After this incident there was peace in the school for some time; Lucy was defeated. Agnes was more Irene's chosen chum and adored little friend than ever. The child seemed to have completely lost her terrors, and she gave Miss Frost rather less than more of her society. Rosamund watched in silent trepidation. If only Lucy would not interfere! But she did not trust Lucy, nor did she trust another girl in the school, Phyllis Flower, who—small, thin, plain, but clever—had suddenly become Lucy's right-hand. At first Phyllis had rather shrunk away from Lucy, but now she was invariably with her. They talked a good deal, and in low tones, as though they had a great many secrets which they shared each with the other. On one occasion, towards mid-term, when all the girls had settled comfortably to their tasks and life seemed smooth and harmonious once more, even Irene being no longer regarded with dislike and terror by the rest of the girls, Lucy Merriman and Phyllis Flower took a walk together.
"I am very glad we have this chance of being alone," said Lucy, "for I want to speak to you."
"What do you want to say?" asked Phyllis. She was flattered by Lucy's confidence, for some of the girls admired this prim though rather handsome girl very much. Besides, was she not the daughter of their own master and mistress? Had she not a sort of position in the school which the rest of them would have envied a good deal? Lucy was beginning to exercise her power in more than one direction, and she and Rosamund between them really headed two parties in the small school. Of course, Phyllis Flower belonged altogether to Lucy's party.
"Well, what is it?" she said. "What do you want to say to me?"
"It is this," said Lucy. "I am quite determined to have my revenge on that horrid Rosamund and that odious Irene."
"I wish you wouldn't think so much about them. They are quite happy now, and don't do anybody any special harm."
"But that is just it. Rosamund ought never to have been readmitted to the school, and Irene is not the sort of girl who should have come here."
"Well, she seems a very nice sort—not that I know much about her."
"You had better not say that again in my presence, Phyllis—that is, if you wish me to remain your friend."
"Then I won't, dear," said Phyllis, "for certainly I do wish you to be my friend."
"I hate Irene," said Lucy, "and I hate Rosamund, and I hate that little sneak Agnes Frost, who tries to worm herself into everybody's good favor."
"Oh, no, she doesn't! She thinks of no one in all the world but Irene."
"I am surprised at that," said Lucy. "I imagined I had put a spoke in that wheel. I was very much amazed when I saw them thicker than ever the very next day. She is the sort of child who would tell tales out of school. I know the sort—detestable! She is a little pitcher with long ears. She is all that is vulgar and second-rate."
"Perhaps she is," said Phyllis, "although I never thought so. I thought her a pretty, sweet little creature. I think she is really fond of Irene, and Irene is sincerely devoted to her."
"Well, Phyllis, I will confide in you. A few weeks ago, when Rosamund and Irene took themselves off to The Follies to spend the afternoon, I took the opportunity of having a chat with little Miss Agnes Frost, and there and then I enlightened her with regard to certain stories which I knew for a fact to be true. I can tell you I frightened her a good bit. She is rather timid—I never knew any one more so. Her face got as white as death. Of course, I told her she was not to tell any one, but I didn't greatly care. I know for a fact she was nervous for the rest of the day, and that evening she asked poor old Frosty to let her sleep in her bed."
"But she didn't sleep with her, all the same," said Phyllis, "for I happened to see her running back to her own room quite late, after the rest of us were supposed to be in bed. And the next day she was greater friends than ever with Irene."
"What a nuisance things are!" said Lucy. "But now I am absolutely determined to punish Irene and Rosamund in the only way in which I can punish them. Rosamund is conceited enough to believe that she has made a reformation in Irene's character. I know better. I know that Irene is a perfectly horrid girl. If you could only have heard Miss Carter talk about her when she first went to the Singletons'! And we had a servant once from their house, and she told us some most ghastly tales. It is impossible to suppose for a second that Irene is a nice girl; but between Rosamund—who, I must own, is very plucky—and this mite Agnes, who is devoted to her, she is quite quiet and amenable, and she is no doubt passionately fond of that stupid, inane little Agnes. Now, I mean to get Agnes from her. You must help me, Phyllis. How are we to manage it?"
"It seems hardly worth while," said Phyllis.
"All right, Phyllis, you can please yourself. There are others who would help me—Agnes Sparkes, for instance."
"Oh! if you must have some one, I am quite as good as another," said Phyllis Flower.
"Well, you know that promise of mine that we should go to London together. My dear aunt, Mrs. Brett, is going to town, and she says that she will take me and any special friend I like as my companion, and she will show me all over the place: the Tower, the Houses of Parliament, and Westminster Abbey, and St. Paul's, and all the rest. And I mean to go to a theatre. Were you ever at a really big theatre in the whole course of your life, Phyllis?"
"Never," said Phyllis, "for you know I have lived all my life in the country."
"Well, you can't possibly imagine what it is like: the dresses and the lights, and the actors and the stage effects, as they call them, and the way the people talk—it moves you so. I went once, and I cried two handkerchiefs into wet mops, and I could have cried into a third, only I didn't happen to have it. Oh, it was lovely!"
"It seems to be rather melancholy from your description," said Phyllis.
