AN INTERVIEW WITH MISS THOMPSONAN INTERVIEW WITH MISS THOMPSON
"What will Mother think of my getting 'dishonourable' in my report?" she sobbed. "And I can't go home and tell her all about it. I'll write to her and try to explain, but I'm always a silly at writing. She's kept all our reports ever since we first went to school, and we've none of us ever had anything nasty like this in them. It'll just spoil the record. Oh, dear, what an idiot I've been! I wish I hadn't to go to Cousin Lilia's this afternoon! I know I'll hate Christmas there. Life's a perfectly sickening business!"
After all, Avelyn enjoyed her holidays far more than she had ever expected. The Lascelles gave her a kind welcome, and tried to make her feel at home. They were quite a jolly family—all considerably older than Avelyn. Two sons were in the Flying Corps, and the third was at a Government office in the town. The daughters, Mary and Gwen, were busy with various kinds of war work, and had little time to spare. They made a great effort, however, to amuse their visitor, and took her out in turns. Avelyn was treated to pantomime, concerts, and cinemas, and was invited with the Lascelles to many little parties and social evenings. She would infinitely rather have been constructing a rockery in the dear Walden garden than sitting in a picture palace looking at the eccentricities of Charlie Chaplin, but she appreciated the kindness of the Lascelles, and felt what the French callreconnaissante, which has a far more subtle meaning than "grateful".
"Couldn't you take Avelyn to the Munition Hostel, Mary?" said Mrs. Lascelles one day, whenplans for entertaining the young guest were running rather low. "I'm sure Bertha Gordon would show you over the canteen if you asked her."
"If it would amuse Ave?" began Mary doubtfully.
"I'd just love it!" agreed Avelyn, brightening perceptibly.
"Then I'll ring up Bertha. If it's her afternoon off I'm certain she'll have us. She told me to come the first opportunity I had, and I've always seemed too busy up till to-day. I've been wanting to go for ever so long."
A brisk ringing of the telephone bell followed, and Mary came back presently with the welcome information that her friend Bertha would be free from three till six o'clock, and would be delighted to see two visitors and show them all in her power.
"We'll get up there as early as we can," said Mary, "so that we'll have time for sight-seeing before tea."
Miss Gordon was doing Government war work in Harlingden. She had taken her certificate for domestic economy at a training college in London, and now held a post in the canteen department of a huge munition factory. The place lay a few miles out of the town. Mary and Avelyn first caught a tram-car, which whisked them along an uninteresting stretch of shabby road, and put them down at a corner where three ways met. It was a tolerably long walk from there to the munitionworks. The neighbourhood was dingy, with rows of small cottages and second-rate shops, and tall chimneys or furnaces in the background. The Chayton Government factory was a colony in itself, with a special railway line out from Harlingden. The station platform marked its boundary. After that came rows and rows of munition cottages—little wooden houses, each containing three rooms and a bath-room, all exactly similar except for the numbers on the doors. The girls passed these, and went in the direction of the hostels. At the great gate of the works stood a sentry on duty, who asked them their names, residence, and whom they were going to visit, and entered these particulars in a book before he would admit them.
"It's all right. Miss Gordon told me that she was expecting you," he volunteered, as he opened the gate for them.
Feeling rather as if they were going into prison, Mary and Avelyn stepped forward, and found themselves in a big enclosure fenced with barbed wire. Each hostel was a large, separate bungalow building, and there were also several recreation halls. Patches of ground planted with cabbages lay between. It all looked very new and unfinished, something like the pictures of mushroom cities in America. In front of them loomed the canteen, an enormous red-brick structure with a corrugated-iron roof. Mary enquired at the office for Miss Gordon, and her friend soon made her appearance.
"I'm so glad you've found your way here!Come in, and I'll show you everything. It's a queer place, isn't it?"
"I should get lost in it!" declared Mary.
"Oh! it's wonderful how soon you learn to find your way about. What would you like to see first? The canteen? We shall just have time to go round before tea, then we'll do the hostel afterwards."
Avelyn trotted off with great interest in the wake of Mary Lascelles and Miss Gordon. She was going to see a new side of life, and learn what some women were doing to help the war. Out at the front our boys were fighting for Britain's honour, but their heroism would be of no avail if the hands slacked that forged the weapons at home. The workers who made the munitions, and those who toiled to feed the workers and keep them fit, were taking their share of the burden, and, in however small and obscure a way, were pushing the world on towards the victory of Right over Might.
