KITTY’S TREACHERY.
In the case of the prize essays, no help of any sort was to be given;
but in the case of the recitations Mrs. Fleming altered her plan. The
time to learn and to recite was somewhat short, and each girl who wished
was allowed to consult with Miss Henrietta Greene, the most dignified
and the most intellectual teacher in the school. Miss Greene might offer
suggestions, and on a certain day the girls were to assemble in the big
schoolroom and recite for her benefit. She was permitted to listen and
to correct any startling inconsistencies, but she was not in any way to
praise the young reciters. Nevertheless, a great deal can be learnt from
the human face, and these girls were sharp enough to be able to judge a
good deal by Miss Greene’s expression of countenance. The rehearsal took
place one day before the essays were to be sent in. Peggy was much
excited, and could scarcely keep her excitement to herself. To Peggy,
verse was like music, rhythm was to her pure ecstasy; a ballad was
indeed a story into which she could throw herself and live. All her life
long the child had this special gift, and many and many were the verses
she recited to the children in the old country, to her grandparents, and
to her foster-parents, the O’Flynns. Peggy chose Ireland, and always
Ireland, as her theme; with the Irish ballad she could give herself
away, and show what a maiden of Ireland might achieve. Her action was
absolutely natural, full of fire and without effort; it came to her as
easily as did the breath that she drew. She was in the picture, she was
there herself, going through the agony or the joy. The smile that came
and went on her lovely face, the look of exultation which filled her
sapphire eyes, all showed her true and real appreciation. When Peggy
recited she forgot herself absolutely. Hitherto her great piece had been
the very well-known recitation called “Fergus O’Flynn;” this, of course,
would not do for the present occasion, and after a little study she
suddenly announced that the piece she would recite was called “The
Fairies’ Passage,” and was by James Clarence Mangan. Molly Wyndham chose
“The May Queen,” but was told that it was a little too long, and she
must only recite the two first parts, another girl selected Tennyson’s
most touching “Children’s Hospital,” and another again chose part of
Mrs. Hamilton King’s well-known “Story of the Irish Famine.”
The recitations were to take place in the afternoon, and Peggy entered
the room accompanied by the other girls, who sat round in a row. One by
one they went through their verses, and at last it was Peggy’s turn. The
colour rushed into her cheeks, for a minute her eyes shone. Kitty, who
was watching her intently, perceived at that moment that Peggy was
absolutely lost to her presence; that she, Kitty, was nothing at all to
the girl; the girl was away in the scene which she had conjured up.
Peggy’s voice came mellow, clear, with the exquisite touch in it which
only an Irish voice possesses. She stood a little apart, a curious light
filled her eyes.
“Now, Peggy, now,” said her mistress.
The girl started, just as though something had awakened her from a
dream, then she began:
Tap, tap! Rap, rap! “Get up, Gaffer Ferryman!”
“Eh? Who is there?”—The clock strikes three.—
“Get up—do, Gaffer! You are the very man
We have been long, long, longing to see.”
The Ferryman rises, growling and grumbling,
And goes fum-fumbling, and stumbling—and tumbling
Over the wares in his way to the door;
But he sees no more
Than he saw before,
Till a voice is heard—“O Ferryman, dear!
Here we are waiting, all of us, here!
We are a wee, wee colony, we,
Some two hundred in all, or three—
Ferry us over the River Spree
Ere dawn of day,
And we will pay
The most we may,
In our own wee way!”
“Who are you? Whence came you? What place are you going to?”—
“Oh, we have dwelt overlong in this land.
The people get cross, and are growing so knowing, too!
Nothing at all but they now understand.
We are daily vanishing under the thunder
Of some huge engine or iron wonder—
That iron—oh, it has entered our souls!”
“Your souls? O Goles!
You queer little drolls!
Do you mean——?” “Good Gaffer, do aid us with speed,
For our time, like our stature, is short indeed!
And a very long way we have to go,
Eight or ten thousand miles or so,
Hither and thither, and to and fro,
With our pots and pans,
And little gold cans;
But our light caravans
Run swifter than Man’s!”
