The Project Gutenberg eBook of Sally Cocksure
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Title: Sally Cocksure
A school story
Author: Ierne L. Plunket
Illustrator: Gordon Browne
Release date: October 24, 2025 [eBook #77119]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Oxford University Press, 1929
Credits: Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SALLY COCKSURE ***
[Frontispiece: SALLY FOUND HERSELF CLASPING THE DOOR OF THE NEXT
CARRIAGE (_See page 20._)]
SALLY COCKSURE
A SCHOOL STORY
_By_ IERNE L. PLUNKET
ILLUSTRATED BY GORDON BROWNE
OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS
LONDON : HUMPHREY MILFORD
REPRINTED 1929 IN GREAT BRITAIN AT THE OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS
BY JOHN JOHNSON PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. Sally at Home
II. On the Way to School
III. Unpopularity
IV. A Cold Shoulder
V. Sally is Taken Up
VI. An Escapade
VII. Penalties
VIII. A Rift in the Lute
IX. A Broad Hint
X. The Breach Widens
XI. A Night Adventure
XII. Sally at the Fair
XIII. "Just Silliness"
XIV. Autolycus
XV. Will She Come?
XVI. Disillusionment
XVII. The New Term
XVIII. The Blotted Essay
XIX. Mischief
XX. Games and Toffee
XXI. Autolycus Gives Trouble
XXII. Autolycus is Lost
XXIII. The Portholes
XXIV. Reconciliation
XXV. Rescue
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Sally found herself clasping the door of the next carriage (see page
20) ... _Frontispiece_
Sally felt herself swung off her feet
"'Ware Castle!"
The policeman pursued for a few yards
"Hi! Hi!" she screamed excitedly
CHAPTER THE FIRST
SALLY AT HOME
The hall-door bell rang violently. Sally Brendan, seated on the
schoolroom hearthrug with a volume of Shakespeare on her knees, gave
an expressive whistle and, dropping the book, ran to the window and
leaned out as far as she could without losing her balance. In this
way it was just possible to catch a glimpse of the front-door steps.
"Mrs. Musgrave! I guessed as much," she said, her head reappearing
at last. "I can tell you one thing, St. Martin, she is in a
thundering temper."
Her governess sighed. "You have no reason to say that, Sally: and at
any rate this is lesson-time, and Mrs. Musgrave's call is intended
for your mother. It has nothing to do with you."
"Hasn't it, though? Bet you a bob it has; and, as to her temper,
vicars' wives are worse than most people because they have to keep
them under so much. You should have seen her umbrella almost jumping
in her hand with rage, and then the bell! You heard it yourself, and
you can't deny it was like the noise telegraph boys make; and..."
"Sally, I must insist that you sit down and don't talk any more."
With a grunt Sally flopped on to the hearthrug, where she placed her
ear to the floor, scout fashion, before re-opening her Shakespeare.
"Only wish I could hear through a carpet," she muttered
discontentedly. "Bet your life she has come to tick me off to
Mother. She looked mad, just like a cow that sees red."
Sally was quite right about Mrs. Musgrave's temper. The vicar's wife
was very angry indeed. With a curt "No," she waved aside a cup of
tea and declined a chair, striding the length of the drawing-room and
back before she came to a halt beside Mrs. Brendan.
"Tell me whose writing this is! Be honest, Eva!" she demanded,
tapping a square of white cardboard that she placed in the other's
hands. On the cardboard was scrawled in pencil, between inverted
commas,
"Two are Company."
"It ... it looks like Sally's writing," said Mrs. Brendan unhappily.
"What do you say, Cecilia?"
A tall fair girl who had been standing by the tea-tray came over,
picked up the card, and throwing it down impatiently answered, "It is
Sally's writing, of course. What has she been doing now, Mrs.
Musgrave?"
The vicar's wife almost choked as she said, "Insulting my husband,
making him the laughing-stock of the parish. She is a wicked,
unnatural girl."
"No, no; not unnatural or wicked," murmured Mrs. Brendan
deprecatingly. "High-spirited, too high-spirited now and then, I
admit, but she is so clever."
"I am glad no one ever called my daughters clever then." Mrs.
Musgrave's voice rose almost to a shriek. "Cleverness of that sort
is criminal and will only lead to prison."
"Of what sort?" asked Cecilia. "Do tell us, Mrs. Musgrave."
The vicar's wife glared at them both almost as if she did not see
them, then sank down on the sofa.
"You know our weekly lectures under the Diocesan Mental Improvement
Scheme?" she said. "I mean my husband's lectures in the Parish Room
on Fridays. They are not well attended, but so few people care to
improve their minds nowadays."
"Cecilia has a singing class in Clinton," interposed Mrs. Brendan
hastily; "it is the only day Signor Corsi can run down from town, and
I have been so tired lately, the doctor said 'Rest in the
afternoons.' He did, didn't he, Cecilia?"
"Everyone has some reasons for not going, of course," said Mrs.
Musgrave sourly. "I did not come to criticise yours. I have no
doubt that if you and Cecilia are busy, for others Herbert's learning
is too profound, too out of date in this respect, to please a
superficial younger generation. Last Friday, at any rate, it was
raining; raining quite heavily."
Mrs. Brendan's face brightened. "That was it, Alice. I remember I
had my boots on intending to go out and then it rained and Cecilia
said 'Don't go.' No, I forgot, Cecilia was in Clinton, so it must
have been Amy, the housemaid. She takes such care of me."
"Indeed!" Mrs. Musgrave thrust out a hand for silence. "Your going
or not is beside the point, Eva, and I must beg you to let me speak
without interrupting me. As a matter of fact I had a cold and did
not attend myself. When Herbert reached the room there was no one
there at all except ... except..."
"Except...?" said Mrs. Brendan agitatedly. Surely Sally, unless
dragged by force, would not have gone to a lecture on the Cuneiform
Writings of Ancient Babylon?
"Except a goat," said Mrs. Musgrave slowly and impressively; "an
evil-smelling goat of Farmer Reed's, tied to the front row of chairs."
"And ... and you mean it had this round its neck?" asked Cecilia
pointing to the card, with its mocking "Two are Company."
In spite of heroic efforts her voice trembled with laughter, and Mrs.
Musgrave bounced up from the sofa, pointing her finger at her.
"Laugh!" she said. "Laugh if you can, thoughtless girl, but your
sister, by her rudeness, her cleverness if you will, has undone years
of Herbert's patient work in the parish. Some of the choir boys were
peering through the window, giggling, and as he returned home they
dared to call out 'Giddy Goat' after him down the street. 'Giddy
Goat!' Think of it! To Herbert." At this point she collapsed on
the sofa and began to weep.
"I ... I didn't mean to laugh. It was horrible of Sally," said
Cecilia, conscience-stricken, while Mrs. Brendan went over and laid
her hand on Mrs. Musgrave's shoulder.
"We have been friends for years, Alice," she said. "Don't let this
come between us. I am ashamed of Sally."
"You have cause to be. You will have more cause," said the vicar's
wife bitterly between her sobs. "She is a dreadful child, without
heart or conscience."
"She is my daughter, Alice, so I can hardly agree with you,"
interrupted Mrs. Brendan, in what, considering her mild temperament,
was almost the heat of anger. "Sally has plenty of heart, but she is
thoughtless."
"She is thoroughly spoilt, Mother," broke in Cecilia; "first while
you were in India, by Uncle Frank and Aunt Antoinette, and now at
home. I am sure we owe it to Mrs. Musgrave to acknowledge this.
Sally is just a spoilt little beast."
"Thoroughly spoilt and selfish," agreed their visitor, drying her
eyes and beginning to pull on her gloves. "All I can say is, Eva,
that if Sally remains in Hartcombe Vale and is allowed to break away
from her governess and play tricks like a street urchin, I shall
consider it a direct insult to Herbert."
"I will speak to her, of course," murmured Mrs. Brendan, and Mrs.
Musgrave, now standing by the door, laughed scornfully.
"You mean, my dear Eva, that Sally will speak to you, and will prove
in a few brief words how right and correct--clever and high-spirited,
I should say--her conduct has been. No, Cecilia, do not interrupt
me. I owe it to Herbert and the parish to enter my protest at least."
At this moment violent sounds were heard overhead, the crash of
something heavy on the floor, a scream, more things falling, and then
a girl's clear, ringing laugh.
"The schoolroom, I believe?" said Mrs. Musgrave, "and another
exhibition of Sally's high-spirited cleverness, I suppose?"
As she opened the door she sniffed and shrugged her shoulders. "Let
me see you off," returned Cecilia coldly. She was very angry at the
way their visitor had spoken to her mother, the more that she felt
the underlying reproach was true. Sally was an odious child. There
was no use blinking the fact.
In the hall Mrs. Musgrave bade her come no further. "I am quite
capable of seeing myself off; besides, I might be tempted to say more
than I should wish in my last words." After which she added, "It
seems you are needed to restore order in the schoolroom."
To judge from the continuous noise upstairs, loud laughter mingled
with the barking of an excited dog, this was likely to be true.
"Oh, St. Martin!" rang out a girl's voice. "What rotten bad luck!
but I can't stop laughing; you do look so funny."
At this point Mrs. Musgrave closed the front door, and Cecilia, rage
in her heart, ran up the stairs two at a time.
In the schoolroom she found even greater chaos than she had
expected--a bare table, an inkpot emptying itself amongst a heap of
books in the grate, and on the floor someone struggling wildly to
free herself from the table-cloth, while a fox terrier plunged at her
protruding feet.
"Oh, mighty Cæsar! Dost thou lie so low?" chanted a small, thin girl
with a mass of red hair framing her freckled face; as, seeing her
sister, she drew herself up into a theatrical attitude and pointed to
the recumbent figure.
Cecilia told her sharply to be quiet, and having turned the fox
terrier out of the room, knelt down and extricated the governess; but
when she tried to help her to her feet Miss Martin refused to do more
than struggle into a sitting posture.
"Will you kindly ask Sally to bring me scissors?" she said, her voice
trembling, and the tears rolling down her cheeks. "She has sewn my
skirt to the carpet."
"Sally!"
Cecilia's eyes blazed, but Sally only laughed. "She had been reading
to me, yards and yards of Shakespeare, and I was fed up, so I said I
would only listen if I might sit on the rug, so St. Martin said,
'Right oh.'"
"I never said 'Right oh'," exclaimed the scandalised Miss Martin. "I
said you might remain there if you were quiet."
"Well, I was quiet, once I found the darning wool, and St. Martin has
such a long skirt that I button-holed her down by it, and then when
Mary came to say tea was ready in the dining-room I truly and honest
Injun forgot I had done so and..."
"And I rose from my chair," said Miss Martin, "and I put my foot into
my skirt and..."
"It was a mistake to clutch at the tablecloth as you fell, all the
same," interposed Sally gravely. "I simply shouted, 'Don't clutch,'
and you clutched, and there you are."
"Sally, go to your bedroom," said Cecilia sharply, as she cut the
darning wool and pulled the governess on to her feet. "Miss Martin,
I am so sorry; it was abominable of her."
"It was unpardonable," said Miss Martin, pulling the frayed ends of
wool out of her skirt with trembling fingers. "I am afraid I must
ask to see your mother at once, Miss Brendan."
"You mean you won't come back again?"
Sally was still standing in the doorway.
"I do mean that. It is impossible to teach you anything."
"Sally, did you hear me say go to your bedroom?" broke in Cecilia
impatiently, but the girl still lingered.
"Let me speak to St. Martin alone," she said.
Miss Martin shook her head. "I have no wish to do that, Sally. It
is too late if you think an apology can cover all your rudeness; and
now, Miss Brendan, may I see your mother?"
As they went downstairs together Sally watched them from the landing,
a derisive smile at the corner of her lips, that marked, however, a
certain regret. It was a pity that St. Martin insisted on going. Of
course, she wept too easily, but all the same she was a bit of a
sport, and had forgiven and forgotten many little scenes scarcely to
her pupil's credit. In addition, she had always admitted that Sally
was clever, and Sally liked people who were ready to do this.
"Clever people aren't like other people; they have got to have
outlets for their energy and originality," was her argument for
silencing various twinges of conscience; and she at once put it
forward when Mrs. Brendan sent for her to the drawing-room as soon as
Miss Martin had gone home.
Cecilia was there to strengthen her mother, and said angrily, "If
only you didn't think yourself so clever."
"Know--not think," said Sally sweetly. It was no use losing your
temper with a sugar-plum like Cecilia.
"I am so clever you know, frightfully clever," she continued, "and
Miss Martin was such an ass, quite a nice ass, of course, not a goat
like the vicar and his double."
This diverted the conversation from the schoolroom to the lecture,
and as Sally recorded afterwards in her diary, "The floodgates
opened," but even Cecilia admitted that the ensuing deluge fell like
water off a duck's back where the culprit was concerned.
"I really truly am sorry if I made Mrs. Musgrave horrid to you," was
the nearest confession to which the sinner could be won; and when she
had been sent to bed, and carried off a choice of library books for
company, Mrs. Brendan admitted that this was not enough.
"She will have to apologise to Mrs. Musgrave and Miss Martin,
Cecilia. I must talk to her alone to-morrow."
"She will have to be sent away," returned the elder sister. "I was
at school at thirteen, and why not Sally, who is nearly fourteen?"
"She is the youngest," said Mrs. Brendan weakly, "and you know she
has been away from me so much."
"I admit Aunt Antoinette did her no good, except to teach her French,
and as to Uncle Frank, why you ever left her with them like that for
months and months on end I can't imagine."
"You see, your Uncle Frank was so devoted to her as a small child,
while your father and I were still in India, and then when your
father died and I came back he wanted to keep her, and as I had you
and the two boys, and he had been so good to Sally, I didn't like to
refuse. I fear I did wrong, however, very wrong; I am sorry now."
Mrs. Brendan usually repented of the few decisions she was prevailed
upon to make, and now she shook her head sadly.
Cecilia laughed somewhat maliciously. "Uncle Frank was sorry too.
He had enough of her after a bit, and packed her off home."
"My dear, that is ungenerous. It was not till his boy was born,
remember, and then there would have been the difficulty of
maintaining a nursery and a schoolroom at the same time, as Sally was
nearly eleven. He always said she was clever and offered to pay for
her education."
"He said, 'Send her to school,' didn't he?"
Mrs. Brendan was silent. This was perfectly true. She could
remember her brother-in-law's face quite well when he gave this
advice.
"School will do her a world of good, teach her to find her own level,
you know," he had said, and when Mrs. Brendan had asked anxiously,
"You think her clever?" he had answered:
"Abominably, the makings of a first-class prig, and may I be forgiven
for training her."
Undoubtedly Uncle Frank was right. Sally was clever beyond the
average girl of her age both in games and work, fearless and quick,
with a boundless ambition that made her strain every nerve to excel
in whatever she undertook.
"Let me; I can do it," had been her earliest watchword, and a proud
uncle had delighted in the pluck and endurance that had backed this
assertion.
"All right, kiddie, I will show you," he would say good-naturedly,
whether it was a case of arithmetic or cricket, and so put Sally
through a strenuous and valuable apprenticeship.
"That child will get somewhere," he would say delightedly, while Aunt
Antoinette, who was earlier disillusioned as to her spoilt niece's
charms, shrugged, and murmured:
"It may be ... yes ... but I ask you ... where?"
By the time Sally was thirteen her elder sister had no doubts at all
as to her future destination.
"It will be a reformatory, Mother. Either we must take steps to
discipline her, or the magistrates will, and we shall all be
disgraced. There's nothing but school. You won't get another
governess who will be an angel like Miss Martin."
"She never knew how to manage Sally."
"You can't manage a wild cat except by shutting it up, and Sally is
about as easy to control."
"She is so like her father." Mrs. Brendan sighed, then added
hastily, in an attempt to appease Cecilia's angry silence, "I mean
she always knows her own mind. He did, you know. It has been such a
responsibility without him."
Still there was silence, and the elder woman, feeling its weight and
intensity, yielded at last.
"Oh, very well, my dear. I expect you are right. She shall go to
school."
"Seascape House, next term, the summer one, and you must tell her she
will jolly well have to stop."
"Of course!" said Mrs. Brendan, "of course," but she looked troubled.
CHAPTER THE SECOND
ON THE WAY TO SCHOOL
"I shan't stop at school a minute longer than I want."
Sally was saying good-bye to Mrs. Brendan, and that good lady could
only find courage at the minute to murmur:
"But, my dear, of course you will remain. I beg you, Sally."
There were tears in her eyes, and the girl answered gruffly, but so
low that Cecilia in the doorway could not hear, "All right. I'll
try, Mum."
Then she threw her arms round her mother's neck, gave her a wild hug,
and joined Cecilia in the hall, laughing rather loud as she banged
the drawing-room door behind her.
"You will have to be quieter at Seascape House, Sally."
"Shall I?"
"I should hope so. Why, the prefects will turn you down at once for
that."
"Blow the prefects, and blow their doors tight too!"
Cecilia smiled, offensively Sally considered, as she clambered into
the taxi beside her.
"Hang the whole lot of superior idiots to weeping willow trees for
all I care," she persisted. "You needn't think I'm going to let
school or prefects upset me."
"You are so sure, cocksure even, on things you don't know anything
about, aren't you?"
"I am usually right, you see. I don't care what anybody says, so
they can't worry me."
"Oh, shut up and don't be silly, Sally."
"Shut up yourself."
The quarrels between the sisters, frequent in spite of Cecilia's good
temper, usually degenerated into a kind of puppy's barking, and then
trailed off into silence. Now the two sat moodily while the local
train crawled from Hartcombe to Clinton, and there disgorged its
passengers.
"We should see Violet Tremson here," said Cecilia at last, breaking
the silence. "I wonder if she is one of that group. They all have
the Seascape House hatband."
"I don't want to see her. Mrs. Musgrave's pet lambs are not in my
line."
Now Mrs. Musgrave, repenting of some of her animosity towards Sally
as soon as she heard that she was really being sent to school, had
recalled the existence of a young cousin at Seascape House.
"Of course, Violet is older than you--fifteen, I think--but such a
nice quiet girl, and so clever, without being affected."
It had been an unfortunate recommendation, and Sally had merely
scowled in response. Whoever she chose as her friend she was
determined from that minute it should not be Violet Tremson.
"Beastly sort of prig. Mother's darling business, I expect." She
had discouraged Mrs. Brendan when the latter suggested asking Violet
over from Clinton during the Easter holidays, and now she said
sharply to her sister:
"Look here, I'm not going near that lot, they've got a mistress with
them."
Hurriedly grasping up her new yellow-brown suit-case, she led the way
along the platform, and tumbled into a carriage already containing
five girls. Four of them were established in the corners, but seeing
the grown-up Cecilia with a foot on the step, one of them politely
moved. "Are you coming in?" she asked.
Now was Sally's opportunity to show off before the sister who
declared she would be awed by the inmates of Seascape House as soon
as she came in contact with them.
"No, she's not, but I am, thank you," and she coolly took the corner
seat.
There was hushed silence in the carriage while the girls stared at
her round-eyed, and Cecilia blushed at her impudence.
"You needn't stop, Cissy; I'm all right."
Sally's voice was as calm and even as usual, but she was glad when
Cecilia took her at her word, and with a doubtful glance at the five
said, "I do hope you will be all right," and vanished.
"Oh, my Empress of India!" said one of the girls rather shrilly, and
the others giggled; they were about Sally's size, a healthy,
cheerful-looking set, and they stared at her as though she were an
interesting object from the Zoo.
"Shall we shift it?" demanded another, edging near the new girl; but
at this minute, when Sally was preparing to defend her corner with
tooth and nail, a distraction arose. "Olive's going to be left
behind. There's Proggins trying to shove her in, and the guard with
the whistle to his lips."
"Proggins ought to be in here, herding us."
"She'll have to sprint then. Good old Proggins."
"Oh, hurrah! Olive has seen us. Come on, Olive."
All the five, leaning out of the window or kneeling up with their
faces to the glass, yelled aloud; then cheered as a dark-haired girl
of fourteen tumbled into the carriage, hatless.
Squeezed in her corner, Sally could see the mistress, evidently the
so-called "Proggins," fumbling for Olive's dropped hat and umbrella.
She retrieved them and made a run towards their carriage, but the
train had already begun to move, and the guard, opening a door
further back, unceremoniously pushed her in and banged it.
The six burst into uproarious mirth.
"Good old Proggins; not quite her centre forward style, I think?"
"A bit slow on the ball," said Olive, throwing herself back on the
seat beside Sally and fanning herself with a newspaper. "Anyhow, it
wasn't a good pass on my part. School hats aren't weighted right."
"She'll be jolly mad with you when we get to Parchester."
"Sufficient unto the day..." and then Olive stopped and began to
stare at Sally.
"A new kid," she said, "with a head like a golliwog illumined by a
sunset. My child, yours is not the tidy sort of poll we expect at
Seascape House, especially on Sundays. Old Cocaine will put a tax on
it."
Sally raised her eyebrows, then opened her magazine with a yawn. "Is
your hair generally admired?" she asked. "It looks painted on like a
wooden doll's."
This pleasantry was received in dumbfounded silence. If Sally
intended to make a sensation she had undoubtedly succeeded, and
smiled to herself at the result. It was one of her maxims to carry
war into the enemy's country on the least provocation.
Now there was a pause, suspended hostilities, while the six whispered
in corners. Olive was being told of the new girl's dramatic entry
into the carriage; so much Sally could guess from her round-eyed
stare and the agitated way in which she ran her fingers across her
dark, smooth-clipped head.
"What's your name?" she demanded.
"Sarah Brendan."
"And your age?"
"Thirteen and a half."
Sally was proud of this, for she knew she had done very well in her
entrance examination, so well that even Cecilia had gasped. It
amused her now to see the looks of satisfaction on the faces of the
six, especially when Olive said languidly:
"Quite a small kid, which accounts for your lack of manners. We
shall have to teach you."
"I fear you will hardly be in that position."
"What do you mean?"
"That we are not likely to be in the same form, or are you all
mistresses?"
"We are all 'Lower Fourth' here except Susy, who is in the 'Upper
Fourth.'"
"Exactly." Sally smiled; it was an offensive smile and led the girl
called Olive to seize her magazine out of her hand and throw it on
the floor.
"You horrid little scrub!" she said. "What are you driving at?"
"That I am in the Remove--which is above the Fourths, isn't it?--and
so I am not likely to see much of you children. As to your manners,
give me back that _Pearson's_."
"Get it yourself."
Taken unwarily, Sally bent down to do so and found herself pitching
forward on her nose, while with a shout of delight Olive seated
herself in the corner. It was dirty on the floor, and Sally's temper
was in shreds by the time she had picked herself up.
"Move at once, you beast," she said, her face white with passion; but
unlike her family, who had been taught by Mrs. Brendan to propitiate
rather than exasperate her when in one of her black moods, the six
girls crowed with joy at her discomfort.
"Go and wash your face, darling," cried one; and another: "Here's a
seat," pulling at Sally roughly and then sliding across the vacant
place before she could sit down.
For the next ten minutes pandemonium reigned, and for once, though
she was undoubtedly the cause, Sally had not created it for her own
pleasure. The tears rose to her eyes, but at the general offer of
handkerchiefs and a bucket she forced them back.
"I'll make you pay, you horrid little beasts," she said, clenching
her hands on the ledge of the open window behind her, but the threat
only evoked shouts of: "For she's a jolly smart fellow," to which the
accompaniment was a tattoo of as many feet as could reach the new
suit-case.
"Its mother won't know it soon," said Olive, examining the no longer
shiny surface, when the singers at last paused, exhausted.
"You have nearly knocked a hole in it. I shall tell Miss Cockran."
Sally's voice trembled with rage.
"If you do, you will be a dirty little sneak, and sent to Coventry by
the whole school."
"I don't care."
There was more laughter, and once more the six began to sing, and
Sally hated them while she stood there helpless, the more that they
seemed to have forgotten her very existence.
"Will you leave my suit-case alone? and give me back my seat?"
She pulled at Olive's sleeve, but though she repeated her questions
twice that young lady only looked at her lazily and laughed.
"In both cases the answer is in the negative," she returned and,
leaning back, closed her eyes.
"Very well," said Sally quietly. Her anger had died down into a cool
fury that was none the less intense, yet what could she do? She
looked out of the carriage window and realised from other journeys
that the train was nearing Southampton, and Southampton was the first
stop after Clinton. She could, of course, get out there, but the
exit would be undignified, and in imagination she could hear her
tormentors laugh, and see them kiss their hands to her in exultant
farewell at her discomfiture.
Now Sally liked her entrances and exits to be dramatic, not
undignified, and in a flash of inspiration the suggestion of how to
achieve this came. Just before Southampton there was a tunnel, and
when the train plunged into it, while everyone's eyes were growing
accustomed to the gloom, she would open the door and step along the
footboard to the next carriage.
"That will give them a fright," she said grimly to herself, and as
usual did not pause to consider her own folly in risking her life for
a matter of wounded pride. Besides, she was used to climbing and had
once played follow my leader with her brothers on a local train to
the same tune.
With a shriek the train plunged into the tunnel, and Sally, whose
fingers had been clasped on the handle, slid open the door and felt
for the step; the next minute she was swinging on the footboard,
while the hot air beat her face and blew her mop of hair across her
eyes. Her hat she had lost on the floor during her struggle in the
carriage.
As the train emerged once more into the day, with a glint of sunlight
across the harbour, Sally found herself clasping the door of the next
carriage while a girl, leaning out, grasped her by the shoulders.
"You young fool; what made you do such a thing?"
There was a group round Sally now on the platform, including
Proggins, her face deathly white, and all the elder girls from
neighbouring carriages; above their heads she could see the anxious
expressions of her fellow travellers of the Fourths. Certainly she
had impressed them.
"Why did I do it?" she said jauntily, and in a loud voice. "Why, I
couldn't get a decent seat where I was, and it was so stuffy."
At this a few of her audience laughed, though some merely stared,
while Proggins grasped her firmly by the shoulder.
"You will sit with me," she said.
"May I have my suit-case and magazine, if you have quite finished
with them?"
This was the moment of Sally's triumph, for as she turned and looked
up at Olive the latter meekly handed down her property through the
open window with never a gibe or scowl.
"I said to Cecilia that I could look after myself," the new girl
complacently told herself, as she settled down to read. She was not
unconscious that her companions, including Proggins, were regarding
her with curiosity.
CHAPTER THE THIRD
UNPOPULARITY
Sally Brendan ended her first week in the Remove at the top of the
form. What was more, she kept her place there easily during the
ensuing three, to the disgust of her nearest rival, the
fifteen-year-old Dorothy Baker.
"Never mind, I shall be out of your way in the Lower Fifth next
term," said Sally kindly, when the class list was read. The effect
of these words was naturally far from soothing.
"Oh, go and put your head in your desk; I didn't ask you to patronise
me," was the furious response, but Sally only laughed.
What was the use of propitiating these silly rabbits, as she had
christened her present form companions, any more than the kids of the
Lower Fourth who had teased her in the railway carriage? With the
Lower Fifth, whom she soon expected to be her future classmates, it
was different, and Sally would dearly have liked to make friends with
one of their number at least, a dark-haired girl, Trina Morrison,
nicknamed "Peter" by her intimates for reasons long forgotten.
"Peter" was rather old for the Lower Fifth, a lazy but far from
stupid girl of seventeen, who spent much time and ingenuity annoying
those in authority while her other talents ran to seed.
"School is such a bore," she would drawl to the group of her
admirers. "It's really too silly, all these old rules; let's pitch
some of them overboard!" and Sally, hovering on the outskirts, would
laugh with the rest as some new evasion was expounded, and try to
catch her idol's eye. So far she had not succeeded, though Peter,
she felt sure, was one of those who had noticed the incident of the
railway carriage.
This incident created quite a sensation for the moment at Seascape
House, though when Olive Parker's version of the affair was broadcast
it had not tended to make the new girl popular.
"Cheeky little beast!" was the general opinion, chiming in with a
prefect's comment, "Stupid little ass. She deserved to break her
neck."
Thus the school as a whole decided to ignore the incident.
Only one girl mentioned it to Sally, and that more by way of
introduction than in admiration or blame.
"I'm Violet Tremson," she said, coming up to Sally in the large
playroom that evening. "I'm sorry you didn't have much of a time on
the journey. I was keeping a place amongst our lot, but I didn't see
you at Clinton."
"Thanks."
Sally, with remembrances of Mrs. Musgrave, spoke sulkily, though she
could not help being attracted by the tall fair girl's friendly smile.
"I tried to wangle your sleeping in our dorm., but I don't seem to
have succeeded."
"Oh, I shall be all right; I can sleep anywhere."
"That's good!" Violet Tremson was smiling broadly now and cast a
hasty glance over her shoulder before she went on. "You see that fat
girl over there, Pilladex we call her, because her name's Decima
Pillditch?"
"The one with no eyebrows and pig's eyes?"
Violet Tremson stiffened slightly. "She's quite a good sort when
she's awake, if she's not beautiful," she said a little resentfully,
"and you'd better be careful, for she's Upper Fifth and in the
running for a prefectship. Anyhow she is head of your dorm, and
sleeps with her mouth open and snores; adenoids, I suppose."
"I shall put soap in her mouth," said Sally. "I did once to my
brother Fred and he was frightfully sick."
"Well, I wouldn't try it on the Pilladex, if you want to lead a quiet
life. You have never been at school before, I expect?"
"No, why on earth should I?"
Something in Violet Tremson's voice made Sally feel angry. It was
almost like hinting, "You are barely out of long clothes"; and she
added, "I know a good deal more than most schoolgirls I have met."
"Indeed? I hope you won't begin to lose intellectual ground here."
It was intolerable. This tall fair girl with her bland smile was
actually laughing at her, and Sally hated laughter when she couldn't
see the joke.
"Anyhow it's no business of yours," she said, and turning her back
walked off.
Violet Tremson did not come near her again, and Sally told herself
she was glad.
"A superior ass like any cousin of Mrs. Musgrave's was bound to be,"
she wrote to her mother, and scowled to think that the superior ass
was in the Lower Fifth. "Of course, she's nearly fifteen," she added
when she gave this information, but it did not make her feel much
better.
These were bad days for Sally Brendan, almost a nightmare when she
looked back on them afterwards, and only her half-muttered promise to
her mother kept her from doing something outrageous that might lead
to her being expelled.
"I'm unpopular just because I can do things, but I don't care," she
wrote home, and secretly cared a great deal. Hitherto in her life
she had mixed chiefly with grown-ups who spoiled her or tolerated her
shortcomings because her daring amused them, and this latter had been
the case with her schoolboy brothers.
"Sally is a regular sport," they would say, and forgive her vanity
because she could bowl and swim and climb, was never afraid, nor
complained when she was hurt. Younger children too had been willing
to take a daring leader at her own valuation, and it was only now
when she was brought into contact with numbers of girls of her own
age that Sally realised she could be seen and not admired, also that
her wit might fail to hit so many targets.
In school hours things were not so bad. Sally easily kept her first
place, enjoyed her lessons, and liked Miss Castle, her form mistress,
who was always ready to help her and praise her work.
"Well done, Sally," she would say, pausing by the new girl's desk,
and sometimes, "Why don't the rest of you use your brains like Sally
Brendan?" Occasionally she found fault. "Don't be so certain you
are right, remember pride before the fall; you are too cocksure," and
this led to Sally's nickname in the form, "Miss Cocksure," and a
rhyme chalked on the board one morning before school:
"Miss Cocksure
Is a bore,
I'm quite sure
She won't score."
"Won't I just?" muttered Sally to herself and smiled calmly on the
class, as calmly as Miss Castle told the girl nearest to the board to
clean it, before the literature lesson began.
"They are jealous because she likes me," was Sally's inward
conviction, and there was some truth in this. It was the fashion in
the middle forms of Seascape House to "adore" Miss Castle because she
was young, rather pretty, very friendly, and could read poetry aloud
with just the right amount of expression.
"Not woodenly like old Cheeserings (Miss Cheeseman) or pouring out
yards of sob-stuff like Smutts (Miss Black)," was the general
verdict, and when Miss Castle stage-managed Shakespeare plays there
was dramatic fervour throughout the school.
Certainly it was annoying for the Remove that Miss Castle should
accept this conceited new girl as one of their bright stars, give her
principal parts in Shakespeare scenes, and read large portions of her
essays aloud. That she might really like Sally for her hard work and
enthusiasm, and most of all perhaps because she did not bore her with
languishing glances and sentimental attentions, did not occur to
Dorothy Baker or her friends.
"Horrid little cad," they denounced Sally, adding, "Won't we take it
out of her in games!"
They did. The new girl was not even asked if she knew how to pitch a
straight ball, but was sent to join the junior game.
"You had better be a Shrimp," said Miss Rogers (Proggins), the games
mistress, who had not admired Sally's exploit on the train and
thought she needed keeping in her place. She added sharply, "Go at
once; Olive Parker will tell you what to do."
Olive, who was captain of the Shrimps (junior cricketers at Seascape
House were divided into Shrimps and Sardines), was only too ready to
undertake the task, though after the new girl had bowled her three
times over in practice at the nets she did not give her the
opportunity of doing so again.
"You'd better go out boundary or long stop," she would say, and yell
at Sally to "Get a move on" or "Throw the ball up, can't you?"
whenever she had the chance.
"You think yourself so jolly superior, don't you?" she said
indignantly when the younger girl sulked, only to grow red with anger
herself at the quick retort:
"I am superior to this sort of play anyway."
It was true, and Olive Parker knew it. She was being horribly
unfair, but at the same time she and the rest of the juniors disliked
Sally so much that she could not do anything right in their eyes.
When she had been batting one day and was bowled second ball (she
usually made a very creditable score) there were cheers from all the
Shrimps and derisive laughter. Sally had learned to make her face
very wooden, but there were tears smarting under her lids as she
walked back to the row of seats, ostentatiously filled up as she
approached. No one spoke to her, though Edith Carter, a girl in the
Upper Fourth, said something about "What price ducks' eggs?" and
laughed. Then there was silence, and looking up Sally saw Miss
Rogers standing beside her, and a big girl, Doris Forbes, the school
captain.
"You don't generally get out so quick, do you?" asked Miss Rogers
abruptly.
Sally shook her head. She could not trust herself to speak because
of the lump in her throat.
"I thought not. You hold your bat well. Did your brothers teach
you?"
"I have played a lot with them." Sally was beginning to recover.
After being ignored so much, even casual interest was pleasant, but
at this minute the last wicket fell and her side went out to field.
Sally was put boundary as usual, and except that Olive was less
hectoring and more business-like owing to the presence of her exalted
audience, the game dragged on its usual slow course.
Suddenly there was an interruption.
"Let Sally Brendan bowl now," called out Miss Rogers, and she walked
across the pitch and began to umpire.
Sally felt her heart beat very fast, but she looked quite calm as she
took her place behind the wickets and picked up the ball. She had
had no practice lately in bowling, but her eye was good, and every
nerve alert with the consciousness that now or never was her
opportunity.
