A Modern Tomboy by L. T. Meade (e book reader pc txt) 📕

"I wouldn't force my gifts on any one, not even little Agnes." But there was an imploring note in her voice.

Little Agnes, however, was still full of the horrors with which she had been crammed. Rosamund went on one knee and opened the ungainly parcel. It contained a Noah's Ark, a box of bricks, some soldiers (the very best of their kind), and other toys of the sort that would ravish children. At another moment little Agnes would have been all delight, but now she seemed to see—behind the marching soldiers, and the fascinating bricks which could raise such marvelous architectural edifices, and the Noah's Ark with its quaint animals—toads and lizards and newts, and wasps and bees. Oh, why was she so frightened, she who had never really been frightened before? And she did love Irene. She looked up into her face now with piteous terror, and yet a piteous love mingling in her eyes.

"I will take them; they are beautiful," she said; and she clasped them in her arms. Then she put her face up for Irene to kiss, and then she went away staggering under the weight of her new treasures.

Irene turned to Rosamund.

"What is the matter?" she said. "Something has happened to the child. She was so jolly when we went out—so like her dearest, sweetest self—and now she is quite altered. What can have happened?"

"I can't tell," said Rosamund. "You had better take no notice, Irene."

Irene could scarcely promise to do that, and she was sulky and disturbed during the rest of the evening; and although little Agnes sat in her usual place at supper, she hardly spoke to her.

After supper Agnes flew up to Miss Frost and whispered something in her ear.

"May I—may I—sleep in your bed to-night? I want to," she said.

"Certainly," replied Miss Frost, intensely gratified. "But what will Irene say?"

"I can't help it. I daren't stay in her room. I am frightened."

Miss Frost whispered again to the child, who went off presently to her studies, which always took about a quarter of an hour before she retired to bed. Miss Frost insisted on always seeing her little sister to bed herself, and after the first night or two at Sunnyside no one interfered with this arrangement. Irene had her own happy time afterwards, when she went to bed herself, and could look at the dear little face smiling in its sleep, when she could now and again hear the happy murmured words, "Dear Irene! darling Irene!" and when she knew she had constituted herself the little one's guardian—a sort of guardian angel over her—to fight to the death for her against all that was evil, all that was frightening. She was busy as usual to-night over her tasks, and took no notice when little Agnes and Miss Frost left the room together. Agnes, being the youngest pupil in the school, was always put to bed before the others. By-and-by the time came when all the girls were to retire for the night. Lucy had made herself delightfully inconspicuous this evening. She had scarcely spoken to any one. Even Mademoiselle Omont, with whom she had struck up a sort of friendship, developing rapidly a very sound knowledge of the French language, had scarcely been addressed by the loquacious young lady; while as to Miss Archer and Miss Frost, Lucy disdained even to speak to them.

By-and-by Rosamund too went up to her room. It was next to the room occupied by the two girls, Irene and Agnes.

"I won't come into your room to-night," said Irene. But she hesitated for a moment. "Have you found out anything to account for little Agnes's strange behavior?"

"No—nothing. If I were you I would take no notice. Perhaps the child was tired."

"Perhaps some one has told her things that she ought not to know," was Irene's response.

Rosamund was silent. She had much the same fear at her heart.

"Did you, or did you not, notice how quiet Lucy Merriman has been all the evening—a sort of hush about her which is not usual? I expect her conscience has been pricking her. Well, if she dares to interfere with me and Agnes she'll rue it, that's all I can say. Goodnight, Rosamund. I am sleepy."

Irene went into her room. She longed beyond words to find Agnes sufficiently awake to put her arms round her neck and kiss her as of yore. She wanted to tempt the little one to come into her bed. She felt, more than she cared to own, the acute pang at her heart with regard to little Agnes when she brought back the toys. Now, these were placed tidily away on a shelf just beside little Agnes's bed, but the bed itself was empty. The little night-dress had been removed; the brush and comb that always stood on the small dressing-table were also conspicuous by their absence. The little blue felt slippers which looked so sweet on her tiny feet were gone, as was also the blue dressing-gown. But none of these things mattered. It was the absence of little Agnes herself that Irene noticed. Agnes was not in the room. She stood quite still, clasping her hands, while a sensation of rage such as she had never before experienced—such as, with all her tempestuous nature, she had never believed could sweep over her—now visited her.

"Agnes!" she said once, and she went up to the empty bed and turned down the clothes as though she might even find Agnes beneath.

But the bed was quite empty; the child was gone.

Scarcely knowing what she was doing, Irene burst into Rosamund's room.

"There's something up, and you might find it out. I won't go to bed until I know. They have taken Agnes away from me. She is not in my room. What is the matter? You must find out."

"I will," said Rosamund very gently. "Just sit down and keep as quiet as you can. I will go at once and see Miss Frost. She can't have gone to bed yet."

