PREPARING FOR THE COMPETITION.
The next term at The Red Gables School passed without anything very
remarkable occurring. The girls were all extremely busy, working for the
prize; it was the sort of work which must occupy them not only during
school hours but also in play hours, at all times, and during all
occasions. As far as the outward eye could see, the competition for the
Howard miniature seemed to have a sobering and beneficial effect on the
school. The girls wondered and wondered amongst themselves who would be
the happy possessor of this great distinction. There were many private
talks on the subject, and the see-saw of public opinion was very
strongly in favour of Alison Maude in the Upper School. There was only
one doubt with regard to Alison. Her conduct was perfect, her character
serene and lofty; but she was by no means specially clever, and genius
was undoubtedly required to play its part in this great competition.
Molly was willing to try, although she did not consider she had a
chance; Bridget O’Donnell was keen on the subject, and odds were very
largely in her favour. In the Lower School all eyes were fixed on Kitty;
if any one in the Lower School got the prize it would beyond doubt be
Kitty. She had an extraordinary and wonderful power over others, which
power seemed to increase with her growth, and which had been much
intensified during her recent visit to Hillside. Dodd had been true to
his word during that brief visit, and had taken little or no notice of
the girl, simply allowing her, as he expressed it, “the run of the
house,” and according her a careless nod morning and evening. But on the
night before she returned to school he called her into his study for a
few minutes.
“A word with you, wench. Stand up and take it like a woman.”
The girl looked at him, her eyes dilating with a sort of fear. The big
man went up and laid his hand on the slight little shoulder. Good God,
what a pretty bit thing she was! and yet there was something altogether
wrong with her. Where did the wrong come in? Those eyes would enthrall
many a man, those lips would tempt many a man to his destruction. Was
there no part of Kitty that could be touched, could be reclaimed? He
spoke slowly now.
“I have been talking to my wife about you. She gives me to understand
that your aunt Miss Merrydew is a rich woman, and lives in a private
hotel in Folkestone. Folkestone is not a cheap place, and to live
comfortably in a private hotel there must mean a spanking bit of money.
Now _you_ told me that your aunt was very poor, and lived in an attic in
a boarding-house. I’d like to know, for my own private satisfaction,
which story is true.”
“What I told you, sir,” said Kitty. She raised her eyes for a moment to
his face, then dropped them, for he was scowling at her.
“Wench,” he said sternly, “the way of transgressors is hard! You’ll find
it so in the long run, in the long run you’ll taste that bitterness.
You’re but a young, motherless bit of a thing, and if that were not the
case, and I didn’t trust my lassies as I trust myself, I wouldn’t let
you go back to The Red Gables School; but I don’t want to ruin you. You
have owned to _thieving_, and you have owned to _lying_. Now, do you
mean to drop these things; for, if you do, honest Injun, I’ll help you,
lass; I’ll make it my business—I won’t say how nor why nor when—but I’ll
give you a push up when you need it. You can come to us for the Easter
holidays, so that’s settled. And now I want you to _run straight_. If
you have any burden on your mind, out with it here and now, and I’ll
help you. Before the Lord in His heaven, I will! Don’t be frightened,
tell it—tell it all. I’ll put things straight for you. Now, then, have
you anything on your mind? Don’t answer in a hurry—think. It’s the best
chance you ever had, John Dodd here, standing waiting to put you
straight. Is there anything going on at school that you wish with all
your heart you hadn’t a finger in, for now is your chance? Out with it!
God knows I never failed any one yet who came to me and said, ‘I’m
sorry.’ Now, then, I’ll come back to you in a few minutes, and then you
can say yes or no. And the Lord guide you, child.”
For nearly a quarter of an hour Dodd was away, and during that time
Kitty did pass through a crisis; but, after all, the struggle, to a
nature like hers, was brief. To confess meant too much—the giving up of
the Howard miniature, the dragging down with her in her fall both Grace
and Anne! She could not do it. A clean heart! Perhaps that was a nice
possession; but it could never be hers, she had gone too far for that.
