Immediately after the lesson, on the next French day, Gwen Williams sauntered in the direction of the Ramsays.
"Do you go out for walks with that Penruddock boy from Grimbal's Farm?" she asked rather insolently.
"Do you mean Bevis Hunter?" Mavis's voice was iced politeness.
"Yes. I told Mother, and shewassurprised! Does your uncle know?"
Merle was on the point of bursting out, "It's not your business!" but her more discreet sister gave her a hasty poke.
"It was Uncle David who sent us out with Bevis," answered Mavis with stately dignity. "He thinks very highly of him, and so do we. I've never met anybody who knows so much about natural history, or who can tell us more about excavations and prehistoric mounds and things. He was curator of the school museum when he was at Shelton College."
Gwen gazed at Mavis as if she were speaking an unknown language.
"It's a matter of taste of course," she replied. "Ishouldn't care to go about with the boy from the Penruddocks' Farm."
She walked away, leaving sad heart-burnings behind her. The Ramsays had been very simply brought up at home, and were accustomed to judge people merely by whether they liked them or not, and knew little of worldly standards. Bevis, with his jolly, merry ways, and his intense love of nature, seemed a far pleasanter companion than Gwen or her brother Tudor. Intellectually he was more than the equal of those who despised him, and his romantic story suggested many possibilities.
"Bevis might beanybody," ventured Mavis.
"I don't care who he is, he's our friend," fumed Merle stoutly.
"Rather, and we'll stick to him in spite of all the Glyn Williamses in the world. It really doesn't matter to us what Gwen thinks."
Fortunately for the Ramsays, Gwen only came to school twice a week, but to their sorrow Opal was there every day. Lately she had been growing more and more out of hand. She had begun to adopt a patronizing attitude towards Miss Pollard and Miss Fanny, called them "poor old dears", quizzed their clothes, their manners, and their methods of teaching, and voted them hopelessly slow and out of date. There is a certain phase in girls who are growing up at which they are fiercely critical of their elders. As a child Opal had immensely admired her two godmothers, and had been proud of their many accomplishments.Now, because she too had acquired a certain skill in music and painting, she rather looked down upon their talents. She thought her own superior, forgetting that though a well-taught girl may seem clever at sixteen, there is no guarantee that she will go on developing in the same ratio, and will therefore be a genius at the age of thirty-seven.
The fact was that Opal ought long ago to have been sent away to a boarding-school, where she would have found her level among other girls of her own age, and have been thoroughly sat upon by elder ones. Her position of prime favourite at The Moorings was bad both for herself and for everybody else. The juniors, encouraged by her example, began to evade rules, and to do many things they had never dreamt of before. Miss Fanny, finding them unusually troublesome, puzzled over the reason. She decided there must be bad influence somewhere, but it never struck her to fix the blame upon Opal. She was always ready with an excuse where her god-daughter was concerned.
Among other subjects which Miss Fanny taught at The Moorings was the piano. She was a very good and correct musician, and had studied under an eminent master of her day. Perhaps her fault as a teacher was that she concentrated too much on the technique to the exclusion of the artistic element. She would stop a pupil every few bars to correct errors in touch or the position of the hands, and was such a martinet over these details that the spirit of the piece was often entirely lost. Merle, who liked to dashaway and get a general impression of a composition, oblivious of a few wrong notes, chafed terribly under this severe régime.
"It knocks all the poetry out of the music," she complained. "I hardly know what tune I'm playing when Miss Fanny is watching my hands like a cat watching a mouse, and that abominable metronome is tick-tack-tick-tacking on the top of the piano! How I hate the beastly thing. I'd as soon recite Shakespeare to a metronome as play Chaminade. It would be just as sensible. Music, to my mind, is like reciting, you want to hurry up some phrases and to linger on others, not go pounding on like a pianola or a piece of clockwork! Tick-tack-tick-tack—Ugh! I hate it!"
Opal, who also suffered from the metronome, chimed in with her side of the grievance.
"My cousin learns from Mr. Jardine, the best teacher in Burchester, and she never uses one!"
"I don't see why we need. I wish somebody would break the wretched old thing, or lose it, or otherwise dispose of it. They'd have my blessing I'm sure."
The juniors, who had gathered round to listen, giggled at Merle's heroics. It was rather nice to hear elder girls grumbling.
"Why don't you do it yourself," piped Betty Marshall.
Merle, just for fun, seized the object of her invective from the top of the piano, and opening the window placed it outside upon the sill.
"It may stay there and tick-tack to the birds if it likes," she declared. "If I had my way it would never come back again. Yes, I mean it."
The juniors laughed again as they ran from the room, and Merle, also laughing, lifted the unfortunate metronome inside and placed it back on the piano. She and Opal chased the smaller ones along the passage, and caught them, squealing with delight, in the cloakroom.
"You little pussies, I'll tickle you!" cried Merle, swinging Posie Andrews off her feet and tucking her under one arm, while she made a grab at Florrie Leach.
The children, wild with fun, danced about like so many imps.
"It's Nicky Nan Night to-night," twittered Betty as she jumped and pranced. "We're all Nicky Nans. Look at us!"
"Hooray! It's Nicky Nan Night," shouted the others.
"Heavens, so it is. I'd completely forgotten!" said Opal.
She stood for a moment as if thinking, then she suddenly ran back to the schoolroom. She was only gone a moment or two, but she returned to the cloakroom with a curious look of amusement on her face.
"What have you been up to?" asked Merle, eyeing her suspiciously.
"Ah! Wouldn't you just like to know?"
"You've been doing something!"
"Indeed! How clever we are all of a sudden. Are you clairvoyante may I ask?"
"Not at all, but I know Opal Earnshaw. You're pluming yourself no end."
Opal broke into a fit of delighted giggling, but refused all explanations, and slamming on her hat rushed away home, leaving the juniors still dancing about the cloakroom like pixies and loudly proclaiming: "It's Nicky Nan Night. We're all Nicky Nans!"
"What on earth is Nicky Nan Night?" asked Merle rather crossly, but nobody troubled to answer, so she struggled into her coat and joined Mavis, who was waiting at the door, and forgot all about the matter directly.
