looked at him, her eyes dilating with a sort of fear. The big
man went up and laid his hand on the slight little shoulder. Good God,
what a pretty bit thing she was! and yet there was something altogether
wrong with her. Where did the wrong come in? Those eyes would enthrall
many a man, those lips would tempt many a man to his destruction. Was
there no part of Kitty that could be touched, could be reclaimed? He
spoke slowly now.
“I have been talking to my wife about you. She gives me to understand
that your aunt Miss Merrydew is a rich woman, and lives in a private
hotel in Folkestone. Folkestone is not a cheap place, and to live
comfortably in a private hotel there must mean a spanking bit of money.
Now _you_ told me that your aunt was very poor, and lived in an attic in
a boarding-house. I’d like to know, for my own private satisfaction,
which story is true.”
“What I told you, sir,” said Kitty. She raised her eyes for a moment to
his face, then dropped them, for he was scowling at her.
“Wench,” he said sternly, “the way of transgressors is hard! You’ll find
it so in the long run, in the long run you’ll taste that bitterness.
You’re but a young, motherless bit of a thing, and if that were not the
case, and I didn’t trust my lassies as I trust myself, I wouldn’t let
you go back to The Red Gables School; but I don’t want to ruin you. You
have owned to _thieving_, and you have owned to _lying_. Now, do you
mean to drop these things; for, if you do, honest Injun, I’ll help you,
lass; I’ll make it my business—I won’t say how nor why nor when—but I’ll
give you a push up when you need it. You can come to us for the Easter
holidays, so that’s settled. And now I want you to _run straight_. If
you have any burden on your mind, out with it here and now, and I’ll
help you. Before the Lord in His heaven, I will! Don’t be frightened,
tell it—tell it all. I’ll put things straight for you. Now, then, have
you anything on your mind? Don’t answer in a hurry—think. It’s the best
chance you ever had, John Dodd here, standing waiting to put you
straight. Is there anything going on at school that you wish with all
your heart you hadn’t a finger in, for now is your chance? Out with it!
God knows I never failed any one yet who came to me and said, ‘I’m
sorry.’ Now, then, I’ll come back to you in a few minutes, and then you
can say yes or no. And the Lord guide you, child.”
For nearly a quarter of an hour Dodd was away, and during that time
Kitty did pass through a crisis; but, after all, the struggle, to a
nature like hers, was brief. To confess meant too much—the giving up of
the Howard miniature, the dragging down with her in her fall both Grace
and Anne! She could not do it. A clean heart! Perhaps that was a nice
possession; but it could never be hers, she had gone too far for that.
Dodd re-entered the room rather noisily; his face was flushed and
anxious. He had been praying about the girl all the time he was away
from her; now he came in large, steadfast, strong, full of ineffable
compassion. She looked at him with a weary expression. If she took him
at his word she would pull down his own castle of cards. He did not
believe in her, but he did believe in his children. Kitty thought
herself rather noble when she resolved not to sacrifice John Dodd’s
children to their father’s wrath.
“Well, child—well?” he said.
“I have often boasted a little bit at school,” she began at once, “for
you see, most of the girls are rich, and it is so horrid to be poor
amongst a lot of rich girls.”
“Pooh!” said the ex-merchant, “you must be a weakling to mind a thing of
that sort.”
“Perhaps I am; I don’t know; but I have certainly exaggerated about Aunt
Gloriana. I will try—indeed, I will—not to do it again.”
“Don’t ye—don’t ye—’tain’t worth it. But now hearken. As you’re so poor,
how do you manage to dress up smart?”
“Auntie is very good in giving me money for my clothes.”
“Humph!” was Dodd’s reply, “do you think you’re right to take it from
her?”
“I don’t know.”
“Listen, lass. When you really want a new frock, write to me about it;
don’t take any more from your aunt. And now there’s no other way in
which I can help you?”
“No, sir. Thank you so much.”
“Well, then, run off to bed with you! Good-night.” He hardly touched her
hand, and she left the room. “She’s _not_ straight,” he said to himself;
“she didn’t speak the truth that time. I think at the end of the year
I’ll move Grace and Anne; there’s no good having them in a school with
that sort of girl. She’s not straight, and she’s as clever as they’re
made.”
Some of this conversation was afterwards repeated by Kitty to the Dodd
sisters, and they were told how very much they owed to Kitty’s
forbearance in not exposing them with herself.
At school Mrs. Fleming only once alluded to the great prize, and that
was on the day when she gave the assembled school the subject for the
prize essay. The subject was contained in two words: “KNOW THYSELF.”
Mrs. Fleming said, after announcing the theme, that she would not
attempt to enlarge upon it, that the two words told their own tale and
explained their own meaning. The rules for the essays were very simple.
Any girl who consulted another, and who even read her paper to another,
would be immediately disqualified. The subject might be attacked in any
manner thought best by the competitor; it might embrace history or be
altogether a philosophical treatise; it might go deep into the heart or
only skim the surface—all these things were immaterial. The essay was to
be two thousand words in length, or at least not over that length; it
was to be in the handwriting of the competitor, and she was to employ no
dictionary to aid her in the spelling, although, if by any chance she
required other works of reference, she would find the _Encyclopædia
Britannica_ and several other reference books in the school library.
Quotations were not allowed in the essay; it was to be written on neat
foolscap, on one side only of the paper, and was to be signed with any
pseudonym the competitor liked to adopt. When finished it was to be
folded in three, and put into a long envelope, which was to be gummed
down; on the back of the envelope was to be written: “Prize Essay for
the Howard Miniature.” In addition to the long envelope, there was to
accompany it a small one, on which the pseudonym of the competitor was
to be written, but _inside_ of which her real name was to be given. The
essays were to be put on Miss Greene’s desk not later than the evening
of the 1st of June. That was all.
Mrs. Fleming then begged the girls to remember that the essay, although
very important, was but a certain part of the competition; that the part
which related to morals and to that beauty of heart which must declare
itself on the features was to be what would most affect the opinion of
the judges. She said, therefore, that from that moment each day as it
passed would be in reality a day of trial for each competitor, although
they themselves would, she hoped, know nothing on the subject.
“Live worthily, my children, I beseech you,” said the head-mistress, and
tears rose to her beautiful eyes; “for to live worthily is better than
any prize. Children, ‘He that ruleth his spirit is greater than he that
taketh a city.’ And now we will talk no more about the prize, but will
get to our usual work, which I hope will be all the better on account of
this great stimulation.”
It was later on in the course of that same day that Mrs. Fleming came
across, first of all, Alison Maude, and then Peggy Desmond.
Alison said: “Do you think it is right for me to compete? I do not need
money; and, although I should love the honour and glory, I do not think
I should take such a prize for such an object, there are so many in the
school who really need it.”
