BY MOONLIGHT.
The time went quickly enough at Miss Russell's. Once the routine
established, lesson followed lesson and day followed day with amazing
rapidity. Before Peggy could realise that she was fairly settled, a
month had passed. It was not so bad now; in fact, a good deal of it was
very pleasant, she was obliged to admit. Her geometry was a constantly
progressing joy; so was her anatomy, and she had the happy consciousness
that she was doing well in both studies. This enabled her to bear up
against the bitterness of rhetoric and of Miss Pugsley. As for the
history, once equally dreaded, its terrors had nearly vanished. Miss
Cortlandt had a way of making things so clear that one could not help
remembering them once they were explained. Furthermore, she managed to
invest the lay-figures of dead and gone kings and conquerors with life
and motion. Alexander the Great was no longer a tiresome person in a
book, who cried in an absurd way when there was nothing left to conquer.
That had always exasperated Peggy, "because if he had had any sense, he
would have gone on, and found out for himself what a lot more there was,
that his old books and seers and things had never found out." But now,
she found Alexander in the first place a boy who knew about horses,
which in itself was a great thing, and in the second place a man who
knew about a great many other things, and who acted on his knowledge in
a variety of swift and surprising ways. As with this hero, so with
others, till Peggy came to look forward, actually, to the history hour;
which shows what a teacher can do when she understands her girls, and
knows enough to call Plutarch and his peers (if any!) to aid her in her
task.
But when all was said and done, Peggy was not cut out for a student; and
her happiest hours were not those of even the pleasantest class-room.
Basket-ball claimed her for its own, and she proved an apt and ready
learner in this branch of study. Less swift than Grace Wolfe, who seemed
a thing compact of steel and gossamer, she was far stronger to meet an
attack, and many a rush came and passed, and left the stalwart freshman
standing steady and undaunted in her place.
The hours of sport brought the two girls nearer and nearer together; and
Peggy found herself yielding more and more--often against her own
judgment--to the fascination of the lawless girl, who on her part seemed
curiously drawn to the simple, downright, law-abiding freshman.
It was about this time that Peggy found out why her room had been called
Broadway. The nights were still fine and warm, though it was now
October. Apples were ripe in the neighbouring orchards; and though it
was perfectly practicable and allowable to buy all the apples one wanted
in the daytime, that method did not approve itself to the wilder spirits
at Miss Russell's school.
To slide down the fire-escape, slip across the lawn, keeping well under
the trees by the edge, and so out into the road and down to the nearest
orchard, only a few rods off,--this was the true way to get apples, and
a very thrilling way it was. Peggy had been a good deal startled when
the first merry party, with noiseless steps and stifled giggles, came
stealing into her room, and, nodding to her, made their way out of the
window and down the fire-escape. It never occurred to her to make any
effort to stop them; they were sophomores, and she only a freshman. She
supposed it was against the rules, but of course they would not really
do any harm; and oh, what a good time they would have!
She looked after them with a sigh, and wished them luck in her heart, a
successful raid, and a safe return. Indeed, it was not long before they
were back, rosy and breathless, with baskets and pockets stuffed with
apples. The Fresh Freshman, as Peggy was called, did not fail to receive
her share; and she ate it with a little thrill of vicarious guilt which
was certainly not unpleasant. The two Owls never came with these
parties; and somehow Peggy did not mention the matter to them, though
she saw them constantly, and loved them always more and more. Sometimes
the expeditions were headed by Grace Wolfe, in her wildest mood;
sometimes it was Viola Vincent, who came tripping in with a band of her
chosen intimates. Viola had several times asked Peggy to be of the
party, but Peggy had not gone,--she could hardly have said why. Why was
it that Grace had never asked her? If she had, perhaps--
The night came when Grace did ask her.
