Back Aa

Pixie O'Shaughnessy

<h3>Chapter Ten.</h3> <h4>An Armistice.</h4> A week passed by, and the mystery was no nearer being unravelled than on the first evening, though every possible means had been taken to discover the offender. At the beginning of the time the general feeling had been in favour of Pixie, but girls are very human creatures, and as the days passed by and they suffered for her silence, a feeling of resentment began to grow against her. Why should all the school be suspected because one girl refused to tell what she knew? What was the use of pretending to be so kind and helpful, if you would not sacrifice your pride for your friends’ comfort? If Pixie were innocent, why should she be afraid to answer questions? But, really—and then the heads would draw close together, and the voices drop to a whisper—really she looked so wretched and ashamed, that one began to wonder if she could be innocent after all! A whole week, and she had not once been in mischief. Didn’t that look as if something was on her mind? While as for funny stories, she was as dull as Clara herself; and it was impossible to say anything more scathing than that! After Margaret’s failure no more personal efforts had been made to induce Pixie to confess; but at the end of a week the anticipated blow fell, for Miss Phipps addressed the assembled school and announced her intention of confiscating holidays until the end of the term. “I am sorry to punish the innocent with the guilty,” she said, “but I hope that the consciousness that she is depriving her companions of their enjoyment may have more influence with the culprit, whoever she may be, than any words of mine. I don’t think it is right to deprive your teachers of their much-needed rest, so on Wednesdays and Saturdays you will have extra preparation during the hours which would otherwise have been your own. Of course no invitations can be accepted. I have written to your brother, Pixie, to say that you will not be able to go out with him on Saturday, as arranged.” Pixie’s cry of dismay was drowned by the general groan, which swelled ever louder and louder as Miss Phipps left the room. The younger girls looked inclined to cry, one or two stamped on the floor with irrepressible anger, and there was a very babel of indignation. “I told you so! What did I say? As if we hadn’t enough to do without slaving six hours more! I know what it will be now—I shall get so worn out that I shall fail in my examination.” “Preparation! More prep! I call that adding insult to injury. If it had been a class, I wouldn’t have minded half so much. I’m sick and tired of school. I’ll ask my mother if I may leave the day I am seventeen.” “And I was going out on Wednesday! I had an invitation this morning, and was going to tell Miss Phipps after tea. I may as well write and say I can’t go, and it would have been so nice too. I should have had such fun!” “Jack was going to take me to the s–s–circus! I’ve never seen a clown in all me days! I was c–counting the hours!” stammered Pixie tearfully; and at the sound of her voice, as at a signal, all the girls stopped talking and fixed their eyes upon her. She looked pitiful enough with the tears streaming down her cheeks, but there was not much sympathy in the watching faces, and for the first time the growing resentment forced itself into words. “You have only yourself to blame,” Kate said coldly. “If you had spoken up and told all you knew about that horrible night, it would have been forgotten by this time. I believe Mademoiselle is sorry already that she made such a fuss, but Miss Phipps won’t rest until she has found out what she wants. If you will be obstinate, you must expect to be punished, but it’s hard lines on the rest of us who have done nothing wrong.” “And we were all so kind to you, Pixie O’Shaughnessy, and made a regular pet of you—you know we did! We helped you like angels when you couldn’t do your lessons. I’ve been in this school five years, and I’ve never seen a new girl made such a fuss of before. I call you an ungrateful serpent to turn and rend us like this.” “Clowns indeed! I should think you have something else to think of than clowns! Do you realise that thirty girls are losing their fun for three whole weeks because you won’t speak? If you had any nice feeling, you would be too miserable for clowns.” “Oh, Pixie, I’ve such a smashing headache! You might tell! I was so looking forward to a rest this afternoon. It makes the week so dreadfully, dreadfully long when there are no holidays!” Flora’s voice was full of tears, and Pixie’s miserable glance, roving from one speaker to another, grew suddenly eager as it rested upon her, for she was skilled in the treatment of headaches, and was never more happy than when officiating as nurse. “I’ll lend ye my smelling-bottle. It’s awful strong! Ye said yourself the last time you smelt it ye forgot all about the pain. Will I run up this minute and bring it for you?” “No, thank you!” Flora’s tone was almost as cold as Kate’s. “I don’t want your loans. Smelling-bottles are no good to me if I have to rack my brains all the afternoon. You needn’t pretend to be sorry, for if you were you could soon cure me. Come along, girls, let’s go upstairs! It is no use talking to her any longer.” The girls linked arms and filed to the door, only Lottie lingering behind to thrust her hand encouragingly through Pixie’s arm. Kate, standing near, caught the whispered words of consolation. “You shall go to the circus in the holidays. I’ll ask you to stay with me, and we will go somewhere nice every afternoon!”