"Oh! it is the sort of melancholy that you can enjoy," said Lucy. "At least I enjoyed it, and I am a very matter-of-fact girl. But there, we can go to a laughing theatre. Some theatres make you laugh so much that you can scarcely stop. You get almost into hysterics. Anyhow, I mean to go, because Aunt Susan has promised to take me, either to a merry or a sad play. And then you are fond of music. I dare say I could squeeze in a concert. Think of a whole week, and not a penny to come out of your pocket; for Aunt Susan has a little sum put by, and she means to give me and whichever of my school-fellows I like best a real treat. So now you understand."
"Yes, I understand," said Phyllis.
"But you must help me to effect my object. I mean to part those two girls—that ridiculous little Agnes and that hated Irene. I mean to part them thoroughly."
"But I don't see how you can do it."
"Oh, don't you? I have thought of several ways. You know what a passion Irene has for all sorts of creatures—newts and toads and frogs. Well, I can also have a similar passion for those creatures. Anyhow, I have half-a-crown in my pocket, and I mean to——But there—the others are following us. Do let us talk in whispers. We needn't do it quite yet, but we will do it in about a week's time; and then there'll be a great rumpus, and most likely Irene will be expelled. Agnes can stay or not as she likes. She is quite a timid little thing, and I only want to separate her from Irene, and I want to prove to that horrid Rosamund that she is wrong and I am right. That's all. You can help me, and we will go to London afterwards. But please yourself."
"Let me think it over," said Phyllis. "Of course, I'd just love to go to London with you. It seems too interesting for anything; but"——
"There is generally something to be put up with when great pleasure is to be obtained," said Lucy. "I never had such a chance as this before, and I can give it to any one else. There is Annie Millar, or Agnes Sparkes—either of them would jump at it; or one of the Singleton girls. As to poor Jane Denton—but she is not at the school at present; and Laura Everett has plenty of fun of her own. I offer it to you now, provided you will help me."
"I suppose I must; but will you give me a day to think over it?"
"Yes, think it over; think what it means. You will have to be my confederate in this matter. It is just a little game I mean to play, and I think I shall play it so effectually that there will be no more friendship between pretty Agnes Frost and Irene Ashleigh."
The days flew by, and apparently all was harmonious in the little school. Agnes clung more closely than ever to Irene. Irene had considerably altered. She was no longer specially wild. She was so much absorbed in watching Agnes, in seeing that no one else put in any claim with regard to this small girl, that she had no time to think of being mischievous. Besides, she had her lessons to attend to; and lessons under Miss Archer, and Mademoiselle Omont, and, still more, under the different masters who attended to the school, were of the most stimulating character. The child seemed to imbibe knowledge with a rapidity which astonished all those who watched her. She understood the meaning of a thing at a glance, and it was soon perceived that, in addition to her extraordinary and very remarkable beauty, she was also a genius, or almost that, for she had a natural talent for all sorts of things: for music, which she could already play impromptu, bringing out wild melodies on the piano to which her hearers felt they could go on listening for ever. Of course, the mistresses were supposed not to approve of this sort of playing, and tried to tie Irene down to the usual exercises and the different methods for bringing strength to the fingers. Irene did attend to these lessons, but only in a sort of half-hearted way; soon she broke again into those wild melodies which seemed to pierce the heart and get more or less to the soul of the little performer.
The Singleton girls were often now spending a day or half a day at the Merrimans' school, and Irene and all her companions would also frequently spend an afternoon at the Rectory. People had ceased to be afraid of Irene. She was now like an ordinary child. It was quite true that those who watched her narrowly still saw that wild glance in her eyes, which could be easily excited; but then, Rosamund was near to subdue if the moment came, and little Agnes's affectionate touch on her arm had always the power to comfort and soothe her.
"Aggie," she said to the little girl one day, "I don't know how I lived without you. I used to make pets of my poor leeches."
"Leeches!" said Agnes, with a shudder.
"Yes, darling. You know that dreadful story that was told you. Well, of course it was true—quite true. But then I had no friends, and so I had Fuzz and Buzz, and Thunder and Lightning, and the little Stars. Oh! it used to be great fun to watch them, and to think how I could terrify people by them."
"But," said little Agnes, "it was very cruel, wasn't it?"
"I suppose it was, Agnes. Only I wanted the magical influence of love like yours to take the cruelty out of my heart, to smooth down all the rough edges, and to make me feel like an ordinary girl. I feel like an ordinary girl now in many ways, except that I could never give you up, Agnes."
"And I couldn't give you up, Irene. I told dear Emily so the other day."
"She didn't want you to, did she?" said Irene, with sudden fierceness.
"Oh no; but she did ask me what I found in you to make you more precious than any other girl in the school, and I said"——
"What did you say? Look me in the face, Agnes."
Agnes looked up with her melting, loving eyes.
"I said that somehow or other I loved you, and I did not love the others."
"Ah! there you struck the nail on the head," said Irene. "Look here, Agnes; if anything happened to divide us I'd get worse than ever; because, you see, I am cleverer than I used to be."
"Nothing can come to divide us," said little Agnes. "What could?"
"I am only saving that if anything did I'd be worse than ever."
"I wish you wouldn't talk like that."
"I can't help it sometimes, for I am—yes, I am—much cleverer now."
This little conversation took place in a small arbor at the Rectory; and just at this moment some one called Agnes, and Agnes, looking for permission at Irene, who nodded in reply, ran off. A moment later Miss Carter herself entered the bower, where Irene was still sitting.