Off then went the boat, at first very pleasantly,
Smoothly and so forth, but after a while
It swayed and it swagged this and that way, and presently
Chest after chest, and pile after pile,
Of the Little Folks’ goods began tossing and rolling
And pitching like fun, beyond fairy controlling!
O Mab! if the hubbub was great before,
It was now some two or three million times more;
Crash went the wee crocks, and the clocks, and the locks
Of each little box were stove in by hard knocks.
And then there were oaths, and prayers and cries—
“Take care!” “See there!” “Oh dear! my eyes!”
“I am killed!” “I am drowned!”—with groans and sighs.—
Till the land is in view—
“Yeo, ho! Pull to!—
Tiller rope thro’ and thro’!”—
And all’s right anew.
“Now, jump upon shore, ye queer little oddities!—
Eh! What is this? Where are they at all?
Where are they, and where are their tiny commodities?
Well, as I live!” He looks blank as a wall,
The poor Ferryman! Round him and round him he gazes,
But only gets deeplier lost in the mazes
Of utter bewilderment! All, all are gone—
And he stands alone,
Like a statue of stone,
In a doldrum of wonder! He turns to steer,
And a tinkling laugh salutes his ear
With other odd sounds—“Ha! ha! ha! ha!
Tol, lol, zid—ziddle—quee—quee—bah! bah!
Fizzigigiggidy—psha!—sha! sha!”
—“O ye thieves! ye thieves! ye rascally thieves!”
The good man cries. He turns to his pitcher,
And there, alas! to his horror perceives,
That the Little Folks’ mode of making him richer
Has been, to pay him with—withered leaves!
The girls listened in perfect amazement, for Peggy, as she warmed to her
work, really had a sort of witchery about her. She forgot her audience,
she was first the Ferryman, she was then the little people, she was
everything she described; her voice rose and fell, her eyes danced, her
voice danced to the music of her thoughts. Now and then she stopped to
laugh, and her laugh was uncanny. At last her trial was over. There was
a dead silence in the room, no words were allowed to be said; but when
she sat down again, and the other girls followed suit, it seemed, both
to Miss Greene and to the girls themselves, that all the other verses
wanted in tone, in flash, in spirit, compared with the magnificent
rendering of the “Fairies’ Passage.” Miss Greene afterwards went away to
Mrs. Fleming.
“Well, my dear,” said that good lady, “you have heard the recitations?”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Fleming looked at her. “Have you anything to say?”
“Well, of course,” said Miss Greene, “there’s no doubt whatever. The
girls have chosen with care, and they will do their work admirably; but
Peggy——”
“Yes, what of Peggy?”
“Peggy ought to go on the stage some day; and yet, do I want such a life
for her? She is wonderful. I won’t tell you anything about what she is
going to recite. I never heard the verses myself before; rendered by
Peggy, I can only tell you that they take one’s breath away. They have a
slight resemblance to Browning’s ‘Pied Piper’; I almost think that
Browning must have read them and copied the style, for they are, of
course, much older. I asked the child afterwards, and she said that her
‘gaffer,’ as she used to call old O’Flynn, often said them to her on a
winter evening, when the ‘little people,’ as she expressed it, were
about. I asked her then if she believed in the little people, and she
said, ‘Of course I do.’ Really, that child—there’s something magical
about her.”
“She is very, very lovable,” said Mrs. Fleming. “But, all the same, my
dear kind friend, I would much rather she did not get the miniature.”
“She will get it as far as the recitation is concerned.”
“There are so many other things to be considered,” said Mrs. Fleming.
“Yes, that is true.”
“I am almost sorry,” continued Mrs. Fleming, “for Peggy’s sake, that the
people in London have insisted on recitations; however, there is no help
for it now, and Peggy shall not be discouraged, she shall do her very
best. Before she leaves this school I can promise one thing, that she
will get the Howard miniature; but I don’t want to spoil the darling by
giving it to her this year.”