Her first ball, a fast one, went wide, her second pitched too short,
but the third rooted Edith Carter's middle stump almost out of the
ground.
"Now I've got the right length," said Sally to herself exulting, and
the wickets began to fall rapidly before her onslaught.
"What I want to know, Olive Parker," said Miss Rogers as the last of
the batting team withdrew with a scowl and a duck's egg, "is why you
never mentioned Sally Brendan as a bowler when I asked you last week
about any promising Shrimps?"
"Don't know!" muttered Olive sullenly.
"Hardly keeping your eyes open, was it?" suggested Doris Forbes, the
cricket captain, and then Miss Rogers said decidedly:
"We'll talk about that afterwards, and you, Doris, settle what you
like about Sally."
"Yes, Miss Rogers."
As the mistress turned away Doris beckoned to Sally. "You can come
and bowl to me at the nets," she said.
Sally enjoyed the next half-hour more than any she had spent at
Seascape House; not that her bowling remained unpunished, but that it
aroused all her energy and skill. Soon she had forgotten the crowd
round the nets and was absorbed in her task, not even hearing the
school bell ring out seven o'clock till her batter called to her to
stop.
"H'm! You're keen enough," said Doris Forbes.
"It's the first real play I have had since I have been here."
"All right, you can come and try your luck with the Eagles
to-morrow," she said. "Now trot away."
Sally Brendan went back across the playing fields all alone, but for
once unconscious of her isolation. She was to play with the Eagles,
the group of senior cricketers from whom the first and second elevens
were chosen, and Olive Parker and her Shrimps would torment her no
longer. While she changed for supper visions of herself captaining
the first eleven and telling everyone what to do passed before her
eyes.
"I said I'd score," she laughed to herself triumphantly, and when
Violet Tremson separated herself from the crowd in front of the
dining-room door and congratulated her on her play at the nets she
answered coolly:
"Oh, that's nothing. I never got a chance before at this place."
Some of the girls round sniggered, and Sally rather wished she hadn't
been so lofty. After all, it was decent of Violet, who wasn't in the
Eagles at all, but the middle sort of game of the Bears and Wolves.
"I'll give you some practice if you like," she added, and heard
someone say:
"What frightful cheek! Leave the little bounder alone, Violet. Her
head's been turned so that it's simply reeling."
It was Doreen Priestly, another of the Lower Fifth, whom Sally had
secretly admired but henceforth hated. She had not meant to be
superior in her offer, merely friendly, and though Violet answered
quite gratefully: "Thanks. I'd like to but I'm no use at all at
batting," she suspected secret laughter at her expense.
"Anyway, I'll be too busy for a bit," she said in a rough voice and
pushed her way into the dining-room.
"What beasts they all are at Seascape House," she decided, "except,
of course, Doris Forbes and Miss Rogers--oh, and Miss Castle!"
CHAPTER THE FOURTH
A COLD SHOULDER
By half term Sally had played with the Eagles for some weeks and won
herself a place in the Second Eleven.
"I should be in the First, but that there is so much jealousy amongst
the Seniors, who are a rotten lot," she wrote home to her mother; and
Mrs. Brendan sighed as she read out this characteristic message to
Cecilia, who said:
"Still as offensive as ever, it seems! I suppose her impudence is
chronic now."
This was exactly the verdict of Seascape House, from Olive Parker,
who was henceforth driven to satisfy her dislike of the new girl by
muttered jeers in the passage, to Doris Forbes, the Sixth Form
Cricket Captain.
"Look here, kid! If there is any more cheek on your part you will
have to go back to the Shrimp pool. I am sick of complaints of the
way you give unasked advice to your elders, and put your oar in on
every occasion. You are not a cricket coach."
Sally looked sulky, but for once did not answer back. She loved the
Eagles game, while the thought of a return to shrimping, as it was
called, made her feel sick at heart.
"Why do you do it? ... 'bound' so much, I mean?" went on Doris
gruffly. She was a good-natured girl with a secret liking for her
recruit's pluck, and yet she could not but admit that the child,
apart from her play, was a prize beast of the worst order.
Sally flushed resentfully.
"I ... I don't bound," she said. "It's just that I know about
cricket, style, I mean. My uncle who taught me played for Yorkshire
for years, and when some of them are holding their bat all wrong they
get mad because I'm a lot younger than they are, and..."
"I suppose if you weren't such a kid you would know it was wise to
hold your tongue and be less objectionable," broke in the elder girl.
"I hear they call you Miss Cocksure, and if I were you I would live
that name down as quickly as you can."
"I didn't give it to myself."
Doris Forbes laughed and laid her hand on the other's shoulder.
"Don't gobble with rage or I shall christen you Miss Turkey
Cocksure," she said; and then, with a sudden return to the dignity of
her office, "Anyhow I sent for you not to argue with you but to give
you some wholesome advice and a warning. Control your tongue and
manners or you may find yourself scrapped. See?"
She turned on her heel and walked away without waiting for an answer;
and Sally clenched her hands to prevent herself running after her
with the usual, "I don't care."
For once she did care, and when Olive Parker, who had been trying to
listen to the conversation from a distance, called out in jeering
tones, "Scrapped, are you, Cocky?" she turned on her savagely,
instead of passing her by as usual with her nose in the air.
"No! You half-baked shrimp. If you are able to read, look on the
board and you will see that I am down to play against Borley Club
next Saturday."
This was quite true, and Sally Brendan, like the rest of the Second
Eleven, had been counting the days to the match; for it was to be
played, not on the home ground, but at Borley, and this meant a
char-a-banc ride with lunch and tea at the other end.
"Such a scrumptious feed too," said Cathy Manners of the Upper Fifth,
who had played in the match last year. "Why, we had chickens and
salad for lunch; I don't mean beastly oil and vinegar stuff, but
fruit and cream with ices after tea."
Those of her audience who would not be going groaned; and one of
them, Mabel Cosson, put an end to further descriptions by saying:
"Bet you anything you like the match is off! Patty Dolbey is in the
San. with a temperature and headache; and Frisky, who is in her room,
told me she was spotty all down her neck, only Matron said she wasn't
to spread it about."
"That is why you are both keeping so quiet about it, I suppose?"
suggested someone, while another voice chimed in:
"Spread what? Small-pox? I am jolly glad I have just been
vaccinated. It makes absolute pits in one's skin, I hear."
After this, conversation degenerated into a medical discussion
ranging over complaints varying from the Black Death to epileptic
fits. Sally Brendan, standing on the outskirts of the group, took no
part, for though, having had both measles and chicken-pox, she felt
in a position to contradict each of the speakers in turn, she had
learned that it was waste of breath to attempt this. Either her
remarks were ignored, or someone took her by the shoulders and pushed
her away out of earshot.
She would not indeed have remained so close but that she wanted to
hear more about the match. This match, she had decided, would give
her a chance to distinguish herself before an unprejudiced audience.
As she lay awake that night, with only Decima Pillditch's snores to
distract her thoughts, she pictured the captain of the Borley eleven
congratulating her on her bowling, and saying:
"We all think that you must be really First Eleven, aren't you?"
That would be a heavy score against Doris Forbes and other snobs of
the Upper Fifth and Sixth. Sally turned over on her side with a
satisfied smile on her lips, and hopes soon became merged in dreams,
not merely of pulling off a hat-trick, but of bowling the entire
Borley eleven in as many balls.
"The only runs they made were in the overs that I wasn't bowling,"
she wrote home in an imaginary letter; and woke with a start to find
the sun shining, and a bell ringing violently at the end of the
passage.
The first information that greeted her was vouchsafed by Milly Grubb,
the captain of the Second Eleven.
"Match off!" she said, and made no answer to Sally's twice-repeated
"Why?"
"Beast!" muttered the girl; but during breakfast learned from general
conversation that Mabel Gosson had been right in her prophecy. Patty
Dolbey had developed measles, and Frisky Harrison, her chum, was also
in the sanatorium under suspicion.
"Little cads!" said one of the Second Eleven of these unfortunates.
"Why couldn't they have smothered their faces in flour or something
until after the match was over?"
"Just imagine if Old Cocaine had caught them powdering their noses!"
"I suppose we shall all be shut up like maniacs for the rest of the
term? Sort of thing one expects during Lent, but in the summer it is
awful."
There was a general groan, and then Sally heard Peter's drawl:
"I had the afternoon off to go and see my cousins at Springley Manor,
this side of Parchester, you know. I suppose they will have all had
measles, so I can turn up there all right as arranged. They are none
of them children."
However, it was not all right. Miss Cockran made it quite clear that
the entire school was in quarantine until further notice; and its
inmates must content themselves in consequence with the school
boundaries, unless taken for crocodile walks by a mistress. On
Saturday afternoon, as there was no match, there was to be a picnic
tea on that part of the shore reserved for Seascape House.
"A regular school-treat!" said Peter scornfully, her temper ruffled
by a private interview with Miss Cockran, in which she had obtained
no more than leave to write a note to her cousins explaining that she
would be unable to go and see them.
"Why it's just a bribe to get us to be good little girls, and yet
when we sit down to tea there will only be bread and butter mixed
with sand and seaweed instead of eating it at tables like ordinary
Christians."
The rest of the school was more resigned. After all, the shore was
quite an interesting place, with rocks and pools and shells to occupy
the attention, and a meal out of doors, even mixed with sand and
seaweed, had its exciting side. Saturday, too, proved a perfect day,
so calm and sunshiny that bathing prefects did not feel bound to send
everyone out of the water after a three minutes' dip.
Sally swam well, just as she excelled in other sports; but she found
it dull enough bathing alone, for, as usual, she was sent to
Coventry, except for blustering threats of putting her under the
water and keeping her there. These latter, of course, came from her
enemies of the Fourth, led by Olive Parker.
"Let us drown the little beast," she shouted. "Here, you others, get
in a ring and don't let it escape while Susy and I wash its face for
it."
Without waiting for the attack, Sally plunged under water, and
gripping Susy, who was the biggest of her tormentors, by the ankle
pulled her after her. The next minute she was the centre of a
struggling group of excited girls, who shot water over her in
handfuls as she came gasping to the surface, and tried to push her
down again.
"Stop it! Do you hear, kids, stop it! or I shall call Edith Seymour."
Even with this threat, it was not until she had ducked Olive Parker
and shaken her that Violet Tremson succeeded in restoring some
measure of order.
"You are to leave Sally alone, you little beasts, see!"
"Well, you ducked me," said Olive Parker sulkily.
"I didn't make a plan of it as if I were plotting a dirty
assassination. Five to one, aren't you, and all bigger than your
victim?"
Olive glared, but the rest of her friends had scattered, evidently
somewhat conscience-stricken; and she herself, looking back on it,
did not feel so proud of her idea as when she had first suggested it.
"I was only fooling," she said, and her furtive glance at Sally might
have been construed into an apology. She was obviously ashamed.
"I have never seen you not being a fool," flew to her victim's lips,
and as the words were uttered all hopes of reconciliation vanished.
"Next time I get the chance of doing you in, there will be no fooling
about it, I promise you," shouted the other angrily, as she splashed
off to join her fellows, leaving Sally and Violet Tremson alone, the
former up to her shoulders in water.
"Why do you say those things?" asked the elder girl; "they may be
smart and to the point, but they are so ... so hopeless for getting
on, I mean, and making friends ... having a good time here, you know.
Olive isn't at all a bad sort if you wouldn't always tread on her
toes so heavily. She is older than you, remember."
"Yes, but she is junior to me in school, and at any rate she went for
me first. I didn't attack her ... fact is I didn't want to have
anything to say to that lot."
"She meant just now that she was sorry, Sally, and then you went and
spoilt it all by saying what you did."
"I shall say what I like. I didn't ask you to rescue me, did I?"
This time Sally really despised herself for her rudeness. It had
been decent of Violet to save her, but she was feeling sore over the
cancelled cricket-match and all her vanished dreams of notoriety.
That was why the words slipped out, and before she could mutter
"Sorry!" Violet had answered with an aggravating sound of laughter
in her voice:
"No! You didn't ask. You were mostly under water. Hardly in a
position to do so, were you?"
"Then get out and go where someone does want you!"
In sudden flaming fury the younger girl scooped up a handful of water
and flung it in her companion's face. Then she dived through a
smoothly-rolling wave and came up a few yards off. Let Violet
Tremson chase her and duck her if she liked; it would be no disgrace
from someone so much taller. Violet, however, did nothing of the
sort, but merely swam away leisurely towards a group of seniors
gathered round a projecting rock.
CHAPTER THE FIFTH
SALLY IS TAKEN UP
Tea was eaten picnic fashion on the beach, at four o'clock, and Sally
wandered away with hers to a flat ledge of rocks, half-way up the
cliff. Above her head were the two large, almost circular openings,
known as the "Portholes."
Glorious hiding-places, these caves looked; but the rock descended
sheer, some six feet below them, and beneath this again was a slope
of broken shale and sand that offered no sure foothold, even to the
most intrepid climber. The slope was surrounded by a barbed-wire
fence, with a notice affixed, forbidding anyone to try to pass it.
Sally, as she earnestly studied the lie of the land, wished that she
could think of some rapid way of mounting to the caves: it would
cause a new sensation, and bring her once more into the limelight
that she craved. Something of this desire was evident in her
expression, for a derisive voice demanded suddenly, "Going to jump up
there, or fly?"
It was Mabel Gosson, of the Lower Fifth; rather a stupid giggler, but
a kind-hearted girl, and a friend of the daring Peter.
"No--hardly--but I could easily climb inside, if I were let down on a
rope from the top. It's no distance."
Her tone was so earnest that Mabel ceased to jeer, and even looked a
trifle alarmed.
"Look here, kid, don't go trying any fool games like you did on the
train. Take my word for it, that the only entrance to those caves is
from Borley Chine."
"That's nearly a mile along the coast?"
"Not quite, but out of bounds, at any rate. The Chine used to be a
smuggling bay, you know, and it is said there are some kegs of brandy
stored under Old Cocaine's study, and that she has a private
staircase down to them, concealed in her cupboard." Mabel giggled as
she spoke.
"You mean there are rooms underground, all the way from the Chine up
here?"
"Passages with ledges, more likely--I don't know. We have never been
allowed to go there since a boy is supposed to have got walled up
there, some years ago, by falling rock, and lost. He was wanted by
the police, so I expect myself that he went to America instead."
"It would be rather interesting to unearth the skeleton."
"Beastly," said Mabel, shivering a little. "You are an unpleasant
child."
It suddenly occurred to her that it was really beneath her dignity to
chatter with a new kid in this familiar way; but to hold her tongue
was almost beyond Mabel Gosson's power, if she could find a listener.
"Well, I suppose you mean to start hunting at once?" she sneered,
with a sudden assumption of superiority, and prepared to walk off.
"Why not?"
"To-day?"
Sally shrugged. She was playing her usual game of creating a
sensation; but her coolness was a trifle overdone, and the other girl
sniggered mockingly.
"Peter," she called, "Peter, just come and listen to this. You will
die of laughing."
Sally's heart beat fast, as Trina Morrison rose languidly and
strolled over towards them. At last, this almost grown-up girl, whom
she was determined to make her friend, had been induced to notice
her; but the acknowledgment, when it came, was scarcely flattering.
"Oh! it's only the Cocky-doodle. What is she crowing for now? Made
the sun rise, eh? I'm sure I don't want to talk to her."
Unexpected tears sprang to Sally's eyes as her romantic day-dreams
were shattered.
"I--I didn't ask you to come," she said, with more humility, however,
than defiance in her voice; and Peter threw back her head and laughed:
"No--or I guess I shouldn't have arrived. What is it, Mabs?"
"Why, the young ass over there says she is going to climb into the
Portholes to-day."
"Oh, she says that, does she? Little liar--her name ought to be
Matilda."
Now Mabel Gosson's version had not been exactly what Sally said, but
wounded pride made her forget this.
"I am not afraid," she returned hotly.
"Oh, nor are we, for you, so don't hesitate to begin on our account.
If you slip, and fall in a jammy mass, the school will hardly mourn
or order funeral wreaths out of its pocket money--eh, Mabs?"
Mabel Gosson giggled. Peter often had a cruel tongue, and her
slower-witted friend was afraid of it.
"She wouldn't be such an ass as to go," she said uncomfortably.
Sally glared. "I am going to get into those caves, all the same,"
she said; "so you needn't be so beastly superior."
"Climb on, MacDuff, and we will 'wait and see'--a case of pride and
the fall, I prophesy."
Peter seated herself on the ledge of rock as she spoke, and picking
up the remains of Sally's unfinished tea, munched it calmly, while
Mabel sank down giggling by her side.
"Buck up, kid," she said. "Hop it, or fly; I bet you stick on the
barbed wire and have to be plucked off by a prefect."
"I am not going to get in by climbing, you see."
At this there was derisive laughter from Peter, and Sally, in one of
her sudden furies, caught her by the shoulder, and shook her.
"I won't kill myself just to amuse you, so there--but there is
another way into the caves, and I mean to find it."
Trina Morrison was on her feet now. At first she had looked amazed
and furious at the onslaught; but then, to Mabel's surprise, she
merely smiled and freed herself.
"It will be out of bounds, you know," she said, in her usual drawl;
and Sally nodded.
"You mean I shall be expelled, if I'm caught--Much I care! I loathe
this place, and wouldn't be sorry if I never saw a single soul in it
again."
"Quite so! Then you intend to commit educational suicide by trotting
off to Borley Chine--do you?"
"That's my business."
"Admitted--but take a word of advice. Don't do anything so dull as
to explore caves. If you must run risks in order to crow about them
afterwards, just trot into Parchester, and buy me some chocolates."
Sally's breath came in a choke; her temper vanished.
"I--why, of course I will, with pleasure, if you will only ask me
decently; and I have money of my own too."
She almost whispered the words; and in her eyes was
entreaty--something of the look of a dog, accustomed to kicks, who
would give his world for a little kindness.
Trina Morrison studied her for a few seconds, beneath narrowed lids,
then she laughed, but this time without jeering. She had a very
pretty laugh.
"Bless us! If the kid hasn't got a soft side, like a hedgehog
unrolled," she exclaimed. And then to Sally, "Of course I will ask
you decently, I might even give you a kiss, if you chose the
chocolates I like."
Sally went very red. "I hate kissing," she muttered; "but I'll go.
Which do you like--soft? Or hard, with nuts?"
Mabel, who had been watching the pair in amazement, now interposed,
"Oh, Peter! You oughtn't to send her. She is only a new kid."
"Shut up," said Sally. Then to Trina Morrison, "Well, I'm off. No
one will miss me till supper, and that's not till eight. Anyhow, I
don't care if they do see me."
The elder girl smiled, catching her by the wrist, as she turned to go.
"A wrinkle from an old hand at the game you are playing," she said.
"Leave your school hat-band behind the first hedge."
Sally nodded. "I shan't take it--I brought a cap of my own from
home, just for this kind of occasion," she said, airily; and then,
kissing her hand to the dismayed Mabel Gosson as she called out
"Good-by-ee," she clambered over the rocks towards the steps.
In the school garden she met no one, though she could hear the
mistresses having tea and playing tennis on the other side of the big
hedge. Servants were moving in the house, but no one saw her as she
crossed hall, ran up the stairs and down the corridor to her own
room--No. 9.
It was empty, for the girls were forbidden to enter their dormitories
during the daytime; and Sally knew that if she were caught, all
chance, even of starting on her adventure, would be at an end.
Feverishly she hunted through her chest of drawers for her purse,
jumping guiltily, as though she were committing a theft, when a clock
in the hall clanged five. Some coppers tumbled out on to the floor
as she pulled the purse towards her, and Sally had only just time to
gather them up in her hand when she heard footsteps coming leisurely
down the passage.
Where could she hide? Not under one of the five iron bedsteads,
that, without valances, and with the curtains of the cubicles well
pulled back, left the floor fully exposed to view. The only other
chance was the cupboard behind her, hung thick with dressing-gowns
and coats; and into this Sally forced her way, kneeling doubled up,
successfully concealed for the moment, it is true, but a prey to
cramp, and almost suffocated by her shelter.
The someone whose footsteps she had heard entered the room, tip-toed
across the floor, and stood listening; then moved a bed, and half
opened a window.
"It's the Matron, bother her!" muttered Sally angrily.
This Matron was already one of her chief enemies at Seascape House;
for tidiness, with Mrs. Brendan to spoil her daughters by clearing up
their rooms after them, had not been enforced at home: and at school
it was one of the few things in which Sally did not seek to excel.
"I thought putting things in order was your business, not ours," she
had said rudely, when first called to account for a bed heaped with
odds and ends of ties, handkerchiefs and gloves; and Miss Budd's
heavy figure had heaved with indignation, while her cheeks purpled at
this piece of impudence.
"Any more disobedience or rudeness, and I report you at once to Miss
Cockran," she had said with finality; and Sally guessed that now that
moment had come. She did not look forward to the interview, for Old
Cocaine, though small and pinched, had penetrating grey eyes, which
she did not care to meet, unless there were some big piece of
mischief that she could brazen out, and so, perhaps, arouse
astonishment or interest in their depths, instead of pity or contempt.
Very carefully she shifted her position, and tried to part the coats
and dressing-gowns, so as to give herself a little air, and view the
room. Unfortunately, in doing so, she forgot the coppers clasped in
her hand: as she caught at the coat in front of her, they fell in all
directions; one or two inside the cupboard, but the rest on the floor
outside. It seemed to Sally weeks before the last halfpenny struck a
wall, and subsided noisily under a chest of drawers.
"So that's over--and the fat hag has caught me finely," she told
herself, and pushing the clothes aside, stepped out with a sullen
frown, into the room.
CHAPTER THE SIXTH
AN ESCAPADE
"My good child, are you trying to play hide-and-seek? And if so,
whom with? You will never get to Parchester at this rate." It was
Trina Morrison's drawl, and with a gasp of relief, Sally realised
that she was the intruder.
"I--I--made sure that you were Matron," she said limply.
"We may both thank our stars that I am not; but on this occasion I
will let that insult pass. Tell me--were you really intending to go
into town, or only bluffing?"
"I was going, of course--I mean, I am going. You see, I have a
ten-shilling note Mother gave me before I left, besides my pocket
money. I will buy you some really decent chocolates."
"Nice kid!"
Peter's voice was at its softest, and her hand, laid lightly on the
other's shoulder, became a caress.
"I am not going to try and stop you, but--
"It's no use trying to stop me--I told you."
"Well, let me make a suggestion, then--it is this. Why shouldn't I
come too?"
Sally clasped her hands tight, and her eyes shone.
"Together, we might astonish the school," she said solemnly. "I have
always felt it, and longed to know you."
Trina Morrison laughed. "Quaint kid, would that be a great deed?"
she asked. Her twinkle, and the derision in her tone, pricked the
bubble of Sally's vanity, making her all at once feel very young and
silly.
"Why are you going, then?" she demanded a little sullenly, and again
the other laughed.
"Not to astonish the school; that's certain. Why, my dear young ass,
don't you realise that if we are expelled we shall not be allowed to
contaminate the rest of Seascape House, even as a ten minutes'
variety show?"
Sally glowered, as her vision of creating a super-sensation in the
hall or class-room faded.
"Anyhow, I'm going..." she began.
"Well, for goodness' sake get a move on, then, and don't argue about
the why or wherefore. Isn't it enough to want to do a thing to make
it worth while? We had better separate, I think, and meet at the
third elm by the corner of the road, opposite Marston's cottage. I
shall go by my own private road, and wait five minutes, to see if
you've been caught or not..."
Sally nodded. "Right oh!" she said carelessly. "I shall be there."
But beneath her studied lack of enthusiasm was a joy she had not felt
since she left home. Once again she had triumphed, and the only girl
whom she admired out of this horrible school had chosen her for a
friend. Fortified by the idea of this companionship, she left the
dormitory boldly, and ran downstairs, concealing herself behind the
large hall door just before Miss Cockran swept through it from the
front drive.
After this, hours passed, it seemed, though in reality it could only
have been a few minutes, while the Head-mistress sorted her letters
from amongst the newly-arrived post on the table, and disappeared,
reading them as she went.
Sally made a face at her vanishing back, fled across the hall, as she
heard Miss Rogers' voice in the garden, entered the dining-room, at
this time deserted, dropped out of one of the open windows on to a
flower-bed, and took refuge in the shrubbery across the nearest path.
To negotiate the grounds after this was simple--merely a doubling
backward and forward to shelter her movements with bushes and
undergrowth--and then a bold walk out through the gates on to the
high road.
Trina Morrison was seated in a dry ditch, leaning against an elm, at
the corner of the road, opposite a thatched cottage.
"I was just giving you up," she drawled, looking at her wrist watch.
"I made certain Matron had got you this time."
"Not she.... I dodged Old Cocaine too, and Proggins ... you would
have laughed."
And Sally launched at once into her favourite subject of her own
prowess; but only to break off angrily, as she noticed Peter yawn and
pause to pick some ferns.
"Why, you are not listening!"
"I am not amused.... Like Queen Victoria, we never listen when we
are not amused--I didn't know you were such a kid."
"I am not a kid--in brains, I mean. Why, I am top of the
Remove--easily, too. I shall be in your form next term."
"You might become top of that, and still be a boresome child."
Sally stared at her blankly, and the retort "What rot!" died on her
lips. Perhaps Trina Morrison was right. Sally knew that she was
nearly bottom of the Lower Fifth, and yet, compared with Cecilia, who
was grown up, she was a woman of the world.
"How am I such a kid?" she mumbled at last; and there was real
humility in the question.
"You boast like a five-year-old--and do nothing but talk about
yourself, when, Heaven knows, the world is full of more interesting
subjects. Then you have no self-control, but if any one laughs at
you, your temper blows up like a powder magazine."
The directness of this attack, and the cool indifference with which
it was delivered, left the younger girl dumbfounded. Cecilia had
often levelled the same accusations, but they had never before struck
Sally's inner consciousness with any conviction of truth.
"You ... you aren't being fair to me," she muttered; and then
relapsed into complete silence, as she realised Trina Morrison did
not care in the least if she were fair or not--nor whether her words
hurt her listener. Quite unconcerned as to the effect of her speech,
she strolled along with her hands in her pockets, until they came to
some cross roads, when she took a turning to the right.
Sally caught her arm, and pointed to the sign-post.
"Why, Peter, look, it says straight on to Parchester,"
"Well, I'm not going to Parchester, you see."
"Then where are we going? I don't understand."
"I happen to be going to call on my cousins at Springley Manor. They
asked me to tea to-day."
She may have laid a slight emphasis on the "I"; Sally, at any rate,
found herself flushing, as though she had been guilty of thrusting
her company where it was not wanted.
"I had better leave you, then," she said gruffly. "My way is in the
other direction." She turned back, with her shoulders rather humped,
and her mouth curved in sulky lines. This friendship was not
developing as she had hoped.
The next instant a hand rested on hers, and she heard the soft
drawling voice she found so full of attraction.
"Silly kid," it said. "Why, of course, you are coming with me. We
will wangle some chocolates out of my cousins, instead of stealing
your ten shillings."
After this, the walk was bliss for the younger girl, though she found
it hard work to refrain from boasting or talking about herself. One
thing she did relate, and that was the story of the goat that she had
tied up in the parish schoolroom.
Trina Morrison shouted with laughter: indeed, they were both making
so merry over the recital that a car, following them up the side road
that had now become a mere country lane, nearly ran them down.
"Why the dickens can't you two girls look where you are going?"
shouted an angry male voice, and then broke off abruptly, while the
car, which had slowed down, stopped.
"My stars! If it isn't Trina. I understood from the mater that you
were laid low, fair cousin--veiled in spots, in fact."
"Not yet; so I decided to look you all up as I got bored with playing
at Margate, or Blackpool, on the shore this afternoon. You are just
in time to give me a lift, Austin."
"With pleasure."
He opened the door beside him, and then looked hesitatingly at Sally.
"Who is the kid?" he whispered. "Where does she come in?"
"Why, behind, of course; that is, if she is not afraid of your
driving. Let me introduce Miss Sally Brendan--my cousin, Austin
Ferrars, who has nearly killed us. Sally was trudging into
Parchester to buy me some chocolates, so I brought her here instead,
as I know you always have a supply."
"One of your slaves, eh?" he half-whispered, lifting his eyebrows and
smiling; and Sally, who overheard him, found her heart beating fast,
as she listened for Trina's answer. Yesterday she would have been
furious at the insinuation, but now she waited for an
acknowledgement, even, of her existence.
The answer was, as usual, unexpected.
"No--not my slave--merely a friend," Peter said smoothly. Then, "Do
get in quick, kid--we shall only have about half-an-hour we can stop,
as it is."
It seemed to Sally that the car flew over the ground, and soon they
were the centre of a group of people drawn from the neighbouring
tennis court by the honk of the motor as it slowed up in front of a
low ivy-covered house. On all sides there were exclamations of
astonishment, and some mild scoldings from an elderly lady, whom
Trina called "Aunt Edith."
"Why, child, I don't understand this. I only got a note this morning
saying that you were unable to come."
"That was dictated by Miss Cockran. This is my own answer."
There was a roar of laughter from the younger members of the party at
this impudent assurance; but Aunt Edith shook her head.
"I am always glad to see you, Trina, as you know; but I don't always
approve of your behaviour," she said, with some severity--on which
her niece put her arms round her and kissed her.
"Love me, even if you don't approve of me," she said lightly, and
then to Austin--"What about some chocolates?"
She disappeared after him into the house; and Sally, who had
dismounted from the car, was left standing forlornly in the drive,
until an old gentleman took pity on her and suggested that she might
like some tea.
She agreed, and was soon seated near the tennis court, enjoying iced
cake and strawberries and cream.
"So you are a pair of runaways?" said the old gentleman at last,
fixing his pince-nez, and staring down at the girl beside him.
"Yes--you see it's so dull at school. Peter, that is Trina, you
know, had been growing bored stiff this term, and I'm just the same."
"H'm! Trina is a very wild girl, I'm afraid."
There was condemnation in his tone, and Sally answered indignantly,
"She is an absolutely wonderful person--you couldn't expect her to
behave like ordinary people."
She did not realise that it was almost the first time she had praised
anyone else whole-heartedly and without condescension; she only knew
her anger was rising steadily as her companion continued with a shrug:
"Oh, she has charm all right, I grant you--but she's selfish,
confoundedly selfish--so if you haven't found it out already, be
warned, my dear, by one who has known her since she was a baby."
"She isn't selfish--not a scrap. Why, she wouldn't let me go into
Parchester this afternoon and buy her chocolates."
The old gentleman smiled at the vehemence of this reply.
"Dear me! Dear me! Wouldn't she let you do that?" he murmured. "It
was very thoughtful of her;" then added drily, "but she seems to have
got some chocolates--all the same."
As he spoke, Trina Morrison appeared on the tennis lawn with her
cousin and some of the other young members of the party. She was
munching sweets out of a box and talking excitedly. Sally thought
how pretty she was, and admired the ease with which she parried the
jokes of the teasing group round her.
"A flying visit, I fear, Uncle Tom," she said, coming up to the old
man. "Austin is going to run me back in his car."
"By rights I should go too, and inform Miss Cockran that we have been
no party to your misdeeds."
His tone was grim, but his niece merely laughed.
"Dear Uncle Tom," she said lightly, "picture your awful half-hour,
while Old Cocaine told you my faults, till you rose in righteous
anger at an attack on the family and defended me. Besides, you
wouldn't be a spoil-sport."
He turned away with an impatient movement, as Austin broke in eagerly:
"Dad thinks as we do--that it's jolly plucky of you. But, I say,
must you go yet?"
"I'm afraid so. Lend me your big coat, do--and I will drive.
Good-bye, Uncle Tom--good-bye, Aunt Edith. Next time I'll come for a
night, if you will arrange a dance."
Sally thought that the grown-ups near her were not exactly pleased at
this casual farewell. Indeed, one lady said discontentedly, "Why,
it's too bad!--Austin going off again like that. He promised to make
up a set directly he returned from the station."
"He seems to have forgotten that," returned someone else. But by
this time Sally was running over the lawn, towards the car, whose
engine had begun to throb.
"Aren't you going to take me?" she called; and those standing round
laughed--including Trina, who answered calmly:
"Of course, but I had forgotten you for the moment, kid. Here, hop
in behind, and have some chocolates."
"She had better put on this coat."
It was Uncle Tom speaking, and as he helped the young girl into its
ample folds, he whispered, with a jerk of his hand towards the
driving-seat--"Don't trust her too much, child, or she may lead you
into Queer Street."
"She landed me here," said Sally coolly; and in spite of the shock
caused by this rejoinder, Uncle Tom burst out laughing.
"Bless me! I believe you can look after yourself all right, and I
needn't have worried," he said, as he slammed the door; and he turned
back into the house without waiting to watch them go.
CHAPTER THE SEVENTH
PENALTIES
"What was it Uncle Tom said to you just now?" asked Trina sharply, as
they turned a corner of the drive that shut out the house from view;
and when Sally told her of his warning and her own rejoinder, she
laughed so much that the car swerved, and nearly carried away a
gate-post at the end of the drive.
"Poor old Bean!" she said. "Did you hear that, Austin? He must have
had the shock of his life."
Her cousin, who was trying to take the steering-wheel from her, did
not look altogether amused.
"Cheeky little beast!" he murmured. And then louder, "Here! stop it,
Trina, and let me drive. You have forgotten all I taught you last
holidays, and are just carrying on like a madman."
"Don't be so fussy and old-maidish. I am quite all right, and
anyhow, if we did graze the gate, it wants painting badly enough."
"You idiot! It is my new car that matters--not a silly gate-post.
Here, do move----"
"'J'y suis--j'y reste'--Don't play the grandmother--I could drive
quite well if you wouldn't keep interfering."
With this, they began a quarrel that lasted pleasantly enough, for
they laughed most of the time, until the school wall appeared in the
distance. Sally, munching chocolates on her back seat, was quite
content to be forgotten, though her heart sank a little when she
thought of the dangers that lay ahead. At this minute, when she had
gained the friend she wished, expulsion did not seem so glorious as a
few hours ago, and she wondered at Trina's unconcern. That was
manifest, even when the car at last slowed down in a lane that
bordered the school grounds.
"There, stop beneath that tree; it's my usual ladder," said the elder
girl. "If you bend your shoulders, Austin, I can clamber up on them,
and pull myself easily on to the wall."
She suited her actions to her words, and was soon seated on the top,
peering mischievously down through the branches.
"Now lift up the kid," she commanded; and Sally felt herself swung
off her feet, then grasped from above, and hoisted, until she rested
securely beside her companion--clasping the chocolate box.
[Illustration: SALLY FELT HERSELF SWUNG OFF HER FEET]
When they had wriggled out of their coats, and flung them back into
the car, Austin stood up and bowed.
"I envy you your interview with Old Cocaine, my ladies," he said,
grinning, "and remember, Trina, if you get the chuck, we can always
house you for a bit."