"So you are not afraid of me now, Cartery dear," said Irene, speaking in the sort of tone which she supposed Maud Singleton adopted.
"No, I am not afraid of you. You are much altered. I came to say how much I admire you. In short, you are not the same girl you used to be."
"Well, it is owing to two influences," said Irene: "to Rosamund, who is so strong and brave, and took me in hand, and showed me myself, and did not express a scrap of fright, however much terror I tried to inspire her with; and it is owing also to even a stronger influence."
"And what is that?" said Miss Carter.
"Well, you see, there is that little thing—that darling—I can scarcely speak her name without trembling. I love her so much. She is like my own little child."
"Do you mean little Agnes Frost?"
"Oh yes. She is nothing to the rest of you. I do not wish her to be. She is all—all mine; and if anything happened to her, if she were taken from me, if I had to do without her, I should become worse than ever."
"But what do you mean?" said Miss Carter. "Why should little Agnes be taken from you?"
"I don't suppose anybody would dare to take her from me. Frosty wouldn't, and mother wouldn't; the school wouldn't; but there is a wicked girl who tried her very best to frighten little Agnes, only Rosamund brought her back to her senses. The darling knows that whoever else I might hurt at one time, I never could and never would hurt one hair of her head. And she loves me in return."
"Then that's all right," said Miss Carter.
Just at that moment a slight rustling was heard at the back of the little bower. Irene did not notice it, but Miss Carter did.
"I wonder if anybody is listening?" she said.
"Who cares? I don't mind if the whole world hears. There's that spy, Lucy Merriman; she is as likely as not to do mean things. But I don't mind even her."
"Oh, don't you?" thought Lucy, who had that moment come a little nearer the back of the bower.
"No, I don't mind even her," repeated Irene. "I only say that as long as Rosamund is with me I shall be a good girl, just because I can't help myself; and if any one were to take my Rosamund from me I should be worse than ever."
"You were pretty bad. I don't know how you could be worse than you used to be."
"Well, you see, I know more. I have more knowledge. I could be more refined in my acts of terrorism, or whatever you like to call them. Anyhow, people had better not try."
"People had better not try!" thought Lucy. "But, my fine Irene, somebody is going to try."
The evening passed, and the children came back again to have supper at Sunnyside. Lucy was biding her time. She disliked Irene even more than she disliked Rosamund. As to little Agnes, she was not of the smallest interest to her. She simply wished to divide her effectually from Irene, in order to punish both Irene and Rosamund; and nothing could give her greater pleasure than that Irene should burst into one of her worst frenzies. She thought she saw a way.
The family were all sitting contentedly at their supper when a telegram was brought in which was handed to Rosamund. It was from her mother, telling her that her father was seriously ill, and wanted her to come to London on the following day. Rosamund, who was intensely devoted to both her parents, was much distressed. She handed the telegram to Mrs. Merriman, who immediately gave her the necessary permission.
"You must start by the very first train to-morrow morning," said Mrs. Merriman, "and one of the governesses must go with you. Miss Frost might be the best."
"Of course, Miss Frost would be the right person," said Lucy, suddenly raising her voice, for it seemed to her that she saw the very opportunity she wished for in this unexpected absence of Rosamund.
"I shall probably only be away for a day. I cannot think there can be anything seriously wrong with dear father," said Rosamund. "But, of course, after mother's telegram I must go."
Accordingly, a reply stating the hour of Rosamund's arrival at Paddington was wired back to London, and shortly afterwards the girl went up to her own room to pack a few things. She was not depressed, for her father was subject to sudden attacks, which, although distressful, were not of a painful nature.
Presently Irene came and sat in the room with her. She sat down on the edge of the bed.
"I should almost die here," she said, "if it were not for Agnes. As it is, I feel dreadful. I feel quite frightened at the thought of your going."
"But for my sake you will do your utmost to try to be good while I am away, won't you, Irene? I shall probably only be in London one night, or two at the very most; and Frosty is coming too. You won't mind that? Miss Frost is coming back at once; she will return in time for to-morrow evening."
"Oh! I suppose it will be all right," said Irene restlessly.
Rosamund went on putting a few things into her little trunk. Then she went up to Irene, put her arm round her waist, and kissed her.
"I am proud of you, Irene," she said. "I shall always feel that I have not lived in vain when I think how different you are from the child I first saw only a few months ago."
"I feel different," said Irene. "I begin to have a sort of pleasure in being—I mean in trying to be—good. It is you, of course—you and dear little Agnes."
"Well, Agnes will be more than ever in your care now."
"Oh! I shall look after her, there's no fear of that. I shall be terribly lonely without you, darling; but she and I will be all in all to each other while you are away. If it wasn't for—for Lucy Merriman I should be quite happy, for I think the other girls are inclined to be nice; but I hate Lucy."
"Well, I must say, Irene, speaking honestly, I hate her too. But we must both make up our minds not to mind her. She cannot really hurt us."
"Hurt us?" said Irene. "I'm sure I'm not afraid of her, if that is what you mean."
"Well, that's all right. Now, let us go to bed."
"I believe I am very tired too. I will promise to be quite good while you are away, so you need not have any anxiety on my account, darling," said Irene; and she kissed Rosamund several times.
