PEGGY GOES TO THE UPPER SCHOOL.
For several days there was nothing talked of in the school but Peggy
Desmond and her serious injury. Peggy herself was so ill that for a long
time the doctor was anxious about her; he said the child had received a
most curious shock that he could not possibly account for, and that the
shock was as bad for her as the injury to the leg. After the first week,
however, Peggy slowly began to mend, and then her recovery became rapid.
Her greatest pleasure at this time was to have little Elisabeth in the
room—dear little innocent Elisabeth, who knew nothing, who liked to sit
by Peggy’s side and rattle off her pretty little ideas for Peggy to
listen to. The girl loved the child, and the child loved the girl. Molly
also came constantly to see Peggy, and one day the Irish girl’s eyes
brightened and almost filled with tears when Mrs. Fleming entered the
room, accompanied by Mr. Wyndham. It was impossible for Peggy even to
imagine how glad she would be to see Mr. Wyndham again. The colour
rushed into her little face, then left it white as a sheet.
“Why, Peggy, my child, you have been in the wars!” he said; and then he
stooped and kissed her, and sat down by her bedside, holding her hand.
Mrs. Fleming had had a long talk with him, and, on purpose, she left him
alone with Peggy.
“Now, Peggy,” he said, looking at her, “you will tell _me_ how this
happened, won’t you? Which of those abominable girls has been treating
you cruelly, poor little woman? You will tell Uncle Paul, won’t you?”
Peggy looked at him out of her wistful blue eyes. “I mustn’t tell,” she
said.
“But if I ask you, you will tell.”
“No, I mustn’t tell. I can tell you if you promise never to tell anybody
else at all, but you will tell—you will tell Mrs. Fleming, and then
she’ll tell the school. No, I can’t tell.”
“But somebody was unkind to you?”
Peggy nodded. Then she said impulsively, “I don’t want to talk of it.
How long are ye going to stay, Uncle Paul?”
“I am going to stay until to-morrow morning, Peg.”
“And how is everything at your house, Uncle Paul?”
“Very well, Peg; much as usual.”
“How are Pat and Mary?”
“I don’t know them, my dear.”
“Oh Uncle Paul, wisha now, of course ye know thim; they have the charge
of the poultry-yard. Why, Pat, he’s—he’s me favourite of the whole
place, although I love Mary nearly as well.”
“I think you must be talking now of the Johns,” said Mr. Wyndham with a
laugh. “They’re quite well, Peggy; but their names are neither Patrick
nor Mary. Mrs. Johns’ true name is Ann and Johns’ true name is William.”
“That’s not what I call thim,” said Peggy.
“You haven’t inquired for Mrs. Wyndham,” said her “uncle,” after a
pause.
“No, belike, and I don’t want to.”
“Why not, dear? That sounds rather—rather rude.”
“I’m sorry, Uncle Paul; ye see, I don’t love her.”
“You don’t love her?”
“No, Uncle Paul, neither she nor me fits, so to spake, that’s why I
don’t ask for her; I don’t want to see her at all, at all, nor to hear
her spoke of for that matter. Tell me how the little downy chicks are.
Oh Uncle Paul, aren’t creatures much nicer than men and women, an’ than
girls? I used to think, Uncle Paul, that perhaps girls were as nice as
kittens an’ little hins an’ little chicks; but now—they’re the worst of
all, the very worst of all. Oh Uncle Paul!”
“Poor child!” said Mr. Wyndham. He talked to her for a little longer and
then left her.
He said to Mrs. Fleming: “There’s no doubt that some of the girls have
treated Peggy very unkindly. If you would like, my dear friend, I will
remove her from the school. What do you think?”
But he was astonished at the bright colour which rushed into Mrs.
Fleming’s face. “By no manner of means,” she answered; “do you think
that I am going to be conquered by some of my own girls? No, indeed, my
dear friend, I will find out what happened before long, in some sort of
fashion. Certainly Peggy is not to go; when Peggy is well I shall make a
certain amount of fuss about her, and in that way punish those who have
treated her so unkindly.”
The subject of the great prize was kept in abeyance on account of Peggy
Desmond; but by-and-by she got slowly well, and before the half-term was
over was able to limp about the house again, although she could not run
as she used to do. The roses had faded from her face, too, leaving it
pale and very tired-looking. She was now passionately devoted to Mrs.
Fleming, would do anything in the world for the head-mistress, and she
also loved Mademoiselle.
