work to the little figure at the other end of the room, but each time
Pixie's head was bent over her task, and the wandering eyes were glued
to their task. Such industry seemed so unnatural that the onlooker
became first puzzled and then uneasy, and at last resorted to coughing
and moving about in her chair in order to satisfy curiosity. In vain!
Pixie's head went down lower than ever, and the pen scratched away
without a moment's cessation, for she was enduring that unreasoning
panic of fear which sensitive children suffer when they are in disgrace
with their elders. She had been brought up in an atmosphere of tender
indulgence, had been the adored baby of the household, who had never
heard the sound of an angry voice, so that now, to sit alone in a room
with a person whom she had displeased, reduced her to a condition of
trembling fear. Her eyelids felt weighed down, a lump rose in her
throat, and she trembled as with cold, and then presently the dreaded
voice spoke again, and Mademoiselle said--
"Pixie, come here. Bring your verrrb!"
The wretched scribe had not yet finished her conjugation, being about
imperatively to command herself to be sorry that she had been rude to
Mademoiselle, but she was too nervous to explain, and stood twisting her
hands together and staring at the carpet, while Mademoiselle turned over
the pages. She bit her lips once or twice as she read, and her eyes
twinkled, but Pixie did not see that, and the voice which spoke sounded
alarmingly stern.
"It is ver' badly written. You make your letters too big; and such
blots! I cannot 'ave such blots. What 'ave you been doing to make such
blots as these?"
"They are not blots, please, Mademoiselle; they are only--"
"Only what then?"
"Spots!"
"Spots!" echoed Mademoiselle blankly. "Spots--blots! Blots--spots! I
do not understand. What is then the difference between blots and
spots?"
"Blots is made with ink,"--when Pixie was agitated, as at the present
moment, grammar was by no means her strong point--"and spots is made
with--with--"
"_Eh bien_! And with what, then?"
"T-tears!" came the answer in the softest echo of a voice, and
Mademoiselle looked down at the woe-begone face with startled eyes.
"Tears! Your tears! But why should you cry? It is not so dreadful to
write a verrrb. I might have given you worse punishment than that.
Perhaps it was because you had missed the afternoon with your friends.
I cannot think a girl of your age should cry over a simple verrrb."
"I thought it was a very elaborate verb!" said Pixie faintly. "But it
wasn't that that made me cry; it was hurting your feelings,
Mademoiselle!"
Mademoiselle leant back in her seat and looked intently at the shrinking
figure.
"Look up, _cherie_!" she said softly, and Pixie's fear fell from her
like a mantle. She saw a hand outstretched, and clasped it eagerly.
"I never meant to hang you, Mademoiselle! It was only a joke. The
girls asked me to amuse them, and we think it fine sport to lasso one
another at home. How was I to know it would be you, when I gave my word
I would catch the first one that came upstairs? I didn't mean to be
impertinent."
"But, _ma petite_, you should not play such treecks at all!"
Mademoiselle shook her head, but she was smiling as she spoke, for she
was beginning to realise that no disrespect had been meant to herself,
and that she had been unduly stern in her denunciations. "It is not the
thing for a young lady at school; it is only for wild--how do you call
them--`cowboys,' out on the prairie. If you do it at 'ome, it is not my
affair, but if your father should see you some day, he must be shocked
like me!"
"I'm the youngest of six, and me father won't have me thwarted!" sighed
Pixie, lapsing into her brogue, as she usually did when agitated.
"Nobody's ever angry with me at Bally William; I get into mischief the
day long, and it's all quite happy and comfortable. If I'm quiet and
well-behaved, Bridgie is after giving me a mixture, for, says she, `The
choild's ill; there's not been a sound out of her this day!' I wish I
was back in me own country, Mademoiselle, and then I shouldn't trouble
you any more!"
"I vish I was back in my countree, too," sighed the other softly, and
two big tears started in the brown eyes, and trickled slowly down the
cheeks. "My father is ill, and needs me, and I cannot be with him. I
feel as if I could have wings and fly, I long so much to go; but I must
stay here and work. My 'eart is very sad, and sometimes I get cross--
too cross, perhaps, because I cannot bear any more. Then you girls talk
among yourselves and say, `How she is bad-tempered, that Mademoiselle!
How she is cross and strict!' That is what you say very often, _n'est-
ce pas_?"