The night passed, and early the next morning Rosamund, accompanied by Miss Frost, took her departure. There was a certain loneliness felt in the school, for Rosamund was exceedingly popular with every girl in the place, with the sole exception of Lucy Merriman. Busy school-life, however, gives little time for regrets or even for loneliness. Each moment of time is carefully marked out, each hour has its appointed task, and the girls were, to all appearance, as happy as usual. Little Agnes did not in the very least miss Rosamund or her own sister Emily. Her whole soul was set upon Irene, who helped her with her lessons, walked with her, and hardly ever let her out of her sight.
In the course of the evening Lucy was seen to go up to Phyllis Flower.
"Now, Phyllis," she said, "here is your chance. I've got the very thing that will do the business. We must get Agnes to bed, and a little later, when she is asleep, you shall creep into the room and just slip this thing under the bedclothes. She won't know who has done it. She will wake out of her first sleep, and naturally think that it is Irene's doing."
As Lucy spoke she drew Phyllis towards a corner of the playground, where a large, rather ferocious-looking hedgehog was curled up in a ball.
"But that—that would almost kill the child," said Phyllis, starting back.
"We must give her a good fright; it is the only way to effect our purpose. Then one or other of us must be near, and intercept her, and tell her that we will be her friends. Then you will have your week with me in London; but you must do it."
"I almost think," said Phyllis, turning very white, "that I'd rather not have my week. You can do it yourself if you like. It seems so cruel, and they are very happy together, and she is a very timid little thing. And just when her sister is not at home!"
"That is the very time. I am going to have a chat with little Agnes this evening. I am going in a certain way to prepare her—not much. Now, don't be a goose, Phyllis. Think what a jolly time you will have in London. It will be quite impossible for us to be found out."
Lucy talked to Phyllis for some time, and finally persuaded her to act as her accomplice in the matter.
It was a rule at Sunnyside that the smaller girls, consisting of Phyllis Flower, Agnes Sparkes, and little Agnes Frost, should go to bed quite an hour before the other girls. They usually had supper of milk and a few biscuits, and went to their room not later than eight o'clock. The other girls did not go to bed until half-past nine, and had a more substantial meal at eight o'clock. Phyllis Flower, therefore, for every reason, was best able to perform the mean trick by which Lucy meant to sever the friendship between Irene and little Agnes; but the child must be slightly alarmed, otherwise the hedgehog might be put into the bed and she know nothing about it.
Consequently, just before the younger children's simple supper was brought in on a tray, Lucy came and sat down near Agnes Frost.
"You must miss your Emily," she said.
Her tone was quite caressing and gentle. Little Agnes—who did not like Lucy, but could not in her heart of hearts cherish ill-will towards any one—raised her eyes now and said gently, "Of course I miss her; but then, I have my dear Irene."
Lucy put on a smile which meant wonderful things.
"You are a very courageous little girl," she said after a pause.
Little Agnes was silent for a minute; then she said gravely, "I know exactly what you mean by that, and I think you are mistaken. You said things about my Irene which are not true."
"Oh, indeed! you accuse me of falsehood, do you?" said Lucy.
"Well, perhaps not exactly of falsehood; but I don't think it was kind of you to tell me, for Irene is changed now. She could never do cruel things now."
"She will never be changed. Don't you understand that she is not like ordinary people? She is a sort of fairy, hardly like a human being at all. I may as well tell you, now that Rosamund and Miss Frost are away, that while Rosamund slept in the next room you were practically safe. I will admit, although I have no love for Rosamund Cunliffe, that she is a very brave and plucky girl. To-night, however——But I trust it will be all right. I don't want to make you nervous. I trust it will be all right."
Lucy moved off and sat down before her books and pretended to read. By-and-by Irene, looking lovely in one of her prettiest pale-blue dresses, entered the room. Little Agnes was sipping her milk very slowly. Irene ran straight up to her. She had the power of almost divining a person's thoughts, and she was conscious that the child was troubled.
"What is it, pet?" she said. "Has anybody vexed you?"
"Oh, nobody—nobody, indeed, dear Irene."
"Well, that is all right. I wish I could go to bed with you to-night."
"I wish you could," said the child nervously.
"But I can't. I have an awfully stiff piece of work to get through before the morning, and I am determined to be first in my form, otherwise Lucy Merriman will get ahead of me, and that she shall not."
"But I sha'n't be nervous really."
"No, of course not, dear. What is there to be nervous about?"
Irene was really absorbed in an intricate calculation which she had to make with regard to a very advanced sum, and sat down at a distant table, and forgot for the time being even little Agnes. Agnes, therefore, went up to bed alone. There was no Miss Frost to help her to undress, there was no one to take any notice of her, and there were the fearful stories that Lucy kept hinting at ringing in her ears. Yes, Irene had done dreadful things. Yes, she had. But Irene to her was perfect. She had no fear with her; she was happy with her. But then, Lucy Merriman had said that that was because little Agnes was so well protected. She had Rosamund sleeping practically in the same room, and Miss Frost, her own sister, not far away. Irene did not dare to do anything dreadful. But she had done dreadful things. She had nearly killed poor Miss Carter. She had made her own beloved sister swallow insects instead of pills. In short, she was just what Lucy had described her to be. And Lucy had said another dreadful thing to-night. She had hinted that Irene was not exactly to blame, for she was not like an ordinary girl; she was a sort of fairy girl. Now, Agnes had read several fairy-tales, and knew, supposing such a wonderful thing as a fairy really lived in the world, that she might be influenced by some other fairies, who would guide her, and help her, and force her to do things whether she liked them or not. But still she never would be unkind to little Agnes.
