“Don’t ask me any more, dear Molly. I’d give anything in all the world to try; but I can’t, so there’s an end of it. Oh no, Molly, I’m not going to tell you why. Dear Molly, you mustn’t inquire; it makes it harder for me if you do, only I can’t compete, that’s all. I can never compete,” she added in a low voice.
Molly looked at Hannah as she was speaking, and now it was very strongly borne in upon her that during the whole of this term Hannah was changed. She was a very gay, bright, commonplace sort of little girl before; but now she was neither gay nor bright, nor was she exactly commonplace any longer. There was a look of suffering about her face which rather improved her appearance than otherwise. Molly was wise, and did not press the matter; after a minute’s pause she turned the conversation, and began to speak about Peggy. Here she found an enthusiastic admirer in Hannah.
“I’m very glad she’s in the Upper School. I’m very glad she’s with you!” was Hannah’s comment.
Molly felt a prick at her heart. Had the poor little Irish girl any reason to rejoice in the fact that she was close to her so-called cousins? Alas and alas! no. Molly felt more and more certain that Jessie’s cruel words had been overheard by Peggy that day. She was glad, however, to talk about the child with Hannah, and soon it was time for the girls to go indoors, and the Upper School could have nothing more to do with the Lower School until the Wednesday half-holiday.
The next day was Sunday, and Sunday was considered a very pleasant day indeed at The Red Gables. The holy day was kept with no old-fashioned severity; nevertheless, each girl in the school felt that Mrs. Fleming herself looked upon Sunday as one of the red-letter days of her life. An omnibus came round immediately after breakfast to take the girls to church, and after church the two schools went for a walk with their respective governesses; then, when early dinner was over, they were allowed to do exactly as they pleased, even to play together in a quiet fashion, to read story-books, to exchange confidences, to chat with their friends. After tea came the time of the day, when Mrs. Fleming herself gave religious instruction to every girl in the school, even little Elisabeth was present at this. The great hall was made cosy, the fire blazed high in the inglenook, and the girls sat round in a wide circle. The religious instruction was of the pleasantest kind, and was calculated not to fatigue any brain, although it was possible that occasionally some consciences might be pricked. But when the few earnest words had come to an end, then followed the witching hour. Each girl recited a short poem, chosen by herself, for the benefit of her mistress. These recitations were so good as to be almost famous, and many and many a time a teacher crept into the hall unbidden to listen to the ringing and enthusiastic words.
But after the girls had recited, the crowning moment arrived. Mrs. Fleming either recited something herself or went on with a story which was always in hand, and which was intimately connected with the school. It was a very strange, imaginary romance, in which the girls now at the school were supposed to have entered on their future lives, and to be carrying them on according to Mrs. Fleming’s own ideas. This continuous tale was full of adventures and hairbreadth escapes and deep excitements. It was a sort of modern Pilgrim’s Progress, and the character-drawing was so good that no one could possibly miss a word. The story itself was never spoken of afterwards, this was part of the honour of the thing; it was a mutual tie between Mrs. Fleming and her girls, and the teacher who had listened to the recitations was always obliged to leave the hall before it began. A few of the girls, it is true, tried to take down some of the beautiful thoughts in a peculiar shorthand which they had invented for themselves; but Mrs. Fleming preferred that they should not do this. In short, the Sunday evening hour was a great hour with the girls, and even the wildest and most difficult to manage never cared to miss it.
On the Sunday after Peggy Desmond had been admitted to the Upper School and the subject of the great prize had been broached, Kitty Merrydew and her satellites sat together in the room which was devoted to the special use of the girls. It so happened that Priscilla Price, Rufa Conway, and Annie Jones had gone out for a long walk, accompanied by Miss Archdale. They would be home in time for tea, and of course in time for the Sunday class. Kitty had the place of honour by the fire, as the day was a bitterly cold one, with a north-east wind blowing. Kitty lay back in the deep armchair, the only one that the room possessed, Grace Dodd sat at her feet, her two pretty little feet reposed in Grace’s lap, and Grace rubbed the fine black silk stockings up and down. These stockings had been a present from Grace and Anne Dodd to their darling. Kitty looked particularly smart in her short frock of crimson cashmere, which set off her glowing, dark face as only such rich colour could. Anne fondled one of Kitty’s small hands, and Sophy Marshall looked on, a little jealous, a little disgusted. She admired Kitty, of course, but she by no means like the scrape into which The Imp had brought her.
Kitty lay back with her eyes closed, the dark lashes resting on her rosy cheeks. Suddenly she opened her great eyes wide, and said: “Well, of course we’ve all agreed to do it.”
“Oh yes, darling, don’t worry,” said Grace Dodd.
“It was you, Gracie, who really smashed her leg, you know,” continued Kitty, with a wicked glance at her adorer. “I saw you hit out with that club. You needn’t have been so violent.”