“Miss Wilson has called me impertinent, and has written to my uncle that I have refused to obey the rules. I was not impertinent; and I never refused to obey the rules. So much for Moral Force!”
Miss Wilson rose vigorously, exclaiming: “I will soon let her know whether—” She checked herself, and looked round hastily, superstitiously fancying that Agatha might have stolen into the room unobserved. Reassured that she was alone, she examined her conscience as to whether she had done wrong in calling Agatha impertinent, justifying herself by the reflection that Agatha had, in fact, been impertinent. Yet she recollected that she had refused to admit this plea on a recent occasion when Jane Carpenter had advanced it in extenuation of having called a fellow-student a liar. Had she then been unjust to Jane, or inconsiderate to Agatha?
Her casuistry was interrupted by some one softly whistling a theme from the overture to Masaniello, popular at the college in the form of an arrangement for six pianofortes and twelve hands. There was only one student unladylike and musical enough to whistle; and Miss Wilson was ashamed to find herself growing nervous at the prospect of an encounter with Agatha, who entered whistling sweetly, but with a lugubrious countenance. When she saw in whose presence she stood, she begged pardon politely, and was about to withdraw, when Miss Wilson, summoning all her Judgment and tact, and hoping that they would — contrary to their custom in emergencies — respond to the summons, said:
“Agatha, come here. I want to speak to you.”
Agatha closed her lips, drew in a long breath through her nostrils, and marched to within a few feet of Miss Wilson, where she halted with her hands clasped before her.
“Sit down.”
Agatha sat down with a single movement, like a doll.
“I don’t understand that, Agatha,” said Miss Wilson, pointing to the entry in the Recording Angel. “What does it mean?”
“I am unfairly treated,” said Agatha, with signs of agitation.
“In what way?”
“In every way. I am expected to be something more than mortal. Everyone else is encouraged to complain, and to be weak and silly. But I must have no feeling. I must be always in the right. Everyone else may be homesick, or huffed, or in low spirits. I must have no nerves, and must keep others laughing all day long. Everyone else may sulk when a word of reproach is addressed to them, and may make the professors afraid to find fault with them. I have to bear with the insults of teachers who have less selfcontrol than I, a girl of seventeen! and must coax them out of the difficulties they make for themselves by their own ill temper.”
“But, Agatha—”
“Oh, I know I am talking nonsense, Miss Wilson; but can you expect me to be always sensible — to be infallible?”
“Yes, Agatha; I do not think it is too much to expect you to be always sensible; and—”
“Then you have neither sense nor sympathy yourself,” said Agatha.
There was an awful pause. Neither could have told how long it lasted. Then Agatha, feeling that she must do or say something desperate, or else fly, made a distracted gesture and ran out of the room.
She rejoined her companions in the great hall of the mansion, where they were assembled after study for “recreation,” a noisy process which always set in spontaneously when the professors withdrew. She usually sat with her two favorite associates on a high window seat near the hearth. That place was now occupied by a little girl with flaxen hair, whom Agatha, regardless of moral force, lifted by the shoulders and deposited on the floor. Then she sat down and said:
“Oh, such a piece of news!”
Miss Carpenter opened her eyes eagerly. Gertrude Lindsay affected indifference.
“Someone is going to be expelled,” said Agatha.
“Expelled! Who?”
“You will know soon enough, Jane,” replied Agatha, suddenly grave. “It is someone who made an impudent entry in the Recording Angel.”
Fear stole upon Jane, and she became very red. “Agatha,” she said, “it was you who told me what to write. You know you did, and you can’t deny it.”
“I can’t deny it, can’t I? I am ready to swear that I never dictated a word to you in my life.”
“Gertrude knows you did,” exclaimed Jane, appalled, and almost in tears.
“There,” said Agatha, petting her as if she were a vast baby. “It shall not be expelled, so it shan’t. Have you seen the Recording Angel lately, either of you?”
“Not since our last entry,” said Gertrude.
“Chips,” said Agatha, calling to the flaxen-haired child, “go upstairs to No. 6, and, if Miss Wilson isn’t there, fetch me the Recording Angel.”
The little girl grumbled inarticulately and did not stir.
“Chips,” resumed Agatha, “did you ever wish that you had never been born?”
“Why don’t you go yourself?” said the child pettishly, but evidently alarmed.
“Because,” continued Agatha, ignoring the question, “you shall wish yourself dead and buried under the blackest flag in the coal cellar if you don’t bring me the book before I count sixteen. One — two—”
“Go at once and do as you are told, you disagreeable little thing,” said Gertrude sharply. “How dare you be so disobliging?”
“ — nine — ten — eleven—” pursued Agatha.
The child quailed, went out, and presently returned, hugging the Recording Angel in her arms.
“You are a good little darling — when your better qualities are brought out by a judicious application of moral force,” said Agatha, goodhumoredly. “Remind me to save the raisins out of my pudding for you tomorrow. Now, Jane, you shall see the entry for which the best-hearted girl in the college is to be expelled. Voila!”
The two girls read and were awestruck; Jane opening her mouth and gasping, Gertrude closing hers and looking very serious.
“Do you mean to say that you had the dreadful cheek to let the Lady Abbess see that?” said Jane.
“Pooh! she would have forgiven that. You should have heard what I said to her! She fainted three times.”
“That’s a story,” said Gertrude gravely.
“I beg your pardon,” said Agatha, swiftly grasping Gertrude’s knee.
“Nothing,” cried Gertrude, flinching hysterically. “Don’t, Agatha.”
“How many times did Miss Wilson faint?”
“Three times. I will scream, Agatha; I will indeed.”
“Three times, as you say. And I wonder that a girl brought up as you have been, by moral force, should be capable of repeating such a falsehood. But we had an awful row, really and truly. She lost her temper. Fortunately, I never lose mine.”
“Well, I’m browed!” exclaimed Jane incredulously. “I like that.”
“For a girl of county family, you are inexcusably vulgar, Jane. I don’t know what I said; but she will never forgive me for profaning her pet book. I shall be expelled as certainly as I am sitting here.”
“And do you mean to say that you are going away?” said Jane, faltering as she began to realize the consequences.
“I do.