“I know that, dear Alison, but I think I should like you to compete. Of
course, in your case, you would never use the miniature in its double
sense, although there is no saying but in future generations some of
your children or grandchildren may be glad of it for that purpose. But
you know, my dear, although your chance as regards morals and appearance
ranks very high indeed, yet the prize essay will also largely tell when
the prize is awarded. Yes, my child, try, and, when you try, try with
all your heart.”
Peggy was very different from Alison. “Why, then, mistress dear,” she
said, “how can I contrive to write a paper to please the English? Won’t
they be at me if I let me heart spake the least, the _least_ little
bit.”
“Now, Peggy,” said her mistress, “I’m not going to let you off. I look
forward with great enjoyment to reading your paper, and even if you do
not get the prize this year you may next, remember. This is a yearly
competition.”
After this the subject was dropped, except when girls whispered together
in the lengthening days, and by-and-by in the long summer evenings.
Peggy made steady advance in the refinement of her speech; her warm
heart was as warm as ever, and to please darling Mrs. Fleming she
dropped many of the eccentricities of her language. She quickly became
prime favourite of the Upper School; the girls were, in fact, charmed
with her, for she kept them in fits of laughter whenever they could get
her to themselves. She was a born mimic, but her mimicry was never
ill-natured. She could recite as no one else could, and to hear her
recite “Fergus O’Flynn” was to bring tears to more than one pair of
eyes. On all hands Peggy was in request, so much so that her supposed
cousins were, one of them highly delighted and the other a little less
jealous of her popularity. As Peggy herself was so sweet, so indifferent
to flattery, so obliging and good-natured, even Jessie saw that she
might as well be on her side. The girl would do anything on earth for
her, and, being a very neat workwoman, would spend long hours arranging
Jessie’s frocks and doing all she could to help either of the Wyndhams;
in short, Peggy had found her _métier_, and no longer mourned for Old
Ireland. It was the sweetest place in the world; but, bedad, Mrs.
Fleming was the sweetest woman, and a woman came before a place any day
of the week.
Thus this uneventful term drew to its close, and the girls departed for
their Easter recess. Kitty had been quiet and inoffensive during the
past term, and even Mrs. Fleming was hopeful about her; still, the
mystery with regard to Peggy was unexplained, and Mrs. Fleming felt
somehow that sleeping dogs were only quiet for the moment. During the
term it had been Kitty’s great aim to induce the Dodds to get their
father to give them a dress allowance; and, as they were not allowed to
get any more dresses from Miss Weston, and Miss King was really making
herself most unpleasant, crowing over the said Miss Weston, it was
absolutely necessary that something must be done. Kitty, up to the
present, had managed to quiet Miss Weston by giving her the ten pounds
which each of the Dodd girls had to pay, owing to their bet with Kitty.
She had, of course, ordered frocks for herself when she paid this money;
but Miss Weston was still very cross and discontented, declaring loudly
that she would expose the young ladies if they bought anything more from
that King woman.
“Her airs in church are past enduring,” said Miss Weston; “she sits just
in front of me, with a feather ’alf a yard long in ’er ’at, and I call
it sickening. ’Tisn’t that I don’t _want_ to oblige you, Miss Merrydew,
for you pays for dressing, being most helegant in shape and face; but
it’s the slight that’s put on me that I ’old myself against, and I’m
sure them poor Dodds—they’re figures of fun in King’s cut, and that I
will say.”
“You leave them alone, Miss Weston,” said Kitty; “don’t say a word, and
you’ll see what will happen. Mr. Dodd is a great friend of mine, but I
have to be careful with him. You know he’s as rich—as rich as Crœsus,
Miss Weston, and he is so proud of Anne and Grace! When he sees the King
cut on them he won’t like it; and then I intend to explain the reason.
I’ll tell him that the woman doesn’t know how to dressmake, and that
_you_ have a proper cut, and of course he has got to pay for it. You’ll
see you’ll get heaps of orders next term.”
“Well, miss, I ’ope so. If I do, well and good; but if I don’t, I’ll
’ave to hup and explain the deception I was forced to practise.”
“Oh you wouldn’t do that, dear Miss Weston; it would ruin me for ever
and ever.”
“I’ve no wish to ruin you, miss, but a poor woman must live.”
Accordingly, during the Easter holidays, Kitty worked the subject of the
Dodds’ dress for all she was worth. She did it with her usual
cleverness, not appearing to have anything to say to it, but really
having her little fingers in the pie. Dodd couldn’t make out what ailed
Anne, nor why Grace looked so dowdy, with her dress sagging up in front
and going down in a hideous little miniature train at the back.
“There’s Kitty now,” he said to his wife, “as neat as a picter, and as
smart as you please, and her dress bought for her by that poor aunt, who
isn’t rich at all, and there are my lasses, with their father rolling in
money—yes, that’s the word for it, Mary Anne—_rolling_ in money, and
they looking so queer and shapeless. I’m discouraged about them, I am
really.”
“You see, dear,” said the wife, “you would send them to a second-rate
dressmaker.”
“I!” roared the angry man. “I send my girls to any one second-rate! You
must be dreaming, duckydums.”
“Well, John, you said they were not to go to Miss Weston, and there’s
only Miss King in the place besides.”
“Oh, that Weston woman, her charges were robbery.”
“Still, she made the girls look all right,” answered the mother.
“Well, to be sure—to be sure,” muttered John Dodd.
“Now listen, John. The girls have been speaking to me; I assure you,
poor darlings, they don’t like to be badly dressed. Now what do you say
to this. Why not give them an allowance each, and let them spend it as
they please, and where they please? It will teach them the value of
money, which every girl ought to know, and I can vouch for it that you
won’t have to complain of their appearance in the future.”
“That’s not a bad notion; is it your own?” said Dodd.
“Well, I confess that Gracie did speak about it.”
“It didn’t come from that Kitty wench?”
“No, she has never touched on the subject of dress in my presence.”
“Well, then, Mary Anne, right you are. I’ll give them a handsome
allowance each; but, first of all, you must take them to London, and rig
’em up with decent clothes. You can take that other child with you too,
and give her a frock or two; it will help the aunt, poor soul.”
Thus Kitty had her own way, and came back to The Red Gables School
handsomely attired and fit to compete with all her might and main for
the Howard miniature. Who now so obliging as Kitty? Who in all the
school wore so sunshiny a face? Who was so ready to help her neighbours,
more particularly when the schoolteachers could be seen anywhere round?
Kitty was, in short, in her element; she even tried to make things up
with Peggy, but Peggy firmly and decidedly declined her advances.
“I haven’t got anything to do with ye,” said Irish Peggy. “I like ye no
more now than I did at first, and so I say plain and straight.”
“You’re very unkind, Peggy; when you speak in that tone you almost make
me cry,” said Kitty. Kitty spoke loud on purpose, for Miss Archdale was
passing the quadrangle. The governess half-stopped and half-looked
round. Kitty suddenly called to her. “Please, Miss Archdale,” she said.