"We do!" replied Pixie frankly. It was one of the Irishisms which
amused her companions that she never by any chance gave a simple "Yes"
or "No" in reply to a question. It was always "I am!" "I will!" "I
do!" as the case might be.
"We do!" she replied now, and then hastened to soften the admission by a
coaxing, "But I wouldn't be troubling meself about that, if I were you,
for they don't mind it a bit. I drew a picture of you the other day
with a bubble coming out of your mouth, and `Bow-wow-wow' written on it
like a dog, because you are always barking; but there isn't a bite in
ye, and all the girls say you aren't half as bad as the Mademoiselle who
was here before!"
Well! There are some conditions of mind when we are thankful for the
smallest grain of comfort, and Mademoiselle smiled and flicked the tears
from her eyes.
"They are too kind! I am much obliged; but another time, when I `bark'
as you call it, you will perhaps remember that your teachers are like
yourselves, and 'ave the same feelings. When you come first to school
you have to be comforted because you are 'ome-sick, but we are 'ome-sick
too; and when you get bad news you cry, and are excused your work, but
we must go on the same as before; and if it is difficult to learn your
lessons, it is also difficult to teach! Well, now you may go! You will
remember not to be rude to Mademoiselle again, eh?"
She held out her hand, smiling more brightly this time, and Pixie seized
it eagerly.
"I will! And I hope your father will get well soon. You will see him
at Christmas, and that isn't very long now; only forty-eight days to-
morrow. I mark them off on my calendar."
"No, that is so sad, I shall not see him until summer! He is going to
my brother in Italy, where it is warm and sunny, and it is too far for
me to go there with him. It costs too much money, and the little house
in Paris will be shut up till he returns, so I must stay in England all
through the dark, long winter, when the sun never shines, and I shiver,
shiver, shiver all day and all night! I shall forget what it is like to
be warm before the spring arrives!"
Pixie rubbed the cold hands with a sympathetic touch, but she made no
remark, and presently went from the schoolroom to rejoin her companions
and make the most of the hours which still remained, while Mademoiselle
went wearily on with the task of correction. She forgot all about her
own complaints of cold, but when she retired to bed that night a
delightful surprise was in store, for the sheets were warm instead of
cold, and her chilled feet came in contact with something soft and hot,
which proved upon examination to be an indiarubber water-bottle encased
in a flannel bag. Mademoiselle drew a long gasp of rapture, and nestled
down again with a feeling of comfort to which she had long been a
stranger. A day or two earlier, Miss Phipps had spoken of the necessity
of putting more coverings on the beds, as the frost had set in unusually
early, and Mademoiselle sleepily attributed this new comfort as another
instance of the Principal's consideration for her assistants. She felt
certain that it must be so, as night after night the welcome warmth was
in waiting, and more than once determined to express her appreciation;
but life was busy, and there was such an accumulation of work as the
period of examination approached, that there seemed no time to speak of
anything but school affairs.
CHAPTER SEVEN.
TERM-HOLIDAY.
Flora and Kate and Ethel were sitting with their classmates discussing
the day's work, and Pixie O'Shaughnessy had drawn her stool beside them,
and was putting in a remark at every possible opportunity. It made her
feel grown-up and important to join in the conferences of the older
girls, and though in words they might say, "Run away, Pixie!" it
generally happened that someone moved to the side of her chair to make
an extra place, or that an arm stretched out to encircle the tiny waist.
Even sixth-form girls like to be amused occasionally as if they were
ordinary mortals, and Pixie was welcomed because she made them laugh and
forget their trials and troubles, in the shape of Latin and Euclid and
German idioms which refused to be unravelled. Two or three of the older
pupils were going in for the Cambridge Examination at Christmas, and all
were looking forward to the school exams at the end of the term, so that
anxiety was heavy upon them.
"My brain feels like jelly! It _won't_ work. I shall be getting
softening of the brain at this rate!" sighed Flora, rubbing her cheeks
up and down between her bands until she looked like a fat indiarubber
doll. "I keep mixing things up until I don't seem to have a clear idea
left, and my mother has set her heart on my taking a good place. She
will look sad if I come out bottom, and I do hate and detest people
looking sad! I would far rather they scolded, and had done with it!"
