PEGGY VICTRIX!
"Well, it certainly was a great success!" said the Scapegoat. It was the
day after the reception, and she had drifted into the Owls' Nest toward
twilight, and now stood by the mantelpiece, swaying backward and forward
in the light, wind-blown way she had.
"A great success!" she repeated, thoughtfully. "Why, it was actually
pleasant! How did you manage it?"
"We didn't manage it," said honest Bertha. "It just came so. Everybody
was ready to have a good time, and had it; that was all."
"More than that!" said Grace, absent-mindedly. "There has to be a knack,
or something, and you have it. I haven't. I couldn't do it, even if I
wanted to, and I don't think I do."
"Do what?" said the Snowy.
"Be an Owl!" said Grace. Suddenly she left her hold of the shelf, and
turned upon them almost fiercely.
"Why should I?" she exclaimed. "Tell me that, will you? It is all
natural to you. Your blood flows quietly, and you like quiet, orderly
ways, and never want to throw things about, or smash a window. I tell
you I have to, sometimes. Look here!"
She caught up a vase from the shelf, and seemed on the point of flinging
it through the closed window, but Gertrude laid her hand on her arm
firmly. "You may have a right to throw your own things, my dear," she
said, good-naturedly. "You have no possible right to throw mine, and
'with all respect, I do object!'"
Grace gave a short laugh, and set the vase down again; but she still
looked frowningly at the two girls, and presently she went on.
"It's all very well for you, I tell you. You have a home, and a--my
mother died when I was five years old. My father--"
"Grace, dear," said Gertrude; "come and sit down here by me, and tell
me about your mother. I have seen her picture; she must have been
lovely."
But Grace shook her head fiercely.
"My father is an actor, and I want to be one, too, but he promised my
mother before she died--she didn't want me to be one. What do I care
about all this stuff we are learning here? I tell you I want to take a
tambourine and go on the road with a hand-organ man. That would be life!
I would, too, if I only had the luck to have hair and eyes like yours,
Fluffy."
"You could wear a wig, of course," said Bertha, soberly. "The eyes would
be a difficulty, though, I'm afraid."
"Well, I am here now! and I'm supposed to stay another year, and then go
to college. Four--five years more of bondage, and tasks, and lectures on
good behaviour! Am I likely to stand it, I ask you?"
"I hope so!" said Gertrude, steadily. "It would be a thousand pities if
you didn't, Grace, and you know it as well as I do."
"And if I do, it must be in my own way!" cried the wild girl, swinging
round again on her heel. "And if I can make things more endurable
here--if I can get rid of--it must be in my own way, I tell you. Snowy,
you are like your name, I suppose. You are white and gold and calm,--I
don't know what you are, except that we are not of the same flesh. I
tell you, I turn to fire inside! I must break out, I must go off when
the fit comes on me. I do no harm! It doesn't hurt anybody for me to go
down the wall and cool myself with a run in the fields. Why can't I be
let alone? I am not a child! I tell you it is the way I am made!"
The Snowy Owl rose, and, going to the fireplace, laid her arm around
Grace's shoulder.
"You are making yourself!" she said. "It's your own life, Wolf; are you
making it worse or better?"
"I'm not doing either. I am taking it as it comes, as it was meant to
come."
Gertrude shook her head quietly.
"That can't be!" she said. "That is impossible, Wolf. We have to be
growing one way or the other; we can't stay as we are, for a year or a
day. And there's another thing: you don't seem to think about the
others, about the effect on the school. If you are to break the laws,
why should not every one do the same?"
"Because they are different!" said Grace, sullenly.
"You don't know that! They may have the same temptations, and be
stronger than you to resist them. You ought to be a strong girl, Grace,
and, instead of that, you are weak--as weak as water."
"Weak? I!" cried Grace, her eyes blazing. "If any one else had said that
to me, Gertrude Merryweather, I would--"
"But no one else would say it to you!" said Gertrude. "Because no one
else--except Miss Russell--cares as much as I do--Fluffy and I. We love
you too much, Grace, to flatter you and follow you, as most of them do.
I tell you, and you may take it as simple truth, for it is nothing else,
that which you think strength is simply weakness,--lamentable weakness.
And as for your influence on the other girls--just listen a moment!"
Taking up a little book from the table, she opened it--indeed it seemed
to open of its own accord at the place--and read:
"'Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown
Of thee from the hill-top looking down;
The heifer that lows in the upland farm,
Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm;
The sexton, tolling his bell at noon,
Deems not that great Napoleon
Stops his horse, and lists with delight,
Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height;
Nor knowest thou what argument
Thy life to thy neighbour's creed hath lent.
All are needed by each one;
Nothing is fair or good alone.'"