Later on in the evening, however, she began to understand. Durracombe was a little old-world place, and had preserved many quaint and curious customs from ancient times. One of the most extraordinary of these was a kind of carnival held by the boys of the town at the beginning of the season of Lent. As soon as it was dusk they commenced to prowl about the streets wearing black paper masks and carrying turnip lanterns. They were supposed to represent imps of darkness, or perhaps will o' the wisps, and their chief sport was to ring door bells, or rat-tap with knockers, and then run away. Mavis and Merle, hearing repeated peals from the surgery bell, were amazed that Jessop did not answer it, till she explained it was merely a ruse of the Nicky Nans, and that nobody in Durracombe who knew their tricks would respondto such a summons. She offered however to take the girls out for ten minutes to look at the fun; so they donned coats and scarves and issued into the dim High Street. It was a moonless night, which made things all the better for such a saturnalia. In the distance a cluster of lights began to dance about, and presently up ran half a dozen little urchins, disguised in masks and waving turnip lanterns pierced with holes for eyes and mouths, so that the candles shining through them gave them the appearance of gruesome goblins. The children had indeed vied with one another as to which could produce the most horrible looking turnip head, and part of the sport was to hide in dark alleys and suddenly to exhibit the lanterns to unwary passers-by, to try to raise a scream. The small imps careered round and round, prancing and giving an occasional yell of "Nicky Nan". The girls laughed in much amusement, and Jessop, who had witnessed the custom from her youth up, felt in her pocket for some pennies, and threw them into the road to be scrambled for.
Presently came the noise of a tin-kettle band, and down the High Street marched a procession carrying "Jack o' Lent", a grotesque figure on the lines of a Guy Fawkes, stuffed with straw and wearing a mask and an old top hat. The Nicky Nans flew to join their fellows, showing their lanterns like the wise virgins in the parable, and the Guy was escorted by quite a crowd of leaping dancing will-o'-the-wisps, who added squeals and whistling to the din made on theold tea-trays and pans. They crossed the bridge to a field on the farther side of the river, where a bonfire had been built. Upon this Jack o' Lent was carefully hoisted, and a match was put to the straw. The Ramsays, hurried indoors by Jessop lest Mavis should catch cold, watched the scene from Aunt Nellie's bedroom window, and had a fine view of the flames blazing up, and the Nicky Nans prancing round in a circle, waving their weird turnip lights.
On this one night in the year the town's children were veritable Devonshire pixies. By immemorial custom they were licensed to carry away brooms, pails, or any objects which people were so foolish as to leave unguarded outside their houses. These they pounced upon and bore off as booty, exhibiting them the next morning in the pound, whence they might be redeemed by their owners for a fee varying from a penny to sixpence, according to their value. As the proceeds went to their football club, the Nicky Nans were naturally anxious to pick up every trifle which they could possibly find lying about, and every house and garden in the town was visited for that purpose. The matron, who missed her scrubbing-brush or her bucket, knew what Pucks and Robin Goodfellows had been flitting round in the darkness, and made a visit to the pound to recover her lost property, paying the price with a good-natured remembrance of the fun of her own young days.
Mavis and Merle, on their way to school on the morning following the saturnalia, peeped into thepound, a walled enclosure intended for the detention of lost cows or strayed sheep, and saw half a dozen of the boys, still wearing masks, guarding quite a collection of treasures and chaffing some of the owners over the gate. Evidently they had had a most successful evening, and the funds of their football club would be replenished.
"Little wretches. They're as light-fingered as elves," remarked Merle. "They've even taken the pots of geraniums off people's window-sills."
"I shall never forget them dancing in a mad circle round the bonfire," laughed Mavis, as the pair passed on.
When the pupils at The Moorings assembled that morning for call-over, Miss Fanny entered with a look upon her face which everybody at once mentally registered at stormy. Her "Good morning, girls!" was cold. She never noticed the vase full of flowers which the boarders had arranged upon her desk, and she took the names, as if she were reading a list of criminals, in a deep sad voice without an atom of her usual geniality. When this first preliminary was finished she turned to what was evidently the pressing business on her mind.
"Girls!" she began. "A very unpleasant thing has happened in the school. The metronome is missing from the piano. None of the boarders has interfered with it. Can any of you day girls tell what has become of it?"
A look of much astonishment passed round theassembled faces. On several it was even mingled with relief. To get rid of the metronome did not seem an unmixed evil. Perhaps Miss Fanny noted the expression. She paused for a whole solemn minute, then spoke again in a yet sterner voice.
"I put every girl in this room on her honour to tell what she knows."
There was a stir among some of the younger children, a bending together of heads, and a faint whispering like the buzzing of bees, then Betty Marshall held up her hand.
"Please, Miss Fanny, there's a metronome just like ours in the pound. Posie and Florrie and I saw it as we came to school."
"In the pound!" Miss Fanny's voice quivered with amazed indignation.
"Yes, the Nicky Nans had taken it."
"But surely no boy would dare to venture into our schoolroom. It's outrageous! I shall have to complain to the schoolmaster if they go beyond bounds like this. To take it off the piano!"
Posie and Betty glanced doubtfully at one another as if uncertain whether to explain further. Then Posie held up a chubby hand.
"Please, Miss Fanny, it wasn't on the piano; it was outside on the window-sill."
"On the window-sill! Who put it there?" The teacher's voice had reached crescendo.
Posie wriggled and looked uncomfortably at Bettyand then at Florrie, finally in a rather tremulous whisper she murmured:
"Merle Ramsay."
Merle stood up at once with flaming cheeks.
"I put the metronome outside the window for a minute, Miss Fanny, but I didn't leave it there. I put it back upon the piano."
Miss Fanny glared hard, first at Merle, and then with a kind of comprehensive sweeping glance over the whole school.
"Can any other girl volunteer any information?"
There was dead silence. Opal was rather ostentatiously sharpening the point of her pencil. The teacher's gaze came back to a focus on Merle.
"You had no business to interfere with the metronome at all. I certainly consider it your fault that it has been taken. In future I can't have you day girls staying in the schoolroom after four o'clock. You must leave directly you've put your books away. Go to your forms now, girls! We've wasted too much time already."
Merle stumped off, feeling extremely cross. She was absolutely certain that Opal, who had run back last thing into the schoolroom, must have put the metronome outside on the window-sill, knowing that the Nicky Nans would be sure to carry it off. At 'break' she taxed her with it. But Opal simply laughed, and went on eating biscuits.
"Don't set all the work of the Nicky Nans down to me," she declared. "It's a pity they didn't keep themetronome. Miss Fanny will trot down to the pound and pay her sixpence and get it back, and it will be tick-tacking again on the piano as gaily as ever, unless some of those priceless kids have chanced to break it."
"But you put it outside for them?" persisted Merle.
"I? I never do naughty things!"
"Don't you? It strikes me you tell the biggest fibs of any girl I've ever yet come across. I call you the absolute limit," said indignant Merle as she flounced away.
On the next day but one after Nicky Nan Night, Mavis and Merle had returned from school, and were walking in the garden on the terraced path that overlooked the river. It was a vantage-point which gave them as good a view across the bridge and along the high road as any mediæval maidens might have had from a castle turret, and they gazed at all comers with interest not unmixed with curiosity. There were certainly no Sir Lancelots or Sir Percivales riding into the town clad in golden armour, and carrying silken banners, only modern motor-cars and bicycles, creaking country wagons and homely foot passengers. But presently there was a sound of hoofs, and a smart well-groomed little horse came trotting along from the south. Mavis put up her hand to shade her eyes from the sun, and took an inspection of the rider as he crossed the bridge. Something in the fair, rather delicate face seemed instantly familiar.