"My people don't worry their heads about lessons. They sent me to
school because they think it polishes a girl, and rubs off the angles,
don't you know!" said Lottie, with an air. She was the richest girl in
the school, who took all the extras, and put her name down for every
concert and entertainment, without thinking of the expense. Her parents
had a house in town to which they came regularly every spring, during
which season Lottie's friends received many delightful invitations. She
had unlimited pocket-money also, and was lavish in gifts to those who
happened to be in her favour, a fact which a certain number of girls
found it impossible to banish from their minds; and thus Lottie held a
little court over which she reigned as queen, while the more earnest-
minded of the pupils adored Margaret, and would hear no one compared to
the sweet "school-mother." Clara was a Margaret-worshipper, so she felt
in duty bound to snub Lottie on this as on every possible occasion.
"I don't see much polish about _you_!" she retorted brutally. "And it's
ridiculous to come to school at all, if you don't mean to work. If it's
only `pruins and prism' you want, why didn't you go to board with a
dancing-mistress, and practise how to come in and out of a room, and bow
to your friends, and cut your old schoolfellows when you meet them in
the road? You'd find it useful, my dear!"
The last sentence was a deliberate hit, for a former pupil had reported
that, during a visit to a well-known watering-place, when she herself
was returning unkempt and sandy from a cockling expedition, she had
encountered Lottie walking on the parade with a number of fashionable
visitors, and that, after one hasty glance in her direction, Miss Lottie
had become so wonderfully interested in what was going on at the other
side of the road that she altogether forgot to return her bow. Needless
to say, Lottie had been reminded more than once of this incident, so
that even Pixie, the newest comer, was familiar with its incidents,
though she could not bring herself to believe in such deliberate
snobbery. To-day, as Lottie flushed, and Margaret looked a pained
reproach, it was Pixie who rushed to the rescue, wriggling about in her
seat, and clasping and unclasping her hands in the earnestness of her
defence.
"Clara Montagu, you've no business accusing Lottie! You weren't there,
so you can't tell! Perhaps the sun was in her eyes. You can't see a
man from a woman when it's shining full in your face, though they may
see you clear enough, and believe you're shamming. Or perhaps the dust
was blowing. I've been blind meself with dust before now, and come into
the house looking as though I'd been crying for weeks. Why should she
pretend not to know a friend--least of all when she'd been cockling?
'Deed, I'd have been more affectionate than ever, in the hope she'd say,
`Help yourself, me dear! Lend me your handkerchief, and I'll give ye a
nice little bundle to take home for your tea!'"
The Margaret-girls gave a simultaneous shriek of laughter at the idea of
Miss Lottie carrying a handkerchief full of cockles, and even the
Lottie-girls smiled approvingly at the little speaker, for was she not
advocating the position of their chief? Flora nodded encouragingly
across the hearth and cried, "Good for you, Pixie! Never listen to
second-hand stories against your friends!" And Kate added meaningly,
"Go on believing in human nature as long as you can, my dear. You're
young yet. When you are as old as I am it will be time to open your
eyes. But to go back to the last subject but one, don't you give way to
nerves, girls, and begin worrying about the exams already. I've noticed
that just about the middle of the term there always comes a
`discouragement stage' to anyone who is anxious to do well. The first
energy with which one begins work has worn off, and as it is too soon
for the final spurt, there comes a dull, flat time, when one worries and
frets and gets down in the lowest depths of dumps. I spoke about it at
home, and my father says every worker feels the same--artists when they
are painting pictures, and authors when they are writing books. They
have an idea, and set to work, all delight and excitement, believing
that they are going to do the best thing they have ever done. For a
little time all goes well, and then they begin to grow discouraged and
worried, and think they might as well give it up at once, for it is
going to be a dismal failure. They know _something_ is wrong, but they
can't see what it is, and they mope about, and don't know what to try
next. Father told me a story about Millais, the man who painted
`Bubbles,' you know, and heaps of other beautiful things. He was so
miserable about a picture once that he grew quite ill worrying about it.
His wife tried to persuade him to leave it alone for a few days, and
then take a rest; but no, he would not hear of it, so one fine day, when
he was out, she just took the law into her own hands and had it carried
down and hidden in the cellar. When he came home he went straight to
the studio, and--my dears! I am glad I didn't happen to be in the
house, that's all. I know what my father is like when he can't find a
clothes-brush, or someone has moved the matches out of the dressing-
room. Millais raged about like a wild animal, but his wife was quite
firm and determined, and wouldn't tell him where it was for several
days. He was obliged to go out and interest himself in other ways, and
when he was quite well again she had the picture brought up, and he
simply looked at it and laughed. He knew at once what was wrong, and
how to put it right."