Peggy had been studying as usual, and the signal for "lights out" came
while she was still at her task. Out went the light, for Peggy was, as
we have said, a law-abiding citizen. She was groping about, not yet used
to the half-light of the growing moon, when the door opened, and Grace
glided in with her usual noiseless tread. She laid her hand over Peggy's
mouth without a word, and stood motionless, seeming to listen. Then she
said aloud and deliberately:
"Yes, I must go this minute. I had no idea it was so late. Suppose Miss
Pugsley should catch us! You know she goes around and listens at the
doors every now and then, and looks through the keyholes to see what is
going on."
"Oh, Grace!" said Peggy.
"Fact, I assure you. I sometimes wonder what Miss Russell would say if
she knew it. That isn't her own style, you see. The fun of it is, the
other never realises that the wheeze gives her away every time."
Grace Wolfe had the ears of a fox; but, in the pause that followed, even
Peggy heard, or fancied she heard, a breathing outside the door. It was
only for an instant, if, indeed, it had been at all; yet in another
moment a board creaked somewhere along the corridor, and again in a
moment came the slight but unmistakable sound of a closing door.
Grace laughed, and pirouetted merrily on one foot, looking in the
moonlight like a glimmering sprite.
"Oh, Grace!" repeated Peggy, aghast. "Was she--could she have been
there, do you think?"
"She could very easily have been there. Innocent," replied the
Scapegoat. "Indeed, she was. I saw the glitter of her eye, and a sweet
thing it was."
"Oh, but how could you? how dared you? Surely, you will get into
dreadful trouble, Grace."
"Not I!" said Grace. "She can't report me, you observe, without saying
that she was listening at the door. And even if she did, Miss Russell
would ask her what I said, and she would be sad and sorry to relate
that. No! this time I am safe enough, my Prairie Flower. But come, now
that I am here, shall we be merry?
"The owl is abroad, the bat, and the toad,
And so is the catamountain.
"Shall the Goat be lacking on such a night as this, or the Wolf either?
One has one's responsibilities toward one's names. Come, Innocent, we'll
go abroad and celebrate my victory over my Puggy!"
Grace's tone was as quiet as ever, but she was more excited than Peggy
had ever seen her. Her eyes shone; her hair, which was very beautiful,
was unbraided for some reason--one never knew what whim would seize the
whimsical one--and hung like a mantle about her shoulders. Standing
thus, with her hand on the window, she looked, as I have said, like a
creature from another world.
"Come!" she repeated; and Peggy had never heard sweeter music than her
voice.
"Do you--do you think I ought to?" stammered the freshman, moving toward
the window.
"One owes it to the catamountain!" cried Grace. "As for the owls,--well,
they will be abroad!" she added, with a low laugh. "They would be far
enough abroad if they knew. Come, Innocent!"
She glided out of the window, and Peggy followed, her heart beating to
suffocation, her cheeks glowing with excitement. To be chosen by the
Lone Wolf (for this was another of the wild girl's nicknames, the third
being Ishmael) as the companion of one of her solitary rambles was
perhaps the most thrilling thing that had ever come into Peggy's simple
life. Probably she would have had courage to resist an invitation from
any of the frolicsome parties that came and went through her room; she
had no power to resist this. Silently she followed the Scapegoat down
the iron ladder of the fire-escape, across the lawn, out into the open
road.
Grace turned to her with one of her sudden movements, and took both her
hands.
"The world's before us, where to choose!" she cried. "What shall it be,
Innocent? Shall we climb up into the tower and ring the fire-bell? or go
for apples? This is your first expedition, you shall choose."
"Oh, no, Grace; please! I don't know. I cannot. I'll go wherever you go,
that's all!"
The Scapegoat meditated. "On the whole," she announced, "soda seems to
be the thing. We'll go and have some soda, Innocent."
"Go down-town?" gasped Peggy.
"Yes; why not? Only to Mrs. Button's. You know she is the college
grandmother; why shouldn't she be ours? Many's the time Granny Button
has sheltered me from the wrath to come. Besides, I have had no
marshmallows for a week. A vow, a vow! I have a vow in heaven to have
marshmallows once a week, merely for the honour of the school."