Dodd re-entered the room rather noisily; his face was flushed and
anxious. He had been praying about the girl all the time he was away
from her; now he came in large, steadfast, strong, full of ineffable
compassion. She looked at him with a weary expression. If she took him
at his word she would pull down his own castle of cards. He did not
believe in her, but he did believe in his children. Kitty thought
herself rather noble when she resolved not to sacrifice John Dodd’s
children to their father’s wrath.
“Well, child—well?” he said.
“I have often boasted a little bit at school,” she began at once, “for
you see, most of the girls are rich, and it is so horrid to be poor
amongst a lot of rich girls.”
“Pooh!” said the ex-merchant, “you must be a weakling to mind a thing of
that sort.”
“Perhaps I am; I don’t know; but I have certainly exaggerated about Aunt
Gloriana. I will try—indeed, I will—not to do it again.”
“Don’t ye—don’t ye—’tain’t worth it. But now hearken. As you’re so poor,
how do you manage to dress up smart?”
“Auntie is very good in giving me money for my clothes.”
“Humph!” was Dodd’s reply, “do you think you’re right to take it from
her?”
“I don’t know.”
“Listen, lass. When you really want a new frock, write to me about it;
don’t take any more from your aunt. And now there’s no other way in
which I can help you?”
“No, sir. Thank you so much.”
“Well, then, run off to bed with you! Good-night.” He hardly touched her
hand, and she left the room. “She’s _not_ straight,” he said to himself;
“she didn’t speak the truth that time. I think at the end of the year
I’ll move Grace and Anne; there’s no good having them in a school with
that sort of girl. She’s not straight, and she’s as clever as they’re
made.”
Some of this conversation was afterwards repeated by Kitty to the Dodd
sisters, and they were told how very much they owed to Kitty’s
forbearance in not exposing them with herself.
At school Mrs. Fleming only once alluded to the great prize, and that
was on the day when she gave the assembled school the subject for the
prize essay. The subject was contained in two words: “KNOW THYSELF.”
Mrs. Fleming said, after announcing the theme, that she would not
attempt to enlarge upon it, that the two words told their own tale and
explained their own meaning. The rules for the essays were very simple.
Any girl who consulted another, and who even read her paper to another,
would be immediately disqualified. The subject might be attacked in any
manner thought best by the competitor; it might embrace history or be
altogether a philosophical treatise; it might go deep into the heart or
only skim the surface—all these things were immaterial. The essay was to
be two thousand words in length, or at least not over that length; it
was to be in the handwriting of the competitor, and she was to employ no
dictionary to aid her in the spelling, although, if by any chance she
required other works of reference, she would find the _Encyclopædia
Britannica_ and several other reference books in the school library.
Quotations were not allowed in the essay; it was to be written on neat
foolscap, on one side only of the paper, and was to be signed with any
pseudonym the competitor liked to adopt. When finished it was to be
folded in three, and put into a long envelope, which was to be gummed
down; on the back of the envelope was to be written: “Prize Essay for
the Howard Miniature.” In addition to the long envelope, there was to
accompany it a small one, on which the pseudonym of the competitor was
to be written, but _inside_ of which her real name was to be given. The
essays were to be put on Miss Greene’s desk not later than the evening
of the 1st of June. That was all.
Mrs. Fleming then begged the girls to remember that the essay, although
very important, was but a certain part of the competition; that the part
which related to morals and to that beauty of heart which must declare
itself on the features was to be what would most affect the opinion of
the judges. She said, therefore, that from that moment each day as it
passed would be in reality a day of trial for each competitor, although
they themselves would, she hoped, know nothing on the subject.