“I want to learn the French,” Peggy said, “because I won’t be makin’ the
mistakes that are always croppin’ up in that English. Oh thin, ma’am,
it’s a poor tongue whin ye come to consider of it; it ain’t kept the
colour in it that the Irish has.”
“But, my child, you don’t talk Irish.”
“The Irish-English, ma’am, is what I’m manin’.”
“_Meaning_, dear—say _meaning_.”
“Now, ma’am, don’t that sound thin-like; isn’t _maning_ much richer?”
“But it isn’t the right way to say it, Peggy.”
“Oh, wurra, thin, wid yer right ways; it bates me intirely, ma’am, to
have to spake as ye spake.”
“But for my sake you’ll try to speak as I speak, and for my sake you
won’t say ‘wurra,’ and you’ll say mean, not _mane_, and speak, not
_spake_.”
“What a queer, colourless girl I’ll grow! But, for the Lord’s sake,
ma’am, if it makes ye happy, I’m willin’—there, I can’t do more.”
Mrs. Fleming, as a matter of fact, had given more thought to Irish Peggy
than she had given to any other girl who had come to reside at The Red
Gables. She began to read the character of the child and to find out for
herself how sweet and true and rich and human it was. She saw that Peggy
was endowed with great gifts; but they were the gifts which might
easily, if not carefully watched and directed now, lead to destruction.
The child’s passions were as strong as her affections were warm, the
extraordinary absence of fear in her nature was at once a source of
rejoicing to her governess and also a cause of uneasiness. Peggy, in
short, could only be guided by love, and with all that warmth and
strength of affection which she possessed hers was by no means a nature
to be easily won. She could take as violent dislikes as she could take
violent and tempestuous likings; she was also terribly outspoken, and to
have such a wild, untamed creature in a small school of carefully
brought-up and carefully educated English girls was, Mrs. Fleming knew
well, a task of no small difficulty to her. A head-mistress has to be
very careful to excite no undue jealousy in a school. Peggy, by every
right, ought still to belong to the Lower School; nevertheless, Mrs.
Fleming determined to do a somewhat daring thing, and to remove the
child at once into the Upper School. There she would be more or less
immediately under Mrs. Fleming’s own eyes, she would be in the same
school with the Wyndhams, her cousins, as they were invariably called,
although in reality they were not related to Peggy at all; she would
also be under the influence of that charming Irish girl, Bridget
O’Donnell. Peggy would have, in the Upper School, a little bedroom all
to herself, and would, of course, have the use of that lovely
sitting-room into which even the head-mistress could not enter without
invitation. To make such a remarkable change in Peggy’s favour must,
Mrs. Fleming knew well, cause a good deal of annoyance in the Lower
School; nevertheless, this fact did not deter her; on the contrary, she
felt that by removing Peggy altogether from the influence of The Imp and
her friends she was punishing them without appearing to do so.
Mrs. Fleming had a long talk with both Miss Archdale and Miss Greene,
and they both approved of her plan. The school, however, knew nothing at
all with regard to this until a certain morning in the first week of
November, when Peggy, having recovered her health, and being able to
walk once again with the slight assistance of a stick, entered the
school at prayer-time. There was a look of astonishment on every face
when they saw her, and Alison Maude, suddenly giving the lead, a violent
clapping of hands and stamping of feet began, and more than one girl
called out, “Welcome back, Peggy! welcome back!”
“It’s meself that’s glad to see yez,” answered Peggy, the pretty,
delicate colour rushing into her charming little face. As she spoke she
raised her starry eyes and let them rove from one face to another of the
assembled girls. Suddenly the black eyes of The Imp and the
sapphire-blue eyes of Irish Peggy met in a long, bold stare; there was a
distinct challenge in both pairs of eyes, and this fact was noticed and
commented on afterwards by more than one girl present.
“Peggy, you are not strong yet, my dear,” said Mrs. Fleming; “come and
sit by my side here on the platform.”
This was indeed an honour, and the black eyes of The Imp flashed a
wicked fire. Peggy took her seat with due modesty, and prayers began.
She looked sweetly pretty in her neat, dark-blue serge frock, her little
features, always refined, were rendered more so than usual now owing to
her late severe illness. Prayers began and came to an end. When the
girls were about to disperse, Mrs. Fleming raised her hand.
“I wish the attention of the school for a minute,” she said. She then
took Peggy’s little hand and led her to the edge of the platform.
“Girls,” said Mrs. Fleming, “I have delayed until now to speak to you
all on a matter of great importance. I have done this because of the
absence of Peggy Desmond from the school. I have a word now to say with
regard to Peggy, and then I can proceed to speak to you on the other
matter. It will take some little time, and you are permitted, girls, to
seat yourselves.”