"I verily believe it's Tudor Williams," she said.
It was undoubtedly Tudor, and he was evidently coming to Bridge House. He rode round into thestable yard, called to Tom to take his horse, dismounted, and went to the surgery entrance. In the course of a few minutes he came out again, walked briskly on to the terrace, and greeted the girls.
"Your aunt sent me to find you. She's asked me to stay for tea. I came to see Dr. Tremayne, but he's out at a case, so I'm going to wait till he comes back. I say! You've got a nice old garden here, haven't you? I've never been in it before. It's ripping overlooking the river."
Suddenly placed in the position of hostesses Mavis and Merle did the honours graciously. Tudor seemed in a very amiable frame of mind, and was inclined to make himself agreeable. He chatted about the neighbourhood, the weather, some theatres he had visited in town, told them one or two school episodes, and discussed the prospects of the new Durracombe golf club. Mavis, who had discovered his pleasanter side at The Warren, was soon talking quite eagerly, and even Merle, who had a deep prejudice against him, put in a remark now and then. Tea was quite a jovial affair. Aunt Nelly liked to be amused by young people, so they all made jokes and related adventures, and sat on enjoying the fun till the car returned and they heard Uncle David's footstep in the hall. While the Doctor interviewed his patient the two girls ran out to the stable to look at "Armorelle", the lovely satin-coated little horse that snuggled a soft nose against Merle's shoulder, and ate sugar from Mavis's hand. They stood by in much approval ofher beauty as Tom led her forth for her master to mount.
"I'd change all the cars in the world for her, sir," said Tom, stroking the glossy neck caressingly. "You don't know what it's been to me to lose my horses. It was like losing children. It's been a pleasure to have her in the stable, sir. It's minded me of old times."
"She's a spoilt darling, and she ate three lumps of sugar," said Mavis. "What a glorious ride you'll have home. I love that road to Chagmouth."
"You must come and see us again at The Warren! And you too" (nodding to Merle). "Are you keen on tennis? So am I. We've a cinder court that we play on in spring. Just drop in some Saturday when you're over with your uncle. Mother and the girls will be pleased to see you, I'm sure. We're generally, some of us, about the place."
Tudor rode away, leaving a much more favourable impression behind him than the girls would have believed possible on their first encounter in the lane above Grimbal's Farm. That unpleasant episode was beginning to fade from their memories. Jim, the fox terrier, ran up to them now in friendly fashion if they chanced to meet him in Chagmouth, though Mavis's skirt, beautifully darned by Jessop, still retained traces of his teeth. It is no use keeping up ill-will against boy or animal, and the Ramsays were quite ready to let bygones be bygones. They even began to decide that they rather liked Tudor, though of course notnearly so much as Bevis. When they went to Grimbal's Farm as usual on Saturday they could not help pouring out to their friend an account of this reconciliation.
"Tom let me climb on Armorelle's back in the stable. Oh, how I'd love to ride her!"
"There's a topping cinder court at The Warren. We're going to bring our rackets with us sometime. Mrs. Glyn Williams has sent a message to Aunt Nellie to say we must go there whenever we like and play tennis."
Bevis was sitting on a hurdle in the stackyard, untwisting a piece of rope while he listened. He bent his head down over his work. They could not see his face at all.
"You won't want to come walks withmenow you've made friends at The Warren," he said in a low, strained voice. "I quite understand. I never thought you'd care to go about with a fellow like me. It wasn't to be expected. It's all right!"
When Bevis, in that strangled tone, said "it's all right", it was invariably a sign that matters were all wrong. The girls, aghast at their own lack of tact, hastened to set things straight, and to reassure him that they would not miss their walk with him that afternoon for worlds.
"You promised us a surprise at Blackthorn Bower!"
"We've been looking forward to it the whole week, and counting the days."
"It's really nothing worth taking you up there for."(Bevis's voice was still gloomy.) "If you'd rather go to The Warren, please go. It's all right."
"Look here, don't be absurd," urged Merle. "We want to see the Bower again, and we're going there this afternoon. You can please yourself whether you come with us or not."
"But I don't think wequiteremember the way," added Mavis artfully. "It would be so very tiresome if we were to lose ourselves."
Of course that settled it. Bevis was bound to offer himself as guide, and by the time they started he appeared to be in a smoother temper. He whistled quite cheerily as he slung a shooting-bag over his back. He gave the girls three guesses each as to its contents, but would not tell them whether they were right or wrong.
"You'll see when you get there," he replied, and went on whistling softly to himself.
By mutual but unacknowledged consent they walked by an upper way across the fields. It was a little longer, but it avoided all possibility of meeting the Glyn Williams anywhere in the village. To run up against them would have been most embarrassing. As it was, nobody mentioned even their names. The girls, having once "put their foot in it", were cautious, and avoided all reference to The Warren.
Fortunately their backs were turned in that direction, as they walked towards the headland.
When they reached Blackthorn Bower they found an immense surprise awaiting them. Bevis must havebeen very busy during the time which had intervened since their last visit. He had taken some of the stones from the old wall, and some sods and some branches, and had constructed a kind of beehive hut, such as must have been used by the primitive dwellers in these islands.
"It's just the sort of thing they lived in in the Bronze Age," he explained. "I borrowed one of Mr. Barnes's books,Antiquities of Devonshire, and it gave a fancy picture of what some of the prehistoric villages probably looked like. The only bit I altered was the doorway. I made it big, so that we could see out of it; and of course they had low holes that they crawled through, and blocked with a stone."
Mavis and Merle were delighted with the structure raised in their honour. They had been keen on history at Whinburn High School, and had studied the Stone and Bronze Ages under an interesting teacher, so that it was particularly fascinating to find what seemed as good as a real live specimen of a house of the period actually before their eyes. They went inside at once and took possession. There were some logs for seats, and a big stone for a table placed in the middle of the hut. While they were examining these, Bevis slung his shooting-bag carefully from his shoulder and began to unpack it. Then he produced what he evidently considered his masterpiece.
There was a small quarry near Chagmouth whence China clay was shipped. He had begged a big lump of this, kneaded it and moulded it into handlelesscups, and had baked them in the oven at the farm. They were, of course, roughly made, but they much resembled prehistoric pottery, even to the willow-withe markings which he had put on them. They were stained on the outside, one red, one blue, and one yellow.
"So that we shall each know our own," he explained, handing the blue to Mavis and the red to Merle.
It was undoubtedly an anachronism that Bevis had brought a thermosflaskin his shooting-bag, and offered his friends tea in their home-baked cups, but they were not disposed to quarrel with such a mixture of ancient and modern. They sat on their log seats, eating cake and sipping the modern beverage in defiance of historic accuracy.
