Chapter 24 A Modern Tomboy by L. T. Meade
GUNPOWDER IN THE ENEMY'S CAMP
Miss Archer was a most splendid director of a school. She was the sort of woman who could read girls' characters at a glance; and as her object was to spare Mrs. Merriman all trouble, and as she was now further helped by Miss Frost, a most excellent teacher herself, and Mademoiselle Omont took the French department, there was very little trouble in arranging the lessons of the different girls.
Irene, on the morning after her arrival, awoke in a bad temper, notwithstanding the fact that sweet little gentle Agnes was lying close to her, with her pretty head of fair hair pressed against the elder girl's shoulder. But when she went downstairs, and took her place in the class, and found that, after all, she was not such an ignoramus as her companions evidently expected to find her, her spirits rose, and for the first time in her existence a sense of ambition awoke within her. It would be something to conquer Lucy Merriman—the proud, the disdainful, the unpleasant Lucy. After what Professor Merriman had said, Irene made up her mind to say nothing more in public against Lucy; but her real feelings of dislike toward her became worse and worse.
Now, Lucy's feelings towards Irene, which were those of contempt and utter indifference until they met, were now active. She was amazed to find within herself a power of disliking certain of her fellow-creatures which she never thought she could have possessed. She was not a girl to make violent friendships, but she did not know that she could dislike so heartily. She hated Rosamund with a goodly hatred, but now that hatred was extended to Irene. Why should Irene be so pretty and yet so naughty, so lovable and yet so detestable? For very soon the peculiar little girl began to exercise a certain power over more than one other girl in the school; and except that she kept herself a good deal apart, and absorbed little Agnes Frost altogether, for the first week she certainly did nothing that any one could complain of. Then she was not only remarkable for her beauty, which must arrest the attention of everybody, but she was also undeniably clever. Laura Everett was greatly taken with her, so was Annie Millar, so was Phyllis Flower, and so was Agnes Sparkes. Rosamund assumed the position of a calm and careful guardian angel over both Irene and little Agnes. She had a talk with both Mrs. Merriman and the Professor, and also with Miss Frost, on the day after their arrival.
"I will promise to be all that you want me to be if you will allow me to have a certain power over Irene and over little Agnes Frost, a power which will be felt rather than seen. I want little Agnes to sit next to Irene at meals; and I want this not for Agnes' sake—for she is such a dear little girl that she would make friends wherever she was placed—but for Irene's sake, for I don't want her to become jealous. At present she has a hard task in conquering herself, and my earnest desire is to help her all I can."
"I know that, dear," said Professor Merriman; and he looked with kind eyes at the fine, brave girl who stood upright before him.
Mrs. Merriman and Miss Frost also agreed to Rosamund's suggestion, and in consequence there was a certain amount of peace in the school. This peace might have gone on, and things might have proved eminently satisfactory, had it not been for Lucy herself. But Lucy could now scarcely contain her feelings. Rosamund exceeded her in power of acquiring knowledge; she excelled her in grace and beauty. And now there was Rosamund's friend, a much younger girl, who in some ways was already Lucy's superior; for Irene had a talent for music that amounted to genius, whereas Lucy's music was inclined to be merely formal, although very correct. There were other things, too, that little Irene could pick up even at a word or a glance. Agnes did not much matter; her talents were quite ordinary. She was just a loving and lovable little child, that was all; but when Lucy sometimes met a glance of triumph in Rosamund's dark eyes, and saw the light dancing in Irene's, she began to turn round and plan for herself how she could work out a very pretty little scheme of revenge.
Now, there seemed no more secure way of doing this than by detaching little Agnes from Irene; for, however naughty Irene might be, however careless at her tasks, one glance at her little companion had always the effect of soothing her. Suppose Lucy were to make little Agnes her friend? That certainly would seem a very simple motive; for Lucy, in reality, was not interested in small children. She acknowledged that Agnes had more charm than most of her companions, and, in short, she was worth winning.
"The first thing I must do is to detach her from Irene. She does not know anything about Irene at present, but I can soon open her eyes," thought Lucy to herself.