“Live worthily, my children, I beseech you,” said the head-mistress, and
tears rose to her beautiful eyes; “for to live worthily is better than
any prize. Children, ‘He that ruleth his spirit is greater than he that
taketh a city.’ And now we will talk no more about the prize, but will
get to our usual work, which I hope will be all the better on account of
this great stimulation.”
It was later on in the course of that same day that Mrs. Fleming came
across, first of all, Alison Maude, and then Peggy Desmond.
Alison said: “Do you think it is right for me to compete? I do not need
money; and, although I should love the honour and glory, I do not think
I should take such a prize for such an object, there are so many in the
school who really need it.”
“I know that, dear Alison, but I think I should like you to compete. Of
course, in your case, you would never use the miniature in its double
sense, although there is no saying but in future generations some of
your children or grandchildren may be glad of it for that purpose. But
you know, my dear, although your chance as regards morals and appearance
ranks very high indeed, yet the prize essay will also largely tell when
the prize is awarded. Yes, my child, try, and, when you try, try with
all your heart.”
Peggy was very different from Alison. “Why, then, mistress dear,” she
said, “how can I contrive to write a paper to please the English? Won’t
they be at me if I let me heart spake the least, the _least_ little
bit.”
“Now, Peggy,” said her mistress, “I’m not going to let you off. I look
forward with great enjoyment to reading your paper, and even if you do
not get the prize this year you may next, remember. This is a yearly
competition.”
After this the subject was dropped, except when girls whispered together
in the lengthening days, and by-and-by in the long summer evenings.
Peggy made steady advance in the refinement of her speech; her warm
heart was as warm as ever, and to please darling Mrs. Fleming she
dropped many of the eccentricities of her language. She quickly became
prime favourite of the Upper School; the girls were, in fact, charmed
with her, for she kept them in fits of laughter whenever they could get
her to themselves. She was a born mimic, but her mimicry was never
ill-natured. She could recite as no one else could, and to hear her
recite “Fergus O’Flynn” was to bring tears to more than one pair of
eyes. On all hands Peggy was in request, so much so that her supposed
cousins were, one of them highly delighted and the other a little less
jealous of her popularity. As Peggy herself was so sweet, so indifferent
to flattery, so obliging and good-natured, even Jessie saw that she
might as well be on her side. The girl would do anything on earth for
her, and, being a very neat workwoman, would spend long hours arranging
Jessie’s frocks and doing all she could to help either of the Wyndhams;
in short, Peggy had found her _métier_, and no longer mourned for Old
Ireland. It was the sweetest place in the world; but, bedad, Mrs.
Fleming was the sweetest woman, and a woman came before a place any day
of the week.
Thus this uneventful term drew to its close, and the girls departed for
their Easter recess. Kitty had been quiet and inoffensive during the
past term, and even Mrs. Fleming was hopeful about her; still, the
mystery with regard to Peggy was unexplained, and Mrs. Fleming felt
somehow that sleeping dogs were only quiet for the moment. During the
term it had been Kitty’s great aim to induce the Dodds to get their
father to give them a dress allowance; and, as they were not allowed to
get any more dresses from Miss Weston, and Miss King was really making
herself most unpleasant, crowing over the said Miss Weston, it was
absolutely necessary that something must be done. Kitty, up to the
present, had managed to quiet Miss Weston by giving her the ten pounds
which each of the Dodd girls had to pay, owing to their bet with Kitty.
She had, of course, ordered frocks for herself when she paid this money;
but Miss Weston was still very cross and discontented, declaring loudly
that she would expose the young ladies if they bought anything more from
that King woman.
“Her airs in church are past enduring,” said Miss Weston; “she sits just
in front of me, with a feather ’alf a yard long in ’er ’at, and I call
it sickening. ’Tisn’t that I don’t _want_ to oblige you, Miss Merrydew,
for you pays for dressing, being most helegant in shape and face; but
it’s the slight that’s put on me that I ’old myself against, and I’m
sure them poor Dodds—they’re figures of fun in King’s cut, and that I
will say.”