"It is a perfect shame of me even to think of it," said the little girl to herself. "I am ever so sleepy, but still I'll just look under the pillow. Oh, suppose Fuzz or Buzz were there, wouldn't I just scream with terror?"
But the pillow was quite innocent and harbored no obnoxious thing; the bed was smooth and white as usual; and little Agnes undressed, not quite as carefully as when Miss Frost was looking after her, and getting into bed, laid her head on the pillow, and presently fell fast asleep.
She had not been asleep more than a quarter of an hour before the room door was opened most carefully (the lock had been oiled in advance by Lucy), and Phyllis Flower, carrying the hedgehog, came in. She drew down the bedclothes and laid the hedgehog so that its prickles would just touch the child in case she moved, and then as carefully withdrew. She hated herself for having done it. All was quiet in that part of the house, which was far away from the schoolrooms, and no one heard a child give a terrible scream a few minutes later; and no one saw that same child spring out of bed, hastily put on her clothes, and rush downstairs in wild distress and despair.
Lucy had meant to be close at hand to comfort little Agnes when fright overtook her. But she had been called away to do some writing for her father. Laura Everett was busy attending to her own work. Phyllis Flower was in bed and asleep. She had earned her trip to London, and was dreaming about the delights of that time. No one heard that scream, which was at once faint and piteous. No one heard the little feet speed through the hall, and no one saw the little figure stealthily leave the house. Little Agnes was going to run away. Yes, there was no doubt whatever now in her mind: her darling Irene was a fairy, a changeling. She had done the most cruel and awful thing.
When little Agnes had seen the hedgehog in her bed she was far too terrified even to recognize the nature of the creature that had been made her bedfellow. But she felt sure that Lucy's words were right: that Irene was a wicked changeling, and that the sooner she got away from her the better. The child was too young to reason, too simple by nature to give any thought to double-dealing. All she wanted now was to get away. She could not stay another minute in the house. Her love for Irene was swallowed up altogether by her wild terror. She trembled; she shook from head to foot.
It was a bitterly cold winter's night, and the child was only half-clothed. She had forgotten to put on anything but her house-shoes, and had not even a hat on her head. But that did not matter. She was out, and there was no terrible Irene to come near her, no wicked fairy to do her damage. She would stay out all night if necessary. She would hide from Irene. She could never be her friend again.
The terror in her little heart rendered her quite unreasonable for the time being. She was, in short, past reason. By-and-by she crept into the old bower where Rosamund and Irene had spent a midsummer night—a night altogether very different from the present one, for the bower was not waterproof, and the cold sleet came in and fell upon the half-dressed child. She sank down on the seat, which was already drenched; but little she cared. She crouched there, wondering what was to be the end, and giving little cries of absolute anguish now and then.
Irene went up to bed that night in her usual spirits. She longed for the moment when she could, as usual, kiss little Agnes; but she was extra tired, for she had passed a stimulating day, and had been on her best behavior. She felt quite happy, and wondered if her mother, when her allotted time at the Merrimans' was over, would send her and little Agnes and Rosamund to another school somewhere else. She liked the excitement of school-life, and thought that if she could find a home where there was no girl like Lucy she would be perfectly happy. She little knew that in all schools there are girls of the Lucy type, who are not amiable, whose faults are far worse than those of ordinary wildness or even ordinary disobedience. But on this occasion she felt almost kindly toward Lucy, who nodded to her and said, "You and Agnes must make the most of yourselves together, for you will miss Rosamund."
"Oh! we'll be quite happy together," said Irene, with a careless nod; and then she went up to her room, opened the door gently, shut it quietly behind her, and shading the candle with one hand, went over to little Agnes's bed.
There was no Agnes there. But a huge hedgehog had curled itself up in a ball close to the pillow where the little delicate head had been pressed. Irene was afraid of no living creature, and she recognized the hedgehog at once. She took it up and laid it on the window-sill. Then she looked round her. Her face was white as death; her teeth chattered. She suddenly left the room and went straight to Lucy's. She opened the door without knocking.
"Lucy!" she said.
"What is it?" said Lucy, who was brushing out her long fair hair.
"Did you put a hedgehog into Agnes's bed?"
"Certainly not," said Lucy.
"Well, some one did as a trick, and the child isn't there."
"The child isn't there? There's only one person who could do that sort of thing, and that is yourself, as you know very well," said Lucy. "But is the child nowhere in the room?"
"You come and look for her, will you?" said Irene. Her tone and manner had completely altered. She was forcing herself to use self-control. Had Fuzz and Buzz, and Thunder and Lightning, and the Stars been present at that moment, there is not the least doubt that Irene would have elected them to wreak their vengeance on Lucy; but she was keeping herself in for all she was worth at the present moment, for after all even Lucy did not much matter—it was little Agnes who mattered.