—and told herself reproachfully that Lottie was more forgiving than herself. “I don’t feel in the least inclined to offer her treats, though I’m sorry for her all the same. She does look such a woe-begone little wretch! It’s my belief she thought it was a good opportunity to examine the scent-bottle when we were all upstairs, and that she put it down too roughly or let it slip from her hands and hadn’t the nerve to own up at once. I don’t wonder she is afraid to confess now; I should be myself. You don’t know what might happen—you might even be expelled! I don’t believe Miss Phipps would keep a girl who was so mean as to make all the school suffer rather than face a scolding. There’s one thing certain, I’m not going to have Pixie O’Shaughnessy fagging for me until this business is cleared up! I have tied my own hair bows before and can do them again, and I shall tell Flora and Ethel not to allow her in their cubicles either. If she is untruthful, how are we to know that she might not be dishonest next!” There is no truer proverb than that which says, “Give a dog a bad name and hang him!” for it is certain that when once we begin to harbour suspicion, a dozen little actions and coincidences arise to strengthen us in our convictions. It is also true that no judges are so unflinching as very young people, who set a hard line between right and wrong, and are unwilling to acknowledge the existence of extenuating circumstances. During the next few weeks Pixie was sent to Coventry by her companions, to her own unutterable grief and confusion. No one offered to help her with difficult lessons; no one invited her to be a companion in the daily crocodile; no one made room for her when she entered a room; on the contrary, she was avoided as if her very presence were infectious, and when she spoke a silence fell over the room, and several moments elapsed before a cold, stern voice would vouchsafe a monosyllabic answer. She was at the bottom of her classes too, being unable to learn in this atmosphere of displeasure, and the governess’s strictures had in them a touch of unusual severity. Curiously enough, it was Mademoiselle herself who showed most sympathy with Pixie during those dark days. Like most people of impulsive temperament, she had quick reactions of feeling, and after having stormed and bewailed for a couple of days, she began to regret the gloom into which she had plunged the school. She had been fond of the droll little Irish girl, and, though convinced of her guilt, feared lest her own unbridled anger had frightened a sensitive child into a denial difficult to retract. It happened one day that governess and pupil were alike suffering from cold and unable to go out for the usual walk, and the impressionable French heart went out in a wave of pity, as its owner entered the deserted schoolroom and found Pixie seated alone by the fire, her hands folded listlessly on her lap, a very Cinderella of misery and dejection. When the door opened she looked up with that shrinking expression of dread which is so pitiful to see on a young face, for to be left tête-à-tête with Mademoiselle seemed under the circumstances the most terrible thing that could happen. Her head drooped forward over her chest, and she stared fixedly at the floor while Mademoiselle seated herself on a chair close by and stared at her with curious eyes. Surely the ugly little face was smaller, the figure more absurdly minute than of yore! The black dress with its folds of rusty crape added to the pathos of the picture, and awoke remembrances of the dead mother who would never comfort her baby again, nor point out the right way with wise, tender words. Mademoiselle’s thoughts went back to her own past, when, if the truth must be told, she had been an exceedingly naughty child; and she realised that it was not coldness and severity which had wrought the most good, but the tender patience and affection of the kindest of parents. What if they had been trying the wrong course with Pixie O’Shaughnessy? What if suspicion and avoidance were but hardening the child’s heart and hastening her path downwards? Mademoiselle cleared her throat and said in the softest tone which she could command— “Eh bien, Pixie! What are you doing sitting here all by yourself?” “I’m thinking, Mademoiselle.” “And what are you thinking about then? Tell me your thoughts for a penny, as you girls say to each other!” “I’m thinking of Foxe’s martyrs!” was Pixie’s somewhat startling reply. Her face had lightened with immeasurable relief at the sound of the friendly voice, and the talkative tongue once loosened could not resist the temptation to enlarge on the reply. “We have the book at home. Did ye ever see it, Mademoiselle? It’s got lovely pictures! There’s one man lying down and they are pinching him with hot tongs, and another being stoned, and another being boiled in oil. They were so brave that they never screeched out, but only sang hymns, and prayed beautiful prayers. I used to long to be a martyr too, but I don’t any more now, for I know I couldn’t bear it, but it cheers me up to think about them. Bridgie says there’s nothing so bad but it might be worse, and I was thinking that they were worse off than me. I’d rather even that the girls wouldn’t speak to me than boiling oil—wouldn’t you, Mademoiselle?” “I would indeed!” replied Mademoiselle fervently. “But what a subject to think about on a dull grey day! No wonder you look miserable! You need not think about boiling oil just now at all events, for I have to stay in too, and I have come to sit here and talk to you. Will that make you feel a little bit less miserable?” “Now that depends upon what ye talk about, Mademoiselle,” said Pixie, with that air of quaint candour which her companions had been wont to find so amusing; and Mademoiselle first smiled, and then looked grave enough. “I am not going to question you about your trouble, if you mean that, Pixie. It is Miss Phipps’s affair now, not mine. I wish you had been more outspoken, but I am not going to scold you again. You are being punished already, and I feel sorry to see you so grave and to hear no more laughs and jokes. Shall we ’ave what they call an armistice, and talk together as we used to do when we were very good friends?” She held out her hand as she spoke, and Pixie’s thin fingers grasped hers with a force that was almost painful. She looked overcome with gratitude, nevertheless, now that it had been agreed to talk, both felt a decided difficulty in deciding what to talk about, for even a temporary coldness between friends heaps up many barriers, and in this particular case it was difficult to feel once more at ease and unconstrained. It was Pixie who spoke first, and her voice was full of shy eagerness. “How’s your father, Mademoiselle? Is he having his health any better than it was?” “A little—yes, a little better. He is in the South with my brother until the cold winds are over in Paris. He is like me—he hates to be cold, so he is very happy down there in the sunshine. I told you about him then, did I? I had forgotten that.” “Yes, you told me that day when I—when I lassoed you on the stairs, and I wrote the verb not to be rude to you any more. You said I would remember that, and I do; but perhaps you think I have done something worse than being rude, Mademoiselle! I want to know—please tell me!