“I know a girl,” said Miss Greene, “who is trying for it desperately
hard.”
“Who is that, my dear?”
“Kitty—Kitty Merrydew. She is a good deal altered; don’t you think so?”
“Do you think she is altered in spirit, dear?”
“Ah, that I can’t say.”
“It is very sad,” continued Mrs. Fleming, after a pause, “that Hannah
and Sophy are not competing; there are no girls in this school who want
the prize more than they do. However, they are quite determined, and I
must not say a word. I think they both look very, very sad; they keep
together a great deal, and don’t talk much to the others. Haven’t you
noticed that, dear Henrietta?”
“Well, no, being in the Upper School, I don’t see so much of them as
Julia does,” was Henrietta’s answer. “Yes, I’m sorry they’re not
competing; but, after all, they can have another trial.”
By this time it was whispered all over the school, both in the Upper and
Lower School, that beyond any doubt whatsoever, Peggy would come out
first in the recitations. There was a great deal of indignation on the
part of the few girls who did not like her. It is true that these girls
were very few in number; they consisted, in fact, only of Kitty and the
two Dodds. There was another girl in the Upper School who did not
greatly take to her, but she has nothing to do with this story, and need
scarcely be mentioned by name. She was not trying for the prize, she was
a rich girl and had little or no ambition in her character. She, as well
as Alison Maude, was to leave at the end of the present term. Alison was
in perfect raptures over Peggy’s recitation; she went to the little
girl’s room that evening and said to her: “My dear, I have come with a
request.”
“What is that?” asked Peggy.
“You must say part of that rollicking verse over again; I can’t get it
out of my head.”
“Oh no; please don’t ask me.”
“Do, do, please say a little bit of it over again. I am perfectly mad
about it. Just those queer sounds at the end, you know—‘Ha! ha! ha!
ha!’”
Peggy laughed, then she said quickly:
“Ha! ha! ha! ha!
Tol, lol, zid—ziddle—quee—quee—bah! bah!
Fizzigigiggidy—psha! sha! sha!”
“Oh, Peggy, _how_ you say it! And how could any man ever think of
anything so funny?”
“It is rather funny,” said Peggy. “Perhaps it is scarcely fair of me to
choose those verses for my recitation; and, do you know, I haven’t a
single copy of them, I just remembered them. They’ve been so often
repeated to me by my grandad, when he was alive, and afterwards by the
O’Flynns, I just know them by heart. Suppose I were to forget!”
“Well, if I were you, Peggy, I’d write them all out while I remembered
them.”
“I don’t think I will do that, Alison, thank you so much, because,
somehow, they’re part of me by this time. To say them properly you ought
to be in an Irish cottage, Alison, with the sea breaking on the rocks
just below your house, and the little hens—I say it properly
now—roosting close by you, and the turkeys and the geese and the ducks,
belike, all waiting for the dawn, and the bit of a calf wanting his
drink of milk, and the little pigeens all snoring in their soft bed of
hay. Ah, there’s no place like Old Ireland! Did you ever see real Irish
moss, Alison?”
“No.”
“You don’t have it in this country,” continued Peggy. “I have looked for
it and looked for it. You don’t know what the moss is in Ireland, in the
damp month of February, when it fructifies, and is all over little
delicate flowers, a sort of faint pink, you know; and then there’s
another kind of dainty, dainty leaves, like tiny fern-leaves. I can’t
tell you how beautiful it is! I wish Daddy O’Flynn would send me a box
over, so that you could see for yourself.”
“When you are older, Peggy, you must go back to Ireland and see the
Irish moss and all the Irish things again.”
“What’s that ye’re saying, Alison?”
“You must go back to Ireland to see——”
“Is it me to hear you talk as though it were a visit? Do you think when
I’m grown up I’ll _ever_ leave the place? Not me, it’s to live there and
die there I want. The Irish shamrock and the Irish harp; and, oh, the
Irish land! and—and the Irish people! Don’t talk to me, Alison, it’s me
heart is broke when I think of them!” The excited child burst into
tears, and Alison tried to comfort her for a few minutes.