The school began, as almost all schools do, toward the middle of September, and it was on a certain afternoon in a very sunny and warm October that Lucy invited little Agnes Frost to take a walk with her. She did this feeling sure that the child would come willingly, for both Irene and Rosamund were spending the half-holiday at The Follies. Miss Frost was busily engaged, and beginning to enjoy her life, and little Agnes was standing in her wistful way by one of the doors of the schoolroom when Lucy came by.
"Why, Agnes," said Lucy, "have you no one to play with?"
"Oh, yes, I have every one," said Agnes, raising her eyes, which appealed to all hearts; "only my darling Irene is away, and I miss her."
"Well, you can't expect her to be always with you—can you?"
"Of course not. It is very selfish of me; but I miss her all the same."
"Now, suppose," said Lucy suddenly—"suppose you take me as your friend this afternoon. What shall we do? I am a good bit older than you, but I am fond of little girls."
Agnes looked at Lucy. In truth, she had never disliked any one; but Lucy Merriman was as little to her taste as any girl could be.
"There's Agnes Sparkes. Perhaps she wouldn't mind playing with me," said she after a pause.
"As you please, child. If you prefer Agnes you can go and search for her."
"No, no, I don't," said Agnes, who wouldn't hurt a fly if she could help it. "I will go for a walk with you, Miss Merriman."
"Lucy, if you please," said Lucy. "We are both school-fellows, are we not?"
"Only I feel so very small, and so very nothing at all beside you," replied Agnes.
"But you are a good deal beside me. It is true you are small; but how old are you?"
"I was eleven my last birthday. I am two years younger than dear Irene; but Irene says that I am ten years older than she is in some ways."
"Twenty—thirty—forty, I should say," remarked Lucy, with a laugh. "Well, come along; let's have a good time. What shall we do?"
"Whatever you like—Lucy," said the little girl, making a pause before she ventured on the Christian name.
"That's right. I am glad you called me Lucy. We all like you, little Agnes; and it isn't in every school where the sister of one of the governesses would be tolerated as you are tolerated here."
"I don't quite understand what you mean by that."
"Well, your sister is one of the governesses."
"Yes, I know."
"And yet we are all very fond of you."
"It is very kind of you; but they were all fond of me at Mrs. England's school; and when I was at that sort of school at Mrs. Henderson's, where there were boys as well as girls, the girls used to quarrel with the boys as to who was to play with me. People have always been kind to me. I don't exactly know why."
"But I do, I think," said Lucy; "because you are taking, and can make people love you. It is a great gift. Now, give me your hand. We'll walk along by the riverside. It's so pretty there, is it not?"
"Yes, lovely," said little Agnes.
Lucy walked fast. Presently they sat down on a low mossy bank, and Lucy spread out her skirt so that Agnes might sit on it, so as to avoid any chance of taking a chill.
"You see how careful I am of you," said the elder girl.
"All the girls are careful of me like that," said little Agnes. "I don't exactly know why. Am I so very, very precious?"
"I expect you are to those who love you," said Lucy, coming more and more under the glamour of little Agnes's strange power of inspiring affection.
"When you look at me like that you seem quite kind, but sometimes you don't look very kind; and then, you are not fond of my darling Irene and my dearest Rosamund. I wonder why?"
"Shall I tell you?"
Lucy bent close to the little girl.
"Oh! if it is anything nasty I would rather not know."
"But I think you ought to know about your Irene. Nobody loved her at all—nobody could bear her—until——Why, what is the matter, child?"
"Don't—don't go on; I won't listen," said little Agnes.
Her face was as white as death; her eyes were dilated.
"But I will tell you," said Lucy. "She was the dreadful girl who nearly drowned poor Miss Carter, one of her governess, who is now at the Singletons'. She was the terrible, terrible girl who made your own dear sister swallow live insects instead of pills; she was the awful girl who used to put toads into the bread-pan; and—oh! I can't tell you all the terrific things she did. She is only biding her time to do the same to you. Some people say she isn't a girl at all, but a sort of fairy; and fairies always fascinate people, and when they have made them love them like anything they will turn them into wicked fairies, or something else awful. What is the matter, child?"
For little Agnes was trembling all over. After a minute she got up and made a great effort to steady herself.
