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.”