"I say," cried Flora eagerly, "do tell that story to Miss Phipps! She
might give us a week's holiday and send us to see the sights of London!
Do, Kate! Get it up in French and tell it to-night at tea. You don't
know how much good it might do!"
"It's a very good story, but I fail to see where the moral comes in. It
hardly applies to us, I think," said Clara, in her superior manner, and
Kate breathlessly vindicated her position.
"Yes, it does--of course it does. It shows that this anxious stage is a
natural thing which all workers have to live through, and even if we
can't leave off lessons altogether, we can help ourselves by not giving
way to nerves, but going steadily on, knowing that we shall feel all
right again in a few days. Besides, there's the Exeat coming,--that
will make a nice break."
"I never worry about lessons, do I?" cried Pixie, pluming herself
complacently. The part of Kate's lecture which had dealt with over-
anxiety about work had appealed with special force to one listener at
least, and Pixie was delighted to find that she was free from failing in
one direction at least. "I never did. Miss Minnitt--that's the one who
used to teach us--she said I never paid any attention at all. There was
one day she was questioning me about grammar. `Pixie O'Shaughnessy,'
she says, `you've been over this one page until it's worn transparent.
For pity's sake,' she says, `be done with it, and get on to something
fresh. Let me see if you can remember to-day what I taught you
yesterday afternoon. How many kinds of verbs are there?' `There are
two,' I said, and with that she was all smiles and noddings. `So there
are, now. You're quite right. And what will be their names?' `Verb
and adverb,' says I, quite haughty; and the howl that went out of her
you might have heard from Cork to Galway! That was all the grammar
she'd managed to teach _me_!"
"You don't know very much more now, do you, chicken?" said Margaret,
bending her head so that her cheek rested upon the rough, dark head.
"Just bring your books to me any time you get puzzled, and I'll try to
make it clear. Talking of the term-holiday, girls, it is time we began
to make our plans. How many of you are going out? Lottie, are you?
Clara? Kate? Pixie? We had better find out first how many will be
here."
Clara had had hopes that the maiden lady with the appetite would rise to
the occasion, but, alas! she had betaken herself to stay with a
relative, Pixie was sure that Jack could not spare time to have her for
a whole day, and besides, she was going to have tea with him the
Saturday before. All the girls seemed fated to spend the holiday at
school save only the two sisters, Mabel and Violet, who were to be
entertained by a kind aunt, and to choose their own entertainment for
the afternoon, and Lottie, who was fortunate as usual.
"I am doubly engaged for the evening!" she announced with a flourish.
"I wrote home to my people about the holiday, and mother asked some
friends to have me for part of the day. They live in a regular
mansion--as big as two or three houses like this rolled into one, and
they know all sorts of grand people! I am going to dinner, and it's
most exciting, for I don't know whom I may meet!"
"The Prince and Princess of Wales are at Sandringham! What a pity!"
sighed Kate, the sarcastic. "It's so awfully trying to come down to
Lords and Ladies, don't you know! You will hardly trouble to put on
your best dress, I should think. The pea-green satin with the pink
flounces will be good enough for them!"
The Margaret-girls laughed hysterically at this exhibition of wit, but
Lottie's followers shot indignant glances across the room, and Pixie
asked innocently--"Have you got a pea-green satin, Lottie? And pink
flounces to it? You _will_ be fine! I have a little pink fan out of a
cracker last year, when there was company at the Chase. I'll lend it to
you if you like, and then you'll be all complete!"
"Thank you, Pixie O'Shaughnessy; you are a kind little girl. I shan't
want it this time, but I'll be sure to remind you when I do," replied
Lottie, with unusual warmth of manner, for the child's sincerity had
touched a soft spot in her vain heart, and she had an increasing desire
to include her in the number of her admirers. Later on, when they were
left alone together at the end of the schoolroom, she put her arm round
the tiny waist, and said caressingly--
"Talking of party dresses, what are you going to wear yourself on
Tuesday evening? You have to put on your best things, you know, just as
if you were going out?"
"_Will_ I?" Pixie looked surprised, but absolutely unperturbed. "But I
haven't a rag to my back but the black you see every night! Bridgie
said, `It's not likely you'll be visiting at Court until ye're
education's finished, so this old grenadine will see you through until
the ship comes home from its next voyage. It's gone a long way this
time,' says she, `and between you and me, I expect the storms will swamp
it, but I've taken the best pieces out of my old dress and Esmeralda's,
and, barring the darn on the back seam, I defy ye to tell it from new!'