“Yes, what’s the matter?”
“I wish you’d speak to Peggy; she’s _so_ unkind to me.”
“Are you really unkind to Kitty, Peggy?” said Miss Archdale, glancing at
the Irish girl.
“It isn’t me fault, Miss Archdale dear,” replied Peggy; “it’s that I
don’t take to her at all, at all, and never mean to. Why can’t she let
me be, Miss Archdale dear? Why, glory! there’s room enough for us both
in this old world.”
“I want to be friends with every one,” said Kitty in a modest, sad
voice.
“Well, then, I don’t,” said Peggy. “It’s that portrait you’re craving
for, not me nor me friendship.—There now, I’ve gone down a peg in your
estimation; and, Miss Archdale dear, ye’ll be doing right if ye put a
bad mark against me name. But, why then, I don’t care, for I couldn’t
collogue wid her if it was twenty portraits of twenty old ladies I was
to lose.”
Peggy crossed the quadrangle and disappeared into the Upper School.
There was a look of secret triumph in Kitty’s dark eyes.
“There,” she said to Miss Archdale, “she’s always going on like that;
however hard I try, she will not be friendly. It isn’t kind of her, is
it, Miss Archdale?”
“Perhaps she has a reason, Kitty, that I know nothing about.”
Kitty looked at her teacher and sighed. “It is hard when I’m trying to
do my best,” she said.
“You have certainly improved, Kitty,” said Miss Archdale, “and you may
be quite sure that your teachers notice it.”
Kitty went into the Lower School and there informed her special chums
that, beyond doubt, Irish Peggy had lost her chance of the prize, for
Miss Archdale would put a black mark against her name. As a matter of
fact, no such black mark was put; but against Kitty’s own name there was
a faint observation in pencil: “General improvement, but still sadly
wanting in sincerity.”
And now the excitement with regard to the prize was really trembling
more and more through the school. It was affecting every girl, from the
eldest to the youngest, it was _the_ subject of the hour, and little
scraps of information with regard to it were eagerly treasured by the
competitors, who were now all working seriously at their essays. It was
about this time that Mrs. Fleming asked the girls to wait after prayers,
and told them that she had a piece of information to give them. It was
this:
By the express wish of the judges, who consisted of six London
professors, three of whom were ladies and three were men, a further test
was to be expected from the competitors. Each girl was to recite on the
morning of the prize-giving some verses selected by herself. When this
rather startling announcement was made every eye was fixed on Peggy, who
flushed a vivid crimson, and each girl knew well that this recitation
must result in Peggy’s favour, for no one else in the school had her
really remarkable talent in this special art.
Mrs. Fleming observed the expression in all the watchful eyes, and said
at once: “I know that Peggy Desmond recites remarkably well; but, on the
other hand, she is severely handicapped with regard to the essay, as
pure and perfect English is essential in the case of the competitor who
wins this part of the competition. That being the case, I am glad that
Peggy has her chance, and I am sure you all must agree with me.”
“Three cheers for Peggy Desmond!” sounded now through the room; the
girls clapped their hands and looked smilingly at their favourite.
“Bedad, then, I’ll not compete if ye’d rather I didn’t,” was her remark.
“It’s a way I have to learn things pat off book, very easy like, so
perhaps it isn’t fair for me to say a poem. Of course I’d love it, but
I’m willing to do what’s right.”
“I must say I agree with Peggy,” suddenly remarked Kitty; “the rest of
us find recitations _very_ difficult, and if she is willing not to
recite, don’t you think it seems about fair?”
“If Peggy doesn’t recite,” said Mrs. Fleming, an indignant flush rising
into her face, “I shall beg of the judges to excuse her the essay, and
to give her an equal chance with the rest of you, minus the essay.”
“Oh! oh!” cried several voices. This was favouritism indeed.
Mrs. Fleming came down from her platform, and going up to the Irish
girl, took her hand. “Peggy, dear child,” she said, “I do not accept
your generous offer. You shall choose your recitation, and I trust you
will do your very best when the moment comes for you to recite. I know,
my child, we shall all listen to you with pleasure.”
CHAPTER XXII.
KITTY’S TREACHERY.
In the case of the prize essays, no help of any sort was to be given;
but in the case of the recitations Mrs. Fleming altered her plan. The
time to learn and to recite was somewhat short, and each girl who wished
was allowed to consult with Miss Henrietta Greene, the most dignified
and the most intellectual teacher in the school. Miss Greene might offer
suggestions, and on a certain day the girls were to assemble in the big
schoolroom and recite for her benefit. She was permitted to listen and
to correct any startling inconsistencies, but she was not in any way to
praise the young reciters. Nevertheless, a great deal can be learnt from
the human face, and these girls were sharp enough to be able to judge a
good deal by Miss Greene’s expression of countenance. The rehearsal took
place one day before the essays were to be sent in. Peggy was much
excited, and could scarcely keep her excitement to herself. To Peggy,
verse was like music, rhythm was to her pure ecstasy; a ballad was
indeed a story into which she could throw herself and live. All her life
long the child had this special gift, and many and many were the verses
she recited to the children in the old country, to her grandparents, and
to her foster-parents, the O’Flynns. Peggy chose Ireland, and always
Ireland, as her theme; with the Irish ballad she could give herself
away, and show what a maiden of Ireland might achieve. Her action was
absolutely natural, full of fire and without effort; it came to her as
easily as did the breath that she drew. She was in the picture, she was
there herself, going through the agony or the joy. The smile that came
and went on her lovely face, the look of exultation which filled her
sapphire eyes, all showed her true and real appreciation. When Peggy
recited she forgot herself absolutely. Hitherto her great piece had been
the very well-known recitation called “Fergus O’Flynn;” this, of course,
would not do for the present occasion, and after a little study she
suddenly announced that the piece she would recite was called “The
Fairies’ Passage,” and was by James Clarence Mangan. Molly Wyndham chose
“The May Queen,” but was told that it was a little too long, and she
must only recite the two first parts, another girl selected Tennyson’s
most touching “Children’s Hospital,” and another again chose part of
Mrs. Hamilton King’s well-known “Story of the Irish Famine.”
The recitations were to take place in the afternoon, and Peggy entered
the room accompanied by the other girls, who sat round in a row. One by
one they went through their verses, and at last it was Peggy’s turn. The
colour rushed into her cheeks, for a minute her eyes shone. Kitty, who
was watching her intently, perceived at that moment that Peggy was
absolutely lost to her presence; that she, Kitty, was nothing at all to
the girl; the girl was away in the scene which she had conjured up.
Peggy’s voice came mellow, clear, with the exquisite touch in it which
only an Irish voice possesses. She stood a little apart, a curious light
filled her eyes.
“Now, Peggy, now,” said her mistress.