"I feel as if the Bronze Age people who were buried in the mound ought to rise up and come and turn us out and say it was their shanty," laughed Merle.
"What did they do with the skeletons that were found there?" asked Mavis suddenly.
"Took them to the County Museum," answered Bevis. "I didn't like the idea myself. I think it was hateful to put the poor things' bones in a glass case. They ought to have left them where they were buried, with their hands still clasped and the little baby in the woman's arm. They must have been fond of each other thousands of years ago."
"Perhaps he built her a hut like this and made her clay pottery," speculated Mavis.
"I've no doubt he did."
"But she didn't drink tea out of it anyway," snorted Merle. "Don't be sentimental over the Bronze Age people, you two. I'd rather call the tumulus a pixie mound, and imagine the wee folk coming tumbling out of it some moonlight night, and dancing on the grass. Don't Chagmouth people tell any stories about pixies?"
"They wouldn't be Devon folk unless they did. Yes, there are heaps of pixie tales. They say an old man from Groves Cottage was once pixie-led on the moor. He wandered round and round in a circle, and couldn't find his way home till he turned his coat inside out, and that broke the spell. There was an old woman over by Tangoran who used to tell a wonderful tale about a fairy."
"Oh, what was that?"
"It's a weird sort of story. There was once a lad named Will Killigarth, who lived at Horndon, up on the moor. There was a witch in the village, and she told him that if he would go on Hallowe'en and dig inside one of the ancient stone circles that he would find treasure, only he must go at midnight, and go alone. He was rather frightened of the business, but he took his father's spade and went. It was heavy work digging, but at last he struck something, and drew out a bowl of rough pottery, all full of gold pieces. He was just picking this up when he heard a cry, and in the moonlight he saw a most lovely girl with streaming yellow hair stretching out her hands imploringlyto him. She said she was the guardian of the gold, and begged him to bury it again where it was in the circle. He said he would do so if she would marry him, and after thinking awhile she said yes. So he buried the treasure and took the girl home to the village and married her. She lived with him just a year, and then on the next Hallowe'en she vanished, and he never saw her again. He hunted for the stone circle where he had dug before, but he never could find the right one again. There are so many of them up on the moor. So he lost both the treasure and the girl."
"Did they actuallybelievethese stories?" asked Mavis, knitting her brows.
"Oh yes, in the old days they believed them, just as they believed in witches and charms and all the rest of it. Mr. Barnes calls all the old tales folk-history. He says the pixies were the prehistoric Stone Age or Bronze Age people who lived on into historic times, and hid themselves in the mounds or caves or wild places on the moor. The stories of the pixies' habits and haunts read just like accounts of very primitive people. Bronze Age or Stone Age folk would be sure to come at night and steal things from the Celtic tribes who had settled in Devon, and they would bury their treasures inside their huts. The stone circles on the moor are the ruined walls of their huts."
"But surely the Stone Age folk didn't go living on till about the seventeenth century?" asked Mavis, still puzzled.
"No, but you know how people like to bring a story up to date. They often tell you a thing happened to themselves when you know it must have happened to their great-grandfather. The old Celtic accounts of the little men on the moor would keep being handed down, and each generation would fit the story with fresh names, and a few extra details."
"Miss Donald told us a lot about that at Whinburn High. She said the dragons of old folk-tales were probably prehistoric animals that had lingered on in lonely places—very likely pterodactyls."
"I dare say they were. To judge from the fossils that have been found the old monsters must have been pretty common in Devon. You should ask Mr. Barnes. He's great on all this kind of thing, always poking about and digging, and measuring hut circles and all the rest of it."
"It's awfully fascinating," said Mavis.
"Ye-es, but just a trifle spooky," admitted Merle. "Honestly I shouldn't like to spend a night up here camping out in this shanty. I'd be scared to death of the mound dwellers. What are we to do with our prehistoric cups, Bevis? Leave them here or take them back?"
It was decided to wash the cups in a pool of water close by, and leave them inside the hut to be ready for some future picnic. That domestic duty finished, the Triumvirate wended their way back in the direction of Chagmouth. This time they climbed by a pathway down the cliffs on to the beach, in order to go homealong the shore. It was low tide, so they could walk on the firm sands at the edge of the high-water mark. Little gentle waves were rippling in over the rocks, cormorants were diving for fish, and the inevitable seagulls were wheeling and screaming, or settling down in the pools to hunt for tit-bits. At the corner of the cove, built on the solid rock barely above the level of winter storms, stood the little old, old church of St. Gervan's, disused now, except for an annual service. Before the building of Chagmouth church in the eighteenth century it had served a wide district, and there were tales that its bell had often proved a signal for ships in a fog, and had warned them off the rocks. There were other and wilder stories, of smugglers who had hidden their contraband goods inside the pews, of the press-gang who had waylaid the fishermen as they returned from service and had carried them off to serve in His Majesty's navy, and of a wicked parson, foremost among a gang of wreckers, whose uneasy ghost still haunted the beach on moonlight nights.
Bevis, who knew all the legends of the village, poured out these tales for the girls' benefit, and of course they naturally wanted to take a look at the place. So they climbed the eighty-seven rough stone steps that led up from the shore, and scrambled over the wall into the little churchyard. It was a neglected spot, but all the more picturesque on that account. Long grass grew over the graves, and moss had almost obliterated the names on the fallen stones, the framework of the doorway had sunk at one end, and thetower had lost some of its coping in the last gale. The great pieces lay strewn about the path. The windows looked cobwebby, but one of them was open, and, with some difficulty, Bevis hoisted the girls up to peep inside. The poor little church, flung aside now like a cast-off ecclesiastical garment, nevertheless showed signs of its former glories, when worshippers had given of their best to deck it forth. Its pre-reformation rood-screen, one of the very few to escape the commissioners' hatchets or Puritan whitewash, was carved with quaint figures of saints, and still showed traces of colouring in red and blue and gold. The oak benches, grey for want of oil or polish, were also carved, and in the chancel there was a splendid pew with a wooden canopy embossed and painted like the rood-screen, though plainly of a later date. The whole was mouldy and ill-kept, but at least had been saved from the ruthless hand of that foe to all antiquarian lore, the nineteenth-century restorer, who would probably have stripped it of rood-screen and carved benches, and have replaced them with pitch pine.
"I'd like to sit in that gorgeous pew," said Mavis, dropping down from her perch, and examining her grazed hands tenderly.
"That belongs to the Tallands. It goes with The Warren. There's an old monument down the nave to some of the family. You couldn't see it properly from that window," explained Bevis.
"Don't they ever clean the place up?" asked Merle.
"They do once a year, before the festival."
"When is the festival?"
"Late in May. They always have kept it at Chagmouth, and they make much more of it now because they have the war-memorial service at the same time, and everybody goes to that. The cross is up there, just at the top of the churchyard."
