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Pixie O'Shaughnessy

<h3>Chapter Six.</h3> <h4>A Novel Amusement.</h4> During the weeks which followed, “Pixie’s Prep” became a by-word among her companions, for no amount of goading seemed sufficient to keep her attention from roaming from her books during the hours when it was most necessary that she should give them her undivided attention. However sturdily she might begin, in ten minutes’ time her eyes were wandering about the room, she was scribbling on the margin of her book, or twisting her handkerchief into a new variety of rag doll. The well-meaning Kate, finding frowns and nudges losing their effect, resorted to more drastic measures, such as the prick of a pin, or a tug of the elf-like locks; but the victim’s howls and protestations not only disturbed her companions, but took so long to pacify that the experiment had to be abandoned. How Pixie managed to sustain even her very low place in the class was a wonder to her companions; but in truth she had an unusually quick brain, so that when she chose to apply herself she learnt as much as slower girls would do in twice the time, while her Irish wit enabled her to place her scraps of knowledge in the most advantageous light, and rescued her from awkward questionings. Nowhere was this faculty more marked than in French, of which she knew least, yet in which subject she made the most rapid progress. It was clear to a pair of uncommonly sharp eyes that Miss Phipps’s leniency would some day come to an end, and that she would then find herself in the position of being obliged either to speak French or not to speak at all. To a born chatterbox the latter alternative seemed the acme of misery, so it behoved her to prepare for speech before the dread verdict was given, which she did in a manner astonishing to her companions. Of French grammar she had the poorest opinion, but she was sharp as a magpie to pick up the phrases of others and store them for her own use. The morning after Mademoiselle had suffered from a headache, Pixie’s handkerchief was soaked with offerings of eau-de-Cologne from the various girls to whom she had repeated ejaculations of distress; she discoursed exhaustively upon the weather to every one who could be induced to listen, and recited exercise phrases to the school cat until her tongue grew quite nimble over the words. Mademoiselle was an object of intense interest and curiosity to her new pupil. She was the first foreigner whom Pixie had known, and there was something in her dark, eager face which arrested the child’s attention. Mademoiselle was quick and nervous, subject to fits of unreasonable irritation; but at other times there was a sad, far-away look in her eyes, and then her voice would take a softer cadence, so that when she said “Chérie,” one pupil at least forgot all the scoldings which had gone before. Pixie felt irresistibly drawn to Mademoiselle in her hours of depression. She could not have explained the attraction, but in her heart she felt that they were both exiles, and that Mademoiselle pined for her own sunny land even as she pined for the dear green isle which seemed so far away. She longed for Mademoiselle to notice her, to show her some special mark of favour, but longed in vain, until at last a day dawned which brought her into notice in a manner which was scarcely to her liking. It was a wet Saturday afternoon, and wet Saturday afternoons are abominations to every boarding-school girl, and the cause of endless grumblings and repinings. Ethel and Kate had gone out to tea with an old maiden lady who lived in the neighbourhood, and had still further deepened their friend’s depression before departing by drawing a most roseate picture of the joys before them. “She is awfully kind,” they had explained of their hostess; “she gives you the most galumptious teas, and the best part of it is, she has an e-normous appetite herself, so you can eat as much as you like, without fear of looking greedy!” No wonder the poor stay-at-homes looked glum after this; no wonder they sighed with envy as they thought of the thick bread-and-butter in store for themselves. The elder girls provided themselves with books, and sat in rows before the fire, while artistic spirits set themselves copies, and filled up page after page of their sketching-books. Flora stitched on a table-centre destined to be a birthday present for her mother, and the younger girls clustered round Pixie, and besought her to think of some new means of amusement. “Think of something, Pixie-doo! It’s so dull, and we are sick of the stupid old games. What did you do at home when it rained and you couldn’t go out?” “I’ve never seen it rain hard enough to keep me indoors if I wanted to be out,” returned Pixie, with a toss of the head; “but I’ve had fine fun indoors sometimes when I didn’t feel disposed for exertion. Ratting in the barn is good sport, or grooming the pony, or feeding the animals, and pretending it is the Zoo; but you can’t do those things here. It’s