“You leave them alone, Miss Weston,” said Kitty; “don’t say a word, and
you’ll see what will happen. Mr. Dodd is a great friend of mine, but I
have to be careful with him. You know he’s as rich—as rich as Crœsus,
Miss Weston, and he is so proud of Anne and Grace! When he sees the King
cut on them he won’t like it; and then I intend to explain the reason.
I’ll tell him that the woman doesn’t know how to dressmake, and that
_you_ have a proper cut, and of course he has got to pay for it. You’ll
see you’ll get heaps of orders next term.”
“Well, miss, I ’ope so. If I do, well and good; but if I don’t, I’ll
’ave to hup and explain the deception I was forced to practise.”
“Oh you wouldn’t do that, dear Miss Weston; it would ruin me for ever
and ever.”
“I’ve no wish to ruin you, miss, but a poor woman must live.”
Accordingly, during the Easter holidays, Kitty worked the subject of the
Dodds’ dress for all she was worth. She did it with her usual
cleverness, not appearing to have anything to say to it, but really
having her little fingers in the pie. Dodd couldn’t make out what ailed
Anne, nor why Grace looked so dowdy, with her dress sagging up in front
and going down in a hideous little miniature train at the back.
“There’s Kitty now,” he said to his wife, “as neat as a picter, and as
smart as you please, and her dress bought for her by that poor aunt, who
isn’t rich at all, and there are my lasses, with their father rolling in
money—yes, that’s the word for it, Mary Anne—_rolling_ in money, and
they looking so queer and shapeless. I’m discouraged about them, I am
really.”
“You see, dear,” said the wife, “you would send them to a second-rate
dressmaker.”
“I!” roared the angry man. “I send my girls to any one second-rate! You
must be dreaming, duckydums.”
“Well, John, you said they were not to go to Miss Weston, and there’s
only Miss King in the place besides.”
“Oh, that Weston woman, her charges were robbery.”
“Still, she made the girls look all right,” answered the mother.
“Well, to be sure—to be sure,” muttered John Dodd.
“Now listen, John. The girls have been speaking to me; I assure you,
poor darlings, they don’t like to be badly dressed. Now what do you say
to this. Why not give them an allowance each, and let them spend it as
they please, and where they please? It will teach them the value of
money, which every girl ought to know, and I can vouch for it that you
won’t have to complain of their appearance in the future.”
“That’s not a bad notion; is it your own?” said Dodd.
“Well, I confess that Gracie did speak about it.”
“It didn’t come from that Kitty wench?”
“No, she has never touched on the subject of dress in my presence.”
“Well, then, Mary Anne, right you are. I’ll give them a handsome
allowance each; but, first of all, you must take them to London, and rig
’em up with decent clothes. You can take that other child with you too,
and give her a frock or two; it will help the aunt, poor soul.”
Thus Kitty had her own way, and came back to The Red Gables School
handsomely attired and fit to compete with all her might and main for
the Howard miniature. Who now so obliging as Kitty? Who in all the
school wore so sunshiny a face? Who was so ready to help her neighbours,
more particularly when the schoolteachers could be seen anywhere round?
Kitty was, in short, in her element; she even tried to make things up
with Peggy, but Peggy firmly and decidedly declined her advances.
“I haven’t got anything to do with ye,” said Irish Peggy. “I like ye no
more now than I did at first, and so I say plain and straight.”
“You’re very unkind, Peggy; when you speak in that tone you almost make
me cry,” said Kitty. Kitty spoke loud on purpose, for Miss Archdale was
passing the quadrangle. The governess half-stopped and half-looked
round. Kitty suddenly called to her. “Please, Miss Archdale,” she said.
“Yes, what’s the matter?”
“I wish you’d speak to Peggy; she’s _so_ unkind to me.”
“Are you really unkind to Kitty, Peggy?” said Miss Archdale, glancing at
the Irish girl.