The girl started, just as though something had awakened her from a
dream, then she began:
Tap, tap! Rap, rap! “Get up, Gaffer Ferryman!”
“Eh? Who is there?”—The clock strikes three.—
“Get up—do, Gaffer! You are the very man
We have been long, long, longing to see.”
The Ferryman rises, growling and grumbling,
And goes fum-fumbling, and stumbling—and tumbling
Over the wares in his way to the door;
But he sees no more
Than he saw before,
Till a voice is heard—“O Ferryman, dear!
Here we are waiting, all of us, here!
We are a wee, wee colony, we,
Some two hundred in all, or three—
Ferry us over the River Spree
Ere dawn of day,
And we will pay
The most we may,
In our own wee way!”
“Who are you? Whence came you? What place are you going to?”—
“Oh, we have dwelt overlong in this land.
The people get cross, and are growing so knowing, too!
Nothing at all but they now understand.
We are daily vanishing under the thunder
Of some huge engine or iron wonder—
That iron—oh, it has entered our souls!”
“Your souls? O Goles!
You queer little drolls!
Do you mean——?” “Good Gaffer, do aid us with speed,
For our time, like our stature, is short indeed!
And a very long way we have to go,
Eight or ten thousand miles or so,
Hither and thither, and to and fro,
With our pots and pans,
And little gold cans;
But our light caravans
Run swifter than Man’s!”
Off then went the boat, at first very pleasantly,
Smoothly and so forth, but after a while
It swayed and it swagged this and that way, and presently
Chest after chest, and pile after pile,
Of the Little Folks’ goods began tossing and rolling
And pitching like fun, beyond fairy controlling!
O Mab! if the hubbub was great before,
It was now some two or three million times more;
Crash went the wee crocks, and the clocks, and the locks
Of each little box were stove in by hard knocks.
And then there were oaths, and prayers and cries—
“Take care!” “See there!” “Oh dear! my eyes!”
“I am killed!” “I am drowned!”—with groans and sighs.—
Till the land is in view—
“Yeo, ho! Pull to!—
Tiller rope thro’ and thro’!”—
And all’s right anew.
“Now, jump upon shore, ye queer little oddities!—
Eh! What is this? Where are they at all?
Where are they, and where are their tiny commodities?
Well, as I live!” He looks blank as a wall,
The poor Ferryman! Round him and round him he gazes,
But only gets deeplier lost in the mazes
Of utter bewilderment! All, all are gone—
And he stands alone,
Like a statue of stone,
In a doldrum of wonder! He turns to steer,
And a tinkling laugh salutes his ear
With other odd sounds—“Ha! ha! ha! ha!
Tol, lol, zid—ziddle—quee—quee—bah! bah!
Fizzigigiggidy—psha!—sha! sha!”
—“O ye thieves! ye thieves! ye rascally thieves!”
The good man cries. He turns to his pitcher,
And there, alas! to his horror perceives,
That the Little Folks’ mode of making him richer
Has been, to pay him with—withered leaves!
The girls listened in perfect amazement, for Peggy, as she warmed to her
work, really had a sort of witchery about her. She forgot her audience,
she was first the Ferryman, she was then the little people, she was
everything she described; her voice rose and fell, her eyes danced, her
voice danced to the music of her thoughts. Now and then she stopped to
laugh, and her laugh was uncanny. At last her trial was over. There was
a dead silence in the room, no words were allowed to be said; but when
she sat down again, and the other girls followed suit, it seemed, both
to Miss Greene and to the girls themselves, that all the other verses
wanted in tone, in flash, in spirit, compared with the magnificent
rendering of the “Fairies’ Passage.” Miss Greene afterwards went away to
Mrs. Fleming.
“Well, my dear,” said that good lady, “you have heard the recitations?”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Fleming looked at her. “Have you anything to say?”
“Well, of course,” said Miss Greene, “there’s no doubt whatever. The
girls have chosen with care, and they will do their work admirably; but
Peggy——”
“Yes, what of Peggy?”
“Peggy ought to go on the stage some day; and yet, do I want such a life
for her? She is wonderful. I won’t tell you anything about what she is
going to recite. I never heard the verses myself before; rendered by
Peggy, I can only tell you that they take one’s breath away. They have a
slight resemblance to Browning’s ‘Pied Piper’; I almost think that
Browning must have read them and copied the style, for they are, of
course, much older. I asked the child afterwards, and she said that her
‘gaffer,’ as she used to call old O’Flynn, often said them to her on a
winter evening, when the ‘little people,’ as she expressed it, were
about. I asked her then if she believed in the little people, and she
said, ‘Of course I do.’ Really, that child—there’s something magical
about her.”
“She is very, very lovable,” said Mrs. Fleming. “But, all the same, my
dear kind friend, I would much rather she did not get the miniature.”
“She will get it as far as the recitation is concerned.”
“There are so many other things to be considered,” said Mrs. Fleming.
“Yes, that is true.”
“I am almost sorry,” continued Mrs. Fleming, “for Peggy’s sake, that the
people in London have insisted on recitations; however, there is no help
for it now, and Peggy shall not be discouraged, she shall do her very
best. Before she leaves this school I can promise one thing, that she
will get the Howard miniature; but I don’t want to spoil the darling by
giving it to her this year.”
“I know a girl,” said Miss Greene, “who is trying for it desperately
hard.”
“Who is that, my dear?”
“Kitty—Kitty Merrydew. She is a good deal altered; don’t you think so?”
“Do you think she is altered in spirit, dear?”
“Ah, that I can’t say.”
“It is very sad,” continued Mrs. Fleming, after a pause, “that Hannah
and Sophy are not competing; there are no girls in this school who want
the prize more than they do. However, they are quite determined, and I
must not say a word. I think they both look very, very sad; they keep
together a great deal, and don’t talk much to the others. Haven’t you
noticed that, dear Henrietta?”
“Well, no, being in the Upper School, I don’t see so much of them as
Julia does,” was Henrietta’s answer. “Yes, I’m sorry they’re not
competing; but, after all, they can have another trial.”
By this time it was whispered all over the school, both in the Upper and
Lower School, that beyond any doubt whatsoever, Peggy would come out
first in the recitations. There was a great deal of indignation on the
part of the few girls who did not like her. It is true that these girls
were very few in number; they consisted, in fact, only of Kitty and the
two Dodds. There was another girl in the Upper School who did not
greatly take to her, but she has nothing to do with this story, and need
scarcely be mentioned by name. She was not trying for the prize, she was
a rich girl and had little or no ambition in her character. She, as well
as Alison Maude, was to leave at the end of the present term. Alison was
in perfect raptures over Peggy’s recitation; she went to the little
girl’s room that evening and said to her: “My dear, I have come with a
request.”
“What is that?” asked Peggy.
“You must say part of that rollicking verse over again; I can’t get it
out of my head.”
“Oh no; please don’t ask me.”