Granny Button, as she was called, kept a neat little shop at the corner
of the High Street. Here she dispensed soda-water, candy, and cakes to
the students of school and college. She was a little old woman, with a
face like a dry but still sound winter apple, and she shook her head
reprovingly as the two girls entered.
"Now, Miss Wolfe!" she said. "You hadn't ought to come here at this
time, now you hadn't, my dear. What do you want? I declare, I've most of
a mind not to give it to you, for a wild slip as you are. What would
Miss Russell say if she should come in this blessed minute, Miss Grace?"
"Ah, but she won't, granny!" said Grace, coolly. "She's gone to a
lecture, you see, so it is all right, truly it is.
"I saw her go; one horse was blind,
The tails of both hung down behind,
Their shoes were on their feet.
"I got so exhausted studying, I feared the vital spark might become
extinguished, might pop out, granny, if I didn't have some soda. Two
pineapple creams, please, and be quick about it. I'll be getting the
marshmallows while you pour it."
The old woman filled the long glasses, shaking her head all the time,
and muttering about naughty girls and dark closets.
Peggy drank the soda, but it did not taste very good, and her hand
trembled as she held the glass. Her eyes were fixed on the door, and
every moment she expected to see it open, and Miss Russell or one of the
teachers enter. But no one came. Grace found the marshmallows, and in
high spirits brought them to Mrs. Button to count and tie up for her.
"Granny, you look lovely to-night!" she said. "Don't try to look cross,
Granny Button, for you don't know how. Smile on me, lovely one, for we
must kiss and part."
"Indeed, then, we'd better, Miss Grace," cried the good woman; "and
don't let me see you here again this long while, save and except at
proper hours. I know well enough I ought to tell that good lady of all
the times you've been here out of hours. Yes, dear, I know it well
enough, and sometimes it makes me uneasy in my bed. But you have the
beguiling of the serpent himself, Grace Wolfe, and you know it, and
that's the worst."
"Isn't it?" said Grace, pensively; and her large eyes were full of
tender gravity, as she fixed them on the old woman.
"I'll add serpent to my menagerie, and thank you, granny! Nobody ever
called you serpent, did they, dear? Wait till you come to my time in
life, and you'll know what it is to suffer.
"Well, Innocent, shall we come? After all, it is hard to stay where one
isn't wanted, and the only trouble with Granny Button is that she has no
heart."
"Yes, go, dear!" said the old woman to Peggy, eagerly. "Go right along
home now, and don't let Miss Grace bring ye out again, as she's a
naughty girl, and so I always tell her, though I never can say no to
her, and that's the truth. But you are different, dear, and a freshman,
I'll be bound; and don't let me see ye here again without leave or
license, let alone the hour as is getting on for 'lights out.'"
"Fare thee well, my first and fairest!" said Grace, kissing her hand at
the door. "Till our next meeting!"
It was only a few steps back from the turn into the High Street. Peggy's
pulse began to beat more naturally; in a moment, now, they would be
back, safe back, and she would never do it again, no matter what Grace
thought of her. Fun was fun, but it was not worth this; and what would
Margaret say?
Coming up from the High Street, they skirted a field that lay like
waving silver in the moonlight. Nothing would do but that Grace must
have a run through this field; she declared that it was her favourite
spot in the world.
"After all, soda and marshmallows are carnal!" she insisted. "Our bodies
are fed, Innocent, our souls starve for want of poetry. There is poetry
in all that silver waving. I must! I must prance, or I shall not rest in
my bed. Come along!"
And she went flitting about through the long grass, hither and thither
like a will-o'-the-wisp, her long hair floating around her, her arms
waving in gestures sometimes fantastic, but always graceful. Peggy could
think of nothing but her cousin Rita, as she used to dance in the old
days at Fernley. What a pair she and Grace would make! What a mercy they
had never come together. Moreover, her heart, the heart of a farmer's
daughter, smote her at the treading down of the grass. She stood at the
edge of the field, now and then calling to her companion and urging her
to come home, but for the most part simply watching her in mingled
terror and admiration.
