Pixie O'Shaughnessy Part 5

"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, _cherie_!" 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 la.s.so 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 pet.i.te_, 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.

"n.o.body'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 Princ.i.p.al's consideration for her a.s.sistants. 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 acc.u.mulation of work as the period of examination approached, that there seemed no time to speak of anything but school affairs.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

TERM-HOLIDAY.

Flora and Kate and Ethel were sitting with their cla.s.smates discussing the day's work, and Pixie O'Shaughnessy had drawn her stool beside them, and was putting in a remark at every possible opportunity. It made her feel grown-up and important to join in the conferences of the older girls, and though in words they might say, "Run away, Pixie!" it generally happened that someone moved to the side of her chair to make an extra place, or that an arm stretched out to encircle the tiny waist.

Even sixth-form girls like to be amused occasionally as if they were ordinary mortals, and Pixie was welcomed because she made them laugh and forget their trials and troubles, in the shape of Latin and Euclid and German idioms which refused to be unravelled. Two or three of the older pupils were going in for the Cambridge Examination at Christmas, and all were looking forward to the school exams at the end of the term, so that anxiety was heavy upon them.

"My brain feels like jelly! It _won't_ work. I shall be getting softening of the brain at this rate!" sighed Flora, rubbing her cheeks up and down between her bands until she looked like a fat indiarubber doll. "I keep mixing things up until I don't seem to have a clear idea left, and my mother has set her heart on my taking a good place. She will look sad if I come out bottom, and I do hate and detest people looking sad! I would far rather they scolded, and had done with it!"

"My people don't worry their heads about lessons. They sent me to school because they think it polishes a girl, and rubs off the angles, don't you know!" said Lottie, with an air. She was the richest girl in the school, who took all the extras, and put her name down for every concert and entertainment, without thinking of the expense. Her parents had a house in town to which they came regularly every spring, during which season Lottie's friends received many delightful invitations. She had unlimited pocket-money also, and was lavish in gifts to those who happened to be in her favour, a fact which a certain number of girls found it impossible to banish from their minds; and thus Lottie held a little court over which she reigned as queen, while the more earnest- minded of the pupils adored Margaret, and would hear no one compared to the sweet "school-mother." Clara was a Margaret-worshipper, so she felt in duty bound to snub Lottie on this as on every possible occasion.

"I don't see much polish about _you_!" she retorted brutally. "And it's ridiculous to come to school at all, if you don't mean to work. If it's only 'pruins and prism' you want, why didn't you go to board with a dancing-mistress, and practise how to come in and out of a room, and bow to your friends, and cut your old schoolfellows when you meet them in the road? You'd find it useful, my dear!"

The last sentence was a deliberate hit, for a former pupil had reported that, during a visit to a well-known watering-place, when she herself was returning unkempt and sandy from a c.o.c.kling expedition, she had encountered Lottie walking on the parade with a number of fashionable visitors, and that, after one hasty glance in her direction, Miss Lottie had become so wonderfully interested in what was going on at the other side of the road that she altogether forgot to return her bow. Needless to say, Lottie had been reminded more than once of this incident, so that even Pixie, the newest comer, was familiar with its incidents, though she could not bring herself to believe in such deliberate sn.o.bbery. To-day, as Lottie flushed, and Margaret looked a pained reproach, it was Pixie who rushed to the rescue, wriggling about in her seat, and clasping and unclasping her hands in the earnestness of her defence.

"Clara Montagu, you've no business accusing Lottie! You weren't there, so you can't tell! Perhaps the sun was in her eyes. You can't see a man from a woman when it's shining full in your face, though they may see you clear enough, and believe you're shamming. Or perhaps the dust was blowing. I've been blind meself with dust before now, and come into the house looking as though I'd been crying for weeks. Why should she pretend not to know a friend--least of all when she'd been c.o.c.kling?

'Deed, I'd have been more affectionate than ever, in the hope she'd say, 'Help yourself, me dear! Lend me your handkerchief, and I'll give ye a nice little bundle to take home for your tea!'"