“It isn’t me fault, Miss Archdale dear,” replied Peggy; “it’s that I
don’t take to her at all, at all, and never mean to. Why can’t she let
me be, Miss Archdale dear? Why, glory! there’s room enough for us both
in this old world.”
“I want to be friends with every one,” said Kitty in a modest, sad
voice.
“Well, then, I don’t,” said Peggy. “It’s that portrait you’re craving
for, not me nor me friendship.—There now, I’ve gone down a peg in your
estimation; and, Miss Archdale dear, ye’ll be doing right if ye put a
bad mark against me name. But, why then, I don’t care, for I couldn’t
collogue wid her if it was twenty portraits of twenty old ladies I was
to lose.”
Peggy crossed the quadrangle and disappeared into the Upper School.
There was a look of secret triumph in Kitty’s dark eyes.
“There,” she said to Miss Archdale, “she’s always going on like that;
however hard I try, she will not be friendly. It isn’t kind of her, is
it, Miss Archdale?”
“Perhaps she has a reason, Kitty, that I know nothing about.”
Kitty looked at her teacher and sighed. “It is hard when I’m trying to
do my best,” she said.
“You have certainly improved, Kitty,” said Miss Archdale, “and you may
be quite sure that your teachers notice it.”
Kitty went into the Lower School and there informed her special chums
that, beyond doubt, Irish Peggy had lost her chance of the prize, for
Miss Archdale would put a black mark against her name. As a matter of
fact, no such black mark was put; but against Kitty’s own name there was
a faint observation in pencil: “General improvement, but still sadly
wanting in sincerity.”
And now the excitement with regard to the prize was really trembling
more and more through the school. It was affecting every girl, from the
eldest to the youngest, it was _the_ subject of the hour, and little
scraps of information with regard to it were eagerly treasured by the
competitors, who were now all working seriously at their essays. It was
about this time that Mrs. Fleming asked the girls to wait after prayers,
and told them that she had a piece of information to give them. It was
this:
By the express wish of the judges, who consisted of six London
professors, three of whom were ladies and three were men, a further test
was to be expected from the competitors. Each girl was to recite on the
morning of the prize-giving some verses selected by herself. When this
rather startling announcement was made every eye was fixed on Peggy, who
flushed a vivid crimson, and each girl knew well that this recitation
must result in Peggy’s favour, for no one else in the school had her
really remarkable talent in this special art.
Mrs. Fleming observed the expression in all the watchful eyes, and said
at once: “I know that Peggy Desmond recites remarkably well; but, on the
other hand, she is severely handicapped with regard to the essay, as
pure and perfect English is essential in the case of the competitor who
wins this part of the competition. That being the case, I am glad that
Peggy has her chance, and I am sure you all must agree with me.”
“Three cheers for Peggy Desmond!” sounded now through the room; the
girls clapped their hands and looked smilingly at their favourite.
“Bedad, then, I’ll not compete if ye’d rather I didn’t,” was her remark.
“It’s a way I have to learn things pat off book, very easy like, so
perhaps it isn’t fair for me to say a poem. Of course I’d love it, but
I’m willing to do what’s right.”
“I must say I agree with Peggy,” suddenly remarked Kitty; “the rest of
us find recitations _very_ difficult, and if she is willing not to
recite, don’t you think it seems about fair?”
“If Peggy doesn’t recite,” said Mrs. Fleming, an indignant flush rising
into her face, “I shall beg of the judges to excuse her the essay, and
to give her an equal chance with the rest of you, minus the essay.”
“Oh! oh!” cried several voices. This was favouritism indeed.
Mrs. Fleming came down from her platform, and going up to the Irish
girl, took her hand. “Peggy, dear child,” she said, “I do not accept
your generous offer. You shall choose your recitation, and I trust you
will do your very best when the moment comes for you to recite. I know,
my child, we shall all listen to you with pleasure.”