At length the wild spirit was satisfied, and Grace came flying back,
radiant and breathless.
"That was glorious!" she said. "Poor little Innocent, you haven't much
soul, have you? Still, I love you. Come, we will go back to the
shades."
They neared the gate; as they did so, they heard voices and the sound of
approaching footsteps. Grace paused for a moment; then held up her hand
with a warning gesture. Peggy felt her heart turn cold; it was coming!
one of the voices was that of Miss Russell. It was impossible for them
to escape being seen. The broad stretch of the lawn lay between them and
safety, and the relentless moonlight lay full upon the hedge which had
lain in shadow when they came out. Peggy braced herself to meet the
shock; but Grace laid a hand on her arm, and then made a gesture. A
great tree stood just by the gate of Pentland School; a chestnut-tree,
with low-jutting, wide-spreading branches. With the swift movement of
some woodland creature, Grace Wolfe swung herself up to the lowest
branch, and motioned Peggy to follow; Peggy was a good climber, too;
more slowly, but with equal agility, she gained the branch; then softly,
slowly, both girls crept along, inward and upward, till a thick screen
of leaves hid them completely from sight.
Two ladies came around the turn, and paused a moment at the gate,--Miss
Russell and Miss Cortlandt. They stood directly under the chestnut-tree;
Peggy could have dropped a nut down exactly on the crown of Miss
Russell's bonnet; she never knew how near Grace came to doing so, nor
how hard it was to refrain for her, Peggy's, sake.
"I hope not!" said Miss Russell. "I do most earnestly hope not."
"I am afraid there is little doubt of it!" replied Miss Cortlandt. "Miss
Pugsley seemed quite positive; I know she means to bring it up at
Faculty Meeting to-morrow night."
Miss Russell sighed. "Then it will not be done in the wisest manner!"
she said. "I can say this to you, Emily, for you understand her as well
as I do. I had hoped," she continued, "that the whole business would be
over when Wilhelmina Lightwood--well, I suppose she will always be
'Billy,' even to me--when Billy went away. I put Peggy Montfort there,
because she seemed such an honest, steady, sensible kind of girl. I
thought I could trust Peggy Montfort."
"I think you can!" said Miss Cortlandt. "I don't believe Peggy has had
any share in the flittings. But I do think it might perhaps have been
better to tell her all about it, and put her on her guard. Being a new
girl, she might not feel at liberty to stop the older ones when they
came; and she could not tell of it. You see, Miss Russell, it is such a
little time since I was a 'girl' myself, that I haven't got away from
their point of view yet."
"I hope you never will, my dear!" said Miss Russell, warmly. "It is when
I get too far away from that point of view myself that I make mistakes.
Yes, I ought to have put the child on her guard; I'll do so to-morrow."
She looked over toward the school, and sighed again.
"Broad is the way that leadeth to destruction!" she said. "It was Grace
who gave it the name, of course. Poor Grace!"
"Poor Grace!" echoed Miss Cortlandt; and then the two passed on.
They were two very silent girls who crossed the lawn five minutes later.
Grace Wolfe held her head high, and walked with her usual airy grace;
her face was grave, but perhaps no graver than usual. Still, she did not
speak; as for Peggy, she was too bowed down with shame and wretchedness
to think even of her companion. She had been trusted; and she had
betrayed the trust. There seemed nothing in the whole world but that.
They parted outside Peggy's window. Grace was going up a story higher on
the fire-escape, Peggy did not think nor ask where.
No word was spoken; only, Grace laid her hand on Peggy's shoulder and
looked in her face for a moment. Peggy could not speak, could only shake
her head. A single sob broke from her lips; then she hurried in, and
closed the window behind her.
Then Grace Wolfe did a singular thing. Standing on the iron step, she
took from her pocket the packet of marshmallows, and deliberately
scattered them over the lawn, throwing each one as far as her arm could
reach.
"For the frogs!" she explained, aloud. "With the compliments of the
Goat, the Wolf, and the Serpent,--to which is now added the Beast which
Perishes!"