The people from the several places which the tiny church had originally served had joined together in erecting a memorial to their brave boys who had fallen in the Great War—a plain Celtic cross of granite, placed on a platform of rock above the church, where it could be very plainly seen by all the vessels that passed by in or out of the harbour. It was a magnificent situation for it, far more romantic than any in the town, and to judge from the wreaths and bunches of flowers laid at its foot, it was the goal of an easy walk along the cliffs on Sundays. Mavis, who stopped to read the roll of honour, took the violets from her button-hole and laid them with the rest of the floral tributes.
"I like this wee church much better than St. John's," she remarked. "Although it's so dirty and cobwebby and dilapidated, it seems to have more of the old spirit of Chagmouth about it somehow. It takes one back to Drake and Raleigh, almost to the days of King Arthur. I'm so glad Merle and I are Devon folk on Mother's side at any rate. We're tremendously proud of it."
Bevis was looking beyond the ancient walls to wherethe little town lay alongside its harbour at the edge of the grey sea.
"The boys over there have always taunted me that I don't belong to Chagmouth, but I've got the spirit of the place in me all the same," he said. "I don't believe there's one of them that cares for it like I do. As for the Glyn Williamses they'd modernize it to-morrow if they were allowed. I hope to goodness General Talland will never sell them the property, or they'd sweep away every picturesque corner in it, and widen the street so as to bring cars down. They've not a scrap of taste. That new Institute may be all right for lectures and theatricals and the rest of it, but I should think they chose the most hideous plan that the architects submitted. It's a perfect eyesore standing just where it does. You should hear Mr. Barnes hold forth about it. He got his way at any rate about the war memorial though, and insisted on a Celtic cross. Mr. Glyn Williams wanted a sort of 'Cleopatra's needle' and nearly carried the committee. Think of planting an ancient Egyptian monument on the cliff here. It would have been ridiculous. The Glyn Williamses may look down upon me and call me a 'nobody', but I've better taste than they have, and know more about old things too. I can't see that having pots of money gives people the right to ride rough-shod over the whole town."
The boy spoke hotly, almost furiously. Evidently the subject was a sore one.
"You're not called a nobody," said Mavis.
"Iama nobody, and no one knows that better than myself. If I'd even the slightest clue, I'd be off and away to hunt out my own relations. I wouldn't stay here only I'm needed so on the farm. I sometimes think I'll——" but here Bevis stopped and looked rather ashamed.
"Don't take any notice of me," he continued more quietly. "I don't often break out like this. Why should I bother you with my troubles? They're nothing to you!"
"Yes they are," said Mavis gently. "We're very interested indeed."
"And very sorry," added Merle.
They had the good sense, however, to change the subject, and Bevis, though at first his answers were rather short, gradually recovered himself. By the time they reached the farm he was chatting just as usual, and telling more stories of Devonshire pixies. He went into the surgery and helped Dr. Tremayne to dispense some medicines, and as the girls were starting home in the car they saw him in the orchard cutting down an apple tree, chopping away with most terrific energy.
"I guess he's working off steam," said Merle waving her hand.
"Yes, I didn't know what a volcano he was covering up till he let some of it bubble out this afternoon. Uncle David! What's going to become of Bevis? Will he always stay on the farm? He's so clever!"
"Yes, poor lad, he's worthy of better things, andwould make a name for himself some day if he got the chance. He ought to be back at school. It's hard luck on him to have his education broken off just when he was beginning to do so brilliantly. A nice lad too—a very nice lad—one of the nicest lads I know," muttered the old doctor, half to himself, as the car sped up the hill, and the sound of Bevis's blows on the apple tree grew fainter and fainter, then died away behind them.
One morning, towards the end of March, as the day girls were walking home from school, they came across a bill-sticker pasting a flaming red poster upon a hoarding. Naturally they stopped to look. The advertisement was headed:
"Trotman's Circus & Menagerie", and set forth that on Monday next the famous show would visit Durracombe for one day only, and would give two performances, at 3 p.m. and 8 p.m., introducing the latest novelties and sensational displays. Here was an excitement for the sleepy little town. It was years since any travelling circus had come that way, and very few of the children had seen elephants, performing sea-lions, trick-horses, gymnasts, North American Indian riders, or any of the marvels set down in the programme. Of course all the juvenile population was a-thrill at the prospect. The day girls at The Moorings carried the news to the boarders, and the arrival of the wonderful show at once became the most important date in the school calendar. Trotman's Circus had rather a bad reputation for missing its appointments, and, as it had once beforeadvertised its advent but had failed to turn up, people declared they would not believe in it until they actually saw the procession marching into the town.
"You'll take us if it really comes, won't you?" begged the boarders at The Moorings.
Miss Pollard would not commit herself.
"I must hear something about it first," she said guardedly. "These travelling shows aren't always very select."
"It's a wonderful programme," urged Iva, who had seen the posters.
"That doesn't guarantee it from being extremely vulgar," returned Miss Pollard.
On Sunday afternoon, just as the scholars were pouring out of Sunday-schools, there came the rumble of wheels along the road, and presently down the High Street passed a remarkable procession of gilded caravans, horses, and elephants. The men who led them, and the women who peeped from the little curtained windows, were a tired-looking crew who deserved a Sunday's rest; but directly they had crossed the bridge, and arrived in the meadows at the opposite side of the river, they began to work hard at erecting tents, stabling their horses, and setting their temporary camp in order. Nearly all the children in Durracombe stood on the bridge and watched them. It is not every day you can see elephants or a camel or a troupe of tiny piebald ponies. To most of the small folk it was the opportunity of their lives.
Mavis and Merle, from the vantage-ground of theterraced walk by the river, had a splendid view of the settlement. They were almost too near, indeed, for they were much disturbed during the night by weird noises, the roaring of lions in cages and the trumpeting of elephants. They dressed next morning, feeling as if they had slept in a jungle or in an African forest. They found all the girls at school in a state of flaming excitement. Miss Pollard had not yet decided whether the circus was a sufficiently refined entertainment to justify her in taking her boarders. She was old-fashioned in her notions, and very particular about what was suitable and proper for children. She hesitated and vacillated, and even wrote a note to the vicar to ask for his opinion, and was more embarrassed still when she found he had gone out on his motor-cycle, and might not be back until the evening. She and Miss Fanny had discussed the matter threadbare in private, but could not make up their minds in the least. Meantime a whole school full of fluttering girls centred the circus as the one event of the term.
"Of course we're to have a half-holiday this afternoon," began Opal.
"There's no 'of course' about it," returned Miss Pollard, eyeing her god-daughter gravely. She did not like Opal's tone, which was both uncompromising and truculent.
"Oh, but we've simplygotto have a holiday! We can't miss this circus. All of us day girls have been promised at home that we may go, and weshall."
Miss Pollard was long-suffering where her pet pupilwas concerned, but it is possible for even a prime favourite to go too far.