"I don't think you should have told me that story," she said. "And I don't believe you."
"You don't believe me, you little wretch!" said Lucy, reddening with anger. "How dare you say such things? Do you think I, the daughter of Professor Ralph Merriman, would tell lies?"
"Well, you've told one now," said Agnes stoutly; "for I don't believe my darling Irene ever did such naughty—such very naughty—things."
"You ask Miss Frost—your dear Emily, as you call her. Here she comes walking along the bank. You go up and ask her, and if she tells you that I am wrong, then I will confess that some one told me lies. There, go at once and do it."
Miss Frost approached the pair to take little Agnes off Lucy's hands, for it did not occur to her as possible that a girl of Lucy Merriman's type could be really interested in her little sister. When she saw the white face and trembling lips, and the anxious eyes, she stopped suddenly, her own heart beating violently.
"What is it, Aggie? What is wrong, darling?" she said; and she bent down and touched the little one on the shoulder.
"Oh, Emmie, it isn't true—it can't be true!" said little Agnes.
"I have been telling her one or two things," said Lucy. "I have thought it best to put her on her guard. You have done an exceedingly silly thing to allow her to sleep in the room with that changeling sort of girl, Irene Ashleigh. Some day little Agnes will get a great fright. She says that she doesn't believe me; but you can tell her the truth, can't you? You did swallow wood-lice, did you not?"
"I—I would rather not speak of it," said Miss Frost. "It is all over now." But she shuddered as she spoke.
"Nevertheless, you must tell her. The child will not believe me."
"It was a long time ago, darling. Oh, Lucy, what have you done? What mischief you have done! How could you be so unkind?"
For little Agnes, in a perfect agony of weeping, had thrown herself into her sister's arms.
"I—I don't believe it!" she said. "Irene! Dearest, dearest Irene! She couldn't do anything of that sort."
"She couldn't now, Aggie. Oh, Lucy, do go away! Leave her to me—leave her to me," said Miss Frost, in the greatest distress.
Having accomplished her mission—and, as she said to herself, brought gunpowder into the enemy's camp—Lucy retired, wondering that she did not feel more satisfied. Agnes and her sister had a very long talk, the end of which was that they returned home a short time after Irene and Rosamund had come back from The Follies.
Irene began at once to call for Agnes.
"Aggie! Where's my Aggie? Aggie, I have brought you something back—something ever so pretty!"
But there was no response, and Irene felt a queer sensation at her heart.
"Where is the child?" she said. "Where is my little Agnes?"
After a time Agnes was seen running towards her. She did not come quite as fast as usual, and there was a change in her face. Irene did not know when she saw that change why a sudden sense of fear stole over her. It was as though some one had snatched the heart out of a gem, the glory out of a flower. It was as though little Agnes was no longer the beautiful Agnes she loved. She could not analyze her own feelings. She herself had returned in the best of spirits. Rosamund had been so bright, so cheery, so brave; her mother had been so pleased at the reports which Irene's different masters and mistresses had given her. All seemed going prosperously and well, and on the way home Rosamund had spoken of Agnes, and said how glad she was that Irene should have the little one to look after, to love and to guide and to cherish. Altogether, Irene was in her most softened mood, and she had brought back to Sunnyside several old toys of her own which she had rooted out of a cupboard in the long-disused nursery. They would charm little Agnes; they had never had any fascination for her.
She thrust the parcel into the child's hands.
"They are for you," she said.
Little Agnes took the parcel, but not in her usual frank, enthusiastic, and open delight, but timidly.
"They're not—they're not toads?" she said.
"Toads!" cried Irene; and then she colored crimson. "Don't take them unless you want them," she said; and she snatched the parcel away from the child.
Little Agnes burst out crying.
"Irene, what do you mean?—Surely, Agnes, you are not silly!" exclaimed Rosamund. "See, let me open the parcel."
"I don't want her to have it unless she really wishes for it," said Irene. "I wouldn't force my gifts on any one, not even little Agnes." But there was an imploring note in her voice.