The girls did so, all pressing eagerly forward.
“I am glad,” began Mrs. Fleming, “that you welcomed Peggy when she came
into the school this morning. I am glad that some amongst my girls are
endowed with a right spirit with regard to her. We all know the old
story now of that sad catastrophe which occurred during Peggy Desmond’s
first real day at school. Some girl, or some girls, in the Lower School,
are guilty of a terrible and most ferocious act of cruelty towards her;
a very little more of this violence and Peggy Desmond might not be
standing here. I have questioned the girls of the Lower School, but no
one will throw light on the matter; I have used what influence I possess
to bring the culprits to listen to reason, but no one will speak, no one
will tell me how Peggy’s leg was broken. She herself, brave child,
knows, but keeps silence, because of that _noblesse oblige_ which, girls
of the Lower School, some of you, alas! do not possess. Peggy has
recovered, and in a few days she will be as well as ever; but I wish to
let you all know now that there was a whole week during which the
doctors and I were more than anxious about her; we thought it highly
probable that she would not recover. Girls of the Lower School, think
what your feelings would have been had such been the case.”
At this moment an unexpected interruption occurred, for Peggy herself
burst into tears. “Ah, thin, wisha, why, ma’am,” she said, “don’t be
rubbing it into thim like that; for the Lord’s sake, ma’am, don’t! I’m
gettin’ strong as fast as possible, an’ the cratures needn’t be
frightened at all. If I had died, for sure an’ sartin I _might_ have
appeared to some of thim as a white ghostie; but there, I’m all right,
ma’am, so go on wid yer beautiful talk. Cratures, be aisy now, all of
yez.” Here she looked boldly at The Imp and her satellites.
The rage in the heart of the said Imp may be better imagined than
described, but far worse was to follow.
Mrs. Fleming allowed Peggy’s little outburst; then she said, gently,
“Dear, you must not interrupt again while I am speaking. It is not done,
dear, and I don’t wish it. Now, not a word, my love.”
Peggy subsided into her chair, where Mrs. Fleming had motioned her, and
then the good lady proceeded.
“The Lower School has been unkind to Peggy Desmond; I therefore, having
consulted with some of your teachers, have decided to remove her into
the Upper School, where I can at least guarantee that she will not
suffer again as she did in the past.”
There was an astonished silence; a breathless look of consternation was
most markedly visible, not only on the face of The Imp, who looked
forward to a great deal more fun out of Peggy, the Dodds, her
satellites, but also on the face of Jessie Wyndham, who glanced at her
sister, bent forward, and whispered something, and then was silent.
“Miss Greene,” said Mrs. Fleming, “you will undertake to arrange Peggy’s
lessons, and you will tell her the drift of the rules of the Upper
School. She is now well enough to study every day, although she must not
overtire herself. And now, girls all, to turn from Peggy Desmond, I have
something of the utmost importance to say to you. It is something which
I did hope would concern the whole school; it does concern the whole
school, but not quite as I had hoped during the first night of term. My
dear girls, you have heard me speak of my very old and very dear friend,
Agatha Howard. She was the best friend to The Red Gables School during
her lifetime, and, children, she, being dead, yet speaks. She has left
this world, doubtless to serve her heavenly Father in more extensive
spheres and in larger fields of usefulness elsewhere. With her present
occupations we have nothing to do, but we all have to love and bless her
memory. She has richly endowed our school and in various ways, some of
which need not concern the girls here assembled. She and I have met
once, at least, every vacation, and the prize which I now offer in her
name to the school has been most carefully thought out by us both. It is
a prize of sterling value, and can only be obtained by one girl each
year. My intention was that the Howard Prize was to be competed for
towards the end of the spring term; but, owing to Peggy’s illness, I am
now obliged to make the competition take place at the end of the summer
term. The prize itself is a miniature of Agatha Howard, done when she
was young and—very beautiful. It was done by the great miniature painter
Richard Cosway, and was one of his later works. The miniature is to be
copied by the best miniature painter of the present day, regardless of
expense; when copied, it is to be set in a frame surrounded by large
diamonds and with a back of pure gold. It will be suspended to a narrow
gold chain, and will form a most exquisite ornament to wear round the
neck of the lucky girl who obtains it. Now, this is the prize—_the
miniature of Mrs. Howard set in diamonds_. Some of you may think nothing
of it at the first idea, but let me explain its value. It will be very
hard to win, and yet each year one girl, chosen by a committee of
strangers to the school, people of the highest integrity and the
soundest learning, are to adjudge it. The prize is to be given, not only
for ability, but for conduct, and for—beauty of expression. This latter
clause will, my dear children, doubtless surprise you very much, for you
may say to yourselves that no girl can possibly help her expression; but
let me assure you, children, that this is very far from the case, and
that a brave, steadfast, and gallant soul, above all things the truthful
soul, cannot help shining in the eyes and being reflected on the lips of
a girl who otherwise may be quite plain. This beauty, this rare beauty
of the mind, may pass by a face otherwise charming, may have nothing to
do with bright eyes or a clear complexion or perfect features, but may
come to dwell with the homely and the otherwise almost plain. Mrs.