“Do, do, please say a little bit of it over again. I am perfectly mad
about it. Just those queer sounds at the end, you know—‘Ha! ha! ha!
ha!’”
Peggy laughed, then she said quickly:
“Ha! ha! ha! ha!
Tol, lol, zid—ziddle—quee—quee—bah! bah!
Fizzigigiggidy—psha! sha! sha!”
“Oh, Peggy, _how_ you say it! And how could any man ever think of
anything so funny?”
“It is rather funny,” said Peggy. “Perhaps it is scarcely fair of me to
choose those verses for my recitation; and, do you know, I haven’t a
single copy of them, I just remembered them. They’ve been so often
repeated to me by my grandad, when he was alive, and afterwards by the
O’Flynns, I just know them by heart. Suppose I were to forget!”
“Well, if I were you, Peggy, I’d write them all out while I remembered
them.”
“I don’t think I will do that, Alison, thank you so much, because,
somehow, they’re part of me by this time. To say them properly you ought
to be in an Irish cottage, Alison, with the sea breaking on the rocks
just below your house, and the little hens—I say it properly
now—roosting close by you, and the turkeys and the geese and the ducks,
belike, all waiting for the dawn, and the bit of a calf wanting his
drink of milk, and the little pigeens all snoring in their soft bed of
hay. Ah, there’s no place like Old Ireland! Did you ever see real Irish
moss, Alison?”
“No.”
“You don’t have it in this country,” continued Peggy. “I have looked for
it and looked for it. You don’t know what the moss is in Ireland, in the
damp month of February, when it fructifies, and is all over little
delicate flowers, a sort of faint pink, you know; and then there’s
another kind of dainty, dainty leaves, like tiny fern-leaves. I can’t
tell you how beautiful it is! I wish Daddy O’Flynn would send me a box
over, so that you could see for yourself.”
“When you are older, Peggy, you must go back to Ireland and see the
Irish moss and all the Irish things again.”
“What’s that ye’re saying, Alison?”
“You must go back to Ireland to see——”
“Is it me to hear you talk as though it were a visit? Do you think when
I’m grown up I’ll _ever_ leave the place? Not me, it’s to live there and
die there I want. The Irish shamrock and the Irish harp; and, oh, the
Irish land! and—and the Irish people! Don’t talk to me, Alison, it’s me
heart is broke when I think of them!” The excited child burst into
tears, and Alison tried to comfort her for a few minutes.
Presently Peggy started up. “I must go to write that essay,” she said;
“I can’t get round it at all, at all. _Know yourself_—it’s a horridly
difficult thing to know yourself, isn’t it, Alison?”
“That is true; but just say what you feel, take all the things you love,
those things that excite and interest you. There, perhaps I oughtn’t to
say that much.”
“Thank you, Alison, you have given me a bit of a clue; but you won’t
mind if I use it? I’m certain to write a bad essay, for my spelling
ain’t none of the best. I’m sorry for meself, that I am.”
The news of the recitation, delightful to some of the girls, was the
reverse of delightful to others; and Kitty thought it well to have a
conference with her chosen friends on the subject. “There, now,” she
said, “I know exactly what is going to happen. There’s one girl in the
school to whom that prize means salvation, and she has no more a chance
of it than if she wasn’t in the school at all.”
“Who are you talking about, Kitty?” asked Grace.
“Well, now, Grace, who do you think I am talking about?”
“I’m afraid it’s yourself,” answered Grace.
“Of course it is myself. You don’t know how badly I want that prize, you
don’t know what life will be to me when I leave this school.”
“There’s one thing, Kitty, which does astonish us,” said Anne Dodd.
“What is that?”
“The marvellous way in which you have come round father.”
Kitty laughed.
“How did you do it, Kitty? I wish you’d tell us.”
“I’m not likely to,” replied Kitty.
“You might tell us, Kitty—you really might.”
“No,” answered Kitty.
“Well, you have done it, anyhow, and when father takes even a sort of
fancy to a girl he’s always good to that girl as long as she lives, so
you may be certain on that point; he’ll never let you really want.”
“But if I got the prize,” pursued Kitty, “I needn’t be beholden to any
one. You don’t know how—how it hurts me somehow, for I may have a little
bit of pride in me when all’s said and done.”
“I have never specially remarked it,” said Anne.
“Haven’t you, Anne? Well, I’m sorry, but I have pride, all the same.”
Anne made no response.
“How are you getting on with your essays?” was Kitty’s next remark.
“Very badly. I know I haven’t a chance of the prize,” said Anne. “What’s
the good of trying?”
“We must try,” said Grace, “it would please daddy so tremendously if we
won.”
“But it would have been much better for us not to have tried,” said
Anne; “that’s my opinion. For if we hadn’t tried he would not have been
disappointed, now he will be—of course he will—when he knows that we
both have failed.”
The girls now began to whisper in low tones with regard to the person
who was likely to win the prize essay.
Grace sat down in a dejected way and folded her arms. “I’m sick of
writing!” she said. “Where’s the good? I’m absolutely certain to fail.
Alison will get the prize. I don’t see the use of going on.”
Kitty had been sitting very still, her eyes were wonderfully bright.
Suddenly she spoke. “Grace,” she said, “if _you_ get the miniature, what
will your father do for you?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Grace. “What do you mean?”
“Well, now, listen,” said Kitty. “I have a plan in my head. No one can
say a word against you, Gracie, with regard to conduct, and I’m sure
your face looks the essence of good-temper. Now, if your father gives
you a handsome present, supposing you win the miniature, will you share
it with me?”
Grace gave a big sigh. “You’re always wanting me to share things with
you, Kitty,” she said. “I am sure Anne and I often feel that we can
scarcely call our souls our own. I haven’t a chance of the miniature, so
what’s the good of thinking about what dad will give me?”
“Well, Gracie, listen. Write your very best, your very, very best, and
there’s no saying—there’s no saying at all. But do just promise, for the
fun of it, that you’ll give me half of whatever your father sends to
you.”
“The worst of it is this,” said Grace, “that father and mother are both
going to be present when the prize is given. I’m ever so sorry. I wish
to goodness they’d stay away.”
“I’m not sorry,” said Kitty. “I’m very glad. You write very good
English, you know, Grace; I’ve often noticed it and so have we all. Just
make me that little promise, won’t you, like a duck?”
“Oh very well, I’ll make it fast enough.”
“You’ll give me half?”
“Yes, yes, but it’s too ridiculous.”
“But you and Anne will never tell?”
“Of course not—of course not. You’d better run away now, Kitty, you’re
only disturbing us, and we have no time to lose.”
Kitty went out of the room, still with that glow in her cheeks and that
light in her eyes. She was desperate. Somehow or other, she must secure
fifty pounds, in no other possible way could she keep Miss Weston quiet.