"Thanks awfully--Uncle Tom and Aunt Edith would so love to have me,
wouldn't they? But anyhow, there won't be any 'Come into my study'
business on this occasion. Sally and I have merely been walking in
the grounds, so wrapped in heart-to-heart conversation, that we
forgot all about supper--including plum-and-apple jam--wonderful
illustration of friendship, isn't it, Sally-kid?"
Sally laughed, a little uncomfortably. The motor disappeared, and
they had scrambled down the tree into the grounds, when she ventured
to say at last:
"All the same, Peter, you know that sort of tale won't be believed if
we are caught--and I suppose we are sure to be--with prefects poking
their noses everywhere for somebody to report."
"My child, when you have played truant as often as I have you will
know there is a science in getting caught. In this case, as soon as
we are out of the garden, I go round to the junior play-room, and
enter boldly by the window."
"That's simply walking into the lions' den."
"Yes, silly; but the point is--choose your lion. There will be Poppy
Bristow in charge of the kids until they go to bed; she told me so."
"Oh!" said Sally, with sudden understanding. "You mean that, even
though she is a prefect, she won't dare to report you?"
Trina laughed--a rather unpleasant laugh, that had a good deal of
malice in it.
"Poppy is head of my dormitory, and I see she runs it all right, and
gets her sleep--and she leaves me alone in return. Poppy loves her
Peter," she added, and then, "Come on, kid; be bold and resolute, and
follow me."
They crossed the empty gardens in silence, only halting once to hide
their caps in a thick bush.
"Fetch them to-morrow," whispered the elder girl; "and we had better
leave the chocolate box as well. Stuff your pockets with those that
remain--there will be no other evidence that we have been outside the
place."
It was still light; but the blinds were down in the mistresses'
quarters, and the girls stole across the grass undiscovered, until
they came to the junior play-room. Here, the window was open, and
pulling the blind aside, Trina peered within.
"Fat Poppy is there all right," she said, "so now is the hour to
strike;" and flinging up the sash, she scrambled over the low sill
and into the room, followed by Sally.
"Hullo! my Poppet," she began cheerfully. "Can we lend a hand with
the kids?"
The prefect gave a start, and put down the book that she had been
reading. Her fat puffy face became anxious, rather morose, and she
frowned.
"You were neither of you at supper," she said, with an obvious effort
to be dignified and severe. "Where have you been?"
"Talking sweet nothings with Sally, in the garden--so sweet, we even
forgot the plum-and-apple jam."
The little girls who had gathered round giggled. They all admired
Peter immensely for her daring; besides, she petted them, when she
remembered, and gave them smuggled sweets.
Poppy Bristow flushed.
"It sounds unlikely," she said.
"Do you mean that I'm a liar?"
All the carelessness in Trina Morrison's voice had vanished: instead,
there was a cold fury that would have deceived Sally herself unless
she had known it was a clever piece of acting. At once it placed her
accuser in the wrong, and Poppy, backing towards the fire-place,
stammered--
"Of c-course not, Peter, I didn't mean that."
"Then what do you mean?"
"I mean ... mean it's very wr-wrong of you to stay out so late, and
... and all that sort of thing. Edith Seymour was taking supper, and
she noticed you weren't there."
"Oh, she did, did she?"
"Yes,--and she said if she c-caught you, she'd report you to Miss
C-Cockran."
"And I suppose you said at once, 'You are q-quite right, Edith,' and
all that sort of thing?"
Trina mimicked the prefect's stammer and vagueness so cleverly that
all the juniors laughed; while Poppy Bristow's naturally red face,
that had won her her nickname, flushed even more deeply.
"Be quiet, Peter," she said, with a desperate attempt at dignity and
confidence. "You shouldn't talk to a prefect like that."
"All right, old dear; I'm sorry." Trina's tone was suddenly
conciliatory. "But I do hate you just imitating a stiff old poker
like Edith Seymour. In a public school, prefects should act on their
own responsibility; not be always confessing their weakness by
reporting to the staff--and you can usually follow a line of your
own, too--at least I thought so."
Poppy Bristow smiled, and looked important.
"If you hadn't tried to be funny over things I never said," she
returned, "I would have told you that that was very nearly the answer
I made to Edith."
"Good for you! Well, what are you going to do? ... put us in gaol,
eh?"
Trina slipped her arm into Sally's and laughed. "We will own up that
we have sinned, won't we, kid? But it's a temptation to linger out
of doors on a summer night."
"Rather!" said Sally. "We are frightfully sorry, of course." But
she could not keep a tinge of cheerful impudence out of her voice,
and Poppy Bristow scowled at her as she said hesitatingly:
"You had better do some lines, and let me have them by
Wednesday--Tennyson's Idylls--let me see--say 700."
"My good Poppy!"
Trina looked extremely injured as she added:
"Why, I have an Algebra paper, and an essay on Cromwell, and..."
"Well, 300 lines, each of you," said the prefect hurriedly, "and if I
don't get them by Wednesday, of course I shall have to report you to
Miss Cockran."
"Right oh! Your will is law; but I do think you are a hard old
flint. Still, it's something to have a prefect that knows her own
mind."
If there was a gleam of mockery in Trina Morrison's eyes, her tone
did not betray her as she turned away, with Sally following at her
heels.
In the passage the two girls ran into Edith Seymour, who called to
them to stop when they tried to push by her.
"Where have you been, Peter?" she said sharply; "you were not at
supper."
"In the garden, but we have just reported to Poppy Bristow."
"Has she sent you to Miss Cockran?"
"That's her business, isn't it? She was made a prefect the same time
as you."
Edith Seymour bit her lip. Like all the elder girls who cared for
school discipline, she disliked Trina Morrison.
"I shall speak to Poppy," she said briefly.
Sally clutched her friend's arm when they were left alone. "I say,
you were splendid, Peter. But won't Poppy give in to her and report
us after all? Edith Seymour has such a much stronger will."
Again Trina uttered her malicious little laugh. "I don't think so,
kid. You see Poppy has to sleep in my room, not with Edith Seymour.
She hates quarrelling with me; besides, I have put her back up about
taking advice, and she is as vain as a peacock, if you stir her up
the right way."
"What do you think will happen, then?"
"A row between Poppy and Edith, of course, and meanwhile, we shall
escape. I have done this sort of thing before, my child, and it is
risks like these that keep school life from becoming unutterably
boring."
Sally's eyes gleamed. This was a point of view that, at the moment,
won her whole-hearted admiration and assent.
"You are splendid," she repeated; and then, tentatively, "I say,
Peter, if you do this sort of thing again, you will let me join in,
won't you?"
"Perhaps--I can't say."
"Oh, Peter, do ... please ... I would like most awfully to be your
friend, and will never give you away--and you will let me write all
the lines for us both, won't you? I can imitate your hand quite
easily, if I take time, I really can."
Trina laughed, her musical jolly laugh.
"Well, I don't mind, if it would give you any pleasure. I never
refuse a good offer."
"And you will be my friend?"
"Perhaps, if you will only hustle, and grow up a bit--and not talk
about yourself. I simply couldn't stand that. Why, it's more boring
than school."
Her eyes had a teasing smile, but Sally did not fly into her usual
rage.
"I'll try," she said humbly. "It has been a simply scrumptious day,
you know."
Trina bent and kissed her carelessly. "And yet we haven't astonished
the school--nor bowled the Borley Second Eleven," she said mockingly.
"I had forgotten all about the match," answered the younger girl
simply; but as she climbed the stairs to her room she was rather
astonished at herself all the same. That morning, the match and its
postponement had occupied her entire thoughts.
CHAPTER THE EIGHTH
A RIFT IN THE LUTE
It was the Tuesday evening after the adventures of the last chapter;
and the Lower Fifth was holding what it called an "Indignation
Meeting" under the line of oaks that bordered the cricket field. (It
is the way of Lower Fifths to adopt such excitable measures to
express their feelings, while Upper Fifth and Sixth stroll by in
dignified contempt, and Juniors stand at a distance and wish they
were able to join in the discussion, or had thought of holding a
"pow-wow" themselves.)
"Only three cases of measles--one of them scarcely a bit spotty, so
Matron says--and yet here we all are shut up like lepers for the
whole summer."
"Last Saturday's Second Eleven match cancelled, and now next
Saturday's First Eleven! You bet there will be no half-term leave,
or fête. I can't see it's worth while going to school at all."
"Simply rotten sport! Look here, let us insist that those who have
had measles are not lepers, and can go anywhere they ordinarily would
have, in any decently managed term."
"Rather! and if not, we will all go on strike."
"Oh, do let's! Strikers always win--my father says so."
"Whom do you intend to strike first? Cocaine? And if so, what
with?--A bath sponge?"
It was Peter speaking now, from under the shade of a big hat, and
there was contempt mingled with amusement in her lazy voice.
"Oh, Peter darling!--so you have woken up at last. Do tell us what
you did on Saturday; something awful, I'm quite sure."
The Lower Fifth, uncertain how to proceed with a strike from any
practical standpoint, was quite glad to change the subject.
As Mabel Gosson took her friend by the arm and shook her gently to
elicit an answer to her question, another of the Form broke in with:
"There was a fiendish row, I know, between Poppy and Edith Seymour,
as soon as the Juniors had gone to bed; and then they had another
kick-up at the prefects' meeting yesterday. I heard Poppy was
heavily censured: or whatever committees do, when they are sick with
anyone. I saw Poppy afterwards, and she was mad with you, Peter ...
said it was all your fault, and she wished you would leave."
"Kind of her! I'm sure. It is I who ought to be in tears, 300 lines
of 'Morte d'Arthur' for my sins."
"And you have done them already?"
Trina Morrison took off her hat, and flapped it at her questioner.
"My friend, am I not always a slave to duty? Rest assured that they
will be done. I think I may safely say that Little Arthur's barge
has pushed off from the bulrushes towards Avilion, by now."
"Yes--but it is not you who are pushing the barge, but Sally Brendan."
There was much criticism in Violet Tremson's tone; and criticism of
Peter's actions was so rare in the Lower Fifth that Trina raised her
eyebrows while the rest stared.
"My good child, why be a purist? Did I lay claim to be the moving
spirit?"
"No--but you didn't say, either, that Sally wasn't able to go to
cricket yesterday, or to-day, because she is doing your lines, as
well as her own. Doris Forbes is mad with her; and thinks she
doesn't bother to turn up and practise, because there are no matches.
If she loses her place in the Second Eleven, it will be your fault."
Violet Tremson was on her feet now, her usually calm eyes bright with
indignation; but Trina merely shrugged her shoulders and settled
herself more comfortably against her tree.
"Sally the Martyr," she said pleasantly. "Such a shy gentle soul,
that she always needs mothering and persuading to make her do what
she wishes."
Everyone laughed, except Violet, who made an impatient movement with
her foot.
"I wish you would leave her alone, Peter. You are not playing fair
by her--messing up her chances at cricket, etc."
At this point there was a general shout of "Oh, shut up, Violet.
What business is it of yours?" And then Sally appeared, very inky
and rather breathless.
"Just look, Peter," she said, producing some sheets of closely
written foolscap, and pressing them into Trina's hand. "I don't
believe anyone but a Scotland Yard detective could see the difference
between them and the lines you gave me."
The elder girl sat up, and after examining them carelessly, patted
the younger on the back.
"You will have to look out, kid, or if the habit grows on you it will
be a case of spending your days in prison for forgery."
"Then you do think them awfully good, don't you?"
Sally couldn't resist angling for further praise. She wished she had
not done so, as she met Peter's mocking glance.
"Oh, they are certainly good enough to take in an ass like Poppy; if
no one here has an attack of conscience, and gives the show away."
Cries of--"Of course we won't, Peter--Rather not!" arose on all sides.
Sally stood shifting from one leg to the other, her face sullen. No
one had taken any notice of her, or looked at her handiwork, except
Peter, who had not even thanked her. All her pride rose in arms.
"I think it's a frightfully good copy, myself," she said at last,
defiantly.
"I wouldn't go so far as that," retorted Trina calmly; "you have
scarcely done the dots over my 'i's' justice, for instance, or the
fashionable curve of my 's'. Still, I daresay it's quite a good
effort for a youngster." And she yawned.
There was a roar of laughter that made Sally go hot with rage.
"If the lines are not good enough for you, I won't ask you to make
use of them," she said furiously.
Trina Morrison's eyes had closed; but now she half-opened them
languidly, and her voice, when she spoke, had a cold edge to it.
"Take them back if you want," she said curtly, "and clear out, do."
There was silence while Sally stood, her hands clenched, fighting a
battle between her pride and newly proffered loyalty. Were pride to
conquer, she knew it would be an end of all friendship between
herself and Peter; and could she bear this? There was entreaty in
the glance with which she looked at last at the elder girl, but the
other's eyes were shut again, and she realised there was to be no
half-way house of mercy.
"I ... I don't want the lines, Peter. You know I did them for you."
The words were so halting--her voice so humble--that she hardly
recognised it. Now, perhaps, Trina would speak a few words of
thanks, but she did not; and after a fresh tussle with her pride,
that urged her to pick up the foolscap and tear it into little
pieces, Sally left it on the grass, and, turning on her heel, walked
away across the playing-fields.
"I suppose they are all jeering at me," she told herself miserably.
"Now they will despise me as soft, besides hating me." With
difficulty she choked back tears, and hurried along, that she might
not catch the echo of Fifth Form laughter. Had she known it, the
group she had left, instead of laughing at her, was quite silent,
until Violet Tremson said:
"You are a prize beast, Peter."
And though Mabel Gosson told her to shut up, and not be a prig, and
someone else muttered, "It will do the little ass good to be taken
down a peg," no one looked quite comfortable about it.
Trina Morrison might be a joy to the Lower Fifth, but even her
admirers did not always understand her.
"Of course she has her nasty side; most people have," they would
explain her lapses from their ordinary code; and perhaps part of her
fascination lay in the uncertainty of what she would do and say on
different occasions.
Now she made no visible effort to combat criticism, or justify
herself. As the school-house bell rang, she got up leisurely and
gathered the lines from "Morte d'Arthur" together.
"There goes Poppy, so I may as well get rid of these at once," she
said, and strolled off after the prefect.
The Lower Fifth could see her slip her arm through Poppy's and hear
her friendly laugh, as she handed over the sheets of foolscap.
"And she'll have that fat idiot purring before they have gone the
length of the playing-fields," said Mabel Gosson, with an admiring
sigh. "Peter is a wonder, you know. Why, anyone else who went on as
she does, would have been expelled long ago."
"I wish she was expelled," said Violet Tremson angrily. "She is just
pushing the school downhill as hard as she can. You all know she is
a rotter, and yet you let her trample on you and take the lead--even
some of the Sixth do too, like Poppy."
"You were keen enough on her yourself, when you first came--as much a
slave to her as any of us."
"I know I was; and it hurt me frightfully when I found out she wasn't
straight, and ... and what a selfish beast she really is. That is
why I hate to see the way she is carrying on with a kid like Sally
Brendan."
"Oh, do leave off crabbing Peter; after all, she is my friend," said
Mabel Gosson crossly. "If you keep on any more, Violet, everyone in
the school will say you are jealous because she dropped you, and
surely that prickly hedgehog of a child can look after herself. You
should have seen her shake Peter the other afternoon on the beach."
"Of course she can. I wonder Peter ever took any notice of her at
all, after that."
"It was really frightfully good of someone Peter's age to go on an
adventure with a little ass of her sort."
"Rather! and I say, we never heard what Peter did.... She is a
sport. We must get it out of her."
By the time the Lower Fifth group had reached the school, all Peter's
admirers had recovered the full extent of their admiration. Only
Violet Tremson was silent, her usually calm face perplexed by a
struggle waging in her mind between two sets of inclinations.
One decision would be, to leave Sally alone to work out her fate. It
wasn't even as though she were the type of girl to need a champion,
or had shown any wish to be friendly. She was cheeky, conceited,
self-sufficient; and wouldn't really mind being expelled, if what she
boasted were true.
Violet was well aware of all this, and wondered at her own reluctance
to accept the obvious conclusion that Sally's affairs were no
business of hers.
"And yet I should hate her to be expelled," she told herself. "She
has such lots of brains and pluck. One day, if she stops on here,
she will be head of the school and games--ever so much better at
running both than Doris Forbes, because she has more imagination."
Violet Tremson was still arguing with herself when she went in to
supper. Sally, she could see, had been crying, and now, left in
Coventry by her neighbours, made merely a pretence of swallowing her
bread and jam. Trina Morrison, on the contrary, surrounded by her
friends, was making so much noise that every now and then an
exasperated prefect demanded silence from that end of the table.
"She is a beast," said Violet of Peter; and marvelled at the wave of
indignation that, for the moment, swept her. Why should she care if
a girl who had been persistently rude to her was snubbed and
humiliated? It was a difficult question to answer, because the
demands of friendship, as of love, are independent of argument and
common sense. If Sally craved for Trina's affection, Violet knew in
her heart that she would have liked the chance of winning Sally's.
"I suppose one can't help likes and dislikes," she told herself at
last, "and if Trina wasn't here, I might make something of her."
CHAPTER THE NINTH
A BROAD HINT
Sally Brendan had spent so much time and care over her imitation of
Peter's handwriting that she was a day late in finishing her own
lines.
"I couldn't manage to get them done quicker," she muttered sullenly
as, giving them in, she was met by an angry glance instead of the
curt acknowledgment she felt they at least deserved.
"Why on earth not? Because you didn't choose, you lazy little beast,
I suppose? And the writing is hardly legible, as it is."
Sally shifted from one foot to the other, her hands clenched. She
hated and despised Poppy Bristow, and it was a great effort to submit
to her bullying words in silence. The elder girl, on the other hand,
found, for the first time, a little relief for her wounded vanity in
being able to abuse someone else in safety. Lashed by the tongues of
fellow-prefects, she had not dared to accuse or condemn the real
culprit, and had suffered in secret, till now, like a flood released,
her indignation poured itself out over the unpopular new girl, who
had helped Trina Morrison to humiliate her before the Juniors.
"It's a perfect disgrace, the way the rules are broken nowadays at
Seascape House," she concluded her harangue; "and I, at any rate,
don't intend that prefects' orders shall be disregarded in future. I
said if you didn't get those lines done by Wednesday, I would have to
report you to Miss Cockran, and Heaven knows that I have a good mind
to do it. It would serve you right."
Sally had borne a great deal, more than she had ever stood from those
in authority before; but now her patience gave way, and she laughed
aloud mockingly.
"Then I suppose it would serve Peter right as well? ... Miss Cockran
will find out about Peter coming in late, if I am sent to her. You
can bet your money on that: and I don't know if that will please
you--it will make Peter mad all right."
Poppy flushed a deep purple. "What do you mean?" she demanded.
"What does it matter to me how mad Trina Morrison may get?"
Sally smiled slightly, as if that answered the question, before she
added: "Well, do you want me to go to Miss Cockran?"
The prefect gripped her by the shoulders, and Sally thought she would
have shaken her or struck her; but with a great effort she partly
preserved her self-control.
"You--you impudent little b-beast," she stammered; "I don't know what
you mean--b-but I won't be t-talked to like this. You will do me
another 300 lines by the end of the week. 'Ev-v-angeline' ... they
are long ones. See?"
"Yes," said Sally sullenly, "all right."
It had suddenly occurred to her that, after all, she herself did not
wish to go to Miss Cockran and betray Peter; and that Poppy Bristow,
if goaded too far, might send her there without calculating the cost.
The only thing was to give in, with as good a grace as possible; but
again, as many times since she had come to Seascape House, the new
girl wished she had held her tongue, and not been such a fool as to
burden herself with more "lines" and a new enemy. She guessed that
the wound she had given to Poppy Bristow's pride would not be
forgiven easily.
"Not that I care, of course," she muttered, as she pulled down a copy
of Longfellow from the library shelf, and carried it to her desk.
The worst of it was, she did care. As she sat scribbling wearily,
she could see Trina Morrison walking in the garden below, arm in arm
with Mabel Gosson and Cathy Manners. They looked so utterly
care-free that, for the moment, Sally was tempted to tip her inkpot
over them, out of the open window, as they strolled below.
"It would serve them right, selfish cads," she said; but did not act
on the impulse, as she would have done a few months ago at home. She
was beginning to learn that her second thoughts were sometimes best.
The lines were finished by tea-time on Saturday, and Poppy received
them with a grudging: "Is that 300? It doesn't look more than two."
"Three hundred--yes. It was what you wanted, wasn't it?" asked Sally
politely.
The prefect gave a grunt--whether of disgust, or assent, it was
difficult to say. It was obvious that she would have liked to return
the lines for correction; but the younger girl, foreseeing this, had
taken pains to make them both tidy and clear.
"If they are all right, I suppose I can go?" she said at last; and as
the other turned her back without answering, made off across the
quadrangle after Trina Morrison, whom she saw in the distance.
"I have just had to do 300 more lines, for cheeking Poppy, you know."
There was slight importance in her tone, and Trina Morrison's
eyebrows lifted.
"Was it worth it?"
"Hardly, I suppose; but she is such an ass that I couldn't resist
pulling her leg."
"My dear child, if you start cheeking every ass in the school you
will have your work cut out."
"Oh, well--I shan't do it any more--not till next time."
They had reached the gymnasium by now, and conversation showed signs
of languishing. Sally looked hurriedly round to see that they were
alone, then caught her friend's arm.
"Peter," she said, "look here. I ... I didn't mean to boast that
other evening. It was just, I had taken such a lot of trouble to hit
off your handwriting exactly; and it's not an easy job, really,
truly, it isn't."
The other laughed.
"Why, kid, of course it isn't. I believe forgers must take a special
university course in handwriting, and I was uncommonly grateful--all
that sort of thing. It was just, I couldn't resist ragging you--I
always rag my friends--but you are such a tinder-box. Mabel Gosson,
now, is like an indiarubber ball--in, when you poke, and out
again--none the worse."
Sally's eyes glowed. So Peter did number her amongst her friends.
Nothing else mattered, at the minute.
"I didn't mind a bit really, from you," she said valiantly. "It was
the others standing round and laughing I couldn't bear. It made me
mad angry."
"Turkey-Cock-sure. Isn't that what Doris Forbes calls you? It is
quite smart of her, considering she is one of the worst asses this
house boasts."
Sally secretly liked Doris, and began, rather half-heartedly, to
object to this sweeping criticism.
"Why, she is awfully good at cricket, you know."
"And so are you, aren't you? You have often told me so, and
sometimes street boys are; and lunatic asylums, I believe, produce
quite creditable elevens." The younger girl flushed. "I daresay
cricket for girls is all very well, just while one is at school.
Personally, I like tennis much better, don't you? It often makes a
good excuse for parties."
This was so novel an idea that Sally opened her eyes wide.
"I don't understand you sometimes. Why, tea-parties are awful
rot--sitting about in best clothes, I mean."
"Oh, yes, in best school-clothes, of course."
This was equally baffling; but while Trina stood laughing, without
attempting to explain her meaning, Mabel Gosson appeared.
"I want to talk to you, Peter," she said, and glared coldly at Sally.
"All right. Come to our Form sitting-room. So long, kid. Don't get
any more lines, or you will have a red nose from leaning over the
ink-pot."
"But you will let us have a talk again some time soon? I have just
heaps to say to you."
"Yes, of course."
There was a hint of impatience in Peter's tone, and Sally dared not
keep her longer, but wandered off, rather forlornly, to the cricket
ground. They were just picking up sides for the Eagles when she
arrived, but though she walked up and down close to the pitch, Doris
Forbes took no notice of her; and when the sides were finally chosen,
she was forced to go away.
"Try shrimping!" jeered one of those to whom she had once offered
unsought advice; and as she turned her back, pretending that she did
not hear, she came face to face with Violet Tremson.
"Hullo!" said Violet quickly. "Doing anything now?"
"No."
"Well, you said you would practise me at the nets one evening."
Sally hesitated. Last time they had spoken had been in the sea, and
she herself had been violently rude.
"Do you want to play, really?" she mumbled, somewhat suspicious that
there was a trap set to catch her, and make a fool of her, though she
could not quite detect it at the moment.
"Rather. I seem to be stuck in the Wolves and Bears for life, and
batting is quite my worst show. Doris Forbes says my style is simply
awful; but then I have no brothers to coach me, you see."
"It was my Uncle Frank who taught me at the beginning. He used to
play for Yorkshire."
Sally's face brightened as she spoke, and by the time they reached
the nets they were both discussing the averages of their favourite
champions. Then they fell to work, and it was with regret that they
heard the school bell ring, and went to pick up their coats.
"You will do quite well if you hit out a bit more," said Sally. "I
am too rash, and you are too careful. You rather poke at balls, you
know."
"Well, if I try to slog, the ball always gets me middle stump and
that damps my courage--especially when someone calls out: 'How could
you be so careless? Who do you think you are? W. G. Grace, or Plum
Warner?'"
The other laughed.
"A short life and a merry one is my motto, and like the old miller,
'I don't care for nobody'--nor what 'nobody says to me.'"
They had reached the school-house by now, and passed Trina Morrison
standing in the hall. Sally waved to her, and she stared at them
with a faint smile, but did not speak.
"Isn't Peter frightfully clever?" said the younger girl; "and such a
sport--not afraid of anyone. I think she's the bravest person I ever
met."
"Do you?"
At her dry tone, Sally turned in surprise. It was so unlike Violet
Tremson's usual cheerful kindliness.
They were at the foot of the stairs that led to the upper floor,
where conversation was forbidden, and both of them stopped
involuntarily, facing each other.
"Of course she is brave. Do you mean you don't agree?"
Violet Tremson hesitated: then said very slowly:
"I don't care for Trina Morrison. I used to, you know--as you do. I
admired her very much, but ... well, later, I couldn't help seeing
that she wasn't what I thought."
"You mean, you think I will change about her?"
"Yes--I hope you will. She is rather a rotter."
It was out now; and Violet accepted silently, though her face
flushed, the indignant denial that she had expected. Any explanation
of her point of view, or Sally's, was, however, cut short by the
appearance of Miss Castle, who demanded why they were waiting about
when the dressing bell had rung.
"You will be late for supper unless you hurry. Be off now, the pair
of you."
They fled to their rooms; and while Sally changed, she meditated on
Violet Tremson's verdict, deciding that she felt as she did because
she was naturally "a slow old thing." Probably Peter hadn't bothered
to know her, and she was hurt; though it was true that it didn't seem
easy to hurt or annoy her. Sally suddenly remembered the scene in
the water, and wished she had apologised for her rudeness. She had
meant to do so, put it off, and then forgotten it. Now the
opportunity was past.
"Anyhow, I'll make up for it by being really decent to her now," she
said. "She can't help being a cousin of Mrs. Musgrave, and she has
been jolly decent to me."
CHAPTER THE TENTH
THE BREACH WIDENS
It was nearing the end of the summer term, and continued measles at
Seascape House had put an end to all hopes of a cricket season that
included the outside world. In consequence, "Games" enthusiasm
burned with so low a flame that Doris Forbes, for all her patriotic
efforts, was quite unable to arouse any interest in matches between
English _v._ Celts, Oxford _v._ Cambridge, or Lancastrians _v._
Yorkists. The matches were played--because, after all, something
must be done to pass the time on Saturdays--but not even the yawning
teams cared who won, or lost.
Sally Brendan cared least of anyone in the school, for Doris Forbes
had continued to ignore her existence where the Eagles were
concerned, and had not Violet Tremson drawn her into the struggle of
Wolves and Bears, she might have been reduced once more to shrimping.
"I had rather do anything than play with those horrible little beasts
again," she said to Peter one Saturday afternoon, as they lay on a
rug under the oak trees; and her companion smiled lazily.
"Rather be expelled?"
"Much. I wouldn't mind being expelled from this place, as I said
before. Would you?"
"I may be reduced to it for a new experience. This leper sort of
isolation is getting on my nerves."
"Well, you are luckier than I am, for you can play tennis almost any
evening--and you quite like that."
It was, indeed, the one game that Trina Morrison treated with any
kind of toleration; and when she chose to exert herself, she had a
good eye and a steady wrist that made her quite an average player.
Thanks to her friends amongst the seniors, who controlled the use of
the courts, she could count on a set almost any evening; and what
made Sally marvel was the little joy or interest she took in such
opportunities.
This afternoon, for instance, just because she knew Miss Rogers had
gone away for a week-end, and could not therefore force them to take
some exercise, she had refused to join in an American tournament,
preferring to recline instead under the trees with a novel.
Sally was surprised but pleased, because it meant that she could go
and sit with her, while she waited for her innings as a Wolf, in a
not very exciting tussle with the languid Bears.
Violet Tremson, also a Wolf, was batting at the moment, playing
steadily and carefully, but with more "dash" than earlier in the
season, and the younger girl watched her with approval.
"She's a lot better since I took her in hand, isn't she?" Sally said
at last.
"Who?"
"Why, Violet Tremson. We have been practising at the net, and now
she stands up to my bowling quite well. Some day she will be in one
of the elevens."
Peter yawned. She was reading a letter that lay between the pages of
her book, and did not look up.
Sally pulled her suddenly by the arm.
"Peter, do leave that letter for a minute, and pay attention--I want
to know something. What do you really think of Violet Tremson?"
"I never think of her at all."
"Yes, but if you did? I want to know badly, please."
"Well, then, I would probably think her a good little girl--almost
too good to be true."
At the obvious sneer the younger girl's look of curiosity deepened.
"That means you dislike her; and she doesn't like you either--and yet
I like you both. Isn't that odd?"
"Well, which do you care for most?"
The tone was lazy, but there was a gleam of interest in the
half-closed eyes. Trina was not quite as indifferent to admiration
as she often seemed.
"Oh, Peter. Can you ask? You, of course. You were my first friend
here. Violet is a good sort, but when I'm with her I feel as if I
was drinking just ordinary water, while you are like something that's
exciting, and fizzes--ginger ale, perhaps."
"Say champagne--it's not so cheap."
"But I don't like champagne. Uncle Frank used to give it to me when
I lived with him, and it's all dry--and burns."
"You don't know but that I may turn out like that. I'm not at all a
good friend for you, kid."
"Rot!"
Sally looked so indignant that the other laughed.
"Well, your dear Violet told me so--in fact she asked me to leave you
alone."
"What?"
"Oh, I endured quite a sermon on the subject of corrupting the young,
I assure you. She told me I wasn't being fair to a child like you,
and seemed to think I was dragging you into mischief."
"You didn't drag me. Why, it was I who suggested going to Parchester
that afternoon--and anyhow, it is none of her business."
"She seemed to think so. I suppose the poor thing has the missionary
spirit, and can't help herself. She sees you going to the dogs, for
instance, and must start off with a chain to drag you back."
Again there was the sneer, but this time Sally was too angry to
notice it. Her cheeks were hot with humiliation at the idea of being
"taken up" for her good by Violet, and "saved."
"I call it the most frightful cheek I ever heard," she said at last.
"On the contrary, it is painstaking and unselfish with such a
thornbush as you are. In time, she may turn you into a respectable
member of the school, with high ideals of duty--like Doris Forbes."
"I don't want to be respectable, or done good to." Sally's eyes were
flashing now. She sprang to her feet, and dug viciously at the
ground with her bat, to relieve her feelings.
"You ought to have told me before," she said. "When you saw us
beginning to make pals. You know I wouldn't stand her jawing at you
about me, as if she were my godmother--or someone odious and
interfering like that.... I ... just won't stand it. It's beastly
cheek."
"It may have been cheek, my child, but she was probably right. I
don't know that I mean to stay here much longer."
"Peter, tell me, are you planning anything risky?"
Sally had seen her glance again at her letter, as she spoke, and had
a sudden intuition that some new adventure was on foot.
Trina Morrison smiled.
"Almost as clever as Sherlock Holmes, and too clever for Seascape
House. Well, what if I am?"
"I want to come too ... I must."
"I daresay; but I shan't take you, all the same. Violet may be a
sanctimonious prig, but she's right about you and me. You are too
young for more adventures at present."
The elder girl lay back and watched the other with teasing eyes as
she spoke--only shaking her head at the furious protestations her
announcement aroused.
In the midst of them Violet Tremson appeared, tranquil as usual.
"I made twenty-three," she said, "and then fell to a catch--a neat
little donkey-drop sort, of beast--straight into Hilda Collet's
hands. I came to say you are next in, after Maisie."
Sally said nothing; then, as the other waited, answered gruffly,
turning her back: "All right--but I'm talking to Peter now."
Violet flushed, and her eyes as they met Trina Morrison's showed a
little flame of anger.
"Don't go," said Trina sweetly. "We were just discussing you. I was
just telling Sally that I thought you had gone out of your way to
take a lot of trouble about her, and that she wasn't nearly grateful
enough."
"What do you mean, Trina?"
"She means," broke in Sally furiously, "that you have been trying to
patronise me, and do me good. I suppose that old toad, Mrs.
Musgrave, put it on your conscience before I came."
"She didn't, Sally. Don't be an ass."
"Well, anyway, you tried to break off my friendship with Peter, and
that was none of your business."
Violet Tremson pushed the younger girl aside, and stood looking down
at the elder with contempt and indignation in her eyes.
"So you have been telling her what I said, have you?"
"Certainly. Since you preached to me before the whole Lower Fifth, I
imagine it wasn't meant to be private."
"How dared you talk about me before all those cads?" Sally was
trembling with rage; and Violet, it was evident, was having some
trouble to keep down her own temper.
"Be quiet, Sally," she said; "you don't understand."
"But I do--and I don't want ever to be patronised by you again, thank
you--I'll choose my own friends."
Trina Morrison, who had risen lazily to her feet, laughed.
"Turkey-Cock-sure, aren't you? You may be proud of her friendship
some day," she said mockingly. "One never knows. Anyhow, stop
gobbling, do, and go and bat. Maisie has just been bowled, and the
whole field seems yelling for you."
"I don't care--they can burst if they like. I want Violet to
understand what I feel."
"I think she does. You look wrathful enough to register displeasure
and scorn in a cinema film. Anyhow, do go and bat, and I'll settle
your final account with our mutual friend here."
Sally looked from one to the other, and with a great effort moved
away towards the pitch.
"Don't imagine I want ever to make it up again," she called over her
shoulder, and again Trina Morrison laughed; but her eyes were no
longer amused, only shallow and hard.
"Well?" she asked, briefly.
Violet's hands were clenching and unclenching round the handle of her
bat.
"I'm not clever enough to answer you," she said at last, in a low
voice; "but you know what I think of you, and what a dirty game you
have just played--poisoning Sally's mind. One day you will be
expelled, and----"
"Probably, and the school saints will sing anthems of joy over one
sinner cast into outer darkness."
"It will be for the good of the school--yes."
"And for the good of your darling Sally too, eh? We were talking
about her, I think?"
Violet moved a little closer. "What I am afraid of is--that she may
be expelled too. She is not the first child you have done your best
to ruin, by dragging her into rows. If you do, just remember this, I
shall go to Miss Cockran and tell her how much is your fault, and not
Sally's. She would run straight if you let her alone."
"You will turn sneak, in fact--is that it? My dear girl, you will
make yourself popular."