hard to think of anything amusing when you are shut up in one room.” “We can go out on the landing, if we like; I vote we do, and be by ourselves. The fifth forms are sure to tell us not to, the moment we have thought of something nice. Come along now, before they notice us!” No sooner said than done. The little band of conspirators slipped from the room, and stood without on the square landing, five short-frocked girls all gazing eagerly, confidently, into the face of their leader. “Pixie, what shall we do?” Pixie racked her brains in despair, for not a single idea would come to her aid, and yet to acknowledge such a want of invention would have been to forfeit her position, and therefore not to be thought of for a second. Her eyes roamed from side to side, and lit upon a table on which some working materials happened to be lying. A basket, a folded length of cloth, and a roll of wide green binding such as was used to edge old-fashioned window-curtains. Pixie looked at it thoughtfully, fingered it to ascertain its weight, shook it out to discover its length, and cried eagerly— “Just the thing! Might have been made for it. Would you like to see me lasso the next person who comes upstairs?” “Lasso!” The girls were not quite sure of the meaning of the word, but Pixie explained it, suiting the action to the word. A lasso was a rope with a noose at one end—so! and it was used to catch wild horses, or anything else you happened to chase. You stood with the rope gathered up in your hand—so! and then took aim and sent it flying out suddenly—so! Pat could do it beautifully, and he had taught her too, but she could not always manage very well. If you caught a girl from above, she would be startled out of her wits, and squeal like anything. It would be splendid fun. The next one, then, who came upstairs! The girls were divided between horror and delight. Dared she? Really! Would it hurt? What would Miss Phipps say? Did she really think she ought? But their agitation acted as fuel to Pixie’s determination, and she would only laugh and lean over the banisters, experimenting with the long green rope, and altering the length until it met with her approval. Five minutes passed, and nobody appeared; ten minutes, and the conspirators were beginning to grow impatient, when from below came the unmistakable sound of an ascending footstep. The orders of the chief had been that when this happened her attendants were to withdraw to a safe distance, so that no movement nor sound of muffled laughter should warn the victim of her peril; so the girls retreated obediently, leaving Pixie to crouch on the floor until the eventful moment when a head appeared on the landing six steps below. It came—the top of a smooth, brown head, and on the moment out flew the rope, whirled into space with a skilful jerk which sent the noose flying wide, and with an accuracy of aim which brought it right round the neck of the new-comer. She squealed indeed, but horror of horrors! she squealed in French, with such staccato “Oh’s” and “Ah’s” of astonishment as could only have come from one person in the house. It was Mademoiselle herself! and lifting her glance she beheld six horrified faces peering at her over the banisters, six pairs of startled eyes, six mouths agape with dismay. She looked, and then, as it seemed with one stride, was in their midst, with her hands gripping Pixie by the shoulders. Now it happened that Mademoiselle was in her most irritable mood this afternoon, for all day long she had been struggling against what, for convenience’ sake, she called a headache, but which might more honestly have been described as a heartache instead. A teacher cannot explain to thirty pupils that she has received a letter from home which has seemed to drop a veil before the sky, but such letters come all the same, and make it difficult to bear the hundred and one little annoyances and trials of temper which fall to her lot. Mademoiselle’s letter had told of the illness of a beloved father, and as she dared not sit down and have a good cry to relieve her feelings, she was an a pent-up state of nerves which made her the worst possible subject for a practical joke. The rope in Pixie’s hand marked her out as the principal offender, and she was called to order in a breathless stream of French which left her dumb and bewildered. “I—I can’t understand!” she stammered, and Mademoiselle struggled to express herself in sufficiently expressive English. “You bad girl! You rude, bad girl! What ’ave you done? What you mean playing your treecks on me? I will not ’ave it. I will complain to Miss Phipps. How dare you throw your strings about to catch me as I come upstairs! Impertinent! Disobedient!” “P–please, Mademoiselle, it was a lasso! I didn’t know it was you. I said I would do it to the first person who came, and I didn’t see your face. It was only a joke.” “A joke! You catch me by the throat, you ’ang me by the neck, and you call it a joke! You wicked, impertinent girl, you shall be punished for this!” Pixie heaved