A desperate girl, devoid of principle, will go a long way. That moment
Kitty, whose own essay, for what it was worth, was finished, sat down
and wrote the following letter to Mr. Dodd:
“DEAR KIND FRIEND—You said I might do it, and I am taking you at
your word. I do want just a pretty simple little frock to wear on
the Howard miniature prize day, something very simple. I could get
it for five pounds. Of course, if you can’t spare the money I can
easily manage; but it would be nice. All the girls are to be in
white, the girls of the Upper School are to wear white embroidered
muslins with violet sashes, and the girls of the Lower School are to
be dressed like them, with rose-coloured sashes. Anne and Grace have
ordered their dresses; and if you won’t help her, poor Kitty must
manage with an old frock. But never mind, dear, kind sir; it is only
a bit of vanity in Kitty, and perhaps it ought not to be encouraged.
Now I’m going to tell you something which is very important. Grace
is making _such_ a try for the prize. The essay is very difficult;
but she is taking such pains with it—oh, I must not say more, but I
wonder, and I—I _hope_. As to poor little me, well, I haven’t the
ghost of a chance, but I should be almost as happy if Grace got it
as if I got it myself.
“Now, my dear sir, I am doing a very bold thing. I want to suggest
to you that you might stimulate Grace by promising her something,
something really big, if she gets the prize. It seems horrid to
suggest money, but I do think she would like that best, for she has
several plans in her head for spending her money, and they are all
very good and great plans, that I can assure you. Now, sir, if you
can, give Gracie a little fillip, will you? If not, please forget
that Kitty has written.”
On the morning of the day when the prize essays were to be put on Miss
Greene’s desk, Grace received a letter from her father which astonished
her a good deal:
“MY DEAREST CHILD—I’m a silly old man to wish you to gain the Howard
miniature prize; but there, my child, I should be _that_ proud, and
now I’ll tell you why—for I should recognise in my Grace a chip of
the old block. I should feel that by and by my girl would worthily
spend the riches which will be hers, that she would not waste them,
but would turn them to account, like the faithful servant who did
not wrap his talent in a napkin, but put it out to usury so that it
gained more. That is what we have to do with all our talents, my
Gracie, and if you gain the Howard miniature I’ll give you a hundred
pounds just to do what you think best with, for I know you will not
spend it contrary to your father’s wishes. By the way, child, give
the enclosed post-office order to Kitty Merrydew. I hope the lass is
improving.”
Kitty changed colour once or twice as Grace was reading this amazing
letter.
“Poor daddy!” Grace said, when she had finished, “I hope to goodness,
Kitty, that you haven’t been putting it into his head that I am likely
to get that prize, when you know perfectly well that I haven’t the ghost
of a chance of it. Here’s a post-office order for you, anyhow. Have you
been asking daddy for money?”
Kitty coloured and then turned pale. “You need not be so unkind to me,”
she said. “I’m sure I’d do anything in the world for you, and your
father is always nice to me.”
“Well, you’ll be a rich girl if I do get the prize,” said Grace, “for
dad says he’ll give me a hundred pounds. What can have put it into his
head? But don’t rely on it, Kitty, for I have no more chance of the
prize than you have, nor as much.”
Kitty made no reply; but that morning, which happened to be a whole
holiday in the school, she begged of Miss Smith to walk down with her to
the village in order that she might see Miss Weston. Miss Smith’s name
has not often appeared in these pages, but she was one of the most
good-natured and kindest of women, and all the girls adored her. Kitty
and she were soon tramping off to the village, and Miss Smith allowed
Kitty to visit Miss Weston alone. Kitty was very triumphant and excited,
and paid in advance for her white muslin frock.
“I ’ear, miss, it’s to be for a very great occasion,” said the
dressmaker. “I’m ’aving orders from most of the school. This ’as revived
me a little, miss, and not made me feel so bitter against that King
woman. Set _’er_ to cut a delicate Indian muslin, indeed! A nice show
she’d make of it! What a wonderful prize you’re all competing for, miss;
it’s the talk of Gable End. One of the servants was down ’ere yesterday,
bringing an order from Miss Alison Maude; they all say that she’s to be
the lucky competitor. Kate, who brought ’er message, left me a letter
with full directions on it. Miss Maude is most particular about the cut
of ’er dress, miss; nearly as much so as you are. Oh my! the orders I
’ave!”
“I wish I could see them, Miss Weston. You might show them to me, you
really might.”
“Well, miss, I don’t like to refuse, but it really isn’t done.”
“Still you know, Miss Weston, I am doing a lot for you; but for me I
don’t suppose you’d have got the orders for the prize dresses, and I do
want mine to be just as nice as Miss Maude’s. You really might let me
run my eye over her directions.”
“Very well, miss, I don’t suppose it _can_ do any ’arm; but you’ll be
careful not to mention it, Miss Merrydew?”
“Certainly I shall be careful.”
Accordingly Miss Weston went to her desk and took out a letter which she
put into the girl’s hand. Eagerly Kitty’s dark eyes appeared to absorb
the contents, in reality she was not thinking about them, her eyes were
fixed on a small mark which was made in one corner of the paper—it was,
in fact, the graceful tracing of a flower, and the flower, beyond doubt,
was the bluebell. Without a word Kitty handed back the letter.
“Thank you, I’ll never speak of this,” she said, and then she returned
to the school. She had got far more than she had hoped, than she had
dared to hope. She really wished to have a good look at Alison Maude’s
handwriting, for it was her impression that it almost exactly resembled
the handwriting of Grace Dodd. Grace wrote an excellent hand, firm,
upright, sensible. Kitty was right in her surmise, Alison wrote exactly
like Grace; but Kitty had learnt a great deal more than the fact which
she was already acting upon—that the two girls wrote like each other;
she was positive that she had found out by an accident the pseudonym
that Alison meant to take. She would call herself “Bluebell.”
During the whole of the rest of that day Kitty was lively of the lively,
and most obliging. Towards the evening fortune seemed to favour her
projects, for Grace had a bad headache and Anne did not like to leave
her sister.
“Why should you?” said Kitty. “I am going across to the Upper School now
to put my essay on Miss Greene’s writing-desk, and you can give me
yours. I suppose they’re all ready.”
“Yes, quite,” said Anne. Grace did not speak, her head was aching
severely. She did not like that letter of her father’s. She meant to
write to him on the following day to tell him that she had no chance of
winning the prize, and that in no case would she accept one hundred
pounds from him. She and Anne had consulted over this letter, but
resolved to say nothing to Kitty.
“Where shall I find the essays?” asked Kitty now.
Anne went to a drawer and took them out. All directions had been
carefully followed. Each essay had been folded in three and slipped into
a long envelope, which was gummed down. On the back of each envelope was
neatly written the words: “Prize Essay for the Howard Miniature.”