"I know--I hate sneaks; but sometimes things have to be stopped, and
Doris Forbes' brain works so slowly that she doesn't see them."
"Well, it will be amusing to hear how Old Cocaine welcomes you. I
don't fancy it will be with approval. Not even a prefect, are you?"
Trina laughed as she spoke, and picked up her hat.
"Tut, tut. What a fuss, and all about a little whippersnapper in the
Remove. I'm quite exhausted. Do get out of my way. Oh, bother!
There's the child herself coming; she must have been bowled at once."
Violet did not stir. "I'm not just fussing, Trina," she said, "I
mean it. Leave Sally alone, or I shall spoil your game."
They looked straight into one another's eyes, and then Violet turned
and walked off, without a glance at the younger girl, who, bat in
hand, had come rushing up to join them.
"What have you both been saying? Tell me, Peter.... I sent a catch
at once, when I saw you were still talking."
Trina Morrison shrugged. There was a smile round her mouth, but it
lacked its usual charm; and her eyes were hard, under brows drawn
together in a frown.
"Let us forget your missionary," she said petulantly, at last. "She
goes nearer to making me lose my temper than anyone else in this
place. Dull as water, you call her--I say, as 'ditchwater.'"
"Then give me--some champagne."
Sally looked significantly at the letter crumpled up in the elder
girl's hand; and Trina, following her glance, hesitated perceptibly.
"Well, why not?" she said. "Since Violet has dared me and it's your
risk, remember--my adventure, at least, was planned for myself alone."
"Oh, Peter, do tell me quick."
They were moving towards the house now, and Trina Morrison's frown
had cleared away.
"It's from Austin--the letter--" she said. "He and the others want
to meet me at Parchester Fair next Wednesday."
"How scrumptious! I love a Fair. But what time? They will spot we
are up to something at once, if we don't go to prep., won't they?"
"Silly! this is an evening affair, when good little school-girls are
in their beds. Why, anything of that sort is no fun in the day.
Besides, there is to be a dance.... I forgot that... you are rather
young for a dance. It's with some friends of Austin, in Parchester."
"I can either dance or look on," said Sally calmly. "You promised
you'd take me, Peter. I won't be a nuisance."
"I believe it would be best, if you didn't go--all the same,"
muttered the other. "I should be leaving here in two terms, anyhow,
you see; but it's different for you."
It was difficult to tell from her expression whether a belated attack
of conscience or a fear that the younger girl might indeed be in the
way was troubling her most.
Sally slipped her arm through Trina's ingratiatingly. "Don't worry
about my being expelled," she said; "I don't want to stay here when
you are gone."
In the excitement of the moment, she believed this true, and, touched
by the passion of affection in her voice, Peter slipped her arm round
her.
"Nice kid," she said; "but you know it is a mistake to put all your
eggs in one basket. I never do."
"You have so many friends," said Sally, a trifle wistfully, "and I
have so many enemies"; adding, in her usual tone of bravado, "but of
course I don't care about that."
"No?" said the other, a little mockingly. "Are you quite sure? If
not, it would be a pity to get expelled."
"I tell you, I don't care," answered Sally obstinately. "And I'm
going to the Fair. What about plans?"
They went into the house discussing them.
CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH
A NIGHT ADVENTURE
It was Wednesday evening. Sally Brendan lay in her bed, with her
eyes closed, and the sheet drawn up almost to her nose. Yet she was
very far from being asleep; and had anyone turned back the clothes
they would have seen that, instead of a nightdress, she wore gym.
knickers, and a jersey that belonged to one of her brothers, which
she had insisted on packing in a corner of her trunk because it was
certain to come in useful.
She giggled softly to herself, as she thought of her appearance, and
Peter's last whispered instructions as they came out of Chapel:
"For Heaven's sake, child, remember that whatever you wear, it must
be something that doesn't give us away! I don't want anybody at the
Fair saying that you came from Seascape House."
"Right oh! Old Cocaine herself would hardly know me," she had
whispered back, and hurried off, for fear her friend should question
her further and raise objections: she might even at the last minute
refuse to take her.
Trina Morrison had been in a very uncertain mood since the scene
between them on the cricket field; for the most part, irritable and
impatient. Several times she had hinted that, on reflection, she
felt sure it would be wiser for Sally not to come; and when that
young lady had maintained, "But I am going anyhow--it's no use trying
to stop me now," she had warned her that she might have to return
alone.
"You see, you are much too juvenile for this sort of a dance, really,
and I can't be bothered to act nursemaid. Why, I never meant to
bring you into the show at all, until that ass Violet Tremson began
to threaten me, and then I felt I must--just to annoy her."
"To threaten you with what?"
"Why, expulsion, of course. She said if I didn't reform my ways,
especially with regard to you, she would expound my sins to Old
Cocaine."
"What a sneaking cad she is!"
In her heart Sally Brendan found it difficult to apply this
description to Violet Tremson, but she was still sore and angry with
her. It is said that any stick is good enough with which to beat a
dog: besides, it seemed to mollify Peter.
"I dare say you wouldn't be happy here with this crowd when I am
gone, and that's a matter of two terms more at most," she had said,
in a more friendly tone; and Sally had answered:
"Of course not--I have told you so. I always meant to get expelled,
from that first day on the beach."
If not strictly true, the sentiment sounded well, and allowed Trina
to put away, with a shrug of her shoulders, any responsibility she
might ever have felt.
"All right, then--9.45 sharp--at the landing window; and remember, I
shan't hang about for you."
It was for the clock to strike 9.30 that the girl now anxiously
waited.
Seascape House went to bed early. The Matron had made her last round
of the passages, and Decima Pillditch was snoring heavily, when Sally
at last stole out of bed. By pulling to one side the curtain of her
cubicle, she could focus the moonlight full on her looking-glass; and
without delay she started on the final stage in her make-up.
It was quick and drastic: nothing less than the hacking off of the
red curls that had made a fuzzy halo round her small freckled face.
When it was completed, she was no longer bobbed, but shorn, and in
her costume of knickers and jersey presented a very good picture of a
street Arab of eleven or twelve.
The effect was magnificent, but something of a shock in its
transformation--even to Sally herself; and she began to wonder how
Peter would approve of the disguise--completed by a large hole in the
back of her stocking, which she suddenly discovered, and had no time
to draw together.
"I will keep on my cap and coat until we leave the garden," she told
herself, rather guiltily; and thus wrapped up, opened the door, stole
along the passage, and down the back stairs to the landing window.
It was open, and at first she thought that her friend had gone
without her; but as she peered out, she heard a voice whisper:
"Come! Do be quick."
And climbing through the opening, she found herself alongside Trina,
on the flat roof of the corridor, that ran round three sides of the
gymnasium.
Without looking at her, Trina inserted a large wedge of wood between
the window and the sash, then pulled the lower pane down to meet it.
"No one is likely to notice that, and we shall be able to lift it all
right when we return," she whispered. "But now, follow me and be
quiet. We have to crawl along just below the mistresses' windows,
stooping, in case they are there--but I think they are all in the
sitting-room at this hour. When we come to Miss Castle's, there's a
pipe down to the ground, and two bricks out in the wall, where one
can put one's feet."
She started off, pulling her dark coat tight round her, and Sally
followed, her eyes dancing with excitement. Most of the mistresses'
windows were shut, but Miss Castle's was half open, with a curtain
blowing slightly in the wind, though there was no light showing.
Trina made a grimace at the blank space, and shook her fist
playfully; then began to lower herself over the edge of the roof.
Her feet scraped along the pipe before they found their foothold, and
Sally, at the noise, caught her breath; but there was no sound from
the room above.
"She is not in there yet," the girl decided; and seeing the light in
Miss Cockran's study at the end of the passage, wondered idly if she
had gone along there.
"Jawing about us in our little beds to Old Cocaine," she said, and
giggled as she began her own descent. It was hastened by a sudden
flash of electric light in Miss Castle's room, just as she found her
first foothold, and thereupon she lowered herself with a rapidity
that nearly sent Trina Morrison, just below her, backwards into a
flower bed.
"Young ass!" whispered Trina. "You will make me dirty my evening
dress."
"'Ware Castle!" Sally returned, and they flattened themselves against
the wall in the shadows, as they heard a voice from above call
sharply,
"Who's there?"
[Illustration: "'WARE CASTLE!"]
Again the question was repeated, and as if in response two cats
emerged from a bush and fled across the grass, one of them miawing
loudly.
This seemed to satisfy Miss Castle, for she partially closed her
window, and they heard the curtain drawn across. Keeping to the
shadows, they crept along the flower beds till they turned the corner
of the house, and came out on the grass of the tennis lawns, from
whence they made their way into the shrubberies. No word was said
until they had climbed into the tree, with branches overhanging the
wall, that Sally knew from her previous adventure.
"I'd better leave my things here, hadn't I?" she whispered. "It's
frightfully warm, and my overcoat is a school one"; but the elder
girl, without answering beyond a nod of agreement, was already
scrambling down the rough stonework, with the aid of a rope she had
pulled out of the trunk and hung over a strong branch.
Sally followed her as quickly as she could, but with her shorter legs
the drop was not so easy to manage, and Trina was walking rapidly
down the road by the time she reached the ground.
"Are you going at that pace all the way to Parchester?" she panted,
as she caught her up. "Anyhow, it's no good--we shan't be there
before midnight."
"No, silly! The Fair is on the heath, on this side of the town, and
anyhow, I have ordered a car at the Black Cull."
There was something very impressive to Sally's ears in the
carelessness of her companion's tone, and as she undid her coat in
the warm night air, and it fell back, revealing a pretty silk dress,
the younger girl gave a gasp of admiration and distress.
"Why, you are most frightfully smart," she said. "I don't know
whatever you will think of me."
"Good Golliwogs!"
Trina had turned her round towards the moon, and was staring at her,
her own face in the shadows, so that Sally could not tell what she
felt.
"You told me to disguise myself," she said half defiantly, expecting
anger or scorn--anything but her companion's sudden outburst of
laughter.
"My good child! Well, you have cut the painter--you are done for now
with Old Cocaine."
"Lost by a narrow shave, instead of escaped by it," said Sally,
greatly relieved. "Anyhow, no one at the Fair could possibly
recognise me, could they?"
"I should say your own mother wouldn't--when you are returned to her,
to-morrow."
Sally's rising spirits received a dash of cold water at the
rejoinder. In a flash she suddenly remembered how Mrs. Brendan had
begged her not to get expelled, and how she had promised she would
try to stop at school. Standing outside the private door of the
Black Bull, while Trina Morrison hammered with the knocker, she
shuffled her feet uncomfortably, and tried to put out of her mind her
mother's eyes, and her consciousness of the furious superior glance
that Cecilia would give her, when she turned up once more like a bad
penny. After all, she decided, there was no need for them to be
caught. Peter had done this kind of thing before, quite safely, and
cutting off one's hair was not an unpardonable crime, taken by itself.
"Oh, shut up shuffling, do," she heard the elder girl say. "I want
to listen. They are all asleep, or I shall have to go to the public
bar, and find someone. It's perfectly disgusting."
At this moment the door flew open, and a man with a red face
appeared. He was in his shirt sleeves, with a coat over his arm,
which he began to put on while he spoke--leering at them with a
disagreeably familiar smile.
"All right, Missie. I booked the order true enough, but I tell you
straight I don't fancy it. Thinking it over, after the young
gentleman had bin here, I says to myself, 'It will as good as get me
sacked, it will, if I'm found out--and that's not exactly a cheering
sort of notion for a poor man.'"
"My cousin arranged with you to drive me to the opening of the Fair
for ten shillings--an order is an order, isn't it?"
"That's what he said, Miss, and I'm never one to overcharge,
especially a young lady like yourself; but it's so risky, I don't see
as how I can, for the money. 'Don't you have nothing to do with it,'
says my wife, 'or that there female up at the school-house will get
you sacked.'"
"Nonsense!" said Trina angrily. "Why, it is ridiculous to talk of
'sacking.' How could Miss Cockran do it? She has never employed
your cars for years--said you were impudent, or something--so you
won't even lose her custom."
The man's smile was not so affable now, and there was an angry glint
in his eyes, though his tone was still oily.
"You seem to know the ways of my business better than I do,
Missie--leastways, it's the first I've ever heard of being
impudent--but just you think of this now; I ain't out skylarking like
you and that young boy, if he belongs to your party, but earning of
my living--and I don't take no risks."
"How much do you want, and are you prepared to start at once? I must
be there by 10.15."
Trina looked impatiently at her wrist-watch in the moonlight, and the
man continued to smile, but with his hand half over his mouth, as
though to conceal what was almost a grin.
"Not to disappoint a young lady, Missie, I'd go at--say, thirty
shillings, I would."
They fixed it finally at a pound--Trina stamping angrily on the step
as she concluded, saying:
"Well, be quick, can't you? I don't want to waste the whole evening."
He vanished, and as her glance fell on Sally, she frowned--no longer
amused by her companion's ragamuffin appearance.
"Why, you look worse and worse," she said petulantly. "You ought to
be picking up pennies on a London kerb."
"I shall do all right for a Fair, then, shan't I?"
"Yes--but not for a dance--and that's what I'm really going to."
"Well, I'm not. I expect I'll trot back, after I have had enough of
the Fair. I said I probably should, so you needn't worry."
Sally saw the elder girl was ashamed of her, and felt hot and
angry--especially at the look of relief with which her suggestion was
received.
"I daresay that would be best. You'll be able to get up the wall by
the rope, and the rest is quite easy."
At this moment the car rattled into view. It was very dusty and
smelly, and took a great deal of winding up before it consented to
crawl away along the road towards the heath. By the time it arrived,
Trina, who glanced at her wrist-watch whenever a patch of moonlight
allowed, was in a state of exasperated nerves with both driver and
car, while Sally was secretly wishing herself back in bed.
This was not at all the joyous adventure she had imagined as she lay
waiting for the clock to strike.
CHAPTER THE TWELFTH
SALLY AT THE FAIR
The taxi pulled up on the outskirts of a large crowd, chiefly
composed of men and boys. Sally, as she put her head out of the
window, could see their dark figures outlined against a row of
flaring lights.
The Fair was held in a field, surrounded on three sides by a thick
hedge, on the other, by a canvas wall, eight or nine feet high. From
inside rose the droning jangle of merry-go-rounds and the raucous
voices of showmen and hawkers.
"Walk up, ladies! Walk up, gentlemen! Don't miss the most
celebrated moving picture of the age," etc., etc.
Entranced by the interest of the scene before her, the girl stood as
she had alighted from the car, and did not even notice it drive off,
nor that her companion, after calling to her sharply, had moved away
alone. When the jerk of someone's elbow in her ribs woke her at last
from her dream of contemplation, it was to find herself engulfed in a
group of Parchester rowdies, who were fighting their way towards the
turnstile. Here, a negro with a red nose, and spots of white paint
on his cheeks and forehead, stood beating a drum.
Nearly swept off her feet, Sally was thankful when she arrived
inside; but her heart sank, as she saw no sign of Trina Morrison,
who, she had fully imagined, would be waiting for her there.
"She knows I can take care of myself--and, of course, I can."
This was the first explanation she offered herself, cleverly turning
neglect into a compliment; but it did not completely satisfy her
judgment all the same. Rather a voice in another part of her brain
kept whispering:
"It was beastly of her not to wait--I shall tell her so." But when,
after a few minutes' desultory staring at the booths, she came upon
Trina and her friends, she did not do so. Instead, she hung back in
the shadow of a tent, overcome by shame as she realised the contrast
between herself and this group of civilised merry-makers.
Girls in evening dresses, with light cloaks trimmed with fur; young
men in black suits, with starched white shirt-fronts, and shining
hair plastered across their foreheads--such were Trina's friends:
while she, shock-headed and freckled, in her rough jersey, gym.
knickers and torn stockings, belonged obviously to the little group
of ragamuffin boys who were trying to insert their heads under the
flaps of tents, or secure a ride on the merry-go-rounds for nothing.
At school, Sally had thought her costume a joke. Peter had laughed
at it too, when she first saw her in the road, though later, when
waiting outside the Black Bull, she had frowned--Peter's moods were
dreadfully uncertain. It would be horrible if she, Sally, were to
step out and join the group, and then her friend were merely to stare
at her, and say something uncomfortable in her cool drawl, that would
make them all laugh.
"Stuck-up toads! I hate the lot of them!" the girl muttered,
clenching her fists as she watched them throwing Houp-la rings. It
seemed to her that Austin, as he handed the rings to his cousin, was
staring beyond her mockingly, recognising the unwanted guest, but
determined to cut such a disreputable-looking waif, at all costs.
In reality, Sally knew that he could not possibly distinguish her, at
the distance she stood, from amongst the boys who leaped and screamed
around her, in and out of the shadows made by the tents and booths;
but the true soreness lay in the thought that Peter had probably
forgotten to mention her at all, so that none of her companions was
prepared either to welcome or to scorn her.
"I don't care--not a scrap!"
With the shrug of her shoulders that had often exasperated Mrs.
Musgrave as the answer to a snub, Sally strolled away from the
Houp-la. It was a silly game, she decided, that only won for the
successful hideous china vases and trumpery brooches; she would go,
instead, to a moving picture show.
The flaring lights on the platform outside one large tent showed
parties of Japanese contortionists, black cats, and men struggling in
mines, while a hideous bat, of monster size, flapped over their heads.
Sally was so thrilled by the bat that, for the moment, she forgot
Trina, and even the school. It was fun to be a boy out on an
adventure, and to wriggle her way through the crowd, with exasperated
women tapping her on the head for her impudence, and old men abusing
her as she trod on their toes. It was not such fun, however, when,
nearing the entrance, she became wedged, just below the platform,
between a very stout woman and a bony soldier, who dug his elbows
almost into the back of her neck.
The soldier's companion had a blue and yellow tickler, and thought it
a great joke that the little crop-headed boy in front objected to
having his face washed with it, and lost his temper when she
persisted.
"Shut up!" said Sally fiercely.
To which the woman replied with a cheerful wink at her neighbours:
"None of your lip, Charlie, my boy, or my pal there will fetch you
one on the mug--see if he don't."
"S'truth I will," said the soldier, with an air of great ferocity.
"I'll spoil your beauty for you--there's not a few noses as I've laid
flat with their faces, in my time."
And he dug with his elbows so sharply into Sally's neck that she
became alarmed. After this, she endured the tickler in silence until
they reached the foot of the steps up to the platform. It was as she
struggled up there towards the tent doorway, past the man with the
drum, that she discovered she had no money: someone in the crowd had
picked her pocket.
"Pocket picked, you young varmint? You mean you'd like to wriggle in
for nothing--I know your kind," said the man at the door, scowling,
as a wave of people threw Sally almost on top of him, and he rose and
thrust her roughly back.
Had not a clown, who had been turning somersaults on the platform to
the accompaniment of the drum, caught her arm and pulled her into
safety beside him, she would have fallen backwards down the steps,
and probably have been trodden underfoot by those still fighting
their way up.
The very thought made Sally feel sick, but it evidently struck the
clown as a good joke, for he asked her loudly if she knew what
happened to the grasshopper who chose to cross the road in front of a
steam engine.
"It's not my fault--let me go," she said angrily. "I'm off home."
The clown, instead, picked her up and swung her to and fro in the air
while he executed a clog dance.
"By, Baby Bunting," he chanted, while the man with the drum, and the
Columbine, who stood on either side of him, laughed at this
unrehearsed exhibition till the tears ran down their faces.
The humiliation was dreadful. Sally could not imagine how she would
ever survive it if Trina and her party were to recognise her in such
a position; but when at last the stream of people entering the tent
had ceased, she was thankful, as she tore herself from the clown's
grasp, that there was at least no sign of them.
Her one desire now was to get back to the school as quickly as she
could. Keeping to the shadows, she made her way to the entrance, and
with a sigh of relief found herself in a few minutes on the patch of
heath outside.
Here, as she paused, uncertain in the darkness which way to turn, she
was startled by a yelp of pain, and a puppy came running towards her.
It was a mongrel, mainly rough-haired terrier, with ridiculously long
ears and a tufted tail. One of the ears was bloodstained, and the
tail had a can tied to it, filled with stones.
"You poor little thing," said Sally, who loved animals; and she drew
it close, while she bent down and began to untie the string.
"Garn!--leave it alone, can't yer? We are going a-hunting with
it"--broke in an angry voice, and a big lad of fifteen, followed by a
lot of smaller boys, crowded round her threateningly.
Sally finished untying the string, and looked up. She was trembling
nearly as much as the dog, but she said quietly:
"No--you shan't do it any more. He is only a puppy--how can you be
so cruel?"
"Quite the little gentleman," sneered one of them, in mock admiration
of Sally's voice; while a boy about her own age came up to her, and,
doubling his fists, brought one nearly under her nose.
"Cruel! What d' yer mean? 'e's my pup. Can't I drown 'im or tease
'im, if I likes?"
The others laughed and jeered, as, involuntarily, the girl drew back.
There were shouts of:
"Go it, Stan!--You're the bruiser. Give the little cad a black eye."
Sally went very pale. She had boxed a little with her brothers, but
this was quite a different proposition.
"Let him go, please," she faltered. "He is so frightened."
"Scared as you," retorted Stan briefly. "I'll tie the can on to you
as well as 'im, if you don't clear off." And he bent to seize the
puppy by its rope collar.
Sally could feel the terrier tremble against her legs, and as she
heard it yelp in sudden pain, her fear vanished, and only burning
anger remained. Leaning across the dog, she hit Stan hard on his
nose, sending him reeling backwards in surprise.
"Take that, you cowardly brute," she said.
In an instant a ring was formed, and Sally found she had partisans as
well as enemies. There was an encouraging shout of "Go it, Carrots!"
as she warded off a slashing blow from Stan and landed one herself on
his jaw; but this was the utmost of her triumph. What the girl knew
of boxing was not enough to defend her from a windmill attack of arms
and legs that admitted kicking and stamping amongst its tactics.
But for the timely appearance of a policeman, attracted from the
gateway by the noise, she would have fared badly indeed. As it was,
when the rest had fled, and he laid his hand on her shoulder, one eye
was already closed, while she stood trying to stem with bleeding
knuckles the tears that flowed from the other.
"Silly young hass, to start fighting at your age," said the policeman
reprovingly, but with good-natured sympathy.
"'Ome you go now, sonny, and tell your ma to put raw beef on it.
That's the stuff."
"The puppy?" gasped Sally, between her tears. "I tried to save
him--the brutes were hurting him."
"There weren't no sign of a puppy as I came up, so I guess he legged
it all right," said the man, glancing at her curiously; then:
"Where's your 'ome, sonny?"
Sally's voice was strangely unlike that of the other urchins, whose
pranks had made his evening duty at the Fair a burden; and a
suspicion began to dawn that she might belong to a preparatory school
in Parchester. This was more than confirmed, when "sonny," twisting
out of his grasp, made off without returning any answer.
The policeman pursued for a few yards, but he was "fat and scant of
breath," the heath had numberless gorse bushes to act as cover and
the night was very dark.
[Illustration: THE POLICEMAN PURSUED FOR A FEW YARDS]
"Drat the young brute!" he muttered at last, and stalked back towards
the entrance of the Fair, with an air of dignified contempt, as
though the quarry he had pursued was quite beneath his notice.
In the meantime "the young brute," bleeding from her eye and
knuckles, lay and panted between two bushes, stifling her sobs as
well as she could, until she was sure that the search after her had
ceased. Ignominious as it must be in any case to return to Seascape
House a figure of dirt and fun, it would have been beyond all words
of horror to arrive in charge of a policeman. Cecilia had prophesied
that her career would end in a reformatory; and Sally had a secret
dread that this might indeed be her fate if once the police began to
take an interest in her adventures.
For the moment, as the constable's broad back disappeared into the
darkness, this immediate danger was removed; and Sally wept
unrestrainedly, almost as much with relief as with pain.
Her head ached and her body felt a mass of bruises, but at least she
was free, and had, as her brothers would have called it, "kept her
end up," in the matter of the puppy. Their approving eyes seemed to
rest upon her as at last she stifled her sobs and, pulling herself
stiffly to her feet, began to look around her.
The moon was behind the clouds, and in both directions the road lay
like a white ribbon, cutting the darkness of the heath, save where
the flaring gas-jets of the Fair flamed across it in a yellow patch.
As she peered one way she saw a halo of light edging the horizon, and
knew that this was Parchester and that she must turn her back on it
to reach Seascape House.
Utter blackness, but for the ribbon of road, lay the other way, and
with a little shiver at the prospect, Sally, skirting the furze
bushes and digging her hands deep into her pockets, began to run
across the heath parallel with the road along which she and Trina had
so lately driven.
CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH
"JUST SILLINESS"
The road across the heath, when Sally joined it, lay white and clear
for about half-a-mile; then scattered firs--wind-blown and
bitten--began to appear, and after these a series of pine plantations
that as the moon peeped from behind clouds threw their shadows across
the sky like the vaulting in some great church.
So far, since she left the neighbourhood of the Fair, the girl had
met no one save a solitary car that passed her with blinding lights;
but it seemed to her that the wood was alive with strange night birds
that brushed the branches above her head, or beasts that ran
scurrying through the undergrowth. It was this feeling of being
watched, while she could not see, that kept her, in spite of her
bruises, running at almost breathless speed; but, exhausted at last,
she sank down on a bank beside a ditch, where the road lay open and
clear between two clumps of pines.
At once she became conscious of how much her eye had swollen, and
putting her poor bruised hands together over it, she sat huddled up,
with her elbows resting on her knees. How long she remained there
she did not know; but suddenly she rose to her feet and
screamed--something had touched her, something soft and wet.
She looked down, and saw it was the mongrel dog, to whose rescue she
had come at the Fair. Now, almost as frightened as she had been, he
crouched at her feet, slowly wagging his tufted tail, and begging
with abject eyes that she would not kick him or send him away. He
had lovely brown eyes (mongrels often have) and Sally, forgetting her
own hurts, drew him up into her arms, and began to kiss him, while he
responded with frantic licks and little whines of satisfaction.
"I love you, puppy, I love you," she whispered, and became
indifferent to the loneliness of her surroundings. With what was
almost a swagger she put him down at last, and continued her homeward
road--this time at a pleasant stroll. She even found courage to
laugh at the predicament in which she had landed herself--made worse
as it was by this new witness to her naughtiness.
"Friend pup," she said, as he ran joyously beside her, leaping
occasionally to lick her hand--"Friend pup, I very much fear that I
am in the soup, and you will put the lid on that soup. Never mind,
life is no longer dull, and we shall make a fine exit from Seascape
House together."
This boast brought her thoughts back with a jerk to Trina Morrison
and her friends. How long had she herself lain among the gorse
bushes? Perhaps the dance was over, and Austin having already
dropped his cousin at the school wall, she was safe in her bed.
If so, would she think of Sally and wonder what had become of her and
whether she had also returned in safety?
It was a difficult question to answer, and the girl shuffled over
facing it. In her heart, she knew it was quite possible Peter would
continue to forget her if it was inconvenient to remember; but she
pushed that thought away with a sop to her vanity.
"Anyhow, she knew I was the kind of person who could take care of
myself; besides, she warned me of all the risks, so it's not her
fault, whatever may happen to me."
This seemed the best conclusion of the matter. If you are faintly
conscious that your idol's feet are clay, it is best to leave them
decently covered; so Sally gave up speculating about Trina, and began
to wonder instead, as she drew near Seascape House, how she should
make her entrance, and explain either her own appearance, or the dog.
She did not look forward to a cross-examination on how she had spent
the evening, by Old Cocaine.
Turning down the lane, she stood for a few minutes gazing
irresolutely at the high wall, under the hanging tree. There was the
rope that would help her up--within reach, if she jumped--but she
knew that her bruises would not let her do this, even if she could
solve the problem of how afterwards to lift up the dog.
No, she must turn back, and enter boldly by the front avenue, as
though that were the way by which she had left; and thus, when
stopped (as she surely would be, and questioned), she would not be in
danger of betraying Trina's secret.
This decision made, she called to the puppy, and returned once more
to the high road, where a few yards' further walking revealed a new
obstacle. The gates were locked, and their iron spikes rose
mockingly above her, as she gazed through the bars at the drive.
"I suppose it will be a case of waking 'Ma Jakes' at the lodge," she
muttered; but at this minute the puppy, who quite realised his new
mistress's desire to enter the forbidden garden, discovered a way in
for himself by a ditch at the side of the raised drive. That it was
not a large enough opening for Sally, he, however, failed to grasp,
and began to whine and bark encouragingly from the other side, only
raising his voice a little louder when she whispered to him to be
quiet.
"That settles it," said the girl, and with a sudden impulse not to be
caught begging for an entrance, began to climb the iron-work; but the
exertion was so great that by the time she had pulled herself over
the spikes, the sweat was running down her face. Trembling all over
at the strain, she rested before she began the descent, and suddenly
heard the dog growl.
As she looked over her shoulder, she saw a light approaching down the
drive.
With a little cry of panic, she hastened her movements, caught her
foot between the bars, released it, and then fell to the ground,
doubling it beneath her. The pain this time was far worse than her
swollen eye, or any of her bruises; and as the puppy ran to lick her
face, she pushed him away--moaning a little.
"Who are you? What are you doing here? Why--it is a boy and a dog."
Sally opened the eye that was not swollen, and saw by the light of an
electric torch, Miss Castle, her Form mistress, bending over her. In
a flash she remembered the open window as they climbed down from the
roof, and a voice calling out to them. It was evident they had
aroused Miss Castle's suspicions, and that at the sound of a dog
barking she had come out to see what was wrong.
"Oh, I'm so glad it is you," the girl whispered. "You won't be angry
with the puppy, will you? It is not his fault."
The other stared at her, at first blankly amazed, and then with
dawning surprise and horror.
"Sally!" she said. "Sally Brendan?" And then--"Oh, my poor child,
what has happened to you?"
"My foot ... the pain...."
Sally tried to move as she spoke, and fainted. When she was able to
realise her surroundings again, she was lying on two chairs in the
lodge kitchen; and "Ma Jakes," a fat woman with her hair in curlers,
was trying to blow the embers into a blaze. Miss Castle was writing
a note at the table.
"Take this to the sanatorium at once," she said as she finished to a
man in the doorway, who, Sally knew, must be Jakes, the
gardener--only he looked so odd in a shabby dressing-gown, with the
legs of his pyjamas falling over his boots, and his matted hair
standing wildly on end.
"Where is the puppy?" asked Sally, as Miss Castle came towards her,
and at this minute he made his presence known by a yelp, as he
retreated under the table before a large angry cat.
"Eating the poor thing's supper, 'e was," said Mrs. Jakes
resentfully; "'e ought to be drowned, 'e ought."
She was angry at being dragged out of her bed, "because," so she put
it to herself, "of the mischieviousness of one of them dratted
noosances of girls."
"It's just--he's so terribly hungry," said Sally. And her voice
trembled because her foot hurt her so much, and her swollen eye
nearly as badly.
"I ... fought a boy to save him from being hurt, and I don't want him
scolded or drowned."
She looked entreatingly at Miss Castle, who seemed to understand, for
she drew the dog over and patted him gently.
"All right, Sally--he shan't be hurt, and I will get him some food
myself. Don't try to talk any more, child."
She slipped her arm behind the cushion on which the girl's head was
resting and raised her a little. Sally lay quite still, and gazed at
the tin canister on the mantel-piece in which Mrs. Jakes kept her
tea. She found herself concentrating on its shininess, and wondering
how it had got its two dents, because she knew she must think of
something, or the pain would become unendurable, and she would cry
like a baby. It was no use at all to consider explanations or what
it was best to say to Miss Cockran, for her head was altogether too
stupid to form a connected story.
When at last she did see the Headmistress, it was only for a minute,
in what afterwards seemed a kind of dream, with a white-capped nurse
standing in the background.
Sally found herself saying, "I'm sorry," as she met the searching
grey eyes, and though they did not smile they were quite kind as they
gazed down at her.
"That's right. I am glad you are sorry," Miss Cockran said. "But I
don't want you to talk now, just to try to sleep. Later on you shall
tell me everything."
She was turning away when Sally clutched at her arm.
"Miss Cockran," she said; "Please ... the puppy ... he is such a
darling, and it's not his fault--you will be kind to him?"
This time the Headmistress smiled.
"He has just had a large bowl of bread and milk, and Miss Castle and
Nurse Baker are putting some ointment on his ear. He is quite happy;
so lie quiet, child, and don't worry any more about him."
Sally tried to lie quiet, but her foot was very painful, and her
whole body ached. Even when she fell asleep she did not seem able to
forget the pain; but woke up in a panic, dreaming that boys were
pelting her with stones.
"You have had a slight touch of fever, but you will be all right now,
if you are good," the white-capped nurse told her some days later,
but when Sally demanded leave to get up she shook her head.
"Why, you will have to keep that sprained ankle of yours up for some
time--there's a nasty swelling."
Sally had very rarely been "laid up." On the few occasions when it
did occur, the whole of her family had combined to amuse her and keep
her quiet; because her mother said it would be bad to allow her to
become over-excited. Even so, she had been peevish and not
particularly grateful.
Now, convalescence took on a very different note. For some days
Sally saw no one but the Matron of the sanatorium, her nurse, and the
old doctor who came to look at her ankle. Occasionally she could
hear the voices of those recovering from measles; but they were in
another passage, and all communication with them was forbidden.
Sally did not even know if they were aware of her presence in the
building.
It was obvious that she was in disgrace--"a leper"--as she told
herself bitterly, turning the pages of some magazines, which, with
some Patience cards, were almost her sole means of passing the time.
Occasionally Matron read to her; but her choice of books bored the
girl, and she refused to be drawn on to school topics.
"Miss Cockran will tell you anything she wishes, when she has time to
see you," was her final answer to Sally's frequent entreaties, and
the girl's heart sank.
Left to herself, she lay and brooded over Trina Morrison's remark
that, were they to run away and be caught, they would not be allowed
to provide the school with even a few minutes' peep-show.
"I suppose it means expulsion," she told herself--and longed to know
if Peter had escaped detection. It was maddening to think that when
she did see Miss Cockran she could not inquire after her for fear of
arousing suspicion.
It was a very sulky girl, outwardly calm, but really a good deal
shaken, who faced her interview with the Headmistress. The account
she gave of her adventures was of the barest.
"I heard there was a Fair--and I wanted to go. So I got out of the
house and went: and as I was coming away, some boys were illtreating
the puppy--and afterwards he followed me."
"Haven't you missed out that you fought the boys?" asked Miss Cockran
quietly.
Sally flushed. Something had kept her from her usual boasting:
indeed, when she remembered the fight, her feeling was rather of
shame than pride.
"I put up a simply rotten show," she muttered.
"You fought pluckily, at any rate--and in a good cause. I am proud
of that."
The girl found the tears rising to her eyes at this praise, and her
sullenness began to vanish.
"I ... I'm sorry about the rest now--I wasn't before ... but ... it's
been horrible at school, and I didn't care----"
"You wanted to be expelled, you mean?"