Howard in her lifetime so absolutely believed in real goodness of heart,
that goodness of heart which comes from serving God, loving Him and
obeying His commandments, that she determined to make it the first
essential clause in her great competition. She may have been wrong—she
may have been right—I have no opinion to give on these matters; I only
know that such is her ruling, and those who compete for the prize have
to take it into account. Now let me repeat over to you the three points
at issue.
“The girl who wins the Howard miniature _is to be brave, truthful,
loving, and chivalrous_. She is to be, as far as possible, _highly
intellectual_, and this fact is to be tested by a paper which she will
be set to write on a subject yet to be decided on. Finally, she is to be
_athletic and physically strong_.
“Now, my dears, this is a strange prize, and the competition for it is,
if possible, still stranger. The rules for the said competition will be
given to you all to-morrow morning after prayers; but before we close
the subject of the prize to-day, and return to our normal work, I have
something further to add. The girl who wins the Howard miniature wins a
great deal more than a beautiful painting, set in gold and diamonds.
Mrs. Howard has made certain conditions in connection with her prize,
and they are, let me assure you, girls, very vital. Mrs. Howard, dear
soul, passed out of the world the last of her race; but she had a strong
desire to be remembered in futurity, and in especial to be remembered by
girls, for the most passionate love of her heart was given to girls, she
herself having lost her only granddaughter, who was educated at this
school. Now the girl who receives the miniature and who sells it or
loses it or exchanges the very valuable diamonds for paste receives no
further benefits whatsoever; but, on the other hand, the girl who keeps
it as an inestimable treasure, and who eventually gives it to her
children or nearest of kin, possesses, both she and her heirs, in the
Howard portrait, _a fairy gift_; for it is arranged by Mrs. Howard that
the lucky possessor of a Howard portrait obtains with it a small sealed
parchment, which she is not to open until her hour of need. Whenever
that time comes, and she finds herself in want of _money_, or
_sympathy_, or _friendship_, she has but to put herself immediately into
communication with the trustees of the Howard Portrait Fund, who will
immediately help her according to her requirements. There may be at
present in this school girls who desire to do something big and great
and noble in their lives, and are kept back by that common evil, want of
funds. Let such a girl try for the Howard Portrait Prize, and see how
kind and great and munificent a fairy she will evoke. The girl who gets
the prize, on the other hand, may never want to use it herself, but some
of her children may. In short, my dears, the Howard Portrait Prize
points not only to the present time, but to futurity. It is meant to do
that; it is meant to spell _happiness_. One of you present will probably
win the prize and may _not_ need money—mere money, children, which
counts for so little; but you may need sympathy, friendship, counsel;
the Howard portrait will obtain one or all of these inestimable gifts
for you.
“I have spoken of it, my dears, as a fairy gift. The only thing it will
not bestow is health; but even that is very much quickened; in short, is
accelerated by happiness. The Howard Prize, children, in my opinion,
means the beginning of a good life; and whether that life be long or
short, who need fear? For Death, to those who follow the counsels laid
down for their guidance in this prize, will enter with a smiling face,
and say to them, ‘Good and faithful servant, enter into the joy of thy
Lord.’ Children, I shall be ready to answer any private questions with
regard to the prize any day during the next week. This is Saturday; but
those who wish to put down their names as competitors for the prize must
do so between now and this day week. I have one last word to say now
with regard to the Lower School. Any one who competes for the Howard
Prize must be prepared to say solemnly to me that she had nothing
whatever to do with the terrible event which took place in connection
with Peggy Desmond. I do not think that there is one girl here present
who would _dare_ to compete for _such_ a prize with that sin on her
conscience. My dears, I leave the matter between you and your God. And
now to lessons—to lessons, children.”