"Here's the hedgehog," said Irene when they entered her bedroom—"a great big one—and some one had put it into the little one's bed, and she's not there, and you know how timid she is. Where is she? You know I didn't do it. Is it likely I'd do it to one I love?"
"Oh! you're a sort of fairy—a changeling," said Lucy. "And you have done such things to other people. Why shouldn't you do it to her? Anyhow, who else in the house can be accused? Every one knows your character."
"Never mind about my character now. I know, I am positive, that you are at the bottom of this. But the thing is to find little Agnes. I must go at once to Mrs. Merriman."
"I wonder where she can be?" said Lucy, who had not expected for a moment that little Agnes would disappear. "She must have gone to one of the other girls' rooms. We will go to all the others and find out. Of course, I am sorry for you, Irene; but really you went too far when you made use of a hedgehog—such a horrid, frightening thing."
"I don't want your help. I'll go myself," said Irene.
She pushed past Lucy, and going down the corridor, entered each room. Each girl was asked where little Agnes Frost was. Each girl replied that she did not know. It was Phyllis Flower, however, who, in excitement and pallor, started from an uneasy dream.
"Little Agnes?" she said. "But she can't have gone out!"
"It seems to me you know something about this. Will you help me to find her?" said Irene.
Then, all in a minute, for some reason which she could never define, little Phyllis sprang to her feet hastily, put on her clothes, and without even glancing at Lucy, took Irene's hand.
"We'll search the house first," she said.
"Then you don't think I did such a cruel thing?" said Irene.
"Oh, don't ask me! I mean—oh, no, no! But I'll help you to find her. I'll do my best—my very best."
The whole house was awakened, and the alarm given. The Professor was not yet in bed. He was very much worried and annoyed. He directly told Irene that he believed she was guilty of giving her little companion a fright.
"You have done it so often before, you know," he said, "that people certainly do suspect you."
"Suspect me or not as you please," she answered, "but let us find little Agnes. The night is cold; there is sleet falling outside. It will turn to snow before morning. Where is the child? After all," she continued, speaking more like a grown woman than the wild sort of creature that she had been a few months ago, "she is under your charge, Professor Merriman, and you are bound to do your utmost to find her."
But nowhere in the house—not even in the cellars, which Lucy as a last resort suggested might possibly be her hiding-place—could little Agnes be found. At last a regular outdoor search was instituted. Lucy was now really frightened, although she would not own this feeling even to herself.
"Silly, tiresome child!" she kept muttering to herself.
As to Irene, not a single word passed her lips. Suddenly, in the midst of the searchers, she was missing. People wondered where she had gone to. Irene had rushed back to her own room, the room where she and little Agnes had been so happy together. She looked at the little white bed where they had lain in each other's arms. All her past, so cruel, so thoughtless, so selfish, was borne in upon her. She dropped on her knees, and in an agony of terror said aloud, "O God, help me to find her, and to be a good girl in future."
Then Irene felt a wonderful sense of calm. She went down again through the house. No one noticed her, for every one was in a great state of alarm. Those girls who were in bed were desired not to get up; but a good many had disobeyed orders, and Miss Archer, Mademoiselle Omont (gesticulating wildly), Professor Merriman, his wife, the servants, and the older girls were all searching in vain for Agnes. They were calling her name, but no one thought of the bower at the far end of the shrubbery; for what child would be likely to take refuge there?
Irene, however, all of a sudden remembered it. She remembered the night long ago when she, a wild little untamed creature, had crept into the room where Rosamund slept, had forced her to come out with her, and they had spent the night together in the bower. She would go there now. She did not know what guided her footsteps, but she felt sure some one did.
Now, the shrubbery, a delightful place in warm weather, was damp and cold as ice at this time of the year. The leaves, now falling thickly from the trees, lay sodden on the ground. Sleet continued to fall heavily from the sky. All the seekers were chilled to the very bone, and the bower, so charming in summer, so perfect a resort, so happy a hiding-place, was now the very essence of desolation. But Irene cared nothing for that. She cared nothing for the fact that her thin shoes were soaked through and through, that her dress hung closely round her, that her hat was bent forward over her eyes. She only wanted to find little Agnes, and to have her love again. In the bower Irene did find the child crouched up in one corner, terrified, an almost unseeing expression in her eyes. Irene rushed to her with a glad cry.
"My darling! my darling! Oh, my own sweet little darling, come to your own Irene!"
But Agnes gave a shriek of terror when she saw her.
"No, no! Keep away! It's you who did it! You don't love me! No, no, I won't come to you!"
The piercing shrieks that came from the poor little girl's lips brought the rest of the party to the scene. When they appeared, Professor Merriman holding a lantern, they saw Agnes crouched in the farthest corner of the bower, her eyes semi-conscious, her face deadly white with terror, while Irene stood a little way off.
"Some one has turned her brain. Take her; do what you can with her," said Irene; and she walked away, not caring where she went.
They brought little Agnes back, and of course they sent for the doctor. The doctor stayed all night, for he said the child had received some very severe and terrible shock. Mrs. Merriman nursed her, and the next day, as soon as possible, Miss Frost returned.
But neither Miss Frost, nor the doctor, nor any one else could ease the terrors which had laid hold of the brain of little Agnes. She believed Miss Frost to be a sort of magnified Irene. The very name of Irene was enough to set her screaming again. She called Irene a fairy, a changeling, and nothing could soothe her or comfort her.