Little Agnes, however, was still full of the horrors with which she had been crammed. Rosamund went on one knee and opened the ungainly parcel. It contained a Noah's Ark, a box of bricks, some soldiers (the very best of their kind), and other toys of the sort that would ravish children. At another moment little Agnes would have been all delight, but now she seemed to see—behind the marching soldiers, and the fascinating bricks which could raise such marvelous architectural edifices, and the Noah's Ark with its quaint animals—toads and lizards and newts, and wasps and bees. Oh, why was she so frightened, she who had never really been frightened before? And she did love Irene. She looked up into her face now with piteous terror, and yet a piteous love mingling in her eyes.
"I will take them; they are beautiful," she said; and she clasped them in her arms. Then she put her face up for Irene to kiss, and then she went away staggering under the weight of her new treasures.
Irene turned to Rosamund.
"What is the matter?" she said. "Something has happened to the child. She was so jolly when we went out—so like her dearest, sweetest self—and now she is quite altered. What can have happened?"
"I can't tell," said Rosamund. "You had better take no notice, Irene."
Irene could scarcely promise to do that, and she was sulky and disturbed during the rest of the evening; and although little Agnes sat in her usual place at supper, she hardly spoke to her.
After supper Agnes flew up to Miss Frost and whispered something in her ear.
"May I—may I—sleep in your bed to-night? I want to," she said.
"Certainly," replied Miss Frost, intensely gratified. "But what will Irene say?"
"I can't help it. I daren't stay in her room. I am frightened."
Miss Frost whispered again to the child, who went off presently to her studies, which always took about a quarter of an hour before she retired to bed. Miss Frost insisted on always seeing her little sister to bed herself, and after the first night or two at Sunnyside no one interfered with this arrangement. Irene had her own happy time afterwards, when she went to bed herself, and could look at the dear little face smiling in its sleep, when she could now and again hear the happy murmured words, "Dear Irene! darling Irene!" and when she knew she had constituted herself the little one's guardian—a sort of guardian angel over her—to fight to the death for her against all that was evil, all that was frightening. She was busy as usual to-night over her tasks, and took no notice when little Agnes and Miss Frost left the room together. Agnes, being the youngest pupil in the school, was always put to bed before the others. By-and-by the time came when all the girls were to retire for the night. Lucy had made herself delightfully inconspicuous this evening. She had scarcely spoken to any one. Even Mademoiselle Omont, with whom she had struck up a sort of friendship, developing rapidly a very sound knowledge of the French language, had scarcely been addressed by the loquacious young lady; while as to Miss Archer and Miss Frost, Lucy disdained even to speak to them.
By-and-by Rosamund too went up to her room. It was next to the room occupied by the two girls, Irene and Agnes.
"I won't come into your room to-night," said Irene. But she hesitated for a moment. "Have you found out anything to account for little Agnes's strange behavior?"
"No—nothing. If I were you I would take no notice. Perhaps the child was tired."
"Perhaps some one has told her things that she ought not to know," was Irene's response.
Rosamund was silent. She had much the same fear at her heart.
"Did you, or did you not, notice how quiet Lucy Merriman has been all the evening—a sort of hush about her which is not usual? I expect her conscience has been pricking her. Well, if she dares to interfere with me and Agnes she'll rue it, that's all I can say. Goodnight, Rosamund. I am sleepy."
Irene went into her room. She longed beyond words to find Agnes sufficiently awake to put her arms round her neck and kiss her as of yore. She wanted to tempt the little one to come into her bed. She felt, more than she cared to own, the acute pang at her heart with regard to little Agnes when she brought back the toys. Now, these were placed tidily away on a shelf just beside little Agnes's bed, but the bed itself was empty. The little night-dress had been removed; the brush and comb that always stood on the small dressing-table were also conspicuous by their absence. The little blue felt slippers which looked so sweet on her tiny feet were gone, as was also the blue dressing-gown. But none of these things mattered. It was the absence of little Agnes herself that Irene noticed. Agnes was not in the room. She stood quite still, clasping her hands, while a sensation of rage such as she had never before experienced—such as, with all her tempestuous nature, she had never believed could sweep over her—now visited her.
"Agnes!" she said once, and she went up to the empty bed and turned down the clothes as though she might even find Agnes beneath.
But the bed was quite empty; the child was gone.
