THE CULPRITS INTERVIEWED.
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.”