Fastened to the long envelope, according to directions, was a small,
ordinary envelope, which was secured by a hole which had been made in
the long envelope and also in the little one; through these two holes a
ribbon was strung, which was tied now in a neat little bow. Grace’s
ribbon was rose colour, Anne’s was cherry red. The pseudonyms of each
girl were put on the small envelope.
“What is your pseudonym, Kitty?” asked Grace, raising her flushed face
now and looking at Kitty. “We thought ‘Rosebud’ and ‘Cherry Blossom’ so
pretty.”
“Oh, I?” said Kitty. “I have called myself ‘Pansy.’ Well, I’ll take the
papers across now.”
Kitty lingered for some time in the passage outside Miss Greene’s
private room. It was quite dark, the lights were not yet turned on;
girls came and went rapidly, and no one noticed Kitty in her dark dress,
standing in the shadow. She counted the girls as they went by. They
entered Miss Greene’s room quickly and came out again almost at once.
She felt certain now that all who were about to compete had left their
papers on Miss Greene’s desk. It was now her turn to enter. Quick as
thought, she opened the door and shut it behind her. There was a small
lamp burning on the desk, the rest of the room was in shadow. Quickly
Kitty approached the table. Staring her in the face was the long
envelope in that neat writing so exactly like Grace’s—“Prize Essay for
the Howard Miniature,” and on the small envelope, fastened to it with a
piece of blue ribbon, was the pseudonym “_Bluebell_.”
In a flash, yet with firm fingers, Kitty untied Alison’s small envelope,
she also untied Grace’s, then she changed the two envelopes, putting
Grace’s on Alison’s paper and Alison’s on Grace’s. The deed was done.
She gave a quick sigh of delight. “Ah! I am clever,” she said aloud.
“No, you are not. You’ve got to change that,” said a voice, strong,
brave, passionate; and Kitty looked into Peggy’s eyes.
For one minute Kitty turned perfectly white, as white as death; there
was no way out of it. Even her genius could not discover any. She had
planned for this, she had worked for it. From the moment that Peggy had
recited in her spirited and brilliant way, Kitty had known down deep in
her heart that the Howard miniature was not for her. The best she could
not win, but how about the second best? Could she so arrange matters
that her friend should get the prize? How noble then would Kitty look,
rejoicing in the good fortune of another; how splendid would be her
appearance on the day of the prize-giving, when with her little face all
aglow, she had kissed Grace and congratulated her. And there was really
no fear of discovery, for the prize essay was not to be read aloud, the
judges were to decide, and the essay itself was to be put away in the
Howard archives; and the essays that were failures were to be destroyed,
they were not to be returned to the luckless writers. All these things
Kitty had taken into account when she laid her plans. Startling and
great was the similarity between Grace’s handwriting and Alison’s! She
had meant to be guided by that on the day when she changed the papers,
but Fate seemed truly in her favour when that little sketch of the
bluebell had given her the clue to Alison’s pseudonym. How Mr. Dodd
would love her! how kindly he would think of the girl who had felt so
sure of his girl’s success. Oh yes, yes, she had reason to be happy!
But, just at the moment of success there came the crash, the fall, the
hopeless despair. For Kitty recognised in the sapphire-blue eyes of
Peggy Desmond one who would not be trifled with, and who would not
relent. She had begun by hating and despising Peggy; but although she
feared her awfully she did not despise her now.
“Peggy, Peggy,” she said, “Peggy, Peggy, have mercy!”
“I don’t intend to have mercy,” replied Peggy; “there’s been too much
mercy shown to ye, bedad, and I’m not going on with it. Ye’ll just do
what I wish now. Untie that ribbon and be quick, or Miss Greene will
come into the room.”
Kitty, with trembling fingers, did what Peggy demanded; her little hand
shook, she could scarcely form a knot. Peggy stood stately and silent
near her. She did not help her in the very least, there was a glow of
triumph in her eyes. Was this the girl whom Kitty had resolved to
humble? Was this the girl whom Kitty had hurt, had trampled on? Was this
the girl whose leg had been broken because of Kitty and her satellites?
She stood there now like a sort of avenging angel, gloriously strong and
beautiful, but with no compassion about her—none whatsoever. Those
tender and gracious lips had no kindly curves for Kitty, those glorious
blue eyes were firm, defiant, slightly mocking, a little revengeful. Was
this indeed the girl who was loved by all the Upper School, the creature
of storm and sunshine, of love and pity, of sympathy, of that tender,
tender compassion which would make her ever deny herself to help others?
Kitty, having at last finished her work of restoring the altered
envelopes to their original position, now looked at Peggy. “I’ve done
it,” she said. “You have stopped me and ruined me. I suppose I can go
now,”
“Why, then, no.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Ye have got to come along with me to Mrs. Fleming, bedad.”
“Peggy! Oh you can’t be so cruel!”
“Cruel, is it? Why, then, it’s meself don’t see that at all. It’s you
that has been cruel, Kitty Merrydew.”
“I—I—oh let me go, let me go! Have mercy, have pity! I’ll go on my knees
to you. Have mercy! Peggy, Peggy, have mercy!”
“Get up again on to your legs. I can’t stand people making mollycoddles
of themselves. You’re in a fright now, for you think you’re in my power,
and you _be_ in my power, Kitty Merrydew! I did wrong, bitter wrong, to
promise I wouldn’t tell when you and those girls you were colloguing
with let out a hit at me leg and broke it; but I’m tired of shielding
ye, and what’s more, I’ll not do it, Kitty Merrydew. There are two girls
in the school, and they’re frightened out of their lives at ye. One of
them is Sophy Marshall and the other is Hannah Joyce. They couldn’t try
for the prize just because of ye. Well, now, I promised that I’d not
tell, and bitter sore have I felt about that said promise; but a promise
with me is a promise, and I kept it, though me heart was bleeding,
bleeding; but I never said I’d keep _this_, and I don’t mean to, so
we’ll just come along and have our collogue with Mrs. Fleming, the
crature. She’ll be mighty interested at the clever way ye did it, Kitty,
altering the bits of envelopes and all. My word! it will be a fine story
for her to listen to, and the sooner she hears it the better.”
“But do you know, can you guess, what this will mean to me?”
“Why, then, I’m not thinking of ye at all; it’s those two poor wans left
out in the cold that me heart is aching for. Ah, to be sure, it’s pity I
feel for them, poor colleens; but for ye, never a bit, so come along and
get it done.”
“You’re the cruellest, wickedest, most horrible girl in the world!”
“Ah, to be sure, now that don’t hurt me at all; ye can’t come round me
that way.”
“Peggy, is there any way in which I could beseech of you to have pity?”
“Niver a wan. Come along now, Kitty; it’s my turn at last.”
“Oh if I’d only left you alone!”
“To be sure, ye’d have been happier to-night if ye had.”
“Do you know what will happen if you have your wish, you horrible girl?”
“Why, to be sure, Hannah and Sophy will be put out of their misery.