Scarcely knowing what she was doing, Irene burst into Rosamund's room.
"There's something up, and you might find it out. I won't go to bed until I know. They have taken Agnes away from me. She is not in my room. What is the matter? You must find out."
"I will," said Rosamund very gently. "Just sit down and keep as quiet as you can. I will go at once and see Miss Frost. She can't have gone to bed yet."
"Let me come with you."
"No, no; stay where you are, dear; and try to be calm, I beseech you. By your love for me, and by your love for Agnes, try now to control yourself."
Irene made a mighty effort. She sank into a chair. Tears came close to her eyes, but they did not fall, though she was trembling from head to foot.
Rosamund went quickly down the corridor. At the farther end she met Lucy, who was returning to her own room. Rosamund stopped her.
"What have you been doing to little Agnes Frost while we were away?" she said.
"I?" said Lucy, starting and turning very pale. "Nothing. What should I have done?"
"You know you have done something. You have frightened her, telling her dreadful stories about Irene. You know it. You are mean and cowardly. You ought not to have anything to do with any respectable school. I cannot tell you how I despise you. Think how much I have given up to save Irene, who never had a chance until she knew me, and yet you now destroy every effort that I have made for her good. Oh, I despise you! I cannot help it."
Lucy was absolutely speechless. Rosamund walked along the corridor until she came to Miss Frost's room. She tapped very gently with her knuckles. Miss Frost came out.
"Frosty dear, is little Agnes sleeping with you to-night?" she said.
Miss Frost shut the door and came on to the landing. She put her finger to her lips.
"Hush!" she said. "She is with me; she is in my bed. She is very nervous, starting every moment. Lucy Merriman told her dreadful stories while she was out to-day. The child told me about them. Lucy had no right to tell her. She is afraid of Irene now."
"She need never be afraid of Irene. I wonder if she has pluck enough to go back to her? If she has, all will be safe. If not, Irene's character will be spoiled for ever. Is she asleep?"
"Scarcely asleep; very nervous and restless. You won't take her back to Irene to-night? You know what the effect of nervous fear is upon a delicate, tenderly nurtured child. You could not be so cruel."
"Agnes is not so delicate as all that. She can stand it. When I think of Irene, who has almost been saved, who has almost been turned into the paths of goodness and righteousness, and mostly by little Agnes herself, and when I think of that cruel, wicked, unscrupulous girl, I have no patience. Frosty, I have helped you—you must let little Agnes help Irene now. Don't be frightened. I shall be next door to them, and nothing can possibly happen to the child; but she must come back."
Miss Frost stood aside.
"Really, Rosamund," she said, "I do admit the strength of your words. I know how good—how more than good—you have been; but, at the same time, I feel she is my little sister, and Irene has taken her away."
"For the present, I grant it, and I am sorry; but not for always. Let her have her back now, for a time at least—to-night at any rate."
"Very well, you must manage it your own way."
Poor Miss Frost wrung her hands in nervous terror. She thought of that awful moment when she had swallowed the wood-lice. She thought of the terrible appearance of James when the wasps had stung him. She remembered another occasion when she had found a leech in her bed. Oh, how terrible Irene had been! And there was Miss Carter, who had nearly lost her life in the boat. Then there was Hughie—something very queer had happened to Hughie on one occasion, only Hughie was no coward. He was brave and practical. But then, again, there was Irene herself—Irene so altered, so sweet to little Agnes, so kind about Hughie. Poor Miss Frost was so torn between her diverse emotions that she scarcely knew what to do.
Meanwhile Rosamund had gone into the room. She made a slight noise, and Agnes, only half-asleep, opened her dark eyes and fixed them on Rosamund's face.
"What is it? Is there a toad in the room?" she said.
"Don't be silly, Agnes," said Rosamund. "I really have no patience with you. Now, what is the matter? Sit up in bed and tell me."
Rosamund did not mean to be unkind, nor did she speak in an unkind way, although her words sounded somewhat determined.
"I want to speak to you, Agnes," she said. "You were told stories—and very exaggerated they doubtless were—by Lucy Merriman when Irene and I were at The Follies to-day."
"I was told frightful stories all about Irene."