Presently Peggy started up. “I must go to write that essay,” she said;
“I can’t get round it at all, at all. _Know yourself_—it’s a horridly
difficult thing to know yourself, isn’t it, Alison?”
“That is true; but just say what you feel, take all the things you love,
those things that excite and interest you. There, perhaps I oughtn’t to
say that much.”
“Thank you, Alison, you have given me a bit of a clue; but you won’t
mind if I use it? I’m certain to write a bad essay, for my spelling
ain’t none of the best. I’m sorry for meself, that I am.”
The news of the recitation, delightful to some of the girls, was the
reverse of delightful to others; and Kitty thought it well to have a
conference with her chosen friends on the subject. “There, now,” she
said, “I know exactly what is going to happen. There’s one girl in the
school to whom that prize means salvation, and she has no more a chance
of it than if she wasn’t in the school at all.”
“Who are you talking about, Kitty?” asked Grace.
“Well, now, Grace, who do you think I am talking about?”
“I’m afraid it’s yourself,” answered Grace.
“Of course it is myself. You don’t know how badly I want that prize, you
don’t know what life will be to me when I leave this school.”
“There’s one thing, Kitty, which does astonish us,” said Anne Dodd.
“What is that?”
“The marvellous way in which you have come round father.”
Kitty laughed.
“How did you do it, Kitty? I wish you’d tell us.”
“I’m not likely to,” replied Kitty.
“You might tell us, Kitty—you really might.”
“No,” answered Kitty.
“Well, you have done it, anyhow, and when father takes even a sort of
fancy to a girl he’s always good to that girl as long as she lives, so
you may be certain on that point; he’ll never let you really want.”
“But if I got the prize,” pursued Kitty, “I needn’t be beholden to any
one. You don’t know how—how it hurts me somehow, for I may have a little
bit of pride in me when all’s said and done.”
“I have never specially remarked it,” said Anne.
“Haven’t you, Anne? Well, I’m sorry, but I have pride, all the same.”
Anne made no response.
“How are you getting on with your essays?” was Kitty’s next remark.
“Very badly. I know I haven’t a chance of the prize,” said Anne. “What’s
the good of trying?”
“We must try,” said Grace, “it would please daddy so tremendously if we
won.”
“But it would have been much better for us not to have tried,” said
Anne; “that’s my opinion. For if we hadn’t tried he would not have been
disappointed, now he will be—of course he will—when he knows that we
both have failed.”
The girls now began to whisper in low tones with regard to the person
who was likely to win the prize essay.
Grace sat down in a dejected way and folded her arms. “I’m sick of
writing!” she said. “Where’s the good? I’m absolutely certain to fail.
Alison will get the prize. I don’t see the use of going on.”
Kitty had been sitting very still, her eyes were wonderfully bright.
Suddenly she spoke. “Grace,” she said, “if _you_ get the miniature, what
will your father do for you?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Grace. “What do you mean?”
“Well, now, listen,” said Kitty. “I have a plan in my head. No one can
say a word against you, Gracie, with regard to conduct, and I’m sure
your face looks the essence of good-temper. Now, if your father gives
you a handsome present, supposing you win the miniature, will you share
it with me?”
Grace gave a big sigh. “You’re always wanting me to share things with
you, Kitty,” she said. “I am sure Anne and I often feel that we can
scarcely call our souls our own. I haven’t a chance of the miniature, so
what’s the good of thinking about what dad will give me?”
“Well, Gracie, listen. Write your very best, your very, very best, and
there’s no saying—there’s no saying at all. But do just promise, for the
fun of it, that you’ll give me half of whatever your father sends to
you.”
“The worst of it is this,” said Grace, “that father and mother are both
going to be present when the prize is given. I’m ever so sorry. I wish
to goodness they’d stay away.”
“I’m not sorry,” said Kitty. “I’m very glad. You write very good
English, you know, Grace; I’ve often noticed it and so have we all. Just
make me that little promise, won’t you, like a duck?”