At last one day the doctor spoke to Mrs. Merriman.
"The case is quite a serious one," he said. "I cannot imagine what has happened to the child. You ought to find out who put that hedgehog in her bed. Hedgehogs are quite harmless in their way; but they would give a timid child a very nasty fright, which she evidently got."
"What we fear is that Irene did it. She has done all sorts of tricks of that kind before now. You remember how poor Miss Frost went to you on a certain occasion."
"Alas! that is true. But compared to this, her sin against poor Miss Frost was innocence itself. Such a timid, gentle, confiding little creature as this! And then report says that she was so devoted to Irene, and that Irene was so changed."
Yes, indeed, Irene was changed, and the great change lay now in the fact that she did not say a word or admit her suffering to any one; but sat moody and silent, scarcely attending to her lessons, indifferent to bad marks, without the least vestige of spirit, with no desire to injure any one. Even Lucy could not provoke a retort from her lips. Whenever she was allowed to, she stole outside little Agnes's door to listen to her mutterings, and to wonder and wonder if the child was to die.
"If she dies I shall go mad," thought the miserable girl, "for she has not only been frightened, but she has been turned against me. Who could have done it?"
Miss Frost had returned; Rosamund had also come back (her father was better); but the key to the mystery was still missing. Irene declared positively to Rosamund that she had nothing to do with the fright that little Agnes had received; but no one could explain how the hedgehog had got into the child's bed. Some one suggested that it had crawled in by itself, but this was repudiated as absolutely impossible. Somebody had put it there, and no doubt with evil intent. Rosamund thought a good deal over the matter. She thought so much that at last she came to a certain conclusion.
Little Agnes still lay between life and death, and death came nearer and nearer to the little, weakened frame each moment and each hour. Then Rosamund determined to take the doctor into her confidence. She waylaid him as he came downstairs.
"Dr. Marshall," she said, "may I speak to you for a minute?"
"Certainly, Miss Cunliffe," he replied.
Rosamund took him into one of the sitting-rooms. She closed the door behind them and bolted it.
"Why do you do that?" he said.
"Because I am not sure of things. I want to take you into my confidence, and I don't want any one to hear."
"Well, Miss Cunliffe, you must be brief."
"First of all, may I ask you what you think of little Agnes? Is she in danger?"
"Undoubtedly she is in danger."
"Is she so much in danger that she is likely to die?"
"Unless she gets better soon, unless the strange pressure on her brain is removed, she will die," said the doctor. "The shock has been much more severe than any one could have believed possible, even from such an ugly thing occurring. But, be that as it may, she is in extreme danger of her life."
"Thank you," said Rosamund.
"Then you don't want to say anything more?"
"I don't think I do."
"I will come in again to-night. The child's case is interesting. She is a dear little creature."
The doctor went away, and Rosamund entered the schoolroom. The girls were trying to perform their usual tasks. Irene was bending over a history-book. There was such a sadness now pervading the house, such a necessary stillness, that all life seemed to have gone out of it. The wintry weather continued, and it was as gloomy outside as in. Miss Archer was in vain explaining a rather interesting point in English history, to which no one was attending much, when Rosamund entered the room. All the girls seemed to feel that she had news.
She had. She marched up to the top of the room and stood there. Irene only raised her head; but Lucy, who was pale and had black shadows under her eyes, and Phyllis Flower, who had certainly looked far from well for the last fortnight, glanced at her with considerable interest.
"I have something to say," said Rosamund.
There was a dead silence for a moment; then Miss Archer said, "I am giving my history lecture, my dear."
"You will postpone it, for life—human life—is more precious than facts in old history," said Rosamund.
"Certainly, my dear," said Miss Archer in quite a meek voice; and she sat down and prepared to listen with as much interest as the others.
"It is this," said Rosamund. "Little Agnes Frost—I have just seen the doctor—is most dangerously ill." Phyllis Flower gave a gasp. "I won't go into the particulars of her illness; but the doctor says that unless a certain load of terror can be immediately removed from her mind she will die. Yes, she will die. Now, girls, it is quite plain to me, as it is doubtless to all of you, that a most cruel practical joke was played on little Agnes. Some people can stand practical jokes; some people cannot. But those who are cruel enough to exercise them upon little children are really too contemptible even to be spoken about. I wish this girl or that girl joy who knows that she may be the cause of the death of so sweet a child as Agnes Frost."
Irene lifted a face of agony. She struggled to speak, but no words came.
"You most of you think," continued Rosamund, who had watched Irene, and saw the look on her face, "that my friend Irene Ashleigh is the guilty person; but I am quite as certain as I am standing here that she is not. I have watched Irene for some time; and although she did all kinds of naughty things—very naughty things—months ago, she has abstained from anything of the kind for some time. In short, I believe her to be innocent, and I am going to ask her a direct question to that effect. Now, I shall believe her word, for with all her sins she never told a lie yet. Irene, were you the cause of Agnes Frost's terrible shock?"
"I was not," said Irene stoutly. She stood up as she spoke, and Rosamund went up and took her hand.
"Then some one else has done it. I believe Irene's word."
"And so do I," said Laura Everett.
"And so do I," said Annie Millar.