"Then do you mean to tell me you don't love her any more?"
"I shall always love her; but if she were to do such a thing to me it would kill me."
"She would never do such a thing to you. Now, I will tell you something about her. She used to be a wild and very naughty child. People were afraid of her, and she had nothing else to occupy her time but to add to their terrors. Then I came across her path, and I was not a bit afraid of her. In short, I think I helped her not to be so naughty. But I did not do half the good you have done."
"I?" said little Agnes, in amazement.
"Yes, you, Aggie—you; for you loved her, and you helped her to be good by simply trusting her, and by clinging to her and thinking her all that is good and beautiful. Between us—you and me—we were softening her, and she will be a splendid woman some day, not a poor, miserable wretch, half-wild, but good and true and noble."
"I like women of that sort," said little Agnes, in a fervor of enthusiasm.
"And that is what your own Irene will be, provided that you do not give her up."
"I give her up?" said little Agnes. "But I never will."
"You gave her up to-night when you refused to sleep in the room with her. She is in my room now, trembling all over, terrified, grieved, amazed. Oh, Aggie, why did you do it?"
"I was frightened," whispered Agnes. "I suppose I am a coward."
"You certainly are a very great coward, and I am surprised at you, for Irene would no more hurt you than a mother would her own little child. You have got to come back to her in my arms, and you have got to tell her that you love her more than ever, and that you trust her more than ever. Now, will you or will you not? If you will not, I believe that all our efforts will be fruitless, and Irene will become just as bad as ever. But if you do, you will have done a brave and noble act. You are not a coward, Agnes; you are a girl with a good deal of character, when all is said and done, and you ought to exercise it now for your friend. Just think what she has done for you. Think what she has done for your sister, and"——
"It was to Emmie that she gave the awful wood-lice," said Agnes.
"She did it as an ignorant girl, not in the least knowing the danger and the naughtiness of her own trick. I do not pretend to defend her; but she would not do such a thing now to anybody, and certainly not to you. And yet, because you hear a few bad stories about her, you give up the girl who has sheltered and loved and petted you; who has influenced Lady Jane to make your brother a gentleman, not a shopman; who will help you all through your life, as you, darling, are helping her. Oh! I know you are a little girl, and cannot understand perhaps all that I say; but if you give Irene up to-night I shall be in despair."
Tears came to Rosamund's bright eyes. She sat quite still, looking at the child.
"I won't give her up! I won't be frightened at all. I will run back to her now."
"There's a darling! Go this very second. Where are your slippers? Here is your little blue dressing-gown. You will find her in my room. I won't go back for a minute or two, for I will explain to Frosty. Now, off with you, and remember that I am close to you; but you needn't even think of that, for Irene herself would fight the fiercest and most savage creature to shield and protect you, little Agnes."
It seemed to little Agnes as Rosamund spoke that the terrors that Lucy's words had inspired rolled away as though they had never existed. The brightness came back to her pretty dark eyes. She put her small feet into her little felt slippers, wrapped herself round with her little blue dressing-gown, and ran down the corridor. It was too late for any of the girls to be up, and the corridor was deserted. Lucy had gone to bed, to wrestle and cry and wonder by what possible means she could revenge herself on Rosamund Cunliffe.
Irene was sitting in Rosamund's room, feeling more and more that wild living thing inside her—that wild thing that would not be subdued, that would rise up and urge her to desperate actions. Then all of a sudden there came the patter of small feet, and those feet stopped, not at Rosamund's door, but at her own. It was opened and a little face peeped in. Irene, in Rosamund's room, could not see the face, but she heard the sound, and her heart seemed to stand still. She rose softly, opened the door of communication between the two rooms, and peeped in.
With a cry, Agnes flew to her side.
"Oh, Irene! I have come back. I couldn't sleep in Frosty's bed. I thought—I did think—oh, don't ask me any questions! Just let me sleep with you to-night. And oh, Irene, don't be angry with me!"
"I angry with you?" said Irene, melted on the spot. "No, I won't ask a single question, you sweet, you dear, you treasure! Yes, we will sleep together. Yes, little Agnes, I love you with all my heart for ever and for ever."