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?”