Sally crumpled the edge of the counterpane between her hot hands.
"I did at one time. I'm not doing any good here that I can see."
"You have a good form record--top every week, I think. On the other
hand, I hear you are untidy in the dormitory, and often rude to
Matron, and Decima Pillditch."
There was no answer for some minutes, and then the girl said:
"I like the class work--it's interesting--I could do stiffer stuff."
"I know. You would have been moved up next term."
Sally's heart sank at that "would have been."
"Are you going to expel me?" she demanded suddenly.
Miss Cockran had been sitting very still on her chair beside the bed;
but now she rose, and after looking down at the girl with her clear
grey eyes for a few seconds, turned and paced the room.
"I don't know, Sally," she said, stopping at last. "Frankly, I can't
decide. I hate expelling girls. It means such a stain on their
career for always, and you are so young to start with that. Yet what
you have done is quite impossible, and fully deserves the worst
punishment school life knows."
Sally had begun to grow sulky again, and almost involuntarily her
usual formula of disdain sprang to her lips:
"I don't care----"
The Headmistress had walked to the window, and was looking out, but
she wheeled sharply as she caught the words.
"Do you mean it, child? If so, there is, of course, nothing more to
be said--you will leave directly your foot is well enough, and not
come back here. But have you thought what expulsion stands for?"
"I've only been here one term, and..."
"Yes--one term--and that will be the end of your school life, at any
rate, in England, I fear. Other schools will not be anxious to take
you. Is it because you preferred home work so much, and living with
your family, that you have done this reckless thing?"
There was so much real anxiety in Miss Cockran's voice as she asked
the question, and her eyes, though grave, were so kind, that Sally
felt the last of her outposts of defiance break down. At the same
moment, she caught a vision of the schoolroom at home, and the
boredom of lessons alone there, for all the years, until she grew up.
"It wasn't true, what I said just now," she burst out suddenly. "I
do care--the other girls are hateful to me, and I'm very unpopular;
but I like the work and the games, when I'm given a chance at them.
I'd like to get a scholarship, and go on to College--Oxford--I know I
could do it."
Miss Cockran nodded as if she understood.
"Then why ... why this mad escapade?" she said at last; "I don't
understand."
Sally flushed a deep red. It seemed as if Trina Morrison's share in
the adventure was not known, and she, at least, had come back all
right, undetected. Her spirits rose at the thought.
"It was just ... just silliness----" she said at last. "I do mad
things sometimes."
"Ah," said the Headmistress, "just silliness, ... and it might have
wrecked your life. If I had thought it deliberate naughtiness, and
not, well--just silliness--I would have had no hesitation in thinking
it my duty to expel you. A school cannot be run without discipline,
any more than a ship."
Sally shifted her bad foot uncomfortably. She hated apologies, and
usually skimmed over them as airily as possible; but something told
her that nothing but complete submission would be of any use on this
occasion. With a great effort, she forced herself to look Miss
Cockran in the face as she spoke.
"I ... I'm really sorry, and would like to stay, if you'll have
me--and I'll try to keep straight--keep the rules, I mean--in future.
And ... and I don't think it will do the discipline any harm if I
stop, because everyone hates me so much that I couldn't have
persuaded them to go to the Fair with me, even if I had wanted to--I
mean, I'm not a bad influence--I'm just no influence at all."
In spite of herself, the Headmistress smiled at the last part of this
confession.
"Poor Sally," she said. "There's a lot to learn at school besides
lessons, isn't there?"
"No one gives me a chance ... they all hate me ... and----"
Miss Cockran put up her hand.
"Hush, Sally--think very carefully before you speak when you begin to
say anything like that. Just remember this--that I am going to give
you a chance now--suppose you give the others a chance next term."
She bent, kissed the girl and went quickly from the room.
CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH
AUTOLYCUS
Sally Brendan saw no one belonging to the school during the remainder
of her convalescence except Miss Cockran occasionally, and once Miss
Castle, who came to tea with her. It was a red-letter afternoon, for
Sally had been allowed up for the first time, with a crutch under her
arm, to take the weight off her injured foot, and was able to
establish herself in a cosy armchair in the window, from which she
could command a view of the distant lodge and drive.
Down below, she could see some of the convalescents from measles
walking arm in arm, or playing crazy croquet, on a lawn that was all
bumps and slopes. The sound of good-natured squabbling, interspersed
with many giggles and shouts, rose continuously; but though bored by
her own society, the girl made no attempt to follow what was
happening, or to attract attention. Rather, she pulled the curtain
slightly forward so as to leave herself in the shadow.
A glance had told her that Peter, at any rate, had not found her way
to the sanatorium group, and there was no one else in the school in
whom she took the faintest interest: besides, when she hobbled across
the room, she had passed a looking-glass, and, though vanity formed
no part of Sally's conceit, the sight had given her something of a
shock.
Her head might speak to a phrenologist in bumps of brains and
determination, but to the ordinary observer it was, at the present
moment, frankly ugly, with the short hair, that should have crowned
it in curls, cut roughly, in odd, shaggy lengths. The injured eye
was no longer swollen, but still rainbow-coloured; in fact, as Sally
honestly told herself, she was a figure of fun, and when Miss Castle
entered the room she looked up anxiously to detect a smile.
The smile was there; but it was friendly--not malicious--and Sally
quickly forgot all about her own appearance when she saw the second
visitor. For the moment she scarcely recognised the dirty cowering
mongrel she had rescued in the well-brushed, rather self-assertive
puppy who hurled himself on her knee and began frantically to lick
her face.
"Why, he's quite handsome," she said, and Miss Castle laughed.
"I've told them so in the Common Room, but they won't believe
me--except Miss Cockran--and she quotes, 'handsome is as handsome
does,' because he caught a rat in the cellar last night."
"Oh, did he?--the angel! He is an angel dog, isn't he, Miss Castle?"
"I haven't found his wings yet--I fear he is a thief and a
rascal--but he is a very attractive rascal, and has made me take more
exercise in the last few days than in all the rest of the term,
Sally."
Sally looked up quickly: she was amusing the puppy with the end of
her dressing-gown tassel, and as she tried to prevent him from
barking she said anxiously:
"Miss Castle, what is going to happen to him? I have not been
allowed to get letters, or write home, but I know I can make Mother
keep him, if I take him back with me; though if I ask her through the
post my sister Cecilia will tell her to say 'No.' You see we have
two dogs already."
"I sympathise with Cecilia, three dogs are too many in most houses."
"Well, you see, there are the boys and I who can always exercise
them."
"Perhaps--in the holidays--but what about term time?"
Sally looked a little sulky. People always saw Cecilia's point of
view: she was so dreadfully reasonable.
"Still, I shall take him home, all the same," she said obstinately.
"When you rescue someone like that you can't just shut him out of
your life, and forget him, as if he came to you in an ordinary way."
"No--I see that."
Miss Castle was sitting in the window seat and had drawn the puppy
down on her knee, with her hand over his nose to make him be quiet.
"What do you say to his stopping here?" she added.
"Oh, Miss Castle! ... What, in school?"
"No, Sally, I don't mean that. Why, if one girl started a pet we
should have a menagerie--cats, rabbits, tortoises and monkeys--Oh,
Heaven forbid!"
Sally laughed, in spite of her anxiety.
"Well, I don't understand, then. Matron wouldn't have him in the
san.: she's much too particular. The other day she told me cats were
nasty dirty things that carried infection."
"I expect Miss Cockran would keep him, if you liked to give him to
her."
"Miss Cockran?"
Miss Castle threw back her head and laughed at the open-eyed
astonishment with which her suggestion was received.
"Oh, Sally, you girls are funny sometimes. Do you think mistresses
are a race apart with no ordinary affections and weaknesses?"
The girl got very red.
"No, of course not--at least, I suppose not. You are quite
different, at any rate. But Miss Cockran looks ... oh, and Miss
Cheeseman, you know ... well, not silly, like us."
As she floundered, trying to find the words she wanted, Miss Castle,
bending to kiss the puppy, who lay sprawled across her knee, examined
her with twinkling eyes.
"I'm glad I'm silly," she said at last; and then as the girl began to
expostulate indignantly that she hadn't meant that, of course, the
other stopped her:
"I know what you mean, so don't apologise or explain--just remember
it's not always safe to judge people by their appearances--Autolycus,
for instance...."
"Auto!--what? Do you mean the puppy?"
"Yes--I have christened him that because he was picked up at a Fair,
and there's no doubt he's a rascal--Shakespeare met, or invented, a
gentleman of that name who was a pedlar, habitually attending Fairs.
Anyhow, we'll call him 'Tolly' for short, except at School
Commemoration."
"And Miss Cockran says he may stay here?"
"Yes--she is even prepared to adopt him, if you will pass on the
ownership. You see, about a year ago she had a Yorkshire terrier,
'Gyp,' whom she loved very much, and he was lost down a rabbit
burrow. She says she never meant to have another dog, because she
suffered so much when 'Gyp' disappeared; but 'Tolly' seems to have
been sent to her, and he's very fond of her already."
"How splendid!"
"Yes--we are all fond of him. Even Miss Cheeseman will be converted
to him in time, I hope, though she doesn't really care about animals."
"She wouldn't," muttered Sally, who disliked the thin, dark, rather
precise little mistress, who was second in command at Seascape House,
and took her Form in English Composition.
Miss Castle appeared not to hear this remark, unless the slight
puckering of her brows showed she was displeased at it.
"I'm going to take Tolly away now," she said, "or he will begin to
eat the cushions; but I will come back for some tea in about
half-an-hour."
"Oh, thank you, Miss Castle--it's awfully decent of you."
They had a very jolly tea, and discussed everything except Seascape
House: such topics as County Cricket, Napoleon's character, haunted
houses, and even how to make stick-jaw toffee.
"I think I'll have a toffee party next term," said Miss Castle as she
rose to go; "and you shall come and be kitchen-maid."
"May I be taster-in-chief as well, please?"
"Ah, I don't know about that. There will be so much competition for
the office, I shall have to hold an examination, I expect, and charge
an entrance fee."
She bent and kissed Sally as she spoke, and stood looking down at her
for a minute, before she went.
"You will try to make friends here next term, won't you, child? It's
the great thing that comes out of school life, I always think."
"But I have friends here," said the girl; "one at least and she is
splendid."
After Miss Castle had gone she pulled out a pencil and block from
under her pillow, and went on with the long letter she had been
writing to Trina Morrison ever since her eye had been well enough to
let her look continuously at the paper.
She intended to post this as soon as she had left Seascape House; not
before--since she was afraid of drawing attention to any connection
between herself and the elder girl which might involve the latter in
her disgrace. To some nine or ten pages written earlier in the week
she now added five or six more in praise of Miss Castle, and, more
doubtfully, of Miss Cockran.
Peter had not admired Old Cocaine. She said she was stuffy and
inhuman, like a mummy in the British Museum, that had dried up years
ago, and ought to be kept on a shelf.
"But you see she is human, after all," wrote Sally, as she told about
the Yorkshire terrier and the adoption of Autolycus.
In the end, the letter was so long that Sally had to ask Matron for a
large envelope, pretending that she wanted it to hold part of a story
that she was writing; and when she had got this, she addressed it to
Trina at her uncle's house, with "Please Forward" in the corner.
It was very nearly holiday time now, and all who had had measles
before, and seemed in no danger of getting it again, were sent home
early, along with the convalescents.
Seascape House became quieter and quieter, save for the barking of
Autolycus, who nearly wore himself out chasing sea-gulls, or hunting
wildly for rabbits, amongst the furze bushes along the top of the
cliff. He had to be washed twice a week by the indignant Jakes, who
pretended that he would like to put a rope round his neck, attached
to a big boulder, and sink him in the sea.
"He won't be allowed to do it, will he?" said Sally anxiously to Miss
Cockran, when she went to say good-bye, just before starting for home.
"Certainly not! Autolycus is the school watch-dog. I am going to
trust him to see no one comes in or out after dark."
Was there a twinkle in the grey eyes? Sally was not sure, and felt
uncomfortable under their scrutiny.
"Good-bye," she said gruffly. "And ... and I'm sorry, you know,
about it all----"
"That's all right. We start fresh next term, child-- Don't think of
what's behind you, but of what's in front. And for goodness' sake,
don't go and play tennis on that foot of yours, or do anything
foolish for the next six weeks."
She shook hands briskly, and Sally hobbled out to the taxi in which
Matron was taking her to the station. Her first term at Seascape
House was over.
CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH
WILL SHE COME?
"Sally has improved in many ways--and I don't think, Cecilia, you are
being quite fair to her when you complain she is so troublesome."
Mrs. Brendan spoke plaintively. Like many another mother, she wished
her daughters agreed better, but did not know how to make them do so.
During the term, Cecilia had been sweet-tempered and apparently
happy; now, since Sally's return, she was continually ruffled and
even snappy--so that the atmosphere of the house had become quite
tense.
"There is nothing much to choose between Sally and the boys," went on
their mother. "They all expect to do exactly what they like, in the
holidays," and she sighed for the selfishness of youth.
"Oh, the boys!" broke in Cecilia impatiently; "that's quite
different."
She did not explain, perhaps she did not realise, that the difference
lay in her own attitude towards them. She had long ago ceased to try
to control her brothers, but Sally's case was another matter.
Cecilia felt she should behave at home like a junior at school in the
presence of a senior, and if Seascape House could not teach her this
elementary piece of manners in the course of a term it had certainly
failed in its task.
"I expect the school is not what it used to be when I was there," she
continued, jumping from the subject of the boys to what was chiefly
occupying her mind, and heedless of the fact that schools, like
newspapers, never are what they used to be.
"Why, in my time, no kid of Sally's age would think of cheeking an
elder girl, or of speaking to her in the way she does to me."
"You continually find fault with her, Cecilia."
"It would be continuous, if I were to point out even half her sins.
That foot of hers, she was told to rest--what care does she take of
it? Miss Cockran ordered her to avoid tennis, and all she says is,
'Well, I am doing that,' and then goes and rushes madly round at
'Bumble-Puppy' with Roger."
"She is very fond of Roger."
"She is even fonder of herself, little wretch! ... I suppose she had
a shocking report? We have never heard exactly what she did to twist
her ankle; but it was over some piece of mischief."
"It was not a very good report, I fear, except for her work--but Miss
Cockran says she has promised to do better next term, and that other
mistress she likes--Miss Castle--writes that her behaviour was good
in form."
Cecilia snorted. "It's my belief, from what she has let drop, that
she was very nearly expelled."
At this moment Roger appeared with rather an anxious expression on
his round and usually cheerful face.
"Sally has gone and jammed her foot again. She says it's nothing,
but even leaning on my arm, I could hardly get her into the drawing
room."
"I told you so," said Cecilia triumphantly, as Mrs. Brendan rose from
her chair and hastened to the house.
"And you are jolly glad she has done it, aren't you?" said Roger, in
an angry voice, as he turned to go. "You've changed into a nice sort
of cad since you stuck your hair up, Cissy."
He flew off, leaving Cecilia with the tears smarting in her
eyes--tears of self-pity at the way in which she was misunderstood.
"Mother has no idea how trying Sally can be," she told herself, and
perhaps Mrs. Brendan had not. What she realised was that Sally had
altered very considerably during the weeks she had been at school.
She was distinctly less cocksure and talkative--restless, in a
nervous, rather than an energetic sense--and with little of her old
careless joy in the mere fact of being alive.
It was as if she were on the defensive the whole time against
criticism she dreaded, whereas criticism before had made little or no
lasting impression.
In those days, her frequent "I don't care!" had rung true, while now,
it was obviously bravado.
"She is unhappy," said the mother to herself, but Sally was in no
mood to make confidences. She felt it would be impossible to tell
anyone, even Roger or Miss Castle, how Trina Morrison's silence had
hurt her. Surely she could have sent a line--even a mere note--to
say she was sorry about the sprained ankle, and that she was looking
forward to next term?
"Rotten luck!" said Roger sympathetically, as he caught sight of his
sister's expression. They were seated in the schoolroom, to whose
couch Sally had been banished, to rest the ankle, swollen again after
its new twist. For the moment, as their eyes met, she thought of
confiding in him what was really paining her.
He knew a little about Peter's adventures, and had condescended to be
quite thrilled over their daring; but when it came to the point, she
could not bring herself to do it. Roger could understand a damaged
foot, but the idea of a broken heart, as Sally conceived her own to
be at the moment, would seem to him mere "girl's gush."
"Yes--it is rotten," she said. "But, of course, I shouldn't have
played 'Bumble-Puppy.' I never meant to--only Cecilia went on at me
so about our hopping race on the lawn before breakfast, and then I
felt I must do something worse."
Roger nodded.
"Cissy is a grandmother, but you do rag her rather a lot, you know.
If I cheeked Bob like that he'd black my eye."
"Oh, shut up about Cissy, can't you?"
Sally was furious in a minute at the implied reproof, and Roger, with
a noble effort at keeping the peace, walked to the window with his
hands in his pockets and stared out in silence.
"What shall we do this afternoon, Sal?" he said, at last. "Look
here, I'll go to the village and get some grub, and we'll have a brew
of toffee on my Tommy cooker."
Sally shook her head.
"It's the Cartwrights' tennis party, and Cissy is driving the motor
over."
"Well, Bob and Fraser can go--I don't want to, a bit. There'll
probably be tons of grown-ups and nothing for us to do."
(Fraser was a school friend of the elder brother, stopping with the
Brendans for part of his holidays.)
Sally's heart warmed to Roger in a sudden glow of affection. He had
just bought a new tennis racquet, and she knew he was secretly
longing to use it.
Hadn't Fraser, who was nearly seventeen, and quite "hot stuff" in the
tennis line, said he had improved a lot lately?
"Nonsense!" she said sharply. "Of course you'll go. Why, I have all
the new library books--and writing of my own to do too. I am always
so thankful I can amuse myself."
"Honest Injun--do you mean it?"
Roger's expression was very doubtful. Condemned to half-an-hour of
his own society, he would have welcomed a little conversation, even
with the vicar, on cuneiform writing. On the other hand, he did want
to play tennis at the Cartwrights' very badly. They had three
courts, and, apart from the tennis, their teas were good, while the
people they collected were usually an amusing crowd. It was bad luck
for Sally not being able to go, of course, but if she didn't really
mind being left, he would enjoy it.
His eyes told his sister what was passing in his thoughts, and she
laughed as she said:
"No--I don't really mind a bit--in fact, your staying here would only
make my foot feel worse; so don't be an ass, but go, and when you
come back I'll want to know all about everybody."
"Rather--and I'll bring you an ice in my pocket."
He grinned cheerfully, and hurried off to change into his flannels.
Sally tried her best not to mind, as, her lunch over, she watched the
motor disappear down the drive, with Roger waving his racquet in
farewell from the dicky.
"After all, as Cecilia says, it's my own fault," she muttered with a
grimace, and read novels until she fell asleep, to dream that she was
riding Autolycus on a merry-go-round, with a clown pulling at her
foot to make her pay sixpence.
"But he's my own dog," she expostulated, and found it was tea-time,
and her mother was lighting up the kettle.
"So after I'd been to the bank," said Mrs. Brendan, who had evidently
been talking for some minutes, "I called on those new people--the
Meyers--and as they were out, and the vicarage was so close, I
dropped in there for a little chat."
"If I gave you sixpence for every time you went to the village
without dropping in at the vicarage, you wouldn't be very rich."
Mrs. Brendan laughed deprecatingly.
"I know you don't like Mrs. Musgrave, my dear, but her old age suits
mine, and we have always plenty to talk about. Who do you think is
arriving to-night to stop with her, by the way?"
"A black missionary," said Sally crossly.
"No," said Mrs. Brendan, "I don't think they have ever had a really
black man--there was one from Borneo who was very dark.... I
remember once, but----"
"Well, who was it, then--a yellow one?"
Sally knew she was being rude, but with an aching foot and head she
felt thoroughly bored, and out of sorts.
"No, of course not, dear, but that young cousin of hers--the girl at
Seascape House--Violet Tremson. I said I couldn't remember your
mentioning her name very much in your letters."
Sally laughed rather bitterly, and pushed her cup across the table.
"Violet Goody-goody," she said. "No thanks, she's not in my line.
Quite as dull as any missionary. She ought to suit the Musgraves."
"Sally!"
Mrs. Brendan's tone was so indignant that her daughter was driven to
say "Sorry." Then, with a shrug, she returned to her novel-reading,
and the silence was scarcely broken till the tennis party appeared.
Roger was in high spirits. His racquet had played splendidly, and he
and a girl called "Bouncer,"--he thought her right name was Barbara
Something-or-other--had got five games in a set against Fraser and
Miss Cartwright.
Sally listened wearily for a quarter of an hour to a detailed account
of each stroke, and then said she was going to bed.
"I'll give you an arm to your room," said Roger affably. And then,
"Oh, snakes! I nearly forgot. That girl--what's her name,--you told
me of, was there."
"What girl what's-her-name?"
"Peter--you know--Morrison, wasn't she? The Bouncer kid she came
with called her Trina, and it wasn't till we were nearly going I
twigged who she must be."
"What, Peter Morrison at the party? And you mean to say you didn't
speak to her?"
Sally's eyes were shining now with mingled anguish and excitement.
"Keep your hair on--that's just what I did. It took some nerve too,
for she was playing mostly with the grown-ups. Fraser had one set
with her, and was fearfully 'smit'; but he said she wasn't much use
at the game--more with her eyes, you know."
"Then he's an ass--for she's awfully good when she chooses."
"Perhaps she didn't choose. Anyhow, I'm only quoting what Fraser
said; but the point is that I nerved myself up, walked over to her,
and said--'I say---I think my sister's at school with you?' and she
drawled, 'Was she?"
"Yes--she would--she often drawls--she doesn't mean anything by it."
Roger laughed.
"You bet she does, sometimes. Awfully cheeky ass she made me
feel--then I said, 'Her name's Sally Brendan, and she's got red
hair.'"
"You didn't? How could you, Roger? And what did she say?"
"Goodness! do let me get it out. She laughed, then looked quite
friendly, and said--'Had red hair, you mean, or has it grown again
already?' Then we both laughed, and..."
"And didn't you ask her to come and see me, you cuckoo?"
"Course I did, though she's stopping with the Bouncer kid, whose
people we don't know--they live right over t'other side of Clinton.
Anyhow, I said you were laid up, or you would have been at the party,
and that you'd like it no end, if she'd turn up."
"And what did she say?"
"Oh, usual stuff about being ever so sorry for you, and, of course,
she'd come if she could; but she had only a couple of nights more
before she went home, and the Bouncer lot were being hideously active
about planning dances and things."
"And didn't you pin her down for any day or time?"
"How could I, kid?--I jolly well did my best, but the Bouncer
youth--he's at Sandhurst--would keep telling her the car was ready,
and glancing at me as if I were a grasshopper he'd like to stamp on.
And Cecilia was shrieking at me across the drive, to buck me up--In
the end, your Peter friend said, 'Your sister's calling you, isn't
she?' so I had to toddle."
Sally clasped her hands together to hide that they were trembling.
"Of course she'll turn up some time," she said. "To-morrow I expect."
"Yes," said Roger, stoutly, "of course---bet your boots she will!"
But his tone lacked any real conviction.
CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH
DISILLUSIONMENT
Sally waited indoors all the next day, her eyes almost glued to the
schoolroom windows, from which she could watch the drive. Part of
the time she pretended she was interested in the motor bike which Bob
and Fraser had brought from the local shop, and were testing as a
possible purchase. Roger and the mechanic stood on the grass at the
edge of the gravel sweep, and gave their opinion at intervals; and
when it seemed important enough, Roger would shout comments to his
sister, using his hands as a megaphone.
"Some day we'll have one, Sally, and go touring," he said
enthusiastically, when he appeared at last, to get ready for lunch,
his hands black with oil.
"That thing down there is no earthly--not properly geared, and only a
two-stroke--but I have my eye on just the right sort of fellow--brand
new too, and quite cheap--just look here." And he produced a
well-thumbed paper out of his pocket.
Sally read the advertisement and studied the diagrams languidly. At
the minute she had no wish to ride a motor cycle and admitted as
much, when Roger at last took her to task for not listening to him.
"A Rolls Royce, or an ambulance car would be more in my line," she
said gloomily, to which her brother responded:
"Rotten luck, old girl, I know, but cheer up."
"Why should I?" demanded his sister, sulkily; and Roger, looking
awkward, scratched his head with an oily hand.
"Oh, I don't know, but grousing doesn't help things," he blurted out
at last, to the rage of Sally, who had believed herself rather heroic
in concealing her depression.
"Do get out, and leave me in peace," she said, and Roger went.
After tea they were reconciled, and played card games until Sally
decided that she was tired, and would have her supper in bed, as she
had done the night before. This time she said nothing about Trina
Morrison, when she wished her brother good-night, and he stood
fidgeting awkwardly in the doorway, before he at last volunteered:
"She--Peter, you know--said there were races to-day in the Clinton
direction. I expect she would have to go to them. Staying with
people like that she would have to do what they did, wouldn't she?"
"Yes," answered Sally, in a hard voice. And then again, as an
evident bar to further conversation, "Good-night."
"Most likely she'll come to-morrow. Anyhow, so long, kid," and Roger
vanished.
To-morrow came, and sped on its way, and there was no sign of Trina
Morrison. Sally's foot was better, but she looked so white and
depressed that Mrs. Brendan became quite anxious.
"I know she has something on her mind. I do wish she would confide
in me," she said to Cecilia, who sniffed rather indignantly.
"Well, Sally doesn't talk to me--only to Roger--and he is like a
hedgehog these days--it's no use asking him anything. Anyhow, let us
go for a family picnic this afternoon in the car, and insist on Sally
coming. Bob and Fraser can carry her downstairs, though she could
really manage quite well with her stick."
"I'll talk to her," said Mrs. Brendan, her face brightening; but
Sally refused even to consider the idea.
"I'm much happier here. I won't be done good to by Cecilia--I do
wish people would leave me alone."
"Much the best thing to do," growled Bob, who was not so sympathetic
to Sally these holidays as usual. "If we took Miss Whine-and-Pine,
she would probably turn the milk sour."
"Shut up," muttered Roger, and Mrs. Brendan told him not to be
unkind; but the situation by this time was past mending. Sally, when
pressed once more by her mother to go in order to please her, became
not only angry, but defiant.
"I shan't stir from the house, and I wish you'd all clear out and
leave me," she said. "It's simply sickening the way one can never
get away from one's family."
"Sally!" Mrs. Brendan was really hurt, but could win no apology.
Her daughter's shoulder remained turned to her, while there was sulky
silence.
"Come away, Mother," said Bob. "There ought to be a limit to what
even you'll stand from Sally," and he drew her out of the room after
firing the parting shot at his sister, that "tons of people had their
legs cut off in the War and never made the fuss she did over a
twisted ankle."
"It isn't only her ankle, ass," said Roger--and would have remained
behind to give some comfort but for Sally's expression. There were
times when she was best left alone, and this was evidently one of
them.
Getting on his bicycle, he rode to the village, and in the sweet-shop
where he was buying chocolate almonds, Sally's favourite delicacy at
the minute, he encountered Mrs. Musgrave.
"They aren't all for me," he muttered, scenting criticism in her
glance at the large bag. "They're for Sally--she's laid up, you
know."
"H'm ... invalid diet, I suppose?"
The twinkle in her eye contradicted her grim manner: for Mrs.
Musgrave liked boys, and discovered a belated sense of humour when
talking to them.
Roger got very red, as he answered gruffly, "It's nothing wrong with
her inside--no disease, I mean. Just she has twisted her ankle
again."
"Oh, poor Sally!" Mrs. Musgrave no longer bore her a grudge now that
she had been sent to school on her advice: and then she called out,
"Come here, Violet--this is Sally Brendan's brother Roger. I expect
she has mentioned him to you."
"I don't think she has, but I'm glad to see him."
The introduction to Violet Tremson was made, and Roger, after the
first blush, proffered his bag of almonds, and became quite
confidential as they walked to the door munching. "Sally's off
colour a lot, you know," he said unhappily. "I can't tell what's
wrong--some school row--and she doesn't seem to have hit it off
there--I mean--not to have many friends, exactly...."
"No, not very many."
The tone was non-committal, but the smile that accompanied it
friendly and encouraging.
Mrs. Musgrave was deep in conversation with a parishioner about a
choral practice, and Roger, after a quick glance at her over his
shoulder, went on:
"Sally's a decent kid. She talks an awful lot--but any amount she
doesn't mean--and underneath she's as sporting as anything."
"I know," said Violet Tremson.
Roger beamed. "I thought you would when I saw you. Perhaps you'll
be looking in on her? We've got a family picnic this afternoon, and
she can't come--at least, she doesn't want to. Her foot is giving
her awful pain, and besides----"
He stopped, hesitating whether he should mention Trina Morrison, but
decided not to do so. For one thing, he could only remember her as
Peter, and felt it would be cheek for him to refer to anyone so grown
up, by a nickname. Violet Tremson was also hesitating.
"You know, I don't think Sally would want to see me."
"Oh, what rot! It would cheer her up."
At this moment Mrs. Musgrave turned in their direction, and he said
hastily, "Have another almond choc., do." As Violet Tremson helped
herself, she murmured:
"Don't say anything to Sally about meeting me, will you?"
"Right oh!"
He looked rather surprised, and stared after her and Mrs. Musgrave as
they went down the street. Girls were queer creatures and he didn't
understand them--not even Sally. At any rate, he liked this one
better than Peter-what-was-her-name, in spite of her fine clothes and
scent, and if Peter didn't turn up--(he was ready to bet his boots
she wouldn't)--this Violet might do instead.
After all, they both belonged to Seascape House, and could talk its
"shop" to Sally--which was probably what she wanted.
His face grew smiling, as he pedalled slowly home on his bicycle,
considering the matter, and priding himself on his tact.
Sally was astonished when the afternoon came, and he did not offer to
stop with her. He was never very keen on family picnics, and she
made certain that he would insist on keeping her company, if merely
to annoy Cecilia. On the whole, she was relieved when she heard he
was going, and Mrs. Brendan as well.
"Thank Heaven, I shall have the house to myself," she said, loud
enough for Bob to hear, to which he responded amiably:
"The absent household won't miss you, my good kid."
She did not sit up on her couch to watch the motor disappear down the
drive, but settled herself amongst her cushions instead, to write a
poem, which bore a strong resemblance to one of Henley's that she had
just been reading, about "an unconquerable soul." It was not even a
good imitation, she was honest enough to admit when she read it
through at tea-time, and tearing it in half she lay face downwards on
her cushions and surrendered to self-pity.
Miss Castle had said friendship was what really counted at school,
and here was a friendship wrecked--the only thing which had mattered
to her life.
"Miss Sally--there's a young lady wants to speak to you--shall I show
her up?"
Sally sat up with a start, threw the rug off her couch and tried to
smooth down her shaggy hair.
"A young lady? What's her name? Where is she?"
"In the drawing-room, miss--and she didn't say who she was--only that
she thought you'd know."
"Of course! Of course!--give me my crutch, Amy."
Amy tried to expostulate. "I'm sure you oughtn't to go downstairs
with that bad ankle. What the Mistress will say---- But," as she
added afterwards to the kitchen, "I might just as well have spoken to
a whirlwind for all the notice she took."
Her crutch under her arm, Sally cleared the space to the door in a
few quick jumps, and was soon fumbling her way down the stairs. On
the last step she slipped, and had to lean her weight for a moment on
her bad foot. The pain made her wince and catch her breath, but a
few minutes later, as she entered the drawing-room, she was smiling.
"I knew you would come, Peter," she said, and then stopped dead,
because it was not Peter, but Violet Tremson.
"You?" she said, her voice trembling.
"Yes, Sally--I saw your brother to-day, and he said you were laid up."
"He had no business to mention me to you. Why have you come? What
do you want?"
Violet Tremson's quick colour came and went. "I haven't come to
steal the silver," she said, laughing a little uneasily. Then
abruptly, "Do sit down, Sally, you oughtn't to be standing--let me
help you," and she went over.
"Don't touch me," said Sally fiercely. "I never asked you to come.
Why do you pursue me in that horrible sort of way? Can't you take an
answer when it's given you? I told you on the cricket pitch I never
wanted to speak to you again."
Violet had gloves in her hand, and she measured them against the edge
of her jumper before she spoke--very deliberately:
"I'm sorry. You were angry that day--and I knew Trina had put you
against me--I hate keeping up a grudge, so I thought----"
"Even keeping up a grudge against Peter?" broke in Sally, with a
sneer.
"Yes--even against Peter," said the other tranquilly, "I don't mind
her now she's gone."
"Gone? What do you mean?"
Violet Tremson had been walking to the door: now she paused.
"Didn't you hear?" she said. "How odd--I--I thought you were
together that night. She went to a dance, and stayed away, so she
has been expelled."
For a minute she thought Sally was going to fall, but as she took a
step towards her, the younger girl pulled herself together and caught
at a bookcase for support.
"And you--you goody-goody, I suppose you went to Miss Cockran and
told her what a lot of harm Peter was doing directly the row came
out--like the sneak you are?"
"Sally, be careful what you're saying."
"Well, did you go to Miss Cockran after the row?"
"Yes--but only----"
"Shut up! That's enough--and get out. I don't want to hear any
more. You are the most unspeakable cad, and if you have got any
pride, you will leave me alone after this."
Violet Tremson was nearly as white as Sally, and, for a second, her
usually smiling mouth was twisted with a very ugly expression.
"I think I have enough pride for that," she said quietly, and stooped
to pick up one of the gloves she had dropped. Then she walked out of
the room with her back held very straight, and Sally heard the front
door close with a jerk behind her.
"I hate her! I hate her! How dared she come!" she said to herself,
crouching down in one of the armchairs, but in her heart she was not
sure if she did not hate Peter most.
So that explained things--Peter was expelled. She knew she would not
see Sally at Seascape House any more, and therefore she had not
bothered--even to write a postcard. She had just put their whole
friendship out of her life as something that no longer counted. It
had been the easiest thing to do, and Peter's comfort had, as always,
dictated the line of least resistance.
"Confoundedly selfish," that was what her Uncle Tom had called her,
and it was true after all.
"I won't think of her again--ever," said Sally passionately, and
picking up her crutch, forced herself to go upstairs. She was very
tired, and her foot was aching by the time she reached the
schoolroom, but she went over to her desk and picked out the few
mementoes she possessed of her friendship--a school snap-shot she had
stolen from Mabel Gosson, a scrawled note, a caricature done of
herself by Trina, in a schoolbook.
In the grate, she burnt them all, angry tears rolling down her cheeks.
When the picnic party returned, Sally was already in bed with her
blinds drawn, and refused either to talk or to eat her supper.
CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH
THE NEW TERM
Sally spent a couple of weeks in bed after her interview with Violet
Tremson, the renewed swelling of her ankle after her journey
downstairs being aggravated by a fever, for which the doctor could
not account. As soon as she was better, she was sent off, at his
suggestion, to stay with her Uncle Frank and Aunt Antoinette in
Brittany for a complete change of air and scene.