"That's not the way to speak to me," she rebuked. "Your parents may make any arrangements they wish for taking you to the evening performance, but you will all attend school this afternoon. Do you thoroughly understand me, girls? I givenohalf-holiday, and I expect you all to be present here as usual at 2.30. You may take that message home with you."
Miss Pollard, very much on her dignity, glared first at Opal, and then round the entire room. She did not intend to be dictated to or forced to give her consent against her better judgment. She was Principal of The Moorings, and as such meant to maintain discipline over her pupils.
Her announcement caused them all to look very sulky, and produced much grousing during 'break', but nobody thought of disputing it. The day girls consoled themselves by hopes of attending the evening performance. The less fortunate boarders said it was just like their luck. Everybody was more or less in a bad temper, but resigned. Mavis and Merle, walking back from Bridge House about 2.15, passed the corner of the Earnshaws' garden, and saw Opal's face peeping over the paling.
"Hello! Going to school like two good little girls," she jeered.
"Why! Aren't you?"
"I! Rather not! I call it the limit! I say, will you give a message for me to Miss Pollard?"
"What do you want us to say?"
"Tell her I've got a fearful headache, and I'm going to lie down."
"We'll do nothing of the sort," snapped Merle.
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," said Mavis.
Opal only grinned.
"What nice good little girls," she repeated mockingly. "You'll give me the trouble of sending a note, that's all."
"What does your mother say?"
"She's gone to Port Sennen to-day, so I can't ask her. Look here, people are saying in the town that there's not going to be any evening performance. Trotmans want to pack up the show and start early, so as to travel at night. They've had a bother with the police about those vans blocking the roads in daytime. They held up a whole row of motors in Blagden, and no one could pass them for half an hour. Do you think I'm going to miss that circus and toddle up to school to write exercises and have a music lesson? Hardly! If you'll take my advice you'll scoot back home and do the same. I shouldn't be surprised to find an epidemic of headaches this afternoon."
"If I stopped away, at least I wouldn't tell fibs about it," said Merle.
Both the Ramsays agreed that it was very unsporting of Miss Pollard to refuse the holiday, and decided to get up a sort of eleventh-hour petition amongst the girls to ask her to grant it. They hurried on to school, therefore, not without hopes, though a little tremblingas to how she would receive the appeal. They arrived at The Moorings to find the hive in a delighted ferment. The Vicar, Mr. Carey, had returned home to lunch, and had read Miss Pollard's note, and had sent a reply by his daughters to the effect that in his opinion the circus was a most harmless and innocent form of entertainment, and that it would be a pity for the girls to miss it. He suggested, indeed, that the whole school should visit the showen bloc. The Misses Pollard, being themselves daughters of the late clergyman, set a high value on clerical sanction. The Vicar's letter settled the matter.
"If Mr. Carey approves, it must be perfectly right," fluttered Miss Fanny.
"I'm so glad to know what he thinks about it," agreed her sister.
The poor ladies were really anxious to give their boarders a treat, and as the day girls were already assembled, and time was flying, they decided to adopt the suggestion, and march the whole school in an orderly crocodile to the tent. Just before they started, a small village boy came running up the lane and delivered a note. Miss Pollard tore it open hastily.
"Dear me! How unfortunate," she exclaimed. "Opal ill with a bad headache. The child was perfectly all right this morning. Thank you, there's no answer. Now, girls, take your partners and form into double line. Quietly, quietly! Not so much talking! Iva and Nesta first. Where's Mademoiselle? Has Mamie brought her scarf? Those tents are sometimesvery draughty. Betty, if you can't behave you'll be left behind! Are you ready? Then quick march!"
It was very exciting indeed to file along the High Street and across the bridge on to the meadow, and more thrillsome still to enter the big circular tent with its green canvas roof flapping in the breeze. The seats were only wooden planks covered with red baize, and swayed about when people sat upon them, but Durracombe audiences were not accustomed to luxuries, and the juvenile portion would have cheerfully sat anywhere to watch the show. A caravan drawn up by the entrance acted as pay desk, and a big, fat gipsy-looking woman took the money and said, 'Thank you very much' to those who bought the more expensive tickets. The school secured a block of reserved seats all to itself, and the girls settled themselves with little ones in front, and big ones behind. In the middle of the tent was a large circle strewn with sawdust, and the spectators were ranged round this as in a Roman amphitheatre. Through the open door opposite might be caught a glimpse of horses standing outside. A very large part of the audience was composed of children. Most of them had been waiting in a queue for a long while before entering, and they were over-excited and tired. They were all impatience for the performance to begin, and the hum of their little voices sounded like the buzzing of bees. Through the gaps between the walls and the roof of the tent long shafts of sunlight streamed like Jacob'sladders over the heads of the children, and into the sawdust circle. One almost expected elves and fairies to slide down them and perform on the magic ring. One tiny boy, tired of waiting, strayed from his place, and stood a moment under one of these shafts of light like a fair-haired cherub. The spectators cheered him as if he were part of the programme.
The contingent from The Moorings were sitting close to the main entrance, and as their united glances strayed round the tent they presently began to nudge each other and focus their gaze in one particular direction. Miss Pollard, aware of the undercurrent, looked also. What she saw caused her to take out her lorgnettes and stare amazedly through them to satisfy herself that failing eyesight had not produced an illusion. On the other side of the tent, exactly opposite to their party, sitting on a red-baize-covered reserved seat, was Opal—Opal who was supposed to be lying on her bed prostrate with headache, and whom she had pitied for missing the treat. Miss Fanny had also just made the same discovery. The sisters glanced at one another, and drew their own conclusions. If Opal had turned rather white at the entrance of the school party, she had apparently recovered from the shock, and was bluffing the matter out. She was sitting with some friends, girls much older than herself, and was laughing and chatting as if in thorough enjoyment.
And now at last, after much tiresome delay and waiting, the show began. Through the far door wasseen a vision of men in gay costumes, and the strains of a band were heard.
"O-o-o-oh!" came from the children all round, as the procession streamed into the tent. It was headed by the band, then followed piebald horses with riders in gorgeous velvet costumes or spangled dresses; there were Roman chariots, and a drove of tiny ponies, and an Eastern lady on a camel, and several funny men who bounced about like india-rubber balls, and three stately elephants, and some wild-looking Red Indians in war-paint and feathers. These all paraded round the ring to allow the audience to have a good view of them, then went off again, so that the programme might proceed in its separate items.
It really was a capital show. There was no mistake about that. First entered the gymnasts, wonderful people who jumped easily on to one another's shoulders, and swung head downwards from trapezes, and made themselves into a human pyramid, and performed other amazing and marvellous feats. Then came the horses, which ambled round the circle in pairs, with riders who stood astride two of them, one foot on each, marvels of equilibrium, and ladies in gauzy dresses who jumped lightly from horse to horse as if on wings. When these had cantered off the scenes appeared "Queenie", a beautiful Arabian trick horse with her playfellow "Pixie", a tiny piebald pony. The manager, a gorgeous individual in evening dress, stood in the centre cracking a whip, while Queenie and Pixie ran in contrary circles, reared, knelt, and laydown to music, and finally did a dying scene together, with Pixie's head resting sentimentally on Queenie's back.