a sigh so sepulchral that it might almost have been called a groan instead. “It’s just my luck!” she said dismally. “When I tried to show off before Pat and the girls, I couldn’t do it one time in a hundred, and just now, when I’d have no credit, but only get into trouble, I caught you the very first try!” Did she mean to be impertinent? Mademoiselle looked down with sharp suspicion, but even in her excited condition she could not mistake that downcast look, and troubled, disconsolate frown. Her voice grew a trifle less sharp, but she was very angry still. “You ought to be ashamed playing such treecks! It is always the same thing—there is no peace since you ’ave come. These girls were quite good and mild, but you make them as wild as yourself. I will teach you to be’ave better. You will come with me to the schoolroom and write out a verrrb!” “I will, Mademoiselle,” said Pixie meekly, so meekly that her companions fondly hoped that such exemplary submission would win forgiveness; but no, Mademoiselle flounced downstairs, and Pixie followed at her heels, to seat herself in solitary state at one end of the deserted schoolroom, while Mademoiselle took possession of the desk and began to correct a pile of exercise books. To write out a verb is not, as a rule, a very lengthy matter, but Mademoiselle’s punishment verbs had invariably a phrase attached which gave to them an added appropriateness, but very much lengthened the task. “I am sorry that I was rude to Mademoiselle” was the verb which poor Pixie was to-day condemned to conjugate, and the big straggling sentences amplified the statement until it seemed impossible to express it in any other way. “I am sorry that I was rude to Mademoiselle—I was sorry that I was rude to Mademoiselle—I shall or will be sorry that I was rude to Mademoiselle.” At intervals of every two or three minutes Mademoiselle glanced from her work to the little figure at the other end of the room, but each time Pixie’s head was bent over her task, and the wandering eyes were glued to their task. Such industry seemed so unnatural that the onlooker became first puzzled and then uneasy, and at last resorted to coughing and moving about in her chair in order to satisfy curiosity. In vain! Pixie’s head went down lower than ever, and the pen scratched away without a moment’s cessation, for she was enduring that unreasoning panic of fear which sensitive children suffer when they are in disgrace with their elders. She had been brought up in an atmosphere of tender indulgence, had been the adored baby of the household, who had never heard the sound of an angry voice, so that now, to sit alone in a room with a person whom she had displeased, reduced her to a condition of trembling fear. Her eyelids felt weighed down, a lump rose in her throat, and she trembled as with cold, and then presently the dreaded voice spoke again, and Mademoiselle said— “Pixie, come here. Bring your verrrb!” The wretched scribe had not yet finished her conjugation, being about imperatively to command herself to be sorry that she had been rude to Mademoiselle, but she was too nervous to explain, and stood twisting her hands together and staring at the carpet, while Mademoiselle turned over the pages. She bit her lips once or twice as she read, and her eyes twinkled, but Pixie did not see that, and the voice which spoke sounded alarmingly stern. “It is ver’ badly written. You make your letters too big; and such blots! I cannot ’ave such blots. What ’ave you been doing to make such blots as these?” “They are not blots, please, Mademoiselle; they are only—” “Only what then?” “Spots!” “Spots!” echoed Mademoiselle blankly. “Spots—blots! Blots—spots! I do not understand. What is then the difference between blots and spots?” “Blots is made with ink,”—when Pixie was agitated, as at the present moment, grammar was by no means her strong point—“and spots is made with—with—” “Eh bien! And with what, then?” “T–tears!” came the answer in the softest echo of a voice, and Mademoiselle looked down at the woe-begone face with startled eyes. “Tears! Your tears! But why should you cry? It is not so dreadful to write a verrrb. I might have given you worse punishment than that. Perhaps it was because you had missed the afternoon with your friends. I cannot think a girl of your age should cry over a simple verrrb.” “I thought it was a very elaborate verb!” said Pixie faintly. “But it wasn’t that that made me cry; it was hurting your feelings, Mademoiselle!” Mademoiselle leant back in her seat and looked intently at the shrinking figure. “Look up, chérie!” she said softly, and Pixie’s fear fell from her like a mantle. She saw a hand outstretched, and clasped it eagerly. “I never meant to hang you, Mademoiselle! It was only a joke. The girls asked me to amuse them, and we think it fine sport to lasso one another at home. How was I to know it would be you, when I gave my word I would catch the first one that came upstairs? I didn’t mean to be impertinent.” “But, ma petite, you should not play such