"But I don't want to go, so what's the use of sending me? I just
want to be left alone," Sally had protested sullenly; but somehow,
when she saw her uncle's smiling face at Cherbourg and realised that
he knew nothing of the cause of her unhappiness, she began to forget
it too, and felt comforted.
"Been overworking, have you, Miss Pale-face? So they have cut off
your curls to give your brain air--was that it?" he demanded
cheerily: and Aunt Antoinette, who had first of all cast glances of
horror at her niece's shaggy head, became sympathetic, and offered to
see what her maid and the local hairdresser could do towards
improving matters.
They did a good deal, and by the time Sally arrived home just on the
eve of her second school term, she no longer looked the shorn little
ragamuffin of Parchester Fair. She had grown also, and though very
thin, had lost something of the irresponsible elfin wildness of which
Mrs. Musgrave had so strongly disapproved.
"You will be happier this term, won't you, darling?" asked her
mother, a little anxiously, as they stood looking down on the already
packed trunk on the last night of the holidays.
"Oh, yes!" said Sally, "I expect so."
Her tone was careless, but she did not meet Mrs. Brendan's eyes,
until, hearing a sigh, she looked up suddenly, put her arms round her
mother, and hugged her.
"I'm going to make this term a success," she said, almost fiercely.
"Don't say anything to Cissy, but just remember that I mean
to--whatever happens. I was nearly expelled last term, but this time
I shan't run any risks. It's not good enough."
She laughed bitterly, and Mrs. Brendan kissed her. "My poor Sally,"
she said, "you take things so hardly."
Sally shrugged. "I did--but I shan't in future--I'll just go on in
my own way. You know the Miller--'For I care for nobody--no not
I--and nobody cares for me.'"
Again she laughed, and Mrs. Brendan looked a little more distressed.
"My dear, but one can't live to oneself only in this world," she
began, when Sally cut her short:
"I can," she said impatiently, "and I mean to do it. As long as my
work is up to the mark, and I keep the rules, as I intend, there's
nothing you need worry about, is there? I won't disgrace you--or
even Cecilia."
Once more she was Sally Cocksure--cool and defiant. But Mrs.
Brendan, as she kissed her in silence, felt there was a subtle
difference between her old attitude and her new. Before, she had
been sure of the citadel of her own independence; now, she had
learned that she would have to fight for its defence.
Lying in the dark, with her hands behind her head, Sally sang softly
to herself that night, the lines she had taken as her motto:
"I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul."
Thinking of it made her eyes shine and her heart beat fast. It was
splendid. It meant getting things done as one wanted, as Napoleon
did, without being worried by qualms about other people's opinions.
Napoleon was Sally's hero at this time, in contrast to Charles the
Martyr, who, during the last term, had been the idol of her Form.
She remembered with satisfaction how she had outraged public opinion
by referring to him in an essay as "the man of straw."
"Strength is the only thing that really counts," she told herself,
and the phrase pleased her so much that she repeated it next morning
while dressing, and came down to breakfast whistling cheerfully.
Fortified by her own courage, she said good-bye with great calmness
to her mother at Clinton Station. She had utterly refused to allow
Cecilia to go with her, and now she begged Mrs. Brendan to leave her
as soon as she had taken her ticket and seen that her box was
properly labelled.
"I loathe hanging about for last words, Mummy," she said. "You'll
probably want to cry, and that will make me feel softy too--so do let
us get it over here. There are crowds of Seascapers on the platform,
so I shan't be stranded by myself, or anything."
"I thought I saw that girl--Mrs. Musgrave's niece, you know--I liked
her when I met her that time you were in bed ill," and Mrs. Brendan
looked round hopefully, but rather vaguely. She did not care for the
idea of Sally travelling by herself.
"I daresay you did see her, and perhaps I shall run into her, but I'm
not going to be left in her charge, or anyone's--so there!" Sally
bumped her suit-case impatiently against a seat, but at that minute
she saw Miss Castle in the distance, and hastily leaving her mother,
made off.
"One of the mistresses--I'll be all right--so long!" she called out,
and disappeared.
The porter, standing close by with her box, grinned.
"Don't you worry, ma'am, she'll be all right--I'll see she don't miss
the train."
Mrs. Brendan, presenting him with a shilling, turned back slowly into
the town; she remembered that she had some shopping to do for
Cecilia. As she went, she sighed. Sally, in the meantime, had
indeed run very hard into Violet Tremson, with her suit-case, because
she was wondering where Miss Castle had gone, and looking over her
shoulder to try to find her.
"Sorry," she said with a scowl, and encountered a cold stare that was
so unlike her remembrance of Violet's tranquil friendliness that it
made her feel uncomfortable. She could never recall exactly what she
had said that evening in the drawing-room, for all she had thought
about was her longing to find Peter; and then, when she was
disappointed, a desire almost as strong had taken possession of her
to hurt the immediate cause of her disappointment and make her suffer
a little of her own pain.
"I don't care if I was beastly--do her good--interfering missionary!"
she muttered, mindful of Trina's sneers, and came upon Miss Castle as
she was seeing a couple of new girls into one of the carriages.
"Keep a corner seat there for me with a book," Sally heard her say,
and running up to her, asked:
"Please, Miss Castle, may I get in with you too?"
"Why, Sally,--of course you can--climb in--how's the foot?"
"Better--but I mayn't play hockey this term. Isn't it a shame?"
She got in happily, and as she stood in the doorway, saw two scowling
faces watching her. One belonged to Olive Parker, her old enemy of
the Shrimps, and the other to a friend, Susy Cranstone, of the Upper
Fourth, who had been one of the group that had ducked her in the sea.
Susy, for the time being at any rate, "adored Miss Castle"--as she
announced on every possible occasion. She had obviously wished to
travel in the same carriage as her idol, but had not dared to ask the
adored one's leave; and now there was no room for her, as besides
Sally and the new girls, there were several quite small juniors
giggling together at the far end.
"Silly ass!--why didn't she bag the seat, if she wanted it so much?"
said Sally to herself, with great contempt, in her best Napoleonic
manner--and settled herself ostentatiously opposite Miss Castle, by
shifting a new girl--then fell to reading her magazines till the
train started.
To her annoyance, when she arrived at Seascape House and went to take
up her old quarters in room No. 9, she found she had been moved. Her
cubicle was now in a bigger dormitory, A, on the top floor, at the
end of a passage--and her next-door neighbour was no other than Susy
Cranstone. Beyond Susy was Frisky Harrison, quite recovered from her
last term's measles, and ready to live up to her nickname, to judge
by the noise going on behind her curtains--where she was supposed to
be unpacking.
"Can't you kids be quiet?" said a voice suddenly, and Poppy Bristow
flounced into the room.
"What are you doing--standing about there?" she demanded of Sally,
who answered coolly:
"Looking at you. I've only just turned up, and I'm not making a row."
This remark led to further noise and giggles behind the curtains, and
Frisky Harrison pushed her head out between them.
"Ah, Poppy, darlint, have pity on me. Sure, isn't it the first day
of term?"
(Frisky was not Irish, but she cultivated a brogue for humorous
purposes.)
Poppy scowled. She did not seem to have come back in a good temper,
and was certainly not amused on this occasion.
"Be quiet," she said. "I want everyone who sleeps in this room to
come out here a minute."
There was something so truculent in her manner that complete silence
fell, and in a minute Frisky Harrison and Susy Cranstone were
standing beside Sally. They were joined by Violet Tremson, from the
fourth cubicle in the corner.
"What is it?" said Violet.
Poppy's face cleared slightly. "Oh, I didn't know you were going to
be here, Violet--it's these three kids I meant. Now listen, you
three. I have got a 'single' at the end of the passage, and Miss
Cockran has put me in charge of this room. She says she won't have
any of the insub-sub-subordination there was last term, and if I have
any trouble I am to report it at once--and I j-jolly well mean
to--see?"
As she grew excited she began to stammer, but no one laughed--there
was too much grim earnestness in her tone. "All right, Poppy--I
didn't mean anything," muttered Frisky at last, in a weak voice; and
she and Susy went back soberly behind their curtains. Violet Tremson
had already disappeared. Sally was turning into her cubicle with a
shrug when Poppy caught her by the shoulder.
"See here, kid--your precious friend has left, and I'll stand no
cheek. You've not got a good name at headquarters, so you'd better
be careful."
Sally met her glance without flinching. It was with a great effort
of will that she prevented herself from smiling contemptuously as she
would have liked to do.
"I haven't cheeked you yet, have I?" she asked quietly, and it was
Poppy's eyes that fell before hers, as the prefect turned away.
"All the same, it will be difficult not to get into a row with her as
monitress," Sally told herself, as she reflected complacently on the
triumph of will that had kept her from giving Poppy a handle to abuse
her.
How difficult it was going to be she had not yet realised.
CHAPTER THE EIGHTEENTH
THE BLOTTED ESSAY
Half the autumn term had gone, and Sally, though she did not mention
it in her letters home, found that she disliked her life at Seascape
House a great deal more than even when she had been a new girl. It
was true that she had achieved her move into the Lower Fifth, where
she sat, like an infant prodigy, among her elders; but the change was
not to the throne of triumph which she had pictured in imagination.
Violet Tremson was head of the form, and kept her place by a narrow
margin, above her friend, Doreen Priestly. It was only on occasions
that Sally came third, more often she was fifth or sixth; and though
at her age she should have been contented with this position, it did
not satisfy her ambition to take the lead and dominate those around
her.
What worried her most was that she could not understand her failure
to achieve anything for which she worked. To her mother, she wrote
that her new Form-mistress, "Old Cheeserings," disliked her; and
though this was probably true--for Sally's manners were not endearing
towards those whom she herself disliked--she knew in her heart that
mutual lack of affection would make no difference in her marks.
The only other explanation was that Sally was still too young to
achieve, with her usual ease and quickness of grasp, the standard of
work in the Lower Fifth, and this she was not prepared to admit.
"Of course, it is difficult to play a lone hand," she wrote Roger, in
a moment of expansion, when she longed for sympathy--even in her
brother's almost illegible scrawl--and she added, "Still, you bet I
hold some trumps, and will make the most tricks in the end."
She also put "Napoleon did," but crossed this out, for Napoleon had
been beaten at Waterloo. He had trusted his friends--people like
Bernadotte--and they had betrayed him.
Sally never meant to trust anyone at school again; but though she
made no effort to win friends, she would have been glad of a group of
admirers--however humble.
In the end, one admirer presented herself--a putty-faced girl, called
Catherine Dowl, who had been in the Lower Fifth for years, and was
almost as much disliked there as Sally herself--though no one quite
knew why.
She had very curly hair, and queer, slanting eyes, that seemed to
disappear when she talked, beneath her lazy eyelids; and when she
laughed it was noiselessly, so that the only sign was the show of
teeth and upper gums.
"The Cat," she was nicknamed, or "Puss Puss," but it was not an
attractive member of that much-maligned race that she resembled.
There was no Persian pride, or grace, in her, but rather the
self-defensive cunning of a persecuted slum tabby.
Frisky Harrison, who had also been moved into the Lower Fifth at the
same time as Sally, declared that "Puss Puss" cheated in arithmetic,
at which she was very bad, and other members of the Form
ostentatiously drew their books away, when she sat near them. She
did not seem to resent this, nor was she put off at first when Sally
refused to have anything to say to her.
"Your essay was much better than Violet's this week--Miss Cheeseman
favours her," she said one day, in the middle of the morning
interval. To which Sally, who had been thinking so herself only a
minute before, responded:
"Rot!"
She knew suddenly, that it wasn't true.
"You ought to be head of the Form, for you are much more original,"
went on the girl, in her soft voice. "That's why they don't like
you."
"I shall be head very soon," said Sally, flattered, in spite of
herself, by a tribute to her powers that quite met her own views on
the subject.
"I know--you are the horse for my money, and I have put all I possess
on your winning--so mind you do."
The girl laughed noiselessly, and as she spoke seated herself quite
close to Sally.
"Tell me what you think of Wordsworth," she said confidentially. "I
was watching you yesterday and could see that you didn't agree with
Cheeserings."
"It's no use disagreeing with her, is it?"
"No, I should think not--sheer waste of time."
The "Cat" bared her teeth and threw back her head, as though her
companion had said something extraordinarily funny.
"But you didn't change your opinion, did you? I expect it is very
rarely you change when you have made up your mind."
"Hardly ever," said Sally carelessly, and forgot that she was
changing it at the minute. She no longer definitely disliked
Catherine Dowl. That day she talked to her in class, between the
lessons, and walked up and down the passages with her, indifferent to
the contemptuous curiosity of the Juniors.
"They haven't any brains, of course," said the "Cat" tranquilly, when
Olive Parker miawed and crowed at them from behind a pillar, and the
other shrugged and agreed.
"I don't care a hang, if it amuses their small minds," she said.
"You wouldn't. Have you ever noticed how often really great people
have been disliked at school?"
Sally had not, and was glad to have it pointed out. She would
remember Shelley.
In the meantime, she was quite prepared to neglect the names of all
those who had been both popular and illustrious.
"Anyhow, it doesn't matter, does it?" she said grandly, "I mean being
unpopular. Success so often is envied just because it is the thing
that counts most."
The next week Violet Tremson was only third, and Sally second, in
Form marks. Violet remembered giving in her arithmetic paper, but it
had not reached Miss Skalding, the mathematical mistress, while her
essay was so covered in blots as to be perfectly unintelligible.
"I can't understand it," said Miss Cheeseman. "It is not like you to
be so untidy."
"I ... I didn't make those blots," said Violet slowly. Her eyes were
astonished. "I ... I'm sure I didn't," she added.
"Who else could have made them without your seeing them?" asked Miss
Cheeseman in an annoyed tone. She had an unfortunately querulous
manner; and everyone looked round at everyone else, except Violet,
who was turning the pages of her essay with rather a high colour in
her cheeks.
Sally wondered if it could be Frisky Harrison; she was often careless
with ink, and had a leaky fountain pen which her neighbours dreaded;
but her expression was one of obvious innocence. Then the girl
looked beyond her, and caught for a moment a rather peculiar gleam in
Catherine Dowl's slanting eyes. It was triumph--there was no doubt
of it.
So the Cat had done it--Sally knew in a flash--and also that it had
not been done for love of her, but in hatred of Violet Tremson.
Putting her evidence rapidly together she could find none direct, but
everything pointed to this decision. Peter had once told her, as an
illustration of Violet's missionary spirit, that Violet had caught
"Puss Puss" cheating and had forgiven her, on promise of amendment.
"Much use to forgive a slimy beast like that," Peter had said. "She
should have reported her to a prefect, and got her expelled. She is
such a second-rate cad."
In her revulsion of feeling against Trina Morrison, Sally had pushed
this judgment into the back of her mind, when accepting the Cat's
homage.
"Cheating is silly," she had told herself, and argued that it was
therefore impossible; but now, remembering the cunning in Catherine
Dowl's eyes, she realised that it was not impossible. What was
unlikely, was that the Cat would ever forgive those who found her out.
With a feeling of rising discomfort, she stood in front of the
notice-board on Monday morning, and saw her name second, with Violet
Tremson's third.
"Congratulations," whispered Catherine Dowl, appearing as usual at
her elbow. "Now there is only one more rung for you to climb in this
Form."
"Shut up," said Sally fiercely, forgetting wisdom in her indignation.
"Violet ought to be first or second, and you know that quite well."
"Ought she?" The Cat raised her eyebrows. "I didn't know. Well, she
isn't there, is she?" And she laughed noiselessly.
"I wish she was," said Sally. "I loathe winning anything by
underhand means."
"Ah!" said the Cat quickly, and she suddenly raised her usually soft
voice.
"Then did you make the blots on the essay?"
"No, I didn't--but you know who did, quite well."
"On the contrary--I quite believed it was Violet who must have done
it, as Miss Cheeseman said, until you accused yourself."
Sally glared; but the Cat's slanting eyes merely blinked, without any
expression at all in them, as they met hers.
By this time a large part of the Form had gathered round and were
sniggering happily at the quarrel.
"Quite amusing when thieves fall out," said Doreen Priestly. "Do
come here, Violet. I have never heard anything like it before. The
Cocky-doodle says she threw ink on your essay to get above you on the
Form List."
"I didn't," said Sally furiously, "I said I hated being above her,
just because someone had played a dirty trick."
"Well, who was the someone if it wasn't you?"
Sally looked round the ring of hostile faces; she saw that the Cat
had slipped away, and was already seated at her desk, with her head
bent over a book.
"I didn't do it," she said sullenly.
"Then who did?" demanded Doreen. "You know something about it--you
and your precious friend--or why did you bring up the subject at all?"
The hostile glances shifted for a moment to Catherine Dowl, who
looked up tranquilly and then laughed.
"Does Sally accuse me?" she asked. "Then I suppose she has a
proof--or else she is in one of her tempers. I am too old to do
anything so childishly spiteful--besides, why should I? I'm sure I
don't care who is head of the Form, for I know it will never be me."
At this there was a slight titter. Catherine, however much she may
have cheated, remained steadily at the bottom of the Lower Fifth.
The hostile glances left her, and focused themselves once more on
Sally.
"Why don't you own up, kid?" said Doreen contemptuously.
"Because I didn't do it, you fool."
Sally's face was white with passion, and her anger seemed to
communicate itself to the rest of the Form. There were shouts
of--"You did," "You must have," "Sneak!" "Own up!" when suddenly
Violet Tremson, who had been seated unconcernedly at her desk, leaped
to her feet and pushing her way through the group called out sharply:
"Shut up, everyone, and listen--it's my essay you are talking about,
isn't it? Well, I spilt the ink myself."
There was prolonged silence, till Frisky Harrison said, in an injured
voice:
"You told Cheeserings you didn't."
"It's possible to make mistakes, isn't it--even over an essay?"
At this rejoinder there was a roar of laughter--Frisky's mistakes
were many, especially in English composition--and most of the girls
returned to their desks satisfied, or at least indifferent; but
Doreen Priestly remained by the notice-board, looking doubtfully from
Violet to Sally.
"A funny sort of mistake, isn't it?" she said quietly. "I believe
you are shielding the kid, after all."
"I didn't do it, I tell you," said Sally fiercely. "You may think me
a cad, but I'm not that sort."
"Sally didn't do it--I'm not shielding her," said Violet. "Do drop
the whole thing--can't you? It's my essay."
Miss Cheeseman came in at this minute, and the subject was dropped;
but the scene that had just taken place had two results. First, that
to Sally's burden of unpopularity was added a vague accusation of
underhand dealing, and, secondly, that an end came to all friendship
between herself and the Cat.
This was not Catherine Dowl's fault, as she was careful to point out
that afternoon, when she tracked down Sally at last in a deserted
corner of the playing fields.
"So it was Violet Tremson's own sin that found her out," she began
gaily, as though there had been no words between them.
Sally clenched her hands. "Shut up--and leave me alone, can't you?"
"But why?--I'm sorry if I annoyed you this morning--but really, I
have more cause to be annoyed with you, only I know you lost your
temper."
"Shut up," said Sally again; and then, as the other raised her
eyebrows, "Oh, you know quite well that I don't want ever to see you
any more--do go."
"Why, may I ask?"
The Cat's eyes were more slanting than usual, and there was a gleam
in their corners that reminded Sally of a vicious ferret, belonging
to her brother Bob.
"Because ... because I may be unpopular, and hard up for friends, but
I'm not in such want as to be forced to be friends with you."
"Oh--so that's it, is it?"
Catherine Dowl's lip was drawn up till her gum was partly bare.
"You precious little fool," she said, and her smile became a snarl.
"You mean you accuse me of blotting that essay and destroying the
arithmetic paper?"
"I know you did," said Sally. "I saw the way you looked in class and
every minute I've thought it over since I've become more and more
certain. Trina Morrison told me you cheated, and Frisky says you do,
and I believe them both now, though I wouldn't before when I was
trying to like you."
"Perhaps you'd care to report me for cheating then, and bring your
proofs with you to the prefects' meeting--they are holding one this
afternoon, in the Sixth."
The smooth voice had a snaky ring, and for the minute Sally was
frightened. She had spoken impetuously, from the heat of her
indignation, and had not thought of proofs--where were they? Just
the gleam in the Cat's eyes, as Miss Cheeseman had spoken. It was a
very vicious gleam now, and the snarl had changed back into a smile
of triumph and malice.
"You'll do it ... of course ... and bring the proofs, eh?"
Sally suddenly forgot her fear. "Very well," she said
contemptuously. "Come! I will go to the prefects, and ask them if
we can have a trial by ordeal--like in history. I'll say you are a
cheat before the whole school, and put my hand in the fire without
shrieking to prove it. Will that satisfy you?"
Catherine Dowl's jaw had dropped. "What do you mean? ... I don't
understand ... it's childish and silly--what you suggest."
"I prophesy you won't find it silly," said Sally grimly. "Just tell
me this--If I accuse you of cheating before the whole school, and you
deny it, and I put my hand in the fire, to show I believe what I
say--do you think they'll believe you or me?"
The Cat was silent. There was no doubt, with her reputation, which
the school would believe. When she spoke again, her voice had its
usual flat note of indifference and the snarling smile had
disappeared.
"I suppose you are joking--of course, you must be--and so was I. It
would be stupid to drag in prefects about our private rows, and I am
sure, if you don't want to be friends, I don't. I thought you looked
lonely before--that was why I tried to chum up."
"Well, I like being lonely, thanks--so ... good afternoon."
Sally turned on her heel. "Ugh!" she said to herself, and
again--"Ugh!" as she thought over her short friendship with the Cat,
and ended with a fervent, "Thank Heaven, I never let her kiss me."
CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH
MISCHIEF
Sally had now no friends, and had lost her only admirer. She found
her work in Form a struggle, and life in the dormitory a severe test
of her self-control, for it seemed that Poppy Bristow was ever on the
watch to catch her out in some misdeed and punish her.
One night the trouble arose because of beetles in her slippers.
Anyone might have been forgiven for shrieking aloud at the discovery
made with bare feet; but Sally got 300 lines, as well as having to
endure a mocking chant from the next cubicle, as soon as the
prefect's back was turned:
"Sally Cock-sure,
Sally Cock-roach,"
and then a faint crow.
There was no doubt who was the real culprit.
A few evenings later Poppy burst into the dormitory, purple with fury.
"My bed!" she said. "An apple-pie! ... Which of you has dared?"
There was a faint giggle from the irresponsible Frisky, and then
complete silence.
"Which of you?" demanded Poppy again: and then, "Violet, I know it
wasn't you?"
"No."
"Susy?"
"No, of course not."
They each answered "No" in turn, and Frisky whispered, "Perhaps
you'll have to go round the school to find out," when the prefect
said, in a nasty voice:
"Oh, no, I shan't, for the someone who is afraid to own up has left
her gym. belt on my floor, and it has got a tape name. Sally
Brendan, is this belt yours?"
"Yes--if it has my name on it."
"How d-dared you come into my room?"
"I didn't."
"You little l-liar!--Why, I have the proof here--complete evidence.
You must have done it."
A storm of abuse followed, endured in silence, while Sally considered
who the real offender could be, and at last wearily gave up the
matter. Perhaps Olive Parker, at the instigation of Susy Cranstone,
or it might be the Cat's way of getting even with her--one of her
many enemies, at any rate.
"I didn't do it," she repeated, when she could get in a word. "But
if you like to think I did--well, I can't help it."
"I know you did it, little brute! Why, I have the proof in my
hands--this belt with your name on it. You can just go straight to
bed, after supper, for the next fortnight."
This was not a punishment that Sally minded. With any luck, she
could read in bed, and at any rate she would escape the loneliness of
the evening play hour that she had grown to dread.
"All right," she said, and for the next eight days went upstairs
quietly, straight from the dining-room, being apparently asleep when
the rest of the dormitory appeared at their usual hour.
One night, however, the spirit of mischief entered into her.
As she came in at the door, she saw, on a chair beside it, Poppy's
hockey stick, sweater and cap, as she had carelessly flung them down
and forgotten them, in the course of a dispute with Frisky Harrison
on the state of her cubicle. Sally was by no means the only person
to get into trouble with the prefect.
No one was about: not even Matron, or one of the maids, as Sally
tip-toed over, and peered into Frisky's cubicle. It was
extraordinarily tidy for once, but when Sally had finished working
her will in it, very little of this was left. The bed-clothes, for
instance, were in the chest of drawers, whose proper contents lay in
little heaps on the floor: the shoes stood in a row on the pillow:
the washing-stand was upside down on the bed, and on it Sally piled
the hockey stick, jumper, and cap that she had found by the door.
With a subdued giggle of joy at her handiwork she retired into her
own cubicle and hurried into bed. Frisky was late coming up: she
often barely avoided detection and this night slid into the dormitory
like a shadow. The next instant came her shout of surprise and
indignation.
"I say, who has done this? Sally Brendan, is it you?"
"Done what? Do go to bed, Frisky, and be quiet." This from Violet
Tremson, in a sleepy voice.
"But I can't, you ass. There's every sort of thing on my bed,
including my washstand."
"What?"
Susy was soon peering over her partition, and Violet standing in the
doorway, staring. They talked so much and so loud that they were
speedily joined by Poppy; and last of all came Sally, already
repentant of her rashness, but determined to see the thing she had
engineered through to its end, even if it meant expulsion.
"You little beast!--you were up here early, so, of course, it's your
handiwork," said Poppy, turning and gripping her by the wrist.
"Why me? I've been asleep," said Sally, yawning. "Do let me go back
to bed. I thought it was something interesting."
"Very interesting--for me," retorted the indignant Frisky. "When
I've got to clear up the mess. It's like your cheek."
"Sally shall clear it, of course," said Poppy. "And to-morrow I
report her to Miss Cockran."
"But what proof have you got that Sally did it?" said Violet Tremson,
in a cool judicial voice.
"Well, she was up here early, wasn't she? She must have done it."
"Anyhow those aren't my things left behind in the cubicle, and I
don't think they are Frisky's," said Sally, pointing to the cap,
jumper, and hockey-stick, that lay on the upturned washstand. It was
the opportunity for which she had been waiting, and the note of
injury in her voice was full of meaning.
"No, of course they aren't mine," said Frisky, examining them, "They
are sizes too big. Why, Poppy, they are yours--however did they get
here?"
There were a few seconds' silence before the joke that had been
played dawned. Then Violet Tremson's mouth began to twitch.
"I'm afraid," she said, "they walked in here of themselves, like
Sally's belt into Poppy's room, the other night, or else----"
She stopped suggestively, and Susy, from her seat on the wooden
partition, gave a convulsive cackle of joy.
"Or else what? Say what you mean--do," demanded Poppy, whose brain
was working, as usual, at a snail's pace; she was obviously uneasy.
"I mean that in another case (of course, you didn't do it, Poppy, we
all know that) the clothes would be proof--evidence that whoever they
belonged to must have done it."
"Like the belt, the other night," murmured Frisky, her eyes on the
floor, to hide their laughter; but Poppy could read it in her
attitude, as in Violet Tremson's voice, and Susy's sudden noisy
scramble down behind her partition. She had been badly scored, and
they were glad, because, though Sally was unpopular, the average
schoolgirl likes fair play, and they knew that of late she had not
had it.
The prefect's face went a dull purple as she glared from one to the
other (Sally had wisely slipped back into her cubicle), then she
picked up her things, and said in a strained voice:
"If there's another hoax of this kind, I'll report the whole
d-dormitory."
The door slammed behind her, and no one said a word, though Violet
and Susy assisted Frisky to put her things straight. That night
Sally was happy until she fell asleep, and so, apparently, were the
other inmates of her dormitory, for every now and then she could hear
them stifle their merriment in their pillows.
The next day she could feel a change in the atmosphere of her Form.
"Ripping score, that of yours last night!"
Sally was so surprised at being addressed in a pleasant tone by
anyone, that she looked up speechless at Frisky Harrison, who stood
by her desk, grinning. Frisky went on confidentially:
"Bet you that we won't have any more trouble with the 'Poppet' down
our way, this term."
"No," said Sally cautiously. The instinct to boast, "Oh, just a
little brain-wave on my part," had died away, almost as it was born,
and she did not yet know what kind of amiable remark to make instead.
Rather awkwardly, she picked up a book from the floor, and her
companion left her; but the incident was significant of the new
attitude of her classmates. Friendly they could hardly be called,
but she no longer felt a pariah like the Cat, and found herself
lending and borrowing books, pencils and indiarubber without any of
the cold-shouldering to which she had grown accustomed.
Violet Tremson alone continued to ignore her presence, never
addressing her except when compelled, and then with eyes that looked
beyond her, as though she were non-existent. Last term Sally would
not have minded; now, she wished she had not been so rude and
contemptuous in thrusting aside the other's advances.
True, Violet had not the same exciting personality as her once
beloved Peter, but, on the other hand, living in Form with her, the
younger girl realised that she was neither "dull as ditch water," nor
"goody-goody." It may have been that with Trina's influence removed
she was able to enter more into the kingdom of good-natured chaff and
schoolgirl politics; but at any rate, there was no doubt that Violet
had grown immensely in popularity.
This was partly due to her success in games during the autumn term.
Her cricket had been a very medium performance, but swift running and
steady nerves put her amongst the best of the hockey players, and
from the second eleven she was very quickly promoted to be a forward
in the first.
By this time the school as a whole, and not merely her own Form, had
begun to take an interest in Violet Tremson. The Upper Fifth and
Sixth showed a readiness to draw her into their select circles and
ask her opinion, while school weathercocks, such as Mabel Gosson,
hastened to worship the rising sun.
It was no surprise to anyone then, save perhaps to Violet herself,
when her name appeared on the list of prefects posted up on the
school notice-board towards the end of the term.
"That means we are done with 'the Poppet' for good in Dormitory A,"
said Frisky. "Oh, Violet, I am glad!" Susy clapped her hands, and
declared Old Cocaine had more sense than she had given her credit
for. Sally alone said nothing aloud. She was not going to "toady to
the great," she told herself, in scorn of Mabel Gosson and her kind,
but she was secretly thankful for the change.
It would be easy, she guessed, to live with Violet Tremson, who,
whatever her private likes and dislikes, was even-tempered and
scrupulously fair.
By this time Sally was looking forward eagerly to the holidays, when
Uncle Frank had declared he and Aunt Antoinette might be in London
and give her a week of theatres and other festivities. The hockey
fever that reigned at Seascape House did not touch her, for the
doctor still forbade her to play, and she did not care enough for
anyone--not even for her Form--to be thrilled over the results of
various matches. Her chief pleasure was taking Autolycus for walks,
since Miss Cockran, in consideration of her not being able to share
in games, and on a solemn promise that she would conduct herself so
as not to disgrace the school, allowed her to go out alone with the
dog, mainly on one of the back roads leading to a certain Tadiscombe
Farm.
"It would be better if there were someone with you," she had said,
but did not press the point when Sally, terrified that Catherine
Dowl's name might be mentioned as a possible companion, since she
also was not strong enough for games, hastily declared everyone was
busy, she knew.
"I can trust you to be sensible, can I? And not get up to mischief?"
said Miss Cockran, frowning slightly. "It's a very great concession
from ordinary rules that you are asking me to make."
"I promise I'll be as good as if you or Miss Castle were with me, and
I would just love it, please, if I may? I used to roam the country
at home."
"Yes," said the Headmistress, rather grimly, "So I have been told.
It is just that kind of roaming--playing practical jokes and breaking
through hedges, trampling down corn, etc., that would bring disgrace
on the school."
Sally flushed. "Well, I won't do anything of that kind--indeed I
won't--I'll just mind Tolly."
Miss Cockran smiled, and her face cleared. "Very well," she said.
"And if you try to teach him to 'mind' you, I believe you will have
your work cut out. He pays no attention to anyone when he's after
rabbits."
"He's a great sportsman," said the girl proudly; "I only wish I had
my brother's ferrets here."
"I'm very glad you haven't, or the pair of you would be shortly on
trial for poaching. Don't let him chase rabbits more than you can
help. Remember, I have lost one dog that way, and this cliff here is
a labyrinth of holes."
"Very well, Miss Cockran, and thank you so much."
Sally went off cheerfully, whistling to Tolly, whom she found in the
garden. Once the school gates were passed, she was her old self,
confident and care-free--and yet, at heart, she knew that she did not
hate Seascape House as she pretended.
"If only it was just a little different," she told herself, and added
with the natural candour and insight which had prevented her from
becoming a hopeless prig, "I expect Roger would say it's I who ought
to be different."
CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH
GAMES AND TOFFEE
One Saturday morning towards the end of November, Sally woke to a
dripping world, on which the rain not merely descended in sheets, but
was driven at intervals, in howling gusts, against the windows.
Outside, the garden was already a series of ponds, and the sea heaved
sullenly on the horizon, its grey monotony of waters only broken by
the foam that seethed here and there amongst the rocks.
"Just our luck! No match, of course!" the hockey eleven was
grumbling at breakfast, forgetful of all the holidays which had
managed to be fine; and Sally, though she did not share their reasons
for mourning, was none the less sad.
She had been planning a walk with Autolycus, and instead, she would
have to spend the afternoon in a corner of the Fifth Form play-room,
watching the rest of the class enjoy themselves. They had lately
fixed up a ping-pong table, and were practising for a tournament; but
no one had asked Sally or the Cat to join in the games.
When she entered her Form that morning, however, Sally's prospects
changed, for she found on her desk an envelope addressed to herself,
and inside, a card:
+---------------------------------------+
| MISS CASTLE. |
| At Home. |
| Don't R.S.V.P. 3.30. |
| but come. Games and Toffee. |
+---------------------------------------+
It was obvious that Miss Castle had done as she suggested in the
sanatorium last term, and was giving a toffee party. It was just the
day for it, and Sally, looking round, wondered who else would be
there, and whether they would spoil the fun by being nasty to her if
occasion arose.
"I'd much rather have been alone," she muttered, and then felt
slightly more cheerful as she heard Frisky shout, "Oh, hurrah! How
decent of her," and realised that she was also to be one of the
guests. There had been little malice about Frisky of late; instead,
a toleration that was on the borders of friendliness; a very pleasant
change from the beginning of the term, when she had seemed to share
in Susy's enmity, and abet her efforts at causing annoyance.
"I wonder if Violet Tremson will be there as well," was in Sally's
thoughts; but Miss Cheeseman came into the room and there was no
opportunity of finding out till the afternoon.
Sally arrived rather late (she felt strangely shy), and found the
toffee-making already begun; but Miss Castle gave her the saucepan to
stir, so she was soon seated on the hearth, comparatively happy, with
something to do.
Frisky was acting taster--giving little screams as her fingers dived
for sample pieces of boiling toffee which had just been dropped into
a glass of cold water.
"Scrumptious!" she said. "It's just like glue." And when this
description was received with laughter, she went on to try to say,
"Sister Susie's sewing shirts for soldiers," with her mouth still
half-full.