The Margaret-girls gave a simultaneous shriek of laughter at the idea of Miss Lottie carrying a handkerchief full of c.o.c.kles, and even the Lottie-girls smiled approvingly at the little speaker, for was she not advocating the position of their chief? Flora nodded encouragingly across the hearth and cried, "Good for you, Pixie! Never listen to second-hand stories against your friends!" And Kate added meaningly, "Go on believing in human nature as long as you can, my dear. You're young yet. When you are as old as I am it will be time to open your eyes. But to go back to the last subject but one, don't you give way to nerves, girls, and begin worrying about the exams already. I've noticed that just about the middle of the term there always comes a 'discouragement stage' to anyone who is anxious to do well. The first energy with which one begins work has worn off, and as it is too soon for the final spurt, there comes a dull, flat time, when one worries and frets and gets down in the lowest depths of dumps. I spoke about it at home, and my father says every worker feels the same--artists when they are painting pictures, and authors when they are writing books. They have an idea, and set to work, all delight and excitement, believing that they are going to do the best thing they have ever done. For a little time all goes well, and then they begin to grow discouraged and worried, and think they might as well give it up at once, for it is going to be a dismal failure. They know _something_ is wrong, but they can't see what it is, and they mope about, and don't know what to try next. Father told me a story about Millais, the man who painted 'Bubbles,' you know, and heaps of other beautiful things. He was so miserable about a picture once that he grew quite ill worrying about it.

His wife tried to persuade him to leave it alone for a few days, and then take a rest; but no, he would not hear of it, so one fine day, when he was out, she just took the law into her own hands and had it carried down and hidden in the cellar. When he came home he went straight to the studio, and--my dears! I am glad I didn't happen to be in the house, that's all. I know what my father is like when he can't find a clothes-brush, or someone has moved the matches out of the dressing- room. Millais raged about like a wild animal, but his wife was quite firm and determined, and wouldn't tell him where it was for several days. He was obliged to go out and interest himself in other ways, and when he was quite well again she had the picture brought up, and he simply looked at it and laughed. He knew at once what was wrong, and how to put it right."

"I say," cried Flora eagerly, "do tell that story to Miss Phipps! She might give us a week's holiday and send us to see the sights of London!

Do, Kate! Get it up in French and tell it to-night at tea. You don't know how much good it might do!"

"It's a very good story, but I fail to see where the moral comes in. It hardly applies to us, I think," said Clara, in her superior manner, and Kate breathlessly vindicated her position.

"Yes, it does--of course it does. It shows that this anxious stage is a natural thing which all workers have to live through, and even if we can't leave off lessons altogether, we can help ourselves by not giving way to nerves, but going steadily on, knowing that we shall feel all right again in a few days. Besides, there's the Exeat coming,--that will make a nice break."

"I never worry about lessons, do I?" cried Pixie, pluming herself complacently. The part of Kate's lecture which had dealt with over- anxiety about work had appealed with special force to one listener at least, and Pixie was delighted to find that she was free from failing in one direction at least. "I never did. Miss Minnitt--that's the one who used to teach us--she said I never paid any attention at all. There was one day she was questioning me about grammar. 'Pixie O'Shaughnessy,'

she says, 'you've been over this one page until it's worn transparent.

For pity's sake,' she says, 'be done with it, and get on to something fresh. Let me see if you can remember to-day what I taught you yesterday afternoon. How many kinds of verbs are there?' 'There are two,' I said, and with that she was all smiles and noddings. 'So there are, now. You're quite right. And what will be their names?' 'Verb and adverb,' says I, quite haughty; and the howl that went out of her you might have heard from Cork to Galway! That was all the grammar she'd managed to teach _me_!"

"You don't know very much more now, do you, chicken?" said Margaret, bending her head so that her cheek rested upon the rough, dark head.

"Just bring your books to me any time you get puzzled, and I'll try to make it clear. Talking of the term-holiday, girls, it is time we began to make our plans. How many of you are going out? Lottie, are you?

Clara? Kate? Pixie? We had better find out first how many will be here."

Clara had had hopes that the maiden lady with the appet.i.te would rise to the occasion, but, alas! she had betaken herself to stay with a relative, Pixie was sure that Jack could not spare time to have her for a whole day, and besides, she was going to have tea with him the Sat.u.r.day before. All the girls seemed fated to spend the holiday at school save only the two sisters, Mabel and Violet, who were to be entertained by a kind aunt, and to choose their own entertainment for the afternoon, and Lottie, who was fortunate as usual.

"I am doubly engaged for the evening!" she announced with a flourish.

"I wrote home to my people about the holiday, and mother asked some friends to have me for part of the day. They live in a regular mansion--as big as two or three houses like this rolled into one, and they know all sorts of grand people! I am going to dinner, and it's most exciting, for I don't know whom I may meet!"

"The Prince and Princess of Wales are at Sandringham! What a pity!"

sighed Kate, the sarcastic. "It's so awfully trying to come down to Lords and Ladies, don't you know! You will hardly trouble to put on your best dress, I should think. The pea-green satin with the pink flounces will be good enough for them!"