So that's all I've got, as I told you before, and, party or no party, it
will have to do."
Lottie looked at her in horrified sympathy, but not a sigh of regret
clouded the beaming face; the head was tilting to and fro in its usual
complacent fashion, the shabby little flounce of a skirt was whisking to
and fro. Such a depth of poverty seemed incomprehensible to the child
of wealthy parents, and she was moved to an unusual desire to help.
Never before had she been known to lend one of her possessions to
another girl, but now she said quite eagerly--
"I have a lace collar, Pixie--a very pretty collar--I'll lend it to you,
and a white ribbon for your hair! It would lighten your dress
wonderfully; and there is a brooch too, and a little gold bangle."
She paused, looking inquiringly to see the result of her offer, for one
could never tell how it would be received. Some girls might be pleased,
others might consider it almost an insult, and she would be sorry to
offend the funny little thing. But Pixie was not offended. She had too
much of the O'Shaughnessy blood in her veins to object to have things
made easy for her at the expense of another, and she felt no
embarrassment in taking the good things that came in her way.
"Oh, ye darlin'!" she cried rapturously. "Will ye lend them to me,
really? Think of me now with a bracelet on me arm, and a brooch at me
neck! They wouldn't be knowing me at home. I wish to-day was Tuesday;
and what shall we do with ourselves all the hours before it's time to
dress up?"
Lottie referred the question to Margaret, who, as head girl, had been
busy thinking out plans for the enjoyment of her friends.
"I thought of asking if we might go to see the Cinematograph at the
Polytechnic," she replied. "Miss Phipps promised to take us some day,
and if we could do some shopping first, and have tea afterwards, it
would be a delightful way of spending the afternoon. There is one thing
that we must buy while we have the chance, and that's a present for
Fraulein. Her birthday is next week, and she is such a kind old dear
that she deserves something nice. I want at least a shilling from
everyone, and as much more as they can afford. I wonder what we had
better get?"
"I know what she would love! A scent-bottle for her dressing-table like
the one Mademoiselle has. We could not afford one quite so good, but we
could get a very nice size for about two pounds. One day when I was in
Mademoiselle's room, Fraulein came in and took up the bottle, and began
admiring it, and saying how nice it was to get presents which were good
to look at, as well as to use. She has not many pretty things--poor
Fraulein!--and I think she would really enjoy a taste of luxury.
Mademoiselle has her initials engraven on the glass, but that would be
too expensive for us. We can have them on the stopper instead."
"And who gave Mademoiselle her bottle? Was it someone here?" asked
Pixie curiously, whereupon Kate tossed her head with an air of
exaggerated dismay.
"My dear, how can you? Don't say that to Mademoiselle, I implore you!
She would have a fit. _We_ are all commoners, and English commoners at
that, and the lady who gave her that precious bottle was Madame la
Marquise de Something or Other, the mother of her beloved pupil Isoult
Andree Adele Marie Therese--the most perfect, and beautiful, and clever,
and amiable _jeune fille_ that was ever created!" Kate paused, hitched
one shoulder to her ear, spread out her hands, and elevated her eyebrows
in ridiculous mimicry of Mademoiselle's mannerisms. "Did she evare
neglect her work? _Jamais_, nevare! Did she evare forget that she was
a _jeune fille_, and be'ave like a vild, rough boy? _Jamais_, _jamais_!
Was she evare like these Engleesh--rude, impairtinent, disobedient?
_Mais non_! Always the same--_cette ange_, the most wise, the most
amiable! And when she has finished her education and made her _debut_,
to be the most beautiful and admired wherever she has gone, she has
vept--_vept_, I tell you, to say _adieu_ to her beloved Mademoiselle!
And she has given her a chain for her neck, and Madame la Marquise that
beautiful 'ansome botelle. Really, Pixie, you are behind the times if
you don't know about Isoult. Just turn Mademoiselle on to her next time
you are with her on the walk, and you won't have to exert yourself any
more. She will sing her praises until you come in."
"I will," said Pixie sturdily. "And I'll see that bottle, too. I must
see that bottle. I'll go into Mademoiselle's room next time I have a
chance, and have a good look at it all to myself!"
The girls smiled, but took little note of a determination which seemed
natural enough under the circumstances. A week afterwards they
remembered it with very different feelings, and Pixie's own words were
brought up in judgment against her.
CHAPTER EIGHT.
PIXIE IN TROUBLE.