Sally looked round her and saw Violet Tremson on the sofa, with
Doreen Priestly, and the fat good-natured girl--Decima Pillditch--who
had been head of her dormitory during her first term, and was now a
prefect, in the Sixth. There was no one there below the Lower Fifth,
and Sally could not help thinking how furiously jealous Susy
Cranstone would be when she heard of the party afterwards from Frisky.
Susy was in the Remove now--Miss Castle's own Form--but even with
this advantage she had not, according to her own version, made much
headway in capturing her divinity's affections.
"She hates me--I know she does--and I just do everything I can to
please her and make her notice me," Susy had moaned the other
evening, flinging herself on her bed. "I think I shall just go out
and drown myself."
Frisky, to whom this confidence had been made, but loud enough for
either Violet or Sally to overhear, had hardly been conciliatory.
"Don't expect she exactly hates you--just bored stiff with you," she
suggested. "Why don't you be a little more cheerful with her?"
"I can't! I just tremble all over when she comes near. I really
will drown myself soon, if she's so cold to me."
"In which case, she'd only forget you thankfully, wouldn't she?"
Violet Tremson had said. And then, "Why are you such a sentimental
ninny, Susy?"
Susy had been deeply offended, and after saying, "I wasn't talking to
you, Violet," had relapsed into tears. Sally supposed there would be
more tears that evening, for Frisky was not likely to keep silence
about the toffee-party, especially if she had enjoyed herself.
The toffee cooked and put to cool, she and Sally, as the two
youngest, washed up; and then the party, all formality and ice broken
by the sweet-making, settled down to games. At first they were of
the intellectual order, "Geography game," "Telegrams," and finally a
strenuous "Alphabet List," in which, taking a certain letter,
everyone present had to fill in examples that began with it opposite
such items as, "a king," "a novel," "a character in Shakespeare," "a
vegetable," "the first line of a song," etc.
One of the letters chosen was "A," and Frisky at once distinguished
herself by putting down "'aricot" as a vegetable, while Sally made a
great score with "Autolycus" as "a character in Shakespeare."
It was just the kind of game in which Sally's memory and instinct for
amassing information scored, and, after Miss Castle, she came in a
good second.
"Well done, Sally!" said her hostess with a smile, and there was a
murmur of quite friendly agreement that made the object of their
approbation blush.
Pleased at her triumph, she was also self-conscious, with a horrible
feeling that her companions were secretly calling her prig.
"I've played it a good lot at home," she murmured, while Frisky,
turning on her stool before the fire, said:
"Of course it's a great game, and all that, but isn't it jolly like a
general knowledge paper?"
"Much too like--for near the end of term--I quite agree," said Miss
Castle, with a twinkle in her eye. "For the rest of the evening
we'll be frivolous. What shall we play?"
They played every kind of silly card game; and after tea, when they
had finished the muffins, toasted before the fire, and cream buns
from Parchester, they turned out the light, and collecting round the
hearth, started on ghost stories. Miss Castle began with several, in
order, as she said, to create the right atmosphere, and then Decima
Pillditch woke out of her sleepy silence, to describe an old man in
eighteenth-century dress, whom her father had once seen, walking
across a road, opposite their house, in the moonlight. Violet
Tremson followed with one about a Scotch castle, and at last only
Sally had made no contribution to the general store.
"It's your turn, kid," said Frisky, whose own tale had been very
short, but so involved that she was quite cross for the minute at the
number of explanations needed to make it even intelligible. "Perhaps
they'll believe you."
"I'm not sure that I know a real one," said Sally, hesitatingly.
"Then make it up," said Miss Castle, looking at her with some
curiosity in her eyes. "It will be quite different from ours, that
are all second-hand."
"Buck up," said Frisky; and Sally, spreading her hands to the fire,
began.
It was a tale of Parchester and Seascape Strand some twenty years
back, about a boy, undoubtedly the chimney sweep in Kingsley's "Water
Babies," who was wanted by the police for stealing bread. As the
author warmed to her task, the boy, in his hunger and loneliness,
became quite a pathetic figure, and it was evident his creator could
see him, dodging across the heath amongst the gorse-bushes, and
finally, as he learned that dogs as well as men were on his track,
making for the beach, in the hope of sighting a boat.
"He descended to the shore at Borley Chine and because there was no
boat, he went up into the caves and felt his way along the labyrinth
of passages, hunting for a refuge."
"Where did he land up?" demanded Frisky. "In old--I mean Miss
Cockran's study?" And she giggled.
"Shut up," said someone; and then--"Get on, Sally!"
"He didn't come up," said the girl, with a quick change in her tone.
"Have you read 'Marmion,' where the nun and her lover were walled up?
Well, it was like that--a lot of stones gave way, and the passage
behind him got choked--the police and their dogs couldn't get at
him--of course they didn't care to very much, for they'd have had to
pay for his feed in prison and the workhouse."
"You mean he died there?" said Miss Castle.
"Yes--he's still there, along with the ghost of Miss Cockran's dog,
that was lost down a rabbit burrow. And some nights (All Hallows
E'en, and Christmas, for instance) you can see the light of his
tallow candle that he had in a bottle, shining out through the
Portholes, across the sea. He hadn't the courage to chuck himself
down."
There was silence.
"How beastly!" said Frisky at last, in a subdued voice. "He may be
prancing under this room now."
"But he was never real," said Miss Castle, smiling. "So we can all
sleep happily in our beds without any terror. All the same, it was a
good story. Sally, you should work it up for the Magazine."
"Shall I put on the light again?" asked Violet Tremson; and the whole
party returned to playing cards until it was time to dress for supper.
Sally had enjoyed herself thoroughly. She was excited by her
story-telling, and the general friendliness, so that she believed the
wall of ice separating her from her companions was beginning to thaw.
At seven o'clock the party broke up abruptly, for Miss Rogers
appeared to tell Miss Castle that Miss Cockran had just had bad
news--her mother was ill, and she had to go home at once.
"Just think of Miss Cockran having a mother," murmured Frisky to
Sally. "Why, she must be nearly one hundred and one herself."
"Silly ass! She's not a bit old, really," said Doreen Priestly.
"And look here, Decima, hadn't we all better say 'thanks,' and clear
out quickly?"
They did so--except Sally--whom Miss Castle kept for a few minutes,
to ask her something about her work. When she left, all the others
had disappeared, save for a single figure whom she found studying the
notice-board, in the long passage. Sally came up with her, saw it
was Violet Tremson, and on impulse, as she recognised her, made up
her mind to apologise for her past rudeness.
"Violet, can I speak to you a minute?" she said hesitatingly.
"Yes--what is it?"
The voice chilled her, and it was with an effort she went on.
"I ... I want to say I'm sorry for all the times I've been hateful to
you."
There was a pause, but the elder girl's face did not soften. "What
has made you want to say it now--or rather, who? Miss Castle?" she
asked, still coldly.
"No--of course not--it's just, it suddenly came to me, and I felt I
must. I know I was an awful beast."
She would have gone on to excuse herself on the score of her
disappointment the evening Peter did not appear, but Violet had
already begun to move off.
"Don't bother to explain," she said, looking back. "I'm not worrying
over anything you said. The fact is, I'm really quite indifferent to
anything about you, because now I've got a good many friends here,
and they are enough for me."
Sally stopped quite still. Violet's voice was cold and even, but it
was not the snub she disliked so much as the sneer she felt
concealed. Violet had not put it in so many words, but what she
meant was surely:
"Why do you toady to me now? Just because I am popular, I suppose?"
Before she had walked the length of the passage very slowly, the
younger girl was sure of this, and her cheeks flamed. Fear of it had
been the only reason that prevented her from apologising during the
last three weeks, and now that she had nerved herself to do so, she
had been, not only scorned, but shamed.
She did not know that she exactly condemned Violet after the way she
herself had behaved in the past. Perhaps her apology, at the moment,
looked like toadying; but the bitterness of being suspected of it was
almost endurable.
In silence she went up to her room, and found that Frisky, in pure
friendliness of spirit, had arranged a booby-trap, of a wet sponge,
over her doorway.
As it descended, it shot a stream of water right down her neck, but
Sally scarcely noticed. Silently she picked it up, pulled her
curtain across the entrance, and sat down on her bed.
"No offence meant," called out Frisky, in a disappointed tone; she
had evidently expected a rise to her bait.
"All right--I don't mind--I wanted washing," responded Sally, making
a gallant effort to be amused; but her voice was so flat that Frisky
quickly turned her attention to Susy in the hope of better sport.
"My word! Toffee and cream buns and toast. Such a spread!" she said
tantalisingly, "and if my hair is untidy at supper, and I get lines
for it, I shall say it was all Miss Castle's fault."
"Why, she hasn't been stroking it, has she? I couldn't ever forgive
you."
"No! you sentimental ninny, as Violet calls you; but we've been
telling ghost stories, so now my back hair is going to stand
permanently on end."
"Oh! Did Miss Castle tell one?"
"Rather! Several. I say, Susy, did you know there was a ghost of a
little boy who was walled up and starved to death, inside Borley
Caves, haunting the cellar under this house?"
Susy gave a little shriek of affected alarm. "Oh, I shan't sleep at
night. How lovely and horrible! Did she tell you that?"
"No--it was Sally's yarn."
"Then I don't want to listen," said Susy, in a high-pitched voice,
evidently meant to carry. "It's sure to be rot, and Miss Castle
would never have asked the little beast--only she's such a toady."
Frisky laughed derisively.
"You wouldn't have gone if you'd got the chance, would you, my
darling? Oh no!"
At this point a quarrel threatened, and was only averted by Violet
Tremson's peremptory order that both parties to it should stop
talking at once.
Sally, who was still seated on the bed, remained there, with her
hands clenched, repeating to herself what Susy had said.
"Toady!"--there it was again--only, while she didn't mind it from
Susy, it was hateful from Violet.
She had almost persuaded herself by this time that Violet had really
used the word in criticising her.
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST
AUTOLYCUS GIVES TROUBLE
Very few at Seascape House, certainly amongst the girls, had been
aware of how much personality and influence Miss Cockran possessed,
until her ruling hand was removed. While Peter's tongue had dictated
her views to the general school public, it had been the fashion to
ridicule the Headmistress as a funny old maid, out of date in her
educational methods, and only to be obeyed because parents, having
paid her their fees, would expect their daughters to try to be
patient--at any rate, up to a point.
Not all the elder girls and prefects, by any means, had subscribed to
this view, and since Trina Morrison had departed they had more openly
maintained that, far from being a back number, the Headmistress of
Seascape House was a credit to her profession, and one of the
school's chief assets.
"Wonder when she will get back--it is rot her being away now," Sally
overheard a voice saying in the hall as she descended the stairs on
the fourth day of Miss Cockran's absence. The voice was querulous,
and to her surprise Sally saw that it was the usually good-tempered
Decima Pillditch who was thus ruffled.
"Perhaps her mother'll die soon," said someone else hopefully, and
then, at a shocked remonstrance from the group: "Well, of course, I
only meant Miss Cockran would be able to get back quicker."
"Cheeserings is the limit," went on Decima. "There's that shopping
party in Parchester, promised on Friday--approved by Miss Cockran and
everything--and now her Royal Highness tries to pretend it shouldn't
be done."
"Hush!" said another voice. "Here's one of the kids listening--take
care."
Sally hurried on her way, trying to pretend she had not been
eavesdropping, but really she had been held fascinated by the sudden
realisation that prefects are not always in sympathy with those in
authority. Decima Pillditch evidently disliked Miss Cheeseman, and
the younger girl, who cordially shared this feeling, was pleased.
When she arrived in Form, she told Frisky, in an undertone, what she
had overheard, and Frisky nodded.
"Too much of the Cheesemonger, and we'd have a revolution," she said,
with gloomy joy, and went away to whisper her views to someone else.
No revolution occurred, but it must be confessed that the atmosphere
at Seascape House had suddenly become strained. Everywhere, from the
Sixth to the Juniors, there was an undercurrent of insubordination,
and though the prefects did their best to hold it back, they were
obviously half-hearted in their task--like an army employed by the
State that is secretly in sympathy with the rebels. Miss Cheeseman,
whatever her intention, was not a success as Deputy Head: she had too
little sense of humour, and too much conscience in small matters.
Insubordination, whether in the form of open defiance or some quite
insignificant piece of mischief, she treated with the same rigorous
repression, making martyrs of its perpetrators and grumblers of those
who listened to their wrongs.
When Frisky Harrison had been sent to bed in the silence dormitory
known as "Coventry" for jumping out from behind the gymnasium door to
boo at one of her friends, and Cathy Manners of the Upper Fifth
deprived of her privileges for eating sweets between classes, there
was a general feeling that no one was safe.
"Why doesn't she send the whole school to bed at once, on bread and
water?" said Decima, who was still ruffled, loud enough for some of
the Juniors to hear. And though Violet Tremson stopped her with a
quick: "Best take care, Pilladex," the warning was plainly given in
sympathy with the prefect, and not with Miss Cheeseman.
Sally, with a great effort at self-control, avoided any
conflict--accepting her Form Mistress's criticisms of her essay
without the usual argument in favour of her own views--though on this
occasion she would undoubtedly have found popular backing had she
done so. It was her terror that if she annoyed Miss Cheeseman the
latter would stop her usual walk with Autolycus, and with a beating
heart she slipped out of the house that afternoon and went round to
fetch him from the stables, where he usually had his dinner.
Fate was against her, for having found Autolycus and started towards
the drive, she met Miss Cheeseman walking towards her, with Jakes,
the gardener. Since it was impossible to vanish into space, Sally
smiled ingratiatingly, and tried to pass unnoticed; but with a
movement of her hand the Deputy Principal stopped her.
"Where are you going, child?"
"I'm just exercising Autolycus--Miss Cockran always lets me."
Miss Cheeseman frowned. She had been told a great deal lately of
what Miss Cockran did or did not approve, and even to her calm
temperament it was somewhat galling.
"Indeed," she said coldly, "and where are you going?"
"Along the road, and then up the lane towards Tadiscombe Farm."
Jakes, who had been listening, and never liked to be shut long out of
any conversation, now spat on his hands by way of introducing his
remarks, and said:
"It's wildish country up there."
"What do you mean?"
"There do be a lot of poaching along them gravel-pits that b'long to
Squire Pearson, and gypsy fellows, they say, about."
"I've never seen a gypsy, and I don't go in the gravel-pits," broke
in Sally indignantly, and made an effort to pass.
"Stop, Sally," said Miss Cheeseman, firmly; "I daresay there are no
gypsies, but I think it most undesirable that a child of your age
should wander about the lanes alone."
"But I shan't be alone, I've got Tolly--he'd bite anyone who attacked
me."
"Yes, Miss, and perhaps, it may be, anyone who didn't; skinned my
fingers, he did, the last time I was washing him--the little mongrel!"
"It must have been your fault then," said Sally rudely. She disliked
the gardener, who seemed to regard all school-girls as his natural
enemies.
"Be quiet, Sally, and don't speak in that tone. Understand, I will
not have you going out alone. Who is there that doesn't play games?
Let me see----"
"I don't know." Sally looked very sullen. Really, she remembered
the Cat quite well, and, to her annoyance, so did Miss Cheeseman. A
passing Junior was ordered to find Catherine Dowl at once. In the
meantime she began to talk about vegetables to the gardener, and
Sally, after she had vainly tried to protest against the suggested
companionship, was told to be silent and keep the whining Autolycus
from walking on the beds.
Presently Catherine appeared, and Miss Cheeseman told her briskly
that she and Sally Brendan might go for a walk as far as Tadiscombe
Farm, but that they were not on any account to enter the gravel-pit,
or wander from the road.
The Cat looked no more pleased with the suggestion than Sally had
done.
"Must I go? Quantities of prep.," she mumbled, and was told that the
right time for preparation was after tea. Next, it appeared, she had
a cold coming, and had meant to stay indoors.
"It would be much better to take a brisk walk, than sit over the
playroom fire," said the Deputy Principal firmly; she disliked the
Cat as much as any of her companions, but had a secret theory that a
little more regular exercise would make her healthier in mind as well
as body.
"Now, no more excuses," she said at last. "If you have a cold,
Catherine, you can go to Matron as soon as you get in, and I will
tell her to give you a dose of cinnamon and another to-night."
Sally could almost have laughed at the Cat's expression, only she was
so cross herself.
"Come on--it's no use arguing," she said in an undertone, and
presently they set out.
"You'd better be back by 3.30," called Miss Cheeseman after them, but
they pretended not to hear, and went on sulkily down the drive. When
they reached the road Sally said:
"Look here, I didn't ask you to come, so it's not my fault--and you
didn't want to thrust in, so it's not your fault; and I don't see
that we need walk together. I'll go in front with Tolly, and you do
what you like."
The Cat nodded. She had been muttering all sorts of angry epithets
about Miss Cheeseman ever since they moved out of earshot.
"I wish you had set the dog on her," she said. "Then we'd be quit of
her for a bit. He looks as if he'd got sharp teeth," and she edged
away. She did not like animals.
"You wouldn't mind if he was shot for doing it, I suppose?" returned
Tolly's indignant mistress. (In her heart she had never quite parted
with the ownership.) "Besides, she's so tough, I expect he'd die in
the attempt."
Whistling to him, she set oft at a brisk pace, soon leaving her
companion far behind--and for a time thoroughly enjoyed herself--but
when they reached Tadiscombe Farm her troubles began. Autolycus, it
seemed, had not remained uninfluenced by the spirit of
insubordination at Seascape House. Pulled out by sheer force from
his favourite rabbit burrow, he barked indignantly at his mistress as
soon as he was released, and made straight for the pond where a
family of geese were disporting themselves.
There is safety in numbers, and the geese cackled so loudly, and made
such a flapping with their wings, that Autolycus, to avoid them,
hastily plunged through a hedge--but only to get into further
mischief. To judge from the sounds that now ensued, there was a
farmyard beyond the hedge, and by the time Sally, jumping a gate and
crossing a field, had arrived there, all was in confusion. Pigs ran
grunting, this way and that, hens flew cackling to the shelter of the
barn, the farmer's wife, trying to head off the intruder, had
stumbled and fallen, and now sat on some very dirty cobbles, clasping
an empty basin.
"I'm very sorry--very, very sorry," said Sally. "You see he's only a
puppy."
"He's a dratted nuisance," said the woman, "that's what he is. Made
me spill all these scraps I was taking to the hens, and I wouldn't be
surprised if he'd killed one of them. You call him off at once, or
I'll summons you."
Sally did not enjoy the next quarter of an hour--for it took her most
of that time to secure Autolycus, now thoroughly ashamed and
frightened--and the rest to pacify the farmer's wife, who, hunting
among the hen-coops, appeared with a dead fowl, and claimed it as a
victim of the raid.
"It looks more as if it hadn't had enough to eat," said Sally, who
noticed it was very thin. "Perhaps it really died of sickness," but
even her courage quailed before the storm this suggestion aroused.
Her remark had certainly been unfortunate, and it was not till she
produced 5_s._ 6_d._ from her pocket and presented it that she was
allowed to go, and then only with numerous threats of what would
happen if her dog was seen again within the farm precincts.
"Come on, Tolly, you brute, but I'm sure you never touched that
fowl," Sally said as she went, dragging him by her handkerchief
through his collar, and coming to the gate of the field, she saw
Catherine Dowl leaning against it watching.
There was a malicious smile in the corners of her eyes that roused
the younger girl's anger to white heat.
"Move, and let me pass, can't you?" she said roughly, and the Cat did
so, laughing in her silent way, with her lip drawn back to show her
gums.
They walked home as they had come, Sally stalking in front with the
now subdued Autolycus, and her companion plodding behind, with sunk
shoulders and face turned to the ground.
At the gates Sally paused. "Come on," she said. "We'd better arrive
together, or we may be tied hand and foot to one another for the rest
of the evening, by way of punishment."
The Cat sniggered. "Don't let that beast of yours bite the
gardener," she said. "He'd be sure to be shot then."
"What do you mean? He isn't going to be shot--he's quite a good dog,
only he's a puppy--and sometimes excitable."
Again the Cat sniggered, and Sally, stopping in the drive, said
fiercely, "What do you mean? Speak out."
"Oh, I meant nothing--just I've never seen him before, except in the
grounds, of course, until this afternoon ... he hasn't been exactly
good, has he--to-day?"
"I don't believe he ever killed the chicken, if you mean that?"
"You paid some money for it, didn't you?"
Sally was silent for a minute, then she shrugged. "Of course, you'd
believe the worst of him you could--but at any rate it's none of your
business, so go and drink your cinnamon."
The Cat did not appear to notice the gibe; only when they were
parting at the front door she said, with a glance out of the corner
of her slanting eyes, "You'd better be careful. If a dog takes to
killing chickens, or sheep, I've always heard he can't be cured."
Sally did not trouble to reply. She had noticed the school clock
said 3.25, and was determined to take Autolycus for a further run in
the grounds before she went in to tidy for tea. It was a strenuous
occupation, for Tolly was so thrilled over the numberless rabbit
burrows along the cliff that he ran from one to the other, yapping
wildly, and covering himself with the sandy mud he kicked up in
clouds behind him. His mistress was quite thankful when she had
restored him to the stables, and after bestowing an affectionate kiss
on his black muzzle, she hastened into the house--her temper largely
recovered.
"Sally Brendan, Miss Cheeseman wants you." One of the prefects
caught her with this information as she was walking into her
class-room for preparation at 5.30.
With a muttered exclamation of annoyance, the younger girl went to
the Deputy Principal's study, and knocked.
"You wanted me?" she said briefly.
"Yes. Don't stand by the door as if you were waiting to run away,
but come here. I wanted to ask you what exactly happened at
Tadiscombe Farm, this afternoon."
"What happened?" said Sally, in apparent amazement--trying to collect
her wits. And then bitterly, "I suppose the Cat has been telling."
"If you mean Catherine Dowl, when she went to Matron for her
cinnamon, she said enough about the walk to make Matron think it
desirable that I should be informed."
"Cad!" said Sally, half under her breath, but sufficiently loud for
Miss Cheeseman to grasp its significance.
"Hush, Sally--and remember Catherine Dowl has not blamed you, nor do
I--for anything I have heard so far. I consider that dog far too
undisciplined to be allowed out alone with anyone so young as you."
"Miss Cockran doesn't think so."
"Miss Cockran is not here."
The Deputy Principal's voice, up to this time, had remained fairly
sympathetic; but now it became cold and detached. Bit by bit, she
gained the story of the afternoon's adventure, and finally gave her
verdict.
"Miss Cockran will, of course, decide as she wishes when she returns,
but in the meantime, I do not consider it safe for the dog to leave
the grounds at all, nor for you to take him for walks."
"But, Miss Cheeseman, he needs exercise--or----"
"That will do, Sally. Let there be no more argument. It is one of
your chief failings."
Sally went out and slammed the door. She was called back, and shut
it quietly; then stood making her most hideous grimace at it, only to
find Miss Castle's hand on her shoulder.
"Oh, Sally, what an infant you are in some ways!" she said, and
passed swiftly down the passage.
It was a galling comment--or would have been from anyone else--but
the girl suspected underlying sympathy with her mood, and the heat of
her anger cooled. After all, it was more the Cat than Miss Cheeseman
who had played a dirty game.
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SECOND
AUTOLYCUS IS LOST
"Tolly! Tolly! Where are you, Tolly? Come here--good dog!"
It was Thursday afternoon, and Sally, unable to find Autolycus in the
stables, was hunting for him up and down the gardens. Jakes, who was
digging, paused and rested his hands on his spade to watch her. On
his face was a wide grin.
"It ain't no use your calling of 'im, Miss," he drawled at last. "He
ain't here."
"Not here? What do you mean? Tell me quick."
Sally's eyes were so tragic that Jakes's grin vanished, and he shook
his head.
"It's what I said, Miss--he ain't here--must have runned away, and
without his dinner too. I've never knowed him miss his dinner afore
this."
"But you must know more about him than that. Tolly was so happy
here, and so miserable before. I know he wouldn't run away."
The problem thus presented was too much for Jakes, who stood and
scratched his head, in the intervals of shaking it.
"Dogs is queer kittle cattle," was all he volunteered. "But one
thing I know, and it's this 'ere--it ain't no bit of use calling 'im:
he'll come back when he wants to, and not afore."
He began to dig once more, and Sally fled towards the house,
questioning anyone who she thought might be able to help her.
"Came after the dust-bins last night--greedy little beast!--that's
all I know of 'im, for I drove him off, as Miss Cockran said to
me--'Don't you feed him now--not extra, beyond his ordinary
meals'--she says..."
Cook would have talked a great deal more, but the girl left her:
there was a large household to cross-examine. Of the maids, however,
only one had any information to offer, and that was that she had seen
Tolly running round the house early before breakfast; but wasn't sure
if it might have been yesterday or the day before.
Impatient at such vagueness, the girl went up to Miss Castle's room,
but she was out; while Miss Rogers, when tracked to the
playing-fields, proffered no help beyond a little sympathy and the
belief that Tolly was such a sensible fellow he would be sure to take
care of himself.
"You don't think Miss Cheeseman has had him shot, do you?"
Miss Rogers began to laugh; then stopped, at the earnestness in the
girl's eyes.
"No, Sally, I'm sure she hasn't.... What makes you think that?"
"Well, she doesn't like him, and now Miss Cockran's away, and----"
"Oh Sally! Sally! Do you think she'd give such a stab in the back
as that--especially when she's very fond of Miss Cockran?"
Sally, with hands clenched to keep back her wretchedness, shook her
head. "No, I suppose not ... it was only an idea."
"Well, put it out of your head for a start. I've seen Miss Cheeseman
feeding him with biscuits when no one was looking.... Now I must
attend to the games, but I'll be sure and make inquiries, so don't
lose heart. He'll probably come barking back to-night."
Dejected, but a little relieved that Tolly was at any rate not the
victim of a plot, Sally wandered once more towards the school, and
crossing the quadrangle, ran into Frisky Harrison, who greeted her
with a shout:
"I say, do come and play squash--I've a new ball."
Sally shook her head. "I can't," she said, and was hurrying away
when the other caught her by the arm.
"What's the matter--another row?" she asked sympathetically. "Old
Cheeserings is the limit. Matron reported me to her to-day for
cheek, and here I am--'gated'--no chance of practising for the Form
match on Saturday, and----"
"I'm very sorry," said Sally, pulling at her arm to free herself,
"but I can't stop--Tolly's lost."
Frisky whistled--then ran after her. "Where? ... How? Can't I help?"
"I'm going to look in the grounds--it's where he generally played,
when he was allowed loose--out beyond the gardens, along the cliffs.
Why ... he may have ... fallen over, even----"
Horror dawned in her eyes at the thought, but Frisky smote her on the
back, "Not he, you ass. Don't go and get the jumps--he was much too
cute--but look here, I'll come and help you, and we'll regularly beat
the bounds."
"I ... I thought you were 'gated.'"
Frisky dropped an eyelid. "From the playing-fields and shore, my
child; but the garden was never mentioned. You run along, and I'll
join you there in a jiffy, as soon as I've collected a coat."
They beat the bounds between them until it was nearly tea-time, and
the evening shadows were beginning to roll up over the sky. Then at
last, Frisky, looking round with a shiver, declared it was no use to
hunt any more; but, even as she spoke, Sally, who was bending down by
a gorse-bush, cried out:
"Come here quick! I'm sure I heard him bark."
The other ran over, and they knelt side by side, listening.
"There!" said Sally. "There! It's very faint, but oh, can't you
hear it?"
"Sorry--but I can't."
Frisky gave another shiver. "Come on, old girl, do," she said
coaxingly. "It's rotten bad luck, but I expect he's only gone into
the town."
She stopped, for Sally was already running towards the house, and she
saw her pause and speak to Jakes, who, spade in hand, had been
watching them over the hedge.
Jakes shook his head several times. He was evidently not in an
obliging mood; but finally he shifted his spade on to his shoulder,
and came striding across.
"It's like this here, Miss," he was saying, as he approached. "It's
a regular laby-rinth of burrows--that's what it is--down under this
here field. If I was to dig at the mouth of every burrow that's
fallen in, you might pay me wages for a month for doing it, and
there'd be nothing to show for it at the end, I reckon, but
rheumatism in my back."
He laughed at his own wit, and Sally broke in impatiently:
"I'm not asking you to dig at every burrow, but only at the one by
the gorse-bush--I heard him bark just now."
"Did you, Miss?"
Jakes looked inquiringly at Frisky, and kneeling down, put his ear to
the ground.
"I reckon I don't hear nothing," he grumbled, rising at last.
"See here, Missie, what's the good of my digging?"
"Please dig--you said you would. You promised. I heard him."
Silently, and without enthusiasm, Jakes fell to his task--Sally
watching him intently--Frisky with backward glances at the school,
where lights were beginning to show in the class-room windows.
"We've missed tea, and they're going to start preparation," she
whispered. "Do come, Sally--we'll get in an awful row if we're
late." But her companion did not even hear her.
After a minute's indecision, Frisky turned and ran back to the house:
but instead of joining her Form at work she threw her coat on to a
peg in the cloakroom, and knocked at Miss Castle's door.
Miss Castle was at work, obviously correcting preparation, for she
had a pile of note-books heaped before her, and a red pencil in her
hand.
"Well, Frisky," she said. "What is it?"
(Everyone except Miss Cheeseman called the girl by her nickname,
instead of "Felicia," as she had been christened.)
"Oh, Miss Castle, I'm so worried about Sally Brendan. She has lost
Tolly, and she thinks he's down a rabbit burrow, and is making Jakes
dig for him, and I know she'll be late for prep.: and there'll be an
awful row, and I can't get her away."
Miss Castle rose with a sigh. Since Miss Cockran went home she had
had to answer a great many appeals for help, and it was not always
easy.
"Where are they?" she asked.
"Out on the cliff ... and oh, you won't be angry with her, will you?
And it's not 'telling' my coming to you like this, is it? You see,
if Cheese--I mean Miss Cheeseman found her, I know there would be a
row."
"I understand," said the other briefly, picking up a small electric
torch off the mantelpiece--and then she added with a smile:
"But what about you--you are late for preparation, aren't you? And
have you had any tea?"
"No--you see while it was light we thought it best to go on looking,
and then, I didn't like to leave Sally and----"
"Quite so. Well, you can tell the prefect in charge you were doing
some work for me. Perhaps I'd better write a note."
"Yes, please. Most of them would think I was making it up. Thanks
awfully, Miss Castle, and what work shall I do?"
Miss Castle, as soon as she finished the note, went to the cupboard,
took out a plate with a cake on it, and cut some slices. "You'd
better eat those," she said, "as quickly as you can," and snatching
up her coat, disappeared.
By the time she reached the cliff there was a huge earth mound near
the gorse-bush, and Jakes had struck work.
"It ain't a bit of good, Miss, and I wasn't paid to excavate--not by
Miss Cockran I wasn't, even if it's her own dog."
"There's another way of getting him," said the girl, "and that's
through the Portholes."
"What do you mean, Sally?"
It was Miss Castle, and Sally turned to her joyfully. "Oh, Miss
Castle, I'm so glad you've come. It's Tolly--he's gone down a rabbit
burrow, and the earth must have fallen in, and--I know what's
happened--all these burrows lead to the cave where the Portholes are,
and he must be there...."
"I don't believe he's there, Miss, that I don't," said Jakes, and
spat on the ground to mark his certainty.
"How do you know, Sally? What makes you say it?"
"I heard him--not a regular bark--but faint, with a whine. He must
be starving and cold."
"Just himagination!" said Jakes; "that's what it is.... She's got a
notion he's there, and so she heard him, but I never heard him ...
nor the other young lady."
"Where was it you heard him, Sally?"
Miss Castle went down on her knees as Jakes had done, and listened,
while the girl watched her anxiously. At last she rose to her feet,
with a sigh and shake of her head.
"I don't hear him," she said. "Perhaps you made a mistake."
"It were one of them sea-gulls--that's what it were--I be sure."
Sally withered Jakes with a glance. "It was Tolly," she said
positively. "Do you think I wouldn't know? But we can easily
see--there are the Portholes."
"Sally, we can't climb in at the Portholes--there's no way."
"But, Miss Castle, there is--I saw yards and yards of rope in the
shed, the other day, and we can lower it over the cliff here...."
"And me climb down, I suppose, for that there dratted little dog,
what ain't there--and should never 'ave been at all, to judge by his
appearance."
Jakes was at last completely exasperated. "I'm not asking you to
climb down," said Sally coldly, "only to lower me--I'm not afraid."
The gardener was about to retort angrily when Miss Castle put up a
warning hand.
"We couldn't allow that, my dear," she said quietly, putting her arm
round the girl's shoulder. "It would be risking your life, and that
is more valuable than Tolly's."
"Riskin'? Throwin' it away, Miss! ... look here----"
Jakes went close to the edge of the cliff, and dug with his toe at a
projecting clump of grass and sea pinks. With a very slight effort
he dislodged it, and several inches fell away, tumbling down on to
the rocks below.
"That might be you, Miss," he said, and there was a pause.
Sally shivered and looked at Miss Castle. "I can't leave him there,"
she said; "I can't."
"We are not sure he is there," said Miss Castle gently. "He may be
in Parchester. I'll ring up the police, and have him put on the Town
Crier's list--but you must come indoors now."
Sally went quietly. It seemed as if her determination had suddenly
collapsed. When she reached Miss Castle's room, she ate a slice of
cake and drank some hot milk mechanically, and even smiled when her
companion read her a comic piece out of one of the Juniors' essays.
It was obvious, however, that her mind was far away.
"Thank you," she said at last, "thank you very much--I'll go and do
some prep, now; may I say I was excused for the first bit?"
"Certainly, I've sent one note already for Frisky, so I may as well
send another, I suppose, for you. But look here, child--I want you
to try and not worry."
Sally's face was quite blank of expression. "I won't go out and hunt
again to-night, if you're afraid of that," she said wearily. "But I
can't promise not to think of Tolly."
"No, of course not--but don't imagine he's dead ... he may run in at
any minute. I'll go out and call him again, the last thing."
"He's not dead at present," said Sally, "I know that--but I don't
think it's any use your calling him. Thanks awfully for thinking of
it."
She went out quietly, and shut the door.
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-THIRD
PORTHOLES
The night that Autolycus was lost, Sally endured the uneasy sleep of
a sick-room nurse, with spells of utter weariness and oblivion,
broken by a return to real life, when visions of the puppy in various
stages of exhaustion floated before her eyes. "Just himagination,"
she muttered, in scornful imitation of Jakes, and was glad that the
school bell's noisy jangle at last allowed her to get up and dress.
She was not hungry, and the sight of the plates at breakfast, heaped
with large slabs of bread and butter, filled her with nausea, so that
she longed to slip away to her classroom and pretend to be busy with
her work.
It was an effort not to be rude in response to Frisky's well-meant
efforts at consolation.
"Please don't talk of Tolly," she said at last, with a break in her
voice, "I ... can't stand it."
Frisky said "Sorry," gruffly, and relapsed into silence.
It was at this minute Sally overheard a piece of conversation that
gripped her attention and held it fast. Decima Pillditch was talking
to Violet Tremson across the table, some places up towards the Senior
end.