"And I also," exclaimed Agnes Sparkes.
But Phyllis Flower and Lucy Merriman were silent.
"Phyllis, what is your opinion?" said Rosamund suddenly. "Don't hesitate now. If you or any one else in this school has been tempted to commit a dastardly and wicked deed, don't let the thought that you may have caused a child to die rest on your conscience for all your days. You will be miserable. Had you or had you not anything to do with the fright which little Agnes received?"
"Oh!" said Phyllis; and she suddenly left her seat and fell on her knees. She covered her face with her hands; she swayed backwards and forwards. "Oh, I know—I know! I can't help myself. I did it."
"You did it—you?" said Rosamund sternly.
"Phyllis!" cried Lucy.
"Phyllis, you must speak up. The child's life is at stake. You must speak out and tell the truth."
"Then I will," said Lucy in a defiant tone. "I didn't know you were such a coward, Phyllis."
"Yes, I was a coward," said Phyllis. "I will tell my part of it. I did want a week in London, and I was tempted, and I put the hedgehog into Agnes's bed."
"You yourself did that? You did that yourself—alone?"
"That is all I am going to tell."
"Then I will tell the rest," exclaimed Lucy. "I made her do it. I was jealous of you, Rosamund, and I always hated you, and I was even more jealous of that horrid Irene and her love for Agnes. I only thought that I would punish her and you by taking Agnes away from her, and I think I have succeeded; but I never thought it would make Agnes ill. I am very, very, very sorry for that;" and, to the surprise of everybody, Lucy, the proud, the haughty, the reserved, burst into tears.
No one took much notice of her tears, for all eyes were fixed on Irene and the strange look which was filling her face. After a pause she went straight up to Lucy and took her hand.
"Lucy, will you come with me upstairs?"
"What do you want me to do?" said Lucy, in great astonishment.
"I want you to come with me, that is all."
"But why?"
"If you are at all sorry, will you come? There isn't a minute to lose."
"Yes, go with her—go for heaven's sake!" said Rosamund; and Lucy found herself going.
They went up the softly carpeted stairs and down the silent corridor, and then the two girls paused before a door which was partly ajar. The room was darkened, and Miss Frost was sitting by a little bed, and a little voice kept on crying suddenly, "Oh, there never was any Irene, there never was any Irene, and I loved her so! I loved her so! But she was a fairy, and the fairies took her back again, and—and—oh, I want to die! I want to die!"
The little hot hands were stretched outside the bedclothes, the beautiful dark eyes were open wide, and just at that moment Irene, very pale, still holding Lucy's hand, entered the room. Miss Frost stood up in speechless horror.
"Do sit down again, Miss Frost," said Irene; and she went straight up to little Agnes, who, to the astonishment of every one, no longer shrank from her, but, on the contrary, allowed her to hold one of her hands. Irene then turned to Lucy.
"Lucy," she said, "speak the truth now this minute, and I will forgive you."
"It was I who did it," said Lucy. "Go to sleep, and forget all about it. Irene isn't a changeling at all, and she never had anything to do with the fairies. I was jealous because you loved her and only her, and I wanted you to hate her, and I got Phyllis Flower to help me, and we put the hedgehog into your bed; but we didn't guess—we couldn't guess—that it would make you so ill."
Little Agnes looked with wide eyes at the speaker.
"Go away now," said Irene. "I think she understands. You go away also, Frosty. Please, please go!"
Miss Frost and Lucy found themselves impelled to leave the room, while Irene lay down on the bed beside the little girl, and taking both her hands, held them fast and whispered softly in the little ear:
"I am no changeling, but your own Irene, and I would rather die than injure one hair of your head. Come close, darling; come close. It wasn't I, but another, and I am no changeling."
"Oh, my own Irene! My own, own Irene!" whispered the little voice; and then it grew fainter, and there came a smile on the tiny face, and in a few minutes' time the tired bright eyes closed, and the child slept.
When the doctor came that evening little Agnes was still sleeping, and Irene was still holding her hands. The fever was going down moment by moment. The doctor came in and said "Hush!" and whispered to Irene that she must on no account stir. She must be close to little Agnes, when she woke, and he himself would stay in the room, for the child would be very weak; but doubtless the fever would have left her. He was much puzzled to account for the change; but Rosamund was the one to enlighten him. She just told him that some very mischievous girls had played a trick, but she mentioned no names. For Lucy seemed really broken-hearted; and as to Phyllis Flower, she had cried so hard that her eyes were scarcely visible.
About midnight little Agnes woke in her right mind. She saw Irene, and lifting a tiny white hand, she stroked her cheek.
"I have had a very bad dream; but I don't seem to remember anything," she said.
"Only that you are with me," said Irene; "and you will be with me all my life—won't you, little darling?"
By slow degrees little Agnes got well, and when she was well enough she and Irene and Rosamund left the school; and from that day, as far as I can tell, Irene has been a changed character: thoughtful though spirited, beautiful, talented, but with much consideration for others, and the comfort and joy of her mother's heart. But the one she loves best on earth is the one whom she calls her own little Agnes.
THE END.
Those who have read the Marjorie Dean High School Series will be eager to read this new series, as Marjorie Dean continues to be the heroine in these stories.
All Cloth bound. Copyright Titles.