Maybe there’ll be a bit of a consolation prize given to them, poor
colleens!”
“But what about me—me! I have no home, I am an orphan, I have only an
aunt too poor to support me. Can you turn me out into the cold world?”
“’Tisn’t meself that’s doing it, Kitty; ’twas you, when you listened to
the promptings of the wicked wan. There’s no saying where _he’ll_ lead
you.”
“Oh, oh, oh! I can’t!—I can’t bear it!”
Just then there was a noise heard in the passage outside, and Miss
Greene, accompanied by two of the girls, entered the room. She looked
with astonishment at Peggy, who was standing very upright, not a scrap
of fear in her manner, but a great deal of proud resolution. Then Miss
Greene glanced at Kitty, who was crouching into the darkest shadow of
the room. Kitty’s heart began to beat furiously, she backed away and
away, nearer and nearer to the window, which stood open.
“What are you two doing here?” said Miss Greene, who read disturbance in
the air.
“Having a little bit of a tiff, no less,” said Peggy. “We thought we’d
lay the matter before Mrs. Fleming.”
Miss Greene was about to interfere, for she knew that Mrs. Fleming was
very tired; but there was something about Peggy’s attitude which stopped
her.
“Miss Greene,” said Peggy, “ye’d best be collecting the prize essays,
they’re all on your desk safe and sound. Now, then, Kitty, come along.
Why, wherever——Have you seen her?” she asked, turning to one of the
girls.
“Do you mean Kitty Merrydew?” asked Prissy, for it was she. “I saw her
step out of the window a minute ago. I suppose she has gone back to the
Lower School.”
“My word!” said Peggy. She turned and also left the room.
CHAPTER XXIII.
DISCOVERY AND FLIGHT.
But Kitty had not gone to the Lower School. She was not going there any
more. All of a sudden, just as though the hand of Almighty God Himself
were stretched out, she was stopped in her wickedness. When Peggy spoke
to her it was like the writing on the wall at the impious feast
described in the Bible: “Thou art weighed in the balances, and art found
wanting.” She walked rapidly, her head in a whirl, her breath coming
quickly. How near to success she had been, but instead of success she
had touched failure. Kitty was clever enough to know that in Peggy she
had met an antagonist worthy of her powers; there was no getting round
Peggy, there was no cajoling her, there was no rousing her pity. Peggy
was sorry for others, but not for Kitty. Kitty recognised as a fact
beyond all other facts that Peggy would do what she said; there was
nothing for her, therefore, but in the moment of Peggy’s success to go
away. She must leave The Red Gables, she must leave her schoolfellows,
she must leave her hopes, her ambitions, all her plans for the future.
She was found wanting. Yes, to her, Peggy stood in the place of
God—Peggy, the Irish peasant girl, whom she had despised. She did not
despise her now. In all the world she had never respected any one as she
did Peggy Desmond at that moment.
In her little dark frock, without any hat, wearing her thin shoes and
those black silk stockings which she had secured in so mean a manner,
Kitty entered the village of Gable End and called at Miss Weston’s. Miss
Weston was astonished to see the girl, and not a little frightened.
“I want you to help me,” said Kitty. “I want you to lend me an old hat
and a jacket and a pair of gloves, and I want you to give me a pound.
You need not make that white muslin frock, for I shall not need it. You
can keep the four pounds, and give me one—will you? If you don’t——” But
there was a look now on Kitty’s face which frightened Miss Weston.
“’Ave you got into trouble, my dear?” she said in a whisper.
“Yes, awful, awful; I can’t speak about it. I must go back to Aunt
Gloriana; she will tell me what to do.”
“I’ll give you the pound, my dear. Can you get to ’er to-night?”
“Yes, oh yes. Don’t keep me, or I may miss my train. Thank you, Miss
Weston. I’ll send you back your things.”
“If I could ’elp you in any way, my dear”——
“You can’t, no one can. _God_ is angry with me.”
Kitty left Miss Weston’s house. The astonished dressmaker did not speak;
but at the end of an hour, when the train to Folkestone was safely on
its way, she put on her hat and jacket and went up to The Red Gables
School. She inquired for Mrs. Fleming, and was ushered into her
presence. “If you please, ma’am,” she said, “I think it only right to
tell you that one of your young ladies came to me in great trouble. She
wanted money to go back to Folkestone, and I gave it to ’er, ma’am. She
was in very fearful trouble, ma’am, and said that God was angry with
’er. She seemed such a bright young lady too. I never saw ’er like that
before.”
Just then Peggy rushed into the room. “Have you found her?” she asked in
a distracted sort of voice.
Mrs. Fleming put her hand on the girl’s arm to restrain her.
“What was the name of the young lady you have come to me about?” she
asked, turning to the dressmaker.
“Oh ma’am, Miss Kitty Merrydew, the sweetest, prettiest young lady I
ever ’ad the pleasure of working for; she’d grace any style, ma’am. I
never saw ’er in such a state as she was in to-night.”
“You are very kind to let me know,” said Mrs. Fleming. “How much money
did you lend the young lady? I will return it to you.”
“Oh ma’am, thank you, no; it was ’er own money.”
“Very well. Good-evening.”
The dressmaker departed. After a time Mrs. Fleming turned to Peggy.
Peggy had flung herself on her knees and had buried her face on an
ottoman.
“Peggy, child, what’s wrong?”
“I did it!” said Peggy. “I did it!”
“You, my dear child! You did what?”
“_Drove her out_,” said Peggy, in a whisper. Then, after a pause, she
said in a low, awed whisper, “_into the black night_.”
“Peggy, come and sit by me and tell me of this thing.”
Peggy looked up with dry eyes, which were shining brightly. “I said I’d
tell, but I can’t—_now_.”
“Peggy, is that right?”
“I can’t—_now_,” repeated Peggy.
“My dear little girl, I think you ought.”
“I can’t—now,” repeated Peggy. Then she added: “You see, God is
punishing her, I needn’t.”
Thus it came to pass that Kitty Merrydew left the school of The Red
Gables.
Kitty’s aunt wrote a long, apologetic letter to Mrs. Fleming. The letter
was full of bitter regrets for Kitty’s conduct, which she hoped Mrs.
Fleming would overlook, although she naturally could not expect her to
take the girl back to the school again. Mrs. Fleming did not know what
that conduct was—she never did know, for Peggy never told. After a time
she wrote to Miss Merrydew, proposing a foreign school, a strict school
for her young niece, where the girl would be watched, and, if possible,
her character reformed. Mrs. Fleming offered to pay the fees of that
school herself.
The Howard miniature was, after all, adjudged to Alison Maude, which
fact gave universal and sincere gratification.
Peggy lives at The Red Gables, happy, beloved, and blessed, and hopes
eventually to win that great honour—the Howard Miniature Prize.
THE END.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
2. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
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