"So, of course, I told her that Doris Forbes was leaving this term
... (it is all right, she hasn't come down yet, so she won't hear),
and that, as she was both head of the school and games captain, it
was simply up to us to do something handsome in the way of a present.
I must say Cheeserings seemed to take that in all right--clucked
approvingly, and all that; and then I rubbed it in that several of us
ought to go into Parchester in consequence, and choose the thing."
"I wonder she didn't offer to do it herself," interposed Cathy
Manners. "A dictionary, for instance, or some moral little tale, or
Dryden's works, or----"
"Shut up," said Decima. "It's too early in the day to be funny.
Anyhow, Cheeserings pursed up her lips, and blinked, and said: 'Which
of you?' And I said--you and I, Violet and Cathy perhaps, if we held
her by the hand, to be sure she behaves as becomes a Seascaper, and
Edith Seymour, and other prefects--most of our crowd who play games,
in fact."
"Well, and did she feel she could trust the prefects?"
"Not she, bless her! ... not alone, in a town like Parchester," said
Decima bitterly. "Why, we might run away, or go to the Pictures and
bring back scarlet fever."
"Then I suppose the whole thing is off. Rotten, I call it!"
"No, it isn't all off. Do give me time to finish. I said 'alone.'
She suddenly had a brain wave that Mademoiselle was taking Pat Dolby
to the dentist this afternoon, and said we might all go with her, and
while Pat writhes in the chair, we can be let off the chain to look
at shops."
There were a few seconds' silence.
"I call it humiliating," said one of the prefects; "it's like holding
Nanna's hand. I vote we refuse."
"Isn't that cutting off our noses to spite our faces?" asked Violet
Tremson quickly. "We do want the present and it is the only way of
choosing it."
"It's caving in to Cheeserings, though."
"Well, she can't help being like she is, or she would probably be
different," said Violet, "and, after all, Miss Cockran's mother's
better, so she may be back any day. Don't let's be idiots."
She had lowered her voice to be audible only at her end of the table,
but Sally had caught enough of the conversation for her purpose, and
her mind was already at work constructing a plan. By the time she
reached her Form, part of her cloud of depression had already lifted;
but she was careful to conceal this from Miss Castle when, hanging
about in the passage by her class-room door, at the middle of the
morning interval, she was able to speak to her for a few minutes.
"Miss Castle ... I ... I suppose you heard nothing last night?"
"No, Sally, I'm afraid not--but I have telephoned to the police, and
they have promised to look out for him."
Sally sighed, and looked very woebegone. "It's ... it's the waiting
about and doing nothing," she said.
"I know--but you must be brave, my dear--you have plenty of pluck.
Do something to occupy your mind."
This was just the advice Sally had expected Miss Castle to give, and
though she had angled for it, her expression remained half-sulky,
half-weary.
"I can't play games this term ... and ... I just couldn't go for an
ordinary walk leading nowhere, when I've always had Tolly before...."
Her voice broke, and the tears came into her eyes. They were real
tears, for she had suddenly remembered how Tolly would stand in the
stable doorway, and look up at her, and bark--wagging his
ridiculously long tail.
Miss Castle put her hand on her shoulder. "You mustn't give up hope
like that," she said, and then Sally broke in:
"Miss Castle, some of the Seniors are going to Parchester this
afternoon, shopping, and Mademoiselle will be with them, and Pat
Dolby--going to the dentist--do you think I could go?"
"Why, Sally ... I've 'phoned to the police, and even sent a notice to
put up, and..."
"I know ... and, of course, it doesn't matter ... but I just thought
it would be something to do with an object, and I wouldn't have to
keep on thinking ... thinking. Of course, if I'd better not----"
She had begun to turn away, when Miss Castle stopped her.
"It's quite a sensible idea," she said slowly. "I'll ask for leave
if you like, and will you promise me, in return, that you will try
and not worry?"
"Yes, Miss Castle."
Sally did not look at her very straight, but suddenly she caught hold
of her hand, and wrung it hard.
"You have been a brick to me," she said, and fled.
It was hardly respectful, or after the custom of Seascape School in
its behaviour towards those in authority, but Miss Castle seemed not
to mind.
That afternoon, Sally, warned by a message to be ready at 2.15, was
waiting on the front doorstep soon after the hour. She had her thick
coat on, and a bag in her hand, and kept as much out of the prefects'
sight as possible, for she guessed that her addition to the party
would not be popular. As it happened, however, though Violet Tremson
glanced at her keenly, no one else took any notice of her except Pat
Dolby, who, from the folds of the muffler protecting her bad tooth
from the air, mumbled suddenly:
"Sorry about the dog!"
Pat had always been one of her special persecutors, and Sally stared
at her at first in surprise. Then she said gratefully, "Thanks
awfully," and they were silent.
One on either side of Mademoiselle, they walked briskly into
Parchester, while the prefects, in groups of two or three, strolled
on ahead, obviously disdaining their company.
Sally, as they passed the various plantations of firs, thought of her
moonlit expedition alone; and as they drew near to the spot where
Tolly had first discovered himself to her by licking her hand, her
breath came in a choke. He had trusted her then, and she would not
desert him now. It was horrid to deceive Miss Castle, but it
couldn't be helped.
While she was still trying to justify herself to her conscience, the
beginning of the tram-lines on the far side of the heath came in
sight, and she could see that there was a tram just about to start.
The Seniors had seen it also, and were running. Sally started to run
too. She could hear Mademoiselle call to her to stop, but it was too
good an opportunity for the escape she had planned, and, apparently
deaf, she continued to race along as hard as she could.
When she was nearly alongside the step, the last prefect had already
mounted to the top and disappeared; the conductor had rung his bell.
"Stop! ... take me," called Sally, and putting on a spurt, made a
jump. The conductor caught her and grinned. He was young and
admired pluck.
"My! but you're some sprinter," he said. "Going on top with the
rest?"
Sally shook her head; she had no breath left, and thankfully subsided
into a far corner, undiscovered. When the tram arrived in the High
Street, and stopped to let her companions dismount, she waited
anxiously to see if they would remember or notice her; but to her joy
they evidently believed that she had been left behind with
Mademoiselle. Laughing and talking, they vanished into a big
stationer's, and the tram shot on its way.
"'Ullo!" said the conductor, "not with the rest?" when at last, at
the old City Cross, at the bottom of the town, Sally moved to the
door. She shook her head, and was glad he did not seem to worry
further about her; but it was with relief she heard the bell ring and
saw him pass out of sight. There was only one more thing to be done
now to avoid unwanted attention, and that was to dispose of her hat,
with the Seascape band on it. In this she succeeded by thrusting it
down to the bottom of a basket of remnants, at the entrance to a
drapery stores. Turning away, she took her old cap out of her
pocket, and dragged it on over her eyes.
Now, unless she met anyone from the school, she was safe, and could
start unhampered on her expedition--an adventure if ever she had had
one--but different from all her other escapades in that no love of
notoriety or excitement had led her to plan it.
"I must save Tolly."
That was her one idea, the slogan that inspired her to face the
Borley Caves in the damp and dusk of a late November afternoon.
She did not waste more time in Parchester than she could help, merely
pausing to make certain purchases that included a lantern, some
candles and matches, a piece of raw meat, wrapped in a newspaper, a
bottle of milk, and a small loaf of bread. As many of these things
as she could fit in she thrust into the bag she had brought, and with
the rest under her arm made her way back to the old City Cross, and
took the tram labelled "Borley Chine."
It was still fairly light when she reached her destination and
hastened away from the rows of lodging-houses, now half empty, down
the zig-zag path, towards the pebbly beach. Beyond, lay the ridge of
rocks and golden sands which had made the fortunes of Parchester and
its neighbourhood during the last half-century.
Sally passed very few people, and they were all coming from the
shore; going back, as she recognised, to family tea-parties, round
comfortable fires. The thought made her shiver. It had been easy to
boast, on a summer afternoon, that she was not afraid to make her way
to the Portholes, but now it was all quite different. If it hadn't
been for Autolycus, and the look of entreaty in his brown eyes that
continually haunted her imagination, she would have turned straight
back.
As it was, she climbed steadily over the pebbles, and up the broad
slope of rock and shingle that led to the opening of the largest
cave. In the narrow entrance it was almost dark, and she paused, to
take a last look at the misty landscape--with its deserted shore--and
beyond that again at the grey-green sea, empty of any sail, tossing
and turning in forlorn monotony.
"How horrible!" she said, though she usually loved the sea; and with
hands that trembled lit her candle. Holding the lantern aloft, she
surveyed the cave, into which a slit In the cliff admitted her.
It was a circular space, with long shafts of grey rock projecting
here and there from the walls, like buttresses on the outside of a
church. Water was trickling down them, and forming little pools,
while tufts of fern and dank seaweed growths clung to the crevices
and dripped.
"Like a vault," said Sally aloud, and jumped at the echo of her own
voice, and again, as some bird flapped past her head, scurrying
towards the open in terror at the unexpected sounds.
"I wonder which of us was most frightened," she said, and smiled
without any amusement as, lowering the lantern, she crossed the cave
and passed through the narrow doorway on the other side.
Here a passage began; almost overpoweringly damp and smelly, at times
high like the vaulting of a church, at others so low that its dusty
roof brushed and crumbled against her cap. Occasionally it widened
out into a room, or else it turned, first at one sharp angle and then
at another, until all sense of direction became lost.
Once the passage proved so stuffy that the candle, which had been
burning low and dim, went out, and Sally had to grope her way until
she came once more to a slit in the outer rock, letting in some
light, and fresh puffs of air.
"I can't go on," she told herself, as she relit the lantern, "I
can't"; but she knew that still less could she turn back, since she
was even more afraid of the corners she had passed than of those that
lay before her.
All the time she kept wondering where she was--near the coast, she
imagined, because she could often hear the monotonous thud of the sea
on the rocks, though the gathering dusk hid it from her sight.
"I must be almost under the school," she muttered at last--"I've been
stumbling along here for hours and hours. I think I'll begin calling
Tolly."
But instead she screamed and then screamed again.
Almost on a level with her face, the lantern had shown her bright
eyes staring at her from behind a ledge of rock: and in the same
flash, her imagination had pictured the ghost boy she had invented in
Miss Castle's room and then forgotten. Had she invented him? Mabel
Gosson had given her the idea, that summer afternoon on the beach,
and perhaps he was true after all.
Perhaps ... but as Sally leaned against the wall, wiping her forehead
and trying to keep herself from screaming once more, relief came.
The eyes no longer stared, while the small grey body to which they
evidently belonged scuttled down the ledge of rock and ran off,
showing a patch of white to the lantern.
"A rabbit!" said the girl, and almost laughed, for here was her
theory that the burrows were connected with the caves confirmed: and
with that realisation came new courage and hope.
"Tolly!" she shouted. "Tolly! Tolly!" and went on calling as she
moved forward.
As she mounted a heap of broken shale, a faint bark sounded in the
distance.
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH
RECONCILIATION
While Sally was making her journey of exploration through the caves,
she had felt as though hours passed: it seemed weeks before, at last,
she found Autolycus. The whole thing was like some hideous game of
"hunt the thimble," with feeble yapping, now so faint as to be
scarcely heard, and then for a moment louder, to guide her, instead
of music.
The passage had by this time widened, through an entrance
half-blocked with crumbling shale, into a series of caves--some of
which, it was obvious, must have been used in the past as a
store-house. The walls had been roughly hewn to hold shelves, broken
planks lay on the ground, while some empty barrels rotted in pools.
Sally, wriggling through the half-blocked entrance to the last cave
on hands and knees, only noted these things with one half of her
mind, the other and more active of her brain was intent on what was
now an almost continuous whine--full of misery and entreaty.
"Tolly!" she called, "Tolly! Why don't you come?"
And at last, stumbling over an old iron anchor, almost buried beneath
a mass of fallen rock, she came upon him--lying on his side--pinned
down by a heap of earth and loose stones.
She knelt beside him, kissing him, and he lifted his head and feebly
licked her hand, gazing at her with wide brown eyes that expressed
their utter confidence in her ability to put things right.
"You are quite safe, Tolly," she whispered in answer, and resting her
lantern on the projecting bar of the anchor, began feverishly to
clear away the debris that weighed him down. At last he was free;
but as she tried to lift him, he yelped, and examining him, she found
his leg was hurt.
As gently as she could she raised him, and taking off her thick coat,
folded it up to form a cushion, and so made a bed for him in the
driest part of the cave. Then she opened her bag, and producing a
saucer and the bottle of milk, persuaded him to drink some. It was
slow work at first, for the move had evidently jarred his leg, and he
would do nothing but lie and whine, with his eyes shut. Gradually,
however, he eased his position, and then, when he had taken a little
milk, began to revive, and eagerly ate some pieces of raw meat that
Sally chopped off for him with her pocket knife. His tail was
wagging now, and there came at last something of his old roguish
spirit in the cock of his long ears and gleam of his eyes.
"You think we are out of the wood, my lad," said his mistress rather
ruefully. "It's well to have a trusting disposition," and with a
little shiver she looked round the cave. It was very cold without
her great-coat, though she was thankful she had had the sense to put
on two warm woollen jumpers underneath as well as a thick scarf.
Round her waist were folded coils and coils of rope; and Sally, as
she began mechanically to unwind these, laughed, as she thought of
what Jakes's indignation must have been when he discovered her theft.
Finding herself too early for the walk that afternoon, she had, on a
sudden impulse, dashed round to the stable and outhouses,
appropriating quite easily, since it was still Jakes's dinner hour,
first a large clasp knife, that she had concealed in her bag, and
then the rope, which she had hidden beneath her coat.
Would it be of any use to her? The answer seemed to depend on where
she was, and as Autolycus slept--apparently exhausted--Sally lifted
the lantern and began a voyage of discovery.
She was in a fairly large cave, not so damp as the one she called the
entrance hall, but still in rather a ruinous condition--to judge by
its heaps of splintered rock and earth. The roof, especially near
the entrance, where she had scrambled through on her knees, must
always have been weak, for previous visitors--presumably
smugglers--had propped it up with pit-poles, and stretched a pine
trunk across, that now sagged ominously over the doorway.
At the opposite side, where she had found the dog, there was a wide
fissure in the rocks, filled with earth and rubble. Here the roof
sloped so violently that the girl, approaching to examine it, jumped
back in dismay as she realised its spongy insecurity.
"Why, it might come down any minute: it might have come down and
buried Tolly and me while I was bending over him," were the thoughts
that shook her nerve, and turned the caves, not merely into a place
of shadowy fear, but of active, lurking danger.
Her candle had now burned very low, and Sally, while she replaced it
with another--her fingers trembling as she forced them to do her
will--was struck by a fresh thought. Where did the air come from
that had nearly extinguished her light, since the wall against which
she leaned seemed solid like the others?
Smothering the glow from the lantern with her bag, she peered about
her in the dark, until, her eyes growing accustomed to the gloom, she
was able to distinguish some kind of opening, a few feet above her
head. A wide opening it must be--no, two--for a broad line of shadow
was thrown across the cave, in the middle; and then Sally's heart
gave a leap. She had reached the Portholes: and was quite close to
Seascape House, if only she could make anyone hear her and come to
her assistance.
Lifting the light again, she moved her hand along the wall, wondering
how she could raise herself to look out--for it was no use shouting
while she was in a kind of well--and then, suddenly, Autolycus
whined. It was not the whine of pain, but had an undercurrent of
growl in it, and Sally, as she turned back from her search, and put
her hand on his back to quiet him, could feel that he was tense with
excitement.
"He's heard something," she said. "Someone is coming."
Her first feeling was one of joy, for the loneliness and growing
sense of insecurity had begun to tell on her nerves, and she was very
near tears. Then, as she listened, conscious that there were indeed
movements somewhere down the long dark passage by which she had just
come, her hope turned to fresh terror. What human being could it be
that visited the caves at this hour of the night? No one knew where
she was--(how Sally wished, in that minute, that she had left a note
for Miss Castle to explain her plan)--smugglers were an order of the
past--there was no one ... no one except...
In a flash, there forced itself back into her mind the tale she had
deliberately shut out earlier in the afternoon--of the boy who,
wandering like herself from Borley Chine, through the labyrinth of
passages, had been walled up and starved. In her excited mood he was
no longer the hero of a ghost story, but a reality; and drawing a
choking breath, she crouched down by the dog, and placing the bag in
front of the lantern to hide its light, flattened herself against the
wall.
"Quiet, Tolly!" she whispered. "Oh, do be quiet!" But he continued
to growl softly, and the footsteps--for she knew they were footsteps
now--to draw ever closer.
Of the next few minutes Sally had never any clear recollection.
Someone shouted--shouted several times--there was a flash of light,
and a sound of falling masonry, mingled with loud barking--and then
the pain in her head, which had caught her sharply in the first spasm
of fear, became intense and she knew no more.
When she opened her eyes, it was to see Violet Tremson staring down
at her--a Violet almost as white as the handkerchief with which she
was sponging her forehead.
"The ghost!" Sally gasped; and then, "Where am I?"
"I ... I think we are underneath the Portholes----"
Violet's voice was very unsteady, and the tears had begun to trickle
down her face.
"I ... I thought you were dead when I found you," she said, and then
the other, in sudden reaction, sat up and laughed.
"It was you who killed me.... I imagined you were the ghost--my
ghost," she said; "and I suppose I fainted." She shivered.
In an instant, Violet was on her feet and taking off her own coat.
"You are to put this on at once," she said, and there was so much
authority in her tone, and the younger girl was so cold, that she
meekly obeyed. Her brain was working furiously now: she had begun to
wonder how on earth the other had found her, and why she had come.
"I ... don't understand," she began, but Violet, with a frown, only
said--"Presently." She had a soft plaid rug that she wound round her
own shoulders, and tied under her arms. This done, she opened a wide
rush basket, and began taking out first a huge thermos, and then some
buns in a bag.
"Coffee," she said, and pouring some into a mug, made Sally drink
from it, afterwards drinking herself.
"Now we shan't get chilled straight off, while we make plans," she
said. "And there's more left if we want it. Feel better?"
"Lots, thank you. It was just the fright and finding Tolly hurt."
Violet nodded, and turning the lantern towards the dog, began to feel
his leg, with gentle, capable fingers--while he whined softly, and
tried to lick her hand.
"I think it's broken," she said at last. "Not badly--but it ought to
be set--I wonder where we could get a splint."
She got up from her knees and began to look, and Sally, as she
flashed the lantern round the cave, gave an exclamation of horror.
"The door!" she said. "Why, it has fallen in."
"I know--it nearly fell on top of me, because my electric torch went
out, and in the dark I caught the rug round one of the props, as I
scrambled through, and pulled it too hard trying to get it free.
That's what made me so funky and shaken--that, and finding you, as I
thought, dead."
She gave a thin little laugh, without much mirth in it, and went to
pick up the broken prop.
"A bit of it might do, if I had a decent knife," she said, and gave
an exclamation of joy, as Sally produced the gardener's out of her
bag.
"You really have the pioneering instinct, Sally, and you ought to
emigrate. Imagine thinking of a knife! And I suppose you brought
that coil of rope."
The younger girl nodded shyly. "You ought to be a prophet," she
said. "Or the Delphic oracle person. How did you know I was here?"
Violet flushed. "Well, I didn't. But I guessed when we met
Mademoiselle in the High Street with Pat Dolby, and she thought you
were with us, and I knew you hadn't been. She was in an awful state
about you."
"Poor Mademoiselle! She's very nice most times, isn't she? But so
excitable."
"Fireworks weren't in it," said the elder girl placidly. "Anyhow,
while they fired, I went round quietly and borrowed all the money the
others had got, so as to get the thermos, the rug and coffee. I told
them to tell her (when she allowed them to speak) that I knew where
you were, and would bring you along--and just vanished."
"But how did you know?" persisted Sally. "I never told you anything."
"Frisky did--I mean about your thinking the dog had got into the
caves: then I remembered your ghost story about the Chine, and put
two and two together. You said, out there on the cliffs, it was the
only way to get him."
They were silent, while Violet measured the stick. Afterwards, with
Sally holding the lantern, she set Tolly's leg as well as she could,
and fastened it to the splint, binding it up with her school tie and
hat-band.
"Now he's got the colours," she said, "and I know he'll deserve
them--the darling--for he is wagging his tail, although I hurt him."
It was true. Tolly had whined a little while the operation was going
on, but now he was evidently satisfied that what had been done was
intended for his good, and when Violet bent over to kiss him, he
licked her face--then looked up at them both expectantly, and barked.
"He now imagines," said Violet, "that we will waft him back on a
magic carpet to his stables or the vet., and how is it going to be
done, kid?"
Sally turned and looked at her with a start. "I don't know," she
said absently. "I was just thinking--why did you come, Violet? You
... you hated me."
"No, never," said Violet quietly--and then, "Sally, do you want me to
have to apologise for what I said the other day?"
The younger girl stared. "I ... I loathe apologies," she said, "and
why on earth should you? I had been beastly to you several times,
and you had a right to snub me; only, that evening when I apologised,
I wasn't toadying, you know--really, I wasn't--it was just I had been
so happy with you all, and Miss Castle, and I wanted to make things
straight."
"Yes--and then I went and damped all your happiness down, and was a
sanctimonious liar, and said I hadn't minded what you did. I could
have kicked myself that night."
Violet had risen to her feet, and was walking backwards and forwards,
with more emotion in her pale face than Sally had ever seen there
before.
"It's all right, Violet," she said awkwardly. "Don't mind like that.
I've been much ruder to you than you ever have been to me. Let's
just forget it all."
Violet laughed. "It would be the simplest thing to do, but one's got
to have some kind of an explanation. I liked you from the first,
kid--I don't know why--(certainly not from Cousin Alice's
description)," she added, with a twinkle, "but just because, I
suppose, one falls into friendship as into love."
"I know," said Sally, nodding; "as I did over Peter--only I've fallen
out again, as you said you did."
"Exactly--and then, though I liked you, it was obvious you didn't
like me---and that wasn't your fault, and I didn't blame you till you
asked me that afternoon if I had no pride. It got me on the raw,
because I suppose I hadn't any pride, the way I had pursued you."
"No! no! no!" said Sally, protesting. "It was beastly of me, but I
felt so ill and horrible that afternoon, I wanted to say something to
hurt somebody." And she began to talk about her sprained foot, and
Roger having seen Peter at the party.
While she spoke there came the sound of a faint whistle, and Tolly
started to bark.
"It's from outside," said Violet. "Perhaps they've guessed we are
here. Now, how on earth are we to let them know?" And she and Sally
gazed up in silence at the three feet or more of rock between them
and the Portholes.
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIFTH
RESCUE
It was Sally who first discovered the way up to the Portholes--steps,
or rather notches, cut in the side of the rock, into which it was
possible to put one's feet--and then, as she mounted these, with
Violet supporting her from below, her hand came suddenly into contact
with a chain and rings, suspended from the wall above. Evidently the
chain had once been longer, but was now broken. By grasping it, she
was able to pull herself up until she could place her knee on the
lower ledge of one of the Portholes, and crouching there, look out,
and down.
"Hi! Hi!" she screamed excitedly, and taking the lantern from
Violet, waved it backwards and forwards across the opening.
[Illustration: "HI! HI!" SHE SCREAMED EXCITEDLY]
Instantly there was an answering shout, and she saw the flash of an
electric torch.
"There are several of them," she said, and then--"Oh one of them is
Jakes. Mustn't he be mad at having to come and find Tolly here,
after all?" And she giggled.
"Do him good," retorted Violet. "But I say, move along if you can,
and I'll come up too. I wonder who the rest are?"
"Miss Castle, for one--of course--I bet."
And then Sally gave a shout of joy. "It is Miss Castle! Oh, hurrah,
Miss Castle, I've found Tolly." And she put her hands together to
make a megaphone.
The little group on the shore below was drawing nearer, and finally
mounted to the ledge of rocks below the barbed wire, where Sally had
once eaten her tea, and contemplated climbing up. Their expressions,
seen in the fitful moonlight, were anxious, and when she waved her
arms, Miss Castle stepped forward, and told her to be careful.
"Are you there too, Violet?" she asked; and as the elder girl said
"Yes," she answered "Thank God!" so fervently that they both felt
rather abashed--realising the anxiety they had caused.
"Would it be easier to return as you came, or try to get down from
where you are?" demanded another voice.
"Proggins!" whispered Sally; and it was indeed Miss Rogers, in her
gym. dress, while beside her was Jakes, staring at them in too much
consternation to find his usual flow of words.
"We can't return as we came, Miss Rogers, the door of the cave has
fallen in, but Sally has got a rope."
"My rope! Well, if I ain't blowed! I knew one of them girls had
stole it," said Jakes, suddenly aroused from contemplation; but Miss
Rogers allowed him no time to develop the grievance.
"Will it be strong enough to hold their weight--properly tied?"
"Should hold six of 'em," he muttered sulkily, and Violet, feeling
her way down by the notches, picked it up, and reappeared with it.
"I'm quite good at knots," she said to Sally. "Isn't it fortunate I
was a Guide? We will fix it on to the chain. See?"
They did so, and let it hang down over the ledge, but only to find it
could not reach within arm's length of the group below.
"Oh, dear!" whispered Sally suddenly. "Oh, dear!" Her excitement
had died down, and she felt cold and miserable. A minute ago they
had seemed in safety, and now it was as far off as ever.
"Courage, Sally!" called out Miss Castle, guessing dejection in her
attitude. "Jakes will fetch his long ladder, and then we shall reach
you quite easily. What about Tolly?"
Autolycus, in truth, had begun to bark, and then whined with pain, as
he tried to drag himself on to his feet.
"I will put him in the rush basket, and tie it up in the rug, and
then we will lower him first," said Violet. "But please take care,
for he has broken his leg."
She felt her way down once more into the cave, and with the aid of
Sally's belt, the rug and two handkerchiefs, made as comfortable a
cradle as she could devise. Inside it she placed Autolycus, and
steadying him with her hand, helped the other girl to pull him up on
the ledge beside her.
The need of quieting him steadied Sally's nerves once more.
"Poor old Tolly! Lie still, sir!--no, lie still!" she whispered
firmly, and held him tight in her arms till Jakes appeared with the
ladder and some of the more intrepid of the kitchen staff, wrapped up
in dressing-gowns and shawls.
It was an audience to be impressed, and the gardener, as he cut the
barbed wire and placed the ladder against the sloping rock above,
prepared to arouse applause and fear.
"'Tis a risky job, I would have you ladies know," he said, beginning
slowly to take off his coat, and then Miss Rogers unkindly laughed.
"Mine be the risk," she said. "You and two of the others just hold
the thing still," and she ran up the rungs as though she were
climbing in the gymnasium. Balancing herself on the top, with one
hand on the rock, she called to Violet:
"Now quick! Lower the dog," and Tolly, tied up as though he were a
workman's dinner, was first suspended in space, howling miserably,
and then landed in Miss Rogers's arms.
The ladder creaked against the cliff side, shifted on the shale, and
was firmly propped up once more by the cook and Jakes, while Miss
Castle, advancing, took the bundle, freed it from the rope, and
proceeded to comfort its unhappy occupant.
"Next man! ... it had better be Sally," called Proggins, and Violet,
when she had helped her out of the big coat, fastened the rope under
the younger girl's arms.
"Good luck, Sally!" she whispered. "It is absolutely tight and safe.
Just remember, if anyone asks, that I gave you leave to come to the
caves and search."
"But you didn't!" Then, catching sight of the other's face, which
had a strained look about the eyes and mouth, "Oh, right oh! If you
like--though I don't see that it matters. But I say, have I got to
lower myself now?"
"Yes--push off gently with your feet, while I hold the rope across my
knees, to break the jerk. That's right."
It seemed to Sally that she shot into space--was nearly cut in half
by a sudden pull under her arms, and then, just as the pain seemed
unbearable, felt her feet on something solid. Miss Rogers was
placing them on the top rung of the ladder.
As soon as the rope was unfastened, she descended step by step, until
she fell in a little heap on one of the rocks, where someone had
spread a rug. Her legs would support her no longer, and she felt
ashamed of this weakness, until Miss Castle smiled, and gave her
Tolly to hold, and Miss Rogers said approvingly:
"Good girl! You kept your head all right. Now for Violet."
"It ain't going to be an easy job for her--not nohow," said Jakes,
loudly. (He had been silent a surprisingly long time.) "It's like
this here--there ain't no one up there to stop the rope being cut
against the cliff, soon as her weight comes on it--at least, that's
as I see it."
"Yes," said Miss Rogers, "I realise that." Her face had gone quite
white, but her tone was even and detached as she called out, "Put
your thick coat, doubled, along the ledge, Violet, for the rope to
come across."
The girl did so, and crouched, hesitatingly, on the ledge. She too
had evidently realised the risk.
"I'm not going to try to tie myself up," she called out at last. "It
will be safer hand under hand--as we do in gym.--not such a jerk."
Miss Castle gave an exclamation of horror, and Sally struggled to her
feet, protestingly, but Miss Rogers turned and frowned at them both.
"Quiet!" she said abruptly, and then louder, so that the girl above
could hear her, "Much safer, I think. I'll hold the rope
steady--lower yourself slowly."
Sally will never forget--nor probably will any of the other
watchers--the sickening anxiety of the next few minutes. First, the
awful jerk as Violet's full weight swung out from the ledge of rock,
and then her slow descent, hand under hand, with knees tight gripping
the rope, until Miss Rogers could grasp her. She remained for some
seconds, with her head bent over the ladder, and when she had
descended a few rungs lower, Jakes put up his arms, and lifted her
down.
"She's a rare plucked 'un, she is," he said. "Scraped her fingers
and knees something awful--and never a squeal."
For once he had no grumble or criticism to make.
"Oh, I'm all right," said Violet, feebly; but she put her hands
behind her back as Sally looked at her, and let Miss Castle and one
of the maids support her towards the steps.
Miss Rogers picked up Tolly and smiled at the younger girl.
"Violet will be all right before long," she said. "It's only she has
scraped herself rather badly, and it was a nasty kind of climb to
tackle. I must say you are a pair of scamps, though--both of you."
"It wasn't Violet's fault, but mine."
Proggins smiled. "It's not my place to scold either of you now," she
said. "But if I were you, I should lay the blame on Tolly when
questions are asked. Now, don't talk any more. Here are Matron and
Mademoiselle waiting for us at the steps, and they will help you up
to bed."
Once more Sally slept in the sanatorium, and again because she had
broken bounds. At first, the likeness to her previous stay there did
not strike her. She was so cold and tired that her only thought was
to snuggle down amongst the clothes, with a hot-water bottle, and
drink the milk that was brought her as fast as she could.
"Are you sure Violet is all right?" she had demanded.
And Matron answered--"Tired out, like you, but she'll be right as
rain to-morrow. Now go to sleep and don't think any more about
things. Miss Castle tells me to say she is seeing to the dog." And
then the lights were put out.
She did not sleep long: for, with a nightmare jerk, she sat up,
saying the words, "I shall be expelled," and found herself trembling
all over. Of course she would be expelled, for in spite of her
promise to Miss Cockran last term, she had run away. It was true she
had not, this time, set out deliberately to break school rules for
the fun of the thing; but nothing could do away with the fact that
once she had begun to think of Tolly she had thought of no one else.
While she sat--still upright--considering the enormity of her offence
another horrid thought came to her: Would Violet Tremson be expelled
too? Expelled just because she had gone to a friend's rescue--not a
friend's,--but to help someone who had been persistently horrid to
her?
Sally turned over, and hid her face in the pillow, but she could not
be still. She was hot now--and not cold. Getting quietly out of
bed, she put on her slippers and dressing-gown and stole to the door.
Perhaps she could find Violet before she fell asleep, and talk things
over.
Violet had said, before she let her down on the rope, to remember she
had given her leave to go to the caves, and she had wondered why at
the time; but now she realised in a flash--it was to take part of the
blame, and that couldn't be allowed, of course.
As she opened her door she saw there was still a light in the
passage, so it could not be very late--besides, the servants were
talking downstairs. Beyond the head of the stairs there was a door
ajar that might be Violet's.
Closing her own door to avoid suspicion, she pattered quietly along
and peered into the half-open room. Yes--there was Violet, propped
up against some pillows. Sally could see how white her face was, but
what struck her next, with a quick stab of horror, so that she forgot
everything else, was the bandaged hand, suddenly raised to her head.
"Oh, Violet!" she said. "Violet! I can't bear it. Are you badly
hurt?"
"No, Sally, I'm not--but do go back to bed at once."
Violet's tone was urgent, and the younger girl, turning abruptly at
its note of warning, saw on the hearth-rug--not Matron, as she had
expected--but Miss Cockran.
"You!" ... she said. "It's you, Miss Cockran."
"Yes, I have returned," said Miss Cockran quietly. "But why have you
come in here, when you were told to go to sleep?"
She closed the door as she spoke, and going over, took Sally's hands
between her own. Her voice was grave--but not so stern as the
culprit expected--and Sally suddenly, for no reason at all that she
could afterwards remember, burst into tears.
"Tolly's safe," she sobbed, "and I'm so sorry, and it's all my fault.
Violet never gave me leave--she just came to help me."
Miss Cockran had drawn her by this time down on the bed, with
Violet's eiderdown over her legs, and her own arm round her.
"Perhaps you had better tell me everything," she said, with a look at
the girl's flushed face. "Only then, you must go to sleep."
The story was told piecemeal, chiefly by Violet, and when it was
finished, and Miss Cockran remained silent, the elder girl broke in:
"Please don't expel Sally. It wasn't naughtiness."
"It was disobedience--an offence against discipline," said the
Headmistress quietly.
"It was saving life."
Miss Cockran nodded. "I know that--but it's not a first offence.
You begged me not to expel Sally, as well as Trina Morrison, at the
end of last term, Violet ... and I listened."
"Did you, Violet? I didn't know.... I have been a pig to you----"
Sally could not resist the interruption. Now she knew why Violet had
been to Miss Cockran--not to sneak--but to save her.
"Violet is a treasure," she said. "She's wonderful, isn't she?"
The elder girl grew red, and muttered "Oh, rot!" while Miss Cockran
smiled.
"She has been a good friend to you, Sally; but she can't save you
from your own wilfulness. You are not a good influence to have in a
school."
Sally hung her head, while Violet said, "She will be, if she stops;
and you don't mean to expel her, do you, Miss Cockran?"
The Headmistress rose, and bending suddenly, kissed the younger girl.
"No!" she said. "Subject to real amendment, not pie-crust promises,
I don't mean to expel either of you. After all, I'm very fond of
Tolly, and he is my dog--and I'm proud of the courage you both have
shown. Now Sally, back to bed with you--and sleep."
They were neither of them expelled. Autolycus was, but as his leg
recovered completely, and he went to live at Violet's home, where
rabbiting was easy, and not dangerous, he did not seem to mind.
Perhaps he missed the society of Sally and Miss Cockran; but the loss
was fully compensated by not having Jakes to bath him every week.
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