“Oh very well, I’ll make it fast enough.”
“You’ll give me half?”
“Yes, yes, but it’s too ridiculous.”
“But you and Anne will never tell?”
“Of course not—of course not. You’d better run away now, Kitty, you’re
only disturbing us, and we have no time to lose.”
Kitty went out of the room, still with that glow in her cheeks and that
light in her eyes. She was desperate. Somehow or other, she must secure
fifty pounds, in no other possible way could she keep Miss Weston quiet.
A desperate girl, devoid of principle, will go a long way. That moment
Kitty, whose own essay, for what it was worth, was finished, sat down
and wrote the following letter to Mr. Dodd:
“DEAR KIND FRIEND—You said I might do it, and I am taking you at
your word. I do want just a pretty simple little frock to wear on
the Howard miniature prize day, something very simple. I could get
it for five pounds. Of course, if you can’t spare the money I can
easily manage; but it would be nice. All the girls are to be in
white, the girls of the Upper School are to wear white embroidered
muslins with violet sashes, and the girls of the Lower School are to
be dressed like them, with rose-coloured sashes. Anne and Grace have
ordered their dresses; and if you won’t help her, poor Kitty must
manage with an old frock. But never mind, dear, kind sir; it is only
a bit of vanity in Kitty, and perhaps it ought not to be encouraged.
Now I’m going to tell you something which is very important. Grace
is making _such_ a try for the prize. The essay is very difficult;
but she is taking such pains with it—oh, I must not say more, but I
wonder, and I—I _hope_. As to poor little me, well, I haven’t the
ghost of a chance, but I should be almost as happy if Grace got it
as if I got it myself.
“Now, my dear sir, I am doing a very bold thing. I want to suggest
to you that you might stimulate Grace by promising her something,
something really big, if she gets the prize. It seems horrid to
suggest money, but I do think she would like that best, for she has
several plans in her head for spending her money, and they are all
very good and great plans, that I can assure you. Now, sir, if you
can, give Gracie a little fillip, will you? If not, please forget
that Kitty has written.”
On the morning of the day when the prize essays were to be put on Miss
Greene’s desk, Grace received a letter from her father which astonished
her a good deal:
“MY DEAREST CHILD—I’m a silly old man to wish you to gain the Howard
miniature prize; but there, my child, I should be _that_ proud, and
now I’ll tell you why—for I should recognise in my Grace a chip of
the old block. I should feel that by and by my girl would worthily
spend the riches which will be hers, that she would not waste them,
but would turn them to account, like the faithful servant who did
not wrap his talent in a napkin, but put it out to usury so that it
gained more. That is what we have to do with all our talents, my
Gracie, and if you gain the Howard miniature I’ll give you a hundred
pounds just to do what you think best with, for I know you will not
spend it contrary to your father’s wishes. By the way, child, give
the enclosed post-office order to Kitty Merrydew. I hope the lass is
improving.”
Kitty changed colour once or twice as Grace was reading this amazing
letter.
“Poor daddy!” Grace said, when she had finished, “I hope to goodness,
Kitty, that you haven’t been putting it into his head that I am likely
to get that prize, when you know perfectly well that I haven’t the ghost
of a chance of it. Here’s a post-office order for you, anyhow. Have you
been asking daddy for money?”
Kitty coloured and then turned pale. “You need not be so unkind to me,”
she said. “I’m sure I’d do anything in the world for you, and your
father is always nice to me.”
“Well, you’ll be a rich girl if I do get the prize,” said Grace, “for
dad says he’ll give me a hundred pounds. What can have put it into his
head? But don’t rely on it, Kitty, for I have no more chance of the
prize than you have, nor as much.”
Kitty made no reply; but that morning, which happened to be a whole
holiday in the school, she begged of Miss Smith to walk down with her to
the village in order that she might see Miss Weston. Miss Smith’s name
has not often appeared in these pages, but she was one of the most
good-natured and kindest of women, and all the girls adored her. Kitty
and she were soon tramping off to the village, and Miss Smith allowed
Kitty to visit Miss Weston alone. Kitty was very triumphant and excited,
and paid in advance for her white muslin frock.