"I want that 'ickle pony," called out a small voice from the audience, at which remark even the manager smiled.
Then it was the turn of the clown, a funny man in baggy white pants and a red patch on each of his cheeks. He kicked up six hats in succession, and caught them all, one on the top of the other, on his head in a pyramid, and had a comical fight with somebody who was dressed up as a lion and tried to pounce upon him.
"Here we are again. No harm done this time," he kept saying, after somersaults and jumps that made some of the audience tremble for his safety.
Next a tight-rope was fixed, and two lady gymnasts in spangled garments and holding parasols walked across it, and even danced upon it, shaking bells on their ankles as they moved. The funny man pretended to be envious and begged to be allowed to try; so he climbed up too and at first made the tight-rope wobble in the most alarming fashion, but finally performed a jig upon it, holding aloft a big black umbrella.
"No harm done this time," he proclaimed laughingly.
An Eastern lady, who arrived veiled on a camel, did a marvellous turn with Queenie, the trick horse. Slow music was played, and when the lady danced Queenie moved her fore-feet as if dancing also. Then the lady skipped, and the horse also skipped over arope held by the manager and the clown, a performance which called forth cheer after cheer from the spectators. When Queenie ran out of the ring two elephants took her place. They saluted by trumpeting, a form of greeting which rather scared most of the children, and even brought squeals from some of them. The elephants with their slow heavy gait were favourites, however, and quite captured the house when one of them acted nurse to a rag baby, placed it inside a cradle, and rocked it gently to sleep.
The Red Indians, with their wild, spirited horses, performed most daring feats, careered round the ring clinging to the tails of their steeds, jumped from one horse to another when in full gallop, and had a most exciting battle in which a little girl was bound to a stake by one party and rescued by another. Then one of the elephants came in again, and played skittles with the clown, who kept calling out "Cheat fair, old girl," though he always let her win in the end, and rewarded her by drinks from a bottle which he produced out of his big hat. The funny man was indeed the very heart and soul of the circus and worked hard to keep the audience amused. When the elephant had finished her tricks he brought in a pair of seals who flapped into the ring on their fins, roaring and snorting as they came. Their feats were, if anything, even more clever than those of the elephants: they balanced cups on their noses, played football with the clown, and flapped their fins or roared in answer to his questions. They played a game of hide-and-seek, and finally posedon either side of their human friend apparently whispering into his ear.
A Roman chariot race followed, as a variety, and afterwards some trick riding by ladies accompanied by a jazz band to which the elephant played the drum. It was all clever and amusing, yet everybody smiled when the funny man, after a short interval for rest, made his reappearance in the circle. He seemed indefatigable, and his limbs might have been made of india-rubber by the way he jumped and bounced and pranced about. This time he was to give a performance on the trapeze, and he ran up the ladder as easily as a monkey, cracking out many jokes. He swung on the trapeze, and turned somersaults, and hung by his heels and did other hair-raising experiments, always ending with his usual "no harm done this time".
Then he commenced to swing himself backwards and forwards for an enormous leap on to another trapeze. He accomplished it safely, and turned to make the bound back again. But either the rope was faulty, or for once his nerve deserted him, or he miscalculated his distance, for, instead of landing lightly upon the pole, he missed it, and fell down, down on to the edge of the net, and off again on to the ground below.
For an instant the audience thought it was part of the performance, and that he would bounce up with one of his merry jokes. But this time there was harm done. Instead of springing to his feet he lay limp and quiet among the sawdust in the ring. There was abuzz of horror from the spectators as two of the gymnasts ran in with a stretcher and hastily removed him. Many could not bear to look at any more and left the tent, though the manager made a short speech and begged people to remain for the rest of the programme, bringing on the ponies, and causing them to run and jump round the circle.
Miss Pollard and her girls felt they had seen enough, and withdrew quietly, very much upset at the horrible accident. Mavis and Merle, running home with the news, found Dr. Tremayne just starting for the cottage hospital, whither the unfortunate clown had been carried from the circus. Jessop was helping to hunt out splints, bandages, &c., and hastily packing them into the car.
"Here's a pretty business," said Uncle David. "I hear the poor chap's badly hurt. I've an urgent call to Bragdon—man in an epileptic fit—but he'll have to wait till I've attended to this case first. It's a mercy I hadn't started. Jessop, where's the chloroform bottle? Put it here in my bag, please! If I want anything else I'll send someone over with a message. You know where the other splints are? Good! Telephone to Mrs. Goodwin that I can't possibly see her till to-morrow, but she must go on taking the medicine, and if Johnson's boy comes with a message, keep him till I get back."
And Dr. Tremayne, having collected all the various things he considered he was likely to need, jumped into his car, and departed to the cottage hospital onhis errand of help, a very real angel of mercy though clad in twentieth-century garments.
"Will the poor fellow die?" the girls asked with awestruck faces.
Jessop shook her head enigmatically.
"It depends how much damage is done. You never can tell in a case like this till the Doctor has seen him. You may be sure your uncle will do the best that human skill can."
"That goes without saying," said Mavis as she and Merle went gravely upstairs to wash their hands for tea.
Opal turned up at school next morning in one of her most defiant and reckless moods. She marched into the cloakroom with a jaunty "don't care" air, and immediately began to talk about the circus.
"I was caught neatly, wasn't I!" she proclaimed. "Never got such a surprise in my life as when you all came parading in like a flock of lambkins. Miss Pollard had rather spasms to judge from her face."
"You'llget spasms later on if I'm not mistaken," said Merle.
"Oh, I can always fix up the poor old dears. They've a blind eye where I'm concerned."
"How about that note you wrote?"
"Well, Ihada headache, only it got better in time for the circus. I'm a wonderful person at getting well when I make up my mind to it. Will power I suppose. There's nothing neurotic about me!"
"You're the biggest fibber I know!"
"Whatarefibs?" asked Opal flippantly. "I only make a little picturesque variation sometimes instead of telling the brutal truth. It's what's called diplomacy,and finesse, and all the rest of it. In a matter of expediency I hedge the question."
"Use the plain Anglo-Saxon word 'lie' and I understand you," retorted Merle, turning disgustedly away.
Opal laughed, and some of the younger children, who had been standing like little pitchers listening with all their ears, laughed too.
"Look here, you kids," said Merle, facing round again. "You may think all this is very clever and funny, but I tell you it's most dishonourable. You've some queer notions in this school. I wouldn't give anything for a head girl who can't speak the truth. She's not worth her salt. Yes, I mean it. All this underhand work isn't done in decent schools, and the sooner you get that into your silly little noddles the better. Fibbers were 'sent to Coventry' at Whinburn High."