—can your bottle be stuck together so that you can use it again?” Mademoiselle’s face clouded over. She had recovered from her first violent anger about the accident, but it was still too sore a subject to be lightly touched. “No,” she said shortly, “it cannot mend. I tried. I thought I might use it still as an ornament, but the pieces will not fit. There is perhaps something missing. I have just to make up my mind that it is gone for ever. It seems as if I should never know what happened to it.” An expression of undoubted relief and satisfaction passed over Pixie’s face as she heard these last words, but Mademoiselle was gazing disconsolately in the fire, and it had passed before she looked up. Perhaps she had hoped that her words would draw forth some sort of confession, but, if so, she was fated to be disappointed, for when Pixie spoke again it was to broach another subject. “Mademoiselle, I’ve a favour to ask you! I’ve been afraid to do it before, but you are so kind to-day that I’m not frightened any longer. It’s about the party at the end of the term. The girls say they always have one, and they will be broken-hearted if they miss that as well as all the holidays. It is no use my asking, because it’s me that’s in trouble, but, Mademoiselle, it was your bottle that was broken. If you asked Miss Phipps, she couldn’t find the heart in her to say no! Please, Mademoiselle, will you ask if the girls can have their party the same as ever?” Mademoiselle looked, as she felt, completely taken aback by this unexpected request. It sounded strange indeed coming from Pixie’s lips, and it was difficult to explain to the girl that she herself would be the greatest hindrance to the granting of such a request. She looked down, fingered her dress in embarrassment, and said slowly— “For my part I should be glad for the girls to have their party. It is hard that they should all suffer, and it is dull for them. I have been here three years, but it was never so dull as this. Yes, I would ask, but what would Miss Phipps say? That is a different thing! It seems odd to stop the holidays and give the party all the same, and—do you not see?—the bad girl—the girl who will not say what she has done—she would have her pleasure with the rest, and that would not be right. It is to punish her we have to punish many.” “But if I stayed upstairs—” cried Pixie eagerly, and then stopped short, with crimson cheeks, as if startled by the sound of her own words. “I mean I am the one they are vexed with; they want to punish me most. If I stayed upstairs in my own room, or was sent to bed, why shouldn’t the others have their party? It would be an extra punishment to me to hear them dancing, wouldn’t it now?” Mademoiselle threw up her bands in an expressive silence. In all her experience of school life never before had she met a girl who pleaded in such coaxing terms for her own humiliation, and she was at sea as to what it might mean. Either Pixie was guilty, in which case she was one of the most arrant little hypocrites that could be imagined, or she was innocent, and a marvel of sweetness and charity. Which could it be? A moment before she had felt sure that the former was the case, now she was equally convinced of the latter. In any case she was gratified by the idea that she herself should plead for the breaking-up party, and was ready to promise that she would interview Miss Phipps without delay. “And ye’ll not say that ever I mentioned it,” urged Pixie anxiously, “for maybe that would put her off altogether. Just ask as if it was a favour to yourself, and if she asks, ‘What about Pixie?’ ‘Oh, Pixie,’ says you, ‘never trouble about her! Send her to bed! It will be good for her health. She can lie still and listen to the music, and amuse herself thinking of all she has lost.’” The beaming smile with which this suggestion was offered was too much for Mademoiselle’s composure, and, do what she would, she could not restrain a peal of laughter. “You are a ridiculous child, but I will do as you say, and hope for success. I like parties too, but it will not be half so nice if you are not there, petite! See, I was angry at first, and when I am angry I say many sharp things, but I am not angry any more. If it had happened to anyone to break my bottle by mistake, she need no more be frightened to tell me. I would not be angry now!” “Wouldn’t you?” queried Pixie eagerly, but instantly her face fell, and she shivered as with dread. “But, oh, Miss Phipps would! She would be angrier than ever! The girls say so, and it is only a fortnight longer before the holidays, and then we shall all go home. If it is not found out before the holidays, it will be all over then, won’t it? No one will say anything about it next term.” “I do not know, Pixie. I can’t tell what Miss Phipps will do,” returned Mademoiselle sadly. She felt no doubt at this moment that Pixie was guilty; but that only strengthened her in her decision to plead for the party, for it did indeed seem hard that twenty-nine girls should be deprived of their pleasure for the sake of one obstinate wrong-doer. <hr> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2

Update Required To play the media you will need to either update your browser to a recent version or update your Flash plugin.