“I ’ear, miss, it’s to be for a very great occasion,” said the
dressmaker. “I’m ’aving orders from most of the school. This ’as revived
me a little, miss, and not made me feel so bitter against that King
woman. Set _’er_ to cut a delicate Indian muslin, indeed! A nice show
she’d make of it! What a wonderful prize you’re all competing for, miss;
it’s the talk of Gable End. One of the servants was down ’ere yesterday,
bringing an order from Miss Alison Maude; they all say that she’s to be
the lucky competitor. Kate, who brought ’er message, left me a letter
with full directions on it. Miss Maude is most particular about the cut
of ’er dress, miss; nearly as much so as you are. Oh my! the orders I
’ave!”
“I wish I could see them, Miss Weston. You might show them to me, you
really might.”
“Well, miss, I don’t like to refuse, but it really isn’t done.”
“Still you know, Miss Weston, I am doing a lot for you; but for me I
don’t suppose you’d have got the orders for the prize dresses, and I do
want mine to be just as nice as Miss Maude’s. You really might let me
run my eye over her directions.”
“Very well, miss, I don’t suppose it _can_ do any ’arm; but you’ll be
careful not to mention it, Miss Merrydew?”
“Certainly I shall be careful.”
Accordingly Miss Weston went to her desk and took out a letter which she
put into the girl’s hand. Eagerly Kitty’s dark eyes appeared to absorb
the contents, in reality she was not thinking about them, her eyes were
fixed on a small mark which was made in one corner of the paper—it was,
in fact, the graceful tracing of a flower, and the flower, beyond doubt,
was the bluebell. Without a word Kitty handed back the letter.
“Thank you, I’ll never speak of this,” she said, and then she returned
to the school. She had got far more than she had hoped, than she had
dared to hope. She really wished to have a good look at Alison Maude’s
handwriting, for it was her impression that it almost exactly resembled
the handwriting of Grace Dodd. Grace wrote an excellent hand, firm,
upright, sensible. Kitty was right in her surmise, Alison wrote exactly
like Grace; but Kitty had learnt a great deal more than the fact which
she was already acting upon—that the two girls wrote like each other;
she was positive that she had found out by an accident the pseudonym
that Alison meant to take. She would call herself “Bluebell.”
During the whole of the rest of that day Kitty was lively of the lively,
and most obliging. Towards the evening fortune seemed to favour her
projects, for Grace had a bad headache and Anne did not like to leave
her sister.
“Why should you?” said Kitty. “I am going across to the Upper School now
to put my essay on Miss Greene’s writing-desk, and you can give me
yours. I suppose they’re all ready.”
“Yes, quite,” said Anne. Grace did not speak, her head was aching
severely. She did not like that letter of her father’s. She meant to
write to him on the following day to tell him that she had no chance of
winning the prize, and that in no case would she accept one hundred
pounds from him. She and Anne had consulted over this letter, but
resolved to say nothing to Kitty.
“Where shall I find the essays?” asked Kitty now.
Anne went to a drawer and took them out. All directions had been
carefully followed. Each essay had been folded in three and slipped into
a long envelope, which was gummed down. On the back of each envelope was
neatly written the words: “Prize Essay for the Howard Miniature.”
Fastened to the long envelope, according to directions, was a small,
ordinary envelope, which was secured by a hole which had been made in
the long envelope and also in the little one; through these two holes a
ribbon was strung, which was tied now in a neat little bow. Grace’s
ribbon was rose colour, Anne’s was cherry red. The pseudonyms of each
girl were put on the small envelope.
“What is your pseudonym, Kitty?” asked Grace, raising her flushed face
now and looking at Kitty. “We thought ‘Rosebud’ and ‘Cherry Blossom’ so
pretty.”
“Oh, I?” said Kitty. “I have called myself ‘Pansy.’ Well, I’ll take the
papers across now.”