"Were they indeed," mocked Opal. "What an extremely superior place it must have been. I wonder you condescend to stay at The Moorings among such a set as ourselves. We're evidently not good enough for you."
Merle took no further notice but walked away, and Opal followed her, giggling, into the classroom. She thought matters would be passed over by the Principal as they had always been condoned before. Her boast that she could do what she liked with her godmothers had hitherto been justified. She had, however, gone a step too far. Miss Pollard's eyes had at last beenopened, and in the light of yesterday she suddenly began to remember very many sinister incidents which might easily be set down to the head girl's influence.
"I'm afraid, my dear, we have been utterly mistaken in Opal," she confided to her sister, and Miss Fanny, who had also had her doubts, regretfully agreed with her.
Miss Pollard took the call-over that morning, but when she had closed the register she paused.
"There's a matter I wish to set straight," she said impressively. "Opal, I received a note from you yesterday afternoon telling me you were in bed with a headache. Will you kindly explain how it was that we saw you at the circus?"
"My head was better, thanks, and I felt well enough to go," replied Opal perkily. She was lolling on her seat, and sharpening a pencil as she spoke.
"Sit up, and put that penknife in your pocket," commanded Miss Pollard, in a stricter tone than she had ever used before to her favourite. "Now answer me. Do you consider that you have been behaving in an honourable fashion? Your letter was sent with the intention to deceive me! What have you to say for yourself?"
Instead of doing as she was told, Opal went on sharpening her pencil rather ostentatiously. There was a sullen look on her face. She was trying her strength against Miss Pollard's. She had won before in minor battles, and she hoped to score in this. A faint giggle from one of her satellites among the juniorsspurred her on. She would show the girls that she at any rate was not afraid of the head mistress. She leaned back in her seat and yawned.
"If you ask me, I think it's a case of much ado about nothing," she replied. "I've explained that I felt better, and I can't say any more."
This was the limit even for The Moorings. The girls looked at Opal in amazement. As for Miss Pollard she stared for a moment as if absolutely mesmerized with horror. Then, with a gasp, she recovered her presence of mind, and, summoning all her dignity as Principal, delivered her ultimatum.
"If that's the view you take of your deceit and falsehood the sooner you leave this school the better. Get up and go home at once. You can tell your mother the reason I have sent you, and say I will call and see her this afternoon at five o'clock. Now go immediately!"
Opal, still with the sullen and defiant look on her face, rose slowly and gave a glance of triumph round the room, which, however, met with no response. Then she walked jauntily out and slammed the door after her.
What happened at her own home nobody ever knew. Miss Pollard called and had a long talk with Mrs. Earnshaw, the result of which was that Opal was sent away for a few weeks to stay with an aunt, and arrangements were made at once to place her at a boarding-school after Easter. In justice to her it must be chronicled that she apologized to her godmothers, andsaid she was really sorry, but they were wise enough not to try the risky experiment of letting her return to The Moorings. She was too old for so small a school, and needed strict discipline, and the pressure of a high moral standard among girls of her own age. At Brackenfield College she would not find her "fiblets", as she called them, applauded or tolerated, and she would have to be straight and honest if she wanted to win golden opinions. In spite of her many lapses from the code of honour, there were elements of good in Opal, and under the influence of straightforward girls such as Dona Anderson and Ailsa Donald, who were at present leading spirits at Brackenfield, she was likely to make a fresh start and retrieve her past.
The Moorings, freed from the shadow of her bad example, seemed a different school. Iva Westwood was appointed head girl, and filled the office conscientiously. The juniors, who took their colour from their elders, soon dropped certain unpleasant practices, and were square in their work. Miss Pollard and Miss Fanny also, feeling they had been too slack and trustful, kept a tighter hand over things, so that cheating and shirking were no longer possible as of yore. In respect of favouritism they had learnt their lesson, and became strictly impartial.
"It hardly pays to be a boarder nowadays," mourned Aubrey Simpson. "We're all treated so exactly alike."
"And a good business too," snapped Edith Carey. "I always said it was time we had a turn. I like things to be fair all round, without anybody getting specialprivileges. The school's been nicer this last fortnight than it has ever since I came here. I used to detest Miss Fanny, but I'm beginning almost to like her now."
"Though sheismaking a horrible crusade about punctuality," groaned Maude, who, as usual, was late for everything. "Just fancy! She actually made me go to drawing-class without my pencils because I couldn't find them."
"Poor old sport! Buck up! Buy a pencil with a ring at the end and cable it on to you so that you won't lose it. You could wear it round your neck like a baby's comforter."
"It wouldn't be much use at drawing when I want an 'H.B.', a 'B', and a 'B.B.'," grumbled Maude, who had small sense of humour and rarely saw a joke.
But we must return to the day after the circus. The unfortunate clown had been carried after his accident straight to the Cottage Hospital, where his injuries were attended to by Dr. Tremayne. He was badly hurt, and, though there was a possibility of his recovery, it would be months, if ever, before he could resume his profession. The manager and the ringmaster, and several other people from the show, came to the hospital to inquire about him, but the circus was due at another town, and they were obliged to move on at once. So that very evening the vans were packed, and the great rumbling cavalcade, with all its horses, and ponies, and elephants, and camels,jolted along the High Street, and turned up the north road in the direction of Warebury.
The piece of wreckage whom they left behind them lay very still and quiet in the clean, white bed, at the Cottage Hospital, and made no more jokes. His leg was in splints and his head was bandaged, and his right arm was held in a sling. Dr. Tremayne, going to see him for the third time on the following day, took Mavis and Merle, in the hope that visitors might distract his thoughts. They went rather shyly into the ward. It was strange to see "the funny man" lying flat on his pillow, with hollow, sleepless eyes, and lines of pain round his poor mouth. They offered him the flowers they had brought, and began to talk about the circus. He brightened up a little at that. Evidently he was proud of his reputation as a gymnast.
"It was the rope that failed. It wasn't my fault," he said. "I've done that trick thousands of times, and never missed before. And I'd do it again."
"You must make haste and get well then," said the sister-in-charge kindly. "When we get your splints off you shall give us a special performance in the ward if you like. We'll ask these young ladies to come and see it, won't we?"
The ghost of a smile flickered round his lips for a moment.
"I can't say 'no harm done this time'," he whispered.
It was the first attempt he had made at a joke. Sister said visitors had done him good, and thoughshe sent Mavis and Merle away then, she asked them to come again. So every day they ran into the hospital for a few minutes on their way to school, and again at lunch-time and after tea. They never stopped long enough to tire the patient, but they brought him flowers or newspapers or some little thing from the outside world to help to cheer him up. They chatted to him and asked him what towns he knew, and he told them he had travelled over most of England and Scotland with the circus, and had even been to America.