"Let me come with you."

"No, no; stay where you are, dear; and try to be calm, I beseech you. By your love for me, and by your love for Agnes, try now to control yourself."

Irene made a mighty effort. She sank into a chair. Tears came close to her eyes, but they did not fall, though she was trembling from head to foot.

Rosamund went quickly down the corridor. At the farther end she met Lucy, who was returning to her own room. Rosamund stopped her.

"What have you been doing to little Agnes Frost while we were away?" she said.

"I?" said Lucy, starting and turning very pale. "Nothing. What should I have done?"

"You know you have done something. You have frightened her, telling her dreadful stories about Irene. You know it. You are mean and cowardly. You ought not to have anything to do with any respectable school. I cannot tell you how I despise you. Think how much I have given up to save Irene, who never had a chance until she knew me, and yet you now destroy every effort that I have made for her good. Oh, I despise you! I cannot help it."

Lucy was absolutely speechless. Rosamund walked along the corridor until she came to Miss Frost's room. She tapped very gently with her knuckles. Miss Frost came out.

"Frosty dear, is little Agnes sleeping with you to-night?" she said.

Miss Frost shut the door and came on to the landing. She put her finger to her lips.

"Hush!" she said. "She is with me; she is in my bed. She is very nervous, starting every moment. Lucy Merriman told her dreadful stories while she was out to-day. The child told me about them. Lucy had no right to tell her. She is afraid of Irene now."

"She need never be afraid of Irene. I wonder if she has pluck enough to go back to her? If she has, all will be safe. If not, Irene's character will be spoiled for ever. Is she asleep?"

"Scarcely asleep; very nervous and restless. You won't take her back to Irene to-night? You know what the effect of nervous fear is upon a delicate, tenderly nurtured child. You could not be so cruel."

"Agnes is not so delicate as all that. She can stand it. When I think of Irene, who has almost been saved, who has almost been turned into the paths of goodness and righteousness, and mostly by little Agnes herself, and when I think of that cruel, wicked, unscrupulous girl, I have no patience. Frosty, I have helped you—you must let little Agnes help Irene now. Don't be frightened. I shall be next door to them, and nothing can possibly happen to the child; but she must come back."

Miss Frost stood aside.

"Really, Rosamund," she said, "I do admit the strength of your words. I know how good—how more than good—you have been; but, at the same time, I feel she is my little sister, and Irene has taken her away."

"For the present, I grant it, and I am sorry; but not for always. Let her have her back now, for a time at least—to-night at any rate."

"Very well, you must manage it your own way."

Poor Miss Frost wrung her hands in nervous terror. She thought of that awful moment when she had swallowed the wood-lice. She thought of the terrible appearance of James when the wasps had stung him. She remembered another occasion when she had found a leech in her bed. Oh, how terrible Irene had been! And there was Miss Carter, who had nearly lost her life in the boat. Then there was Hughie—something very queer had happened to Hughie on one occasion, only Hughie was no coward. He was brave and practical. But then, again, there was Irene herself—Irene so altered, so sweet to little Agnes, so kind about Hughie. Poor Miss Frost was so torn between her diverse emotions that she scarcely knew what to do.

Meanwhile Rosamund had gone into the room. She made a slight noise, and Agnes, only half-asleep, opened her dark eyes and fixed them on Rosamund's face.

"What is it? Is there a toad in the room?" she said.

"Don't be silly, Agnes," said Rosamund. "I really have no patience with you. Now, what is the matter? Sit up in bed and tell me."

Rosamund did not mean to be unkind, nor did she speak in an unkind way, although her words sounded somewhat determined.

"I want to speak to you, Agnes," she said. "You were told stories—and very exaggerated they doubtless were—by Lucy Merriman when Irene and I were at The Follies to-day."

"I was told frightful stories all about Irene."

"Then do you mean to tell me you don't love her any more?"

"I shall always love her; but if she were to do such a thing to me it would kill me."

"She would never do such a thing to you. Now, I will tell you something about her. She used to be a wild and very naughty child. People were afraid of her, and she had nothing else to occupy her time but to add to their terrors. Then I came across her path, and I was not a bit afraid of her. In short, I think I helped her not to be so naughty. But I did not do half the good you have done."

"I?" said little Agnes, in amazement.

"Yes, you, Aggie—you; for you loved her, and you helped her to be good by simply trusting her, and by clinging to her and thinking her all that is good and beautiful. Between us—you and me—we were softening her, and she will be a splendid woman some day, not a poor, miserable wretch, half-wild, but good and true and noble."

"I like women of that sort," said little Agnes, in a fervor of enthusiasm.

"And that is what your own Irene will be, provided that you do not give her up."

"I give her up?" said little Agnes. "But I never will."

"You gave her up to-night when you refused to sleep in