Kitty lingered for some time in the passage outside Miss Greene’s
private room. It was quite dark, the lights were not yet turned on;
girls came and went rapidly, and no one noticed Kitty in her dark dress,
standing in the shadow. She counted the girls as they went by. They
entered Miss Greene’s room quickly and came out again almost at once.
She felt certain now that all who were about to compete had left their
papers on Miss Greene’s desk. It was now her turn to enter. Quick as
thought, she opened the door and shut it behind her. There was a small
lamp burning on the desk, the rest of the room was in shadow. Quickly
Kitty approached the table. Staring her in the face was the long
envelope in that neat writing so exactly like Grace’s—“Prize Essay for
the Howard Miniature,” and on the small envelope, fastened to it with a
piece of blue ribbon, was the pseudonym “_Bluebell_.”
In a flash, yet with firm fingers, Kitty untied Alison’s small envelope,
she also untied Grace’s, then she changed the two envelopes, putting
Grace’s on Alison’s paper and Alison’s on Grace’s. The deed was done.
She gave a quick sigh of delight. “Ah! I am clever,” she said aloud.
“No, you are not. You’ve got to change that,” said a voice, strong,
brave, passionate; and Kitty looked into Peggy’s eyes.
For one minute Kitty turned perfectly white, as white as death; there
was no way out of it. Even her genius could not discover any. She had
planned for this, she had worked for it. From the moment that Peggy had
recited in her spirited and brilliant way, Kitty had known down deep in
her heart that the Howard miniature was not for her. The best she could
not win, but how about the second best? Could she so arrange matters
that her friend should get the prize? How noble then would Kitty look,
rejoicing in the good fortune of another; how splendid would be her
appearance on the day of the prize-giving, when with her little face all
aglow, she had kissed Grace and congratulated her. And there was really
no fear of discovery, for the prize essay was not to be read aloud, the
judges were to decide, and the essay itself was to be put away in the
Howard archives; and the essays that were failures were to be destroyed,
they were not to be returned to the luckless writers. All these things
Kitty had taken into account when she laid her plans. Startling and
great was the similarity between Grace’s handwriting and Alison’s! She
had meant to be guided by that on the day when she changed the papers,
but Fate seemed truly in her favour when that little sketch of the
bluebell had given her the clue to Alison’s pseudonym. How Mr. Dodd
would love her! how kindly he would think of the girl who had felt so
sure of his girl’s success. Oh yes, yes, she had reason to be happy!
But, just at the moment of success there came the crash, the fall, the
hopeless despair. For Kitty recognised in the sapphire-blue eyes of
Peggy Desmond one who would not be trifled with, and who would not
relent. She had begun by hating and despising Peggy; but although she
feared her awfully she did not despise her now.
“Peggy, Peggy,” she said, “Peggy, Peggy, have mercy!”
“I don’t intend to have mercy,” replied Peggy; “there’s been too much
mercy shown to ye, bedad, and I’m not going on with it. Ye’ll just do
what I wish now. Untie that ribbon and be quick, or Miss Greene will
come into the room.”
Kitty, with trembling fingers, did what Peggy demanded; her little hand
shook, she could scarcely form a knot. Peggy stood stately and silent
near her. She did not help her in the very least, there was a glow of
triumph in her eyes. Was this the girl whom Kitty had resolved to
humble? Was this the girl whom Kitty had hurt, had trampled on? Was this
the girl whose leg had been broken because of Kitty and her satellites?
She stood there now like a sort of avenging angel, gloriously strong and
beautiful, but with no compassion about her—none whatsoever. Those
tender and gracious lips had no kindly curves for Kitty, those glorious
blue eyes were firm, defiant, slightly mocking, a little revengeful. Was
this indeed the girl who was loved by all the Upper School, the creature
of storm and sunshine, of love and pity, of sympathy, of that tender,
tender compassion which would make her ever deny herself to help others?
Kitty, having at last finished her work of restoring the altered
envelopes to their original position, now looked at Peggy. “I’ve done
it,” she said. “You have stopped me and ruined me. I suppose I can go
now,”
“Why, then, no.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Ye have got to come along with me to Mrs. Fleming, bedad.”