There was silence when she finished reading. Then--"What is that?" asked
Grace, stretching out her hand. "Give it to me!"
"Emerson. Take him home with you, and let him talk to you; he speaks
well."
Grace took the book, looked it over, and dropped it into her pocket. For
a moment she leaned her head against Gertrude's arm, and a sigh broke
from her involuntarily. Then, all in a moment, a change came. Her face
lightened in an indescribable way, and her eyebrows lifted with a look
that both girls knew well.
"And have you heard the news?" she said. "There is a rumour that my
Puggy leaves me at the end of the term. How to exist, I ask you, without
her? Othello's occupation would be gone indeed."
"No! is it true? Why is she going? What does it mean?"
Grace shrugged her shoulders with an elfish gesture.
"How should I know? It appears she sees ghosts. A ghost must be hard up,
one would think, to visit my Puggy; there ought to be an asylum for
impoverished spectres. Would you subscribe for it, Owls? Good-bye! I
must go. You mean well, and I don't bear malice. Oh! by the by,--" she
came back for an instant, and stood balancing herself on one foot and
looking round the edge of the door, and she certainly looked hardly
human,--"I forgot the thing I came for. Stand by the Innocent this
evening, will you, if she should get into trouble? I am sent for to the
study, and shall be in for a good hour's lecture, and then bed."
"What do you mean, Goat? What is it?" asked both girls, anxiously. But
the Goat was gone.
* * * * *
Peggy was enjoying herself extremely. She had learned all her lessons,
for a wonder, and now she had curled herself up in a corner with the
"Jungle Book," and the rest of the world was forgotten. There was
nobody, there never had been anybody, but Mowgli and the Wolves. She had
hunted with them, she had slain Shere-Khan, she had talked with Baloo
and Bagheera. Her outdoor nature had responded in every fibre to the
call of the Master of Magic, and he filled her with joy and wonder. As
the Snowy had said, the worlds were opening, and the doors thereof.
Things being thus with her, she hardly heard her own door open softly.
Before she had torn her eyes from the enchanted page, the room was
filled with silent, flitting figures--as it had been often filled
before. The girls nodded to her with silent laughter and friendly
gestures. In another moment they would have been at the window; but
Peggy was not dreaming now. In an instant she had sprung from her corner
among the cushions, and stood before the window, with arms outspread.
"No!" she said.
The girls recoiled, paused, in amazement. There were six of them: the
two V's, Blanche Haight, and three other sophomores. Peggy saw with a
throb of joy that Grace Wolfe was not among them. That would have made
it harder.
"What does this mean?" asked Vivia Varnham, with her cold smile. "You
have never made any trouble before, Peggy; isn't it rather late in the
day?"
"Oh, she's only in fun!" cried Viola Vincent. "Aren't you, Veezy-vee?
Why, she's acting, girls, and she does it elegantly. It's perf'ly fine,
Veezy-vee. I didn't know you had it in you."
"No, I am not acting," said Peggy, quietly. "I am sorry, girls, but you
can't go out. You never can go out again, so long as I am here."
"Upon my word!" cried Blanche Haight, who had not spoken yet. "This
seems to be a pretty state of things. Perhaps you are not aware, Miss
Montfort, that this exit was used, long before you came to adorn the
school with your presence. We acknowledge no right of yours to forbid us
the use of it. Stand out of the way, please."
For a reply, Peggy backed against the window; her face assumed an
expression with which her family was acquainted.
"When Peggy looks dour," Jean used to say, "look out for rising winds
and a falling barometer!"
Then Viola came forward, and began to plead, in her pretty, wheedling
way.
"Let us go, just this once; that's a dear, good Veezy. I know what has
happened; Miss Russell has found out, hasn't she?"
Peggy nodded.
"And she has spoken to you, and of course I know just how you feel. But
you see, Peggy, we have an appointment this time, truly we have, with
some college girls, and you wouldn't make us break it, would you,
Veezy? Of course you don't want us to go, and we won't again,--at least
most probably we won't, if it is going to get you into trouble. But we
really _have_ to go this time, Peggy, dear, so do be nice and sweet, and
let us pass."
"No," said Peggy. "I'm sorry, Viola, but it's no use. Nothing you can
say will make any difference."
"Possibly not!" said Blanche Haight; she pushed Viola aside without
ceremony, and came close to Peggy.
"Possibly nothing we can say will make a difference, Miss Montfort, but
something we can _do_ may make a good deal. I ask you, fair and square,
will you come away from that window? We are six to one, and I give you
the chance of settling this in a quiet and friendly way. Will you come
away from that window?"
"No," said Peggy, "I will not. Is that square enough?"