Miss Gordon first led the way into the canteen, an enormous hall with seats for three thousand people. There were long tables with benches, placed in rows, and over these hung sign-boards: "Hostel I", "Hostel II", "Hostel III", &c.
"Each hostel has its own tables," explained Miss Gordon, "and the girls are bound to go there. It saves scrambling. They all have food coupons, and they take them to the counter, and exchange them for any dishes they want, and then carry their plates to their own places. There'sa menu hung up, and they generally have the choice of several things. It's a tremendous sight to see them all filing in for their meals."
"Are they easily satisfied?" asked Mary.
"As a rule, but sometimes we get grumblers, and they inflame the others. You see, there are all sorts and conditions of girls here, and some of them are a rough lot. Individually they are quite nice, but when they get together in crowds some spirit of lawlessness seems to permeate them, and they get utterly out of hand sometimes. Once there was a terrific row. They were discontented with their rations, and they put the blame on Mr. Jennings, the canteen manager. Some agitators stirred up trouble, and one evening things came to a head. There was rice pudding for supper, and the girls didn't like rice pudding, so they flung it all about the room and smashed the plates; then they stood on the seats and shouted and yelled. They said that, if they could catch the manager, they would teach him a lesson. He dared not show himself. Indeed, he was obliged to go away altogether. It was about two hours before the row subsided; all that time the girls were shouting in the canteen. They had utterly lost control of themselves, and wouldn't listen to anyone who tried to speak to them. We've a new manager now, and things are going better."
"How fearfully exciting!" commented Mary.
"Rather too exciting at the time, I can tell you! And the hall was in such an awful mess, with rice pudding flung about everywhere. Comeinto the kitchen now and I'll show you my department."
Avelyn had never seen cooking on so vast a scale before. There were great polished copper cauldrons for stews, so large that they looked as if Giant Blunderbore's meals might be prepared in them; there were rows and rows of ovens and steamers; and an electric meat cutter that sliced up the joints. Puddings were being mixed in big washing basins, and vegetables were cut up by a machine. There were enormous cans of milk, and all kinds of receptacles for other stores.
"We have to calculate exactly what we require, so that there's no waste," said Miss Gordon. "We send up lists every day, and the lists are inspected."
The tea canteen kitchen was a department in itself. There were huge boilers for hot water, rows of bright copper tea urns, and an electric cutter for bread. Two girls stood at a table buttering enormous piles of slices.
"What monotonous work!" remarked Avelyn.
"Yes, it is rather," answered Miss Gordon. "They give that to the novices, and pass them on to something else afterwards. But one gets accustomed to all the work, and doesn't mind. Now we'll have some tea ourselves. Come to the Staff Room. I'm allowed to bring in my visitors."
The sitting-room reserved for the members of the staff was divided by glass doors from the canteen. It had little tables and chairs, and its wooden wallshad been decorated with pictures from magazines, fastened up with drawing pins. Some of the staff were already seated there having tea—brisk, capable ladies, most of whom had left comfortable homes in order to take up war work. Miss Gordon greeted several friends, and introduced Mary and Avelyn. The scones and the oat cake were delicious, and were certainly a good advertisement of the cookery done in the canteen. It was quite a merry little tea-party, for the lady workers appeared to have a stock of jokes among themselves.
"Now you must see my hostel," said Miss Gordon, pushing aside her cup and rising when her guests had finished. "If you've seen mine you've seen them all, for they're exactly alike."
The colony consisted of thirty-two hostels, each holding a hundred girls. The buildings were separate bungalows, and each had its own matron, who was responsible for the comfort of its inmates. Miss Gordon showed Mary and Avelyn into her bedroom, a little room nine feet square, heated by hot-water pipes, and containing a bed, chest of drawers, table, wash-stand, chair, and cupboard for dresses.
"They give us the necessary furniture," explained Miss Gordon, "but we must find our own pretty things. I brought the curtains and the bed-cover and cushion and dressing-table mats, and of course my own pictures and photos. There's a good deal of competition in making our rooms nice."
"This one's perfectly sweet!" exclaimed Avelyn.
"It's not so bad, and there's quite a comfy chair to sit in to rest and write letters. We can lock up our rooms if we like; the matron has duplicate keys for cleaning purposes