“Peggy! Oh you can’t be so cruel!”
“Cruel, is it? Why, then, it’s meself don’t see that at all. It’s you
that has been cruel, Kitty Merrydew.”
“I—I—oh let me go, let me go! Have mercy, have pity! I’ll go on my knees
to you. Have mercy! Peggy, Peggy, have mercy!”
“Get up again on to your legs. I can’t stand people making mollycoddles
of themselves. You’re in a fright now, for you think you’re in my power,
and you _be_ in my power, Kitty Merrydew! I did wrong, bitter wrong, to
promise I wouldn’t tell when you and those girls you were colloguing
with let out a hit at me leg and broke it; but I’m tired of shielding
ye, and what’s more, I’ll not do it, Kitty Merrydew. There are two girls
in the school, and they’re frightened out of their lives at ye. One of
them is Sophy Marshall and the other is Hannah Joyce. They couldn’t try
for the prize just because of ye. Well, now, I promised that I’d not
tell, and bitter sore have I felt about that said promise; but a promise
with me is a promise, and I kept it, though me heart was bleeding,
bleeding; but I never said I’d keep _this_, and I don’t mean to, so
we’ll just come along and have our collogue with Mrs. Fleming, the
crature. She’ll be mighty interested at the clever way ye did it, Kitty,
altering the bits of envelopes and all. My word! it will be a fine story
for her to listen to, and the sooner she hears it the better.”
“But do you know, can you guess, what this will mean to me?”
“Why, then, I’m not thinking of ye at all; it’s those two poor wans left
out in the cold that me heart is aching for. Ah, to be sure, it’s pity I
feel for them, poor colleens; but for ye, never a bit, so come along and
get it done.”
“You’re the cruellest, wickedest, most horrible girl in the world!”
“Ah, to be sure, now that don’t hurt me at all; ye can’t come round me
that way.”
“Peggy, is there any way in which I could beseech of you to have pity?”
“Niver a wan. Come along now, Kitty; it’s my turn at last.”
“Oh if I’d only left you alone!”
“To be sure, ye’d have been happier to-night if ye had.”
“Do you know what will happen if you have your wish, you horrible girl?”
“Why, to be sure, Hannah and Sophy will be put out of their misery.
Maybe there’ll be a bit of a consolation prize given to them, poor
colleens!”
“But what about me—me! I have no home, I am an orphan, I have only an
aunt too poor to support me. Can you turn me out into the cold world?”
“’Tisn’t meself that’s doing it, Kitty; ’twas you, when you listened to
the promptings of the wicked wan. There’s no saying where _he’ll_ lead
you.”
“Oh, oh, oh! I can’t!—I can’t bear it!”
Just then there was a noise heard in the passage outside, and Miss
Greene, accompanied by two of the girls, entered the room. She looked
with astonishment at Peggy, who was standing very upright, not a scrap
of fear in her manner, but a great deal of proud resolution. Then Miss
Greene glanced at Kitty, who was crouching into the darkest shadow of
the room. Kitty’s heart began to beat furiously, she backed away and
away, nearer and nearer to the window, which stood open.
“What are you two doing here?” said Miss Greene, who read disturbance in
the air.
“Having a little bit of a tiff, no less,” said Peggy. “We thought we’d
lay the matter before Mrs. Fleming.”
Miss Greene was about to interfere, for she knew that Mrs. Fleming was
very tired; but there was something about Peggy’s attitude which stopped
her.
“Miss Greene,” said Peggy, “ye’d best be collecting the prize essays,
they’re all on your desk safe and sound. Now, then, Kitty, come along.
Why, wherever——Have you seen her?” she asked, turning to one of the
girls.
“Do you mean Kitty Merrydew?” asked Prissy, for it was she. “I saw her
step out of the window a minute ago. I suppose she has gone back to the
Lower School.”
“My word!” said Peggy. She turned and also left the room.