treecks at all!” Mademoiselle shook her head, but she was smiling as she spoke, for she was beginning to realise that no disrespect had been meant to herself, and that she had been unduly stern in her denunciations. “It is not the thing for a young lady at school; it is only for wild—how do you call them—‘cowboys,’ out on the prairie. If you do it at ’ome, it is not my affair, but if your father should see you some day, he must be shocked like me!” “I’m the youngest of six, and me father won’t have me thwarted!” sighed Pixie, lapsing into her brogue, as she usually did when agitated. “Nobody’s ever angry with me at Bally William; I get into mischief the day long, and it’s all quite happy and comfortable. If I’m quiet and well-behaved, Bridgie is after giving me a mixture, for, says she, ‘The choild’s ill; there’s not been a sound out of her this day!’ I wish I was back in me own country, Mademoiselle, and then I shouldn’t trouble you any more!” “I vish I was back in my countree, too,” sighed the other softly, and two big tears started in the brown eyes, and trickled slowly down the cheeks. “My father is ill, and needs me, and I cannot be with him. I feel as if I could have wings and fly, I long so much to go; but I must stay here and work. My ’eart is very sad, and sometimes I get cross—too cross, perhaps, because I cannot bear any more. Then you girls talk among yourselves and say, ‘How she is bad-tempered, that Mademoiselle! How she is cross and strict!’ That is what you say very often, n’est-ce pas?” “We do!” replied Pixie frankly. It was one of the Irishisms which amused her companions that she never by any chance gave a simple “Yes” or “No” in reply to a question. It was always “I am!” “I will!” “I do!” as the case might be. “We do!” she replied now, and then hastened to soften the admission by a coaxing, “But I wouldn’t be troubling meself about that, if I were you, for they don’t mind it a bit. I drew a picture of you the other day with a bubble coming out of your mouth, and ‘Bow-wow-wow’ written on it like a dog, because you are always barking; but there isn’t a bite in ye, and all the girls say you aren’t half as bad as the Mademoiselle who was here before!” Well! There are some conditions of mind when we are thankful for the smallest grain of comfort, and Mademoiselle smiled and flicked the tears from her eyes. “They are too kind! I am much obliged; but another time, when I ‘bark’ as you call it, you will perhaps remember that your teachers are like yourselves, and ’ave the same feelings. When you come first to school you have to be comforted because you are ’ome-sick, but we are ’ome-sick too; and when you get bad news you cry, and are excused your work, but we must go on the same as before; and if it is difficult to learn your lessons, it is also difficult to teach! Well, now you may go! You will remember not to be rude to Mademoiselle again, eh?” She held out her hand, smiling more brightly this time, and Pixie seized it eagerly. “I will! And I hope your father will get well soon. You will see him at Christmas, and that isn’t very long now; only forty-eight days to-morrow. I mark them off on my calendar.” “No, that is so sad, I shall not see him until summer! He is going to my brother in Italy, where it is warm and sunny, and it is too far for me to go there with him. It costs too much money, and the little house in Paris will be shut up till he returns, so I must stay in England all through the dark, long winter, when the sun never shines, and I shiver, shiver, shiver all day and all night! I shall forget what it is like to be warm before the spring arrives!” Pixie rubbed the cold hands with a sympathetic touch, but she made no remark, and presently went from the schoolroom to rejoin her companions and make the most of the hours which still remained, while Mademoiselle went wearily on with the task of correction. She forgot all about her own complaints of cold, but when she retired to bed that night a delightful surprise was in store, for the sheets were warm instead of cold, and her chilled feet came in contact with something soft and hot, which proved upon examination to be an indiarubber water-bottle encased in a flannel bag. Mademoiselle drew a long gasp of rapture, and nestled down again with a feeling of comfort to which she had long been a stranger. A day or two earlier, Miss Phipps had spoken of the necessity of putting more coverings on the beds, as the frost had set in unusually early, and Mademoiselle sleepily attributed this new comfort as another instance of the Principal’s consideration for her assistants. She felt certain that it must be so, as night after night the welcome warmth was in waiting, and more than once determined to express her appreciation; but life was busy, and there was such an accumulation of work as the period of examination approached, that there seemed no time to speak of anything but school affairs. <hr> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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