"Then, girls," said Blanche, turning to her followers, "we must help
ourselves. We shall see whether one freshman is going to block the way
of the Gang! You take one arm, Viola, and I'll take the other."
"Oh, don't hurt her!" cried Viola. "Don't hurt her, Blanche. I'm awfully
fond of Peggy. I know she only means to do what she thinks she ought to.
Peggy, do give up! You are all alone, and there are six of us. Do give
up, Peggy; for my sake, Peggy! I--I'll give you my gold bangle, the one
with the locket, if you'll only give up, Peggy!"
Peggy smiled, and said nothing. She could not be angry with the little
butterfly, but there was no use in wasting breath; she might need all
she had.
Blanche Haight seized one arm, Vivia Varnham the other, and tried to
drag her away from the window by main force. With her favourite
Newfoundland-dog motion, Peggy shook them off, planted a quick blow
here, another there, and her assailants staggered back for a moment. In
another instant, however, they returned to the attack, and this time the
other sophomores joined, and all five threw themselves on Peggy. Once
more she shook them off, but they closed in again, and a struggle
began, all the more fierce that no word was spoken, no cry uttered. No
cry, that is, by the combatants. When the five set upon Peggy, Viola ran
in and made an effort to pull them off, with piteous entreaties. But no
one paid the smallest heed to her, and the poor little butterfly,
frightened and distressed, burst into tears, and ran away.
At the same moment, any one who had been listening in quiet might have
heard a singular sound that seemed to come from above, from outside--no
one could tell from where; the cry of an owl, followed by a long, low
howl. Three times this was repeated; and many a junior, studying under
her lamp, looked up and said, "What is up now, I wonder?" for the sound
recalled freshman days, before the Lone Wolf and the two Owls had come
to the parting of the ways.
Three minutes later, two figures, speeding silently along Corridor A,
were met at a turn by a third, which flung itself sobbing upon them.
[Illustration: "WITH ONE OF HER SUDDEN MOVEMENTS SHE HAD THROWN OFF HER
ASSAILANTS."]
"Oh, Snowy, oh, Fluffy, they are killing Peggy Montfort! I was coming
to call you--oh, be quick! be quick!"
Without stopping, somehow the Snowy Owl managed to open a door and
thrust Viola in. It was to be noticed that neither girl looked at her.
They ran on, swift and silent.
Indeed, it was time! Peggy's lip was bleeding, where Vivia Varnham's
head had struck against it as she fell, tripped by a pretty trick that
was learned on the Western farm. Her hair was dragged down and hung in
her eyes, her dress was torn in a dozen places. With one of her sudden
movements she had thrown off her assailants, and stood for an instant
alone, looking the very Spirit of Battle, with blazing eyes and scarlet
cheeks. Blanche Haight rushed at her again, and this time Peggy seized
her around the waist in a deadly grip. The others closed in once more,
furious, determined this time to finish with the insolent freshman. It
was like to go hard with Peggy Montfort this time.
What happened? A flash, the glance of an eye, and all was changed. The
assailants fell back, staggering across the room, gasping and staring;
and the Snowy and the Fluffy Owl were standing shoulder to shoulder with
Peggy, one on either side, with stern and angry looks.
For a moment there was dead silence, save for the hard breathing as
Blanche Haight tried to wriggle out of the iron grasp that held her--in
vain! Then Gertrude Merryweather spoke.
"Miss Varnham, Miss Floyd, Miss Johnson, Miss White, Miss--who is
this?--Miss Haight. Found out of bounds and out of hours, making a
disturbance in the rooms. To be reported to the Principal. Go to your
rooms, if you please!"
Was this the Snowy Owl, gentle and friendly, beloved of all? No! it was
the Junior President and the Monitor of Corridor A. She might have been
an avenging angel as she stood there, tall and white and severe.
Her face softened as she bent over Peggy. "You can let her go now!" she
said. "We are here, Peggy, Bertha and I. It is all right! Let her go,
child!"
Slowly and reluctantly Peggy loosed her hold, and Blanche,
half-fainting, dropped upon the bed. She looked with feeble venom at the
two rescuers.
"Spying, eh?" she whispered. "Very dignified, I'm sure, for a president.
That little sneak Viola Vincent was here too, mind! Put her down in your
precious report."
"I don't see Miss Vincent here!" said Gertrude, coldly. "Go to your
rooms, if you please! I think I understand the case thoroughly, Blanche,
thank you. Will you go, or shall we help you?"
But Blanche preferred to go unaided. Silent as they had come, they slunk
away, flitting like shadows along the corridor. And when they were gone,
the two Owls sat down on the bed and took Peggy between them, and
rocked, and petted, and soothed her; for lo! the Goddess of Battle was
crying like a three years' child.