CHAPTER XV. THE CULPRITS IN COUNCIL.

Previous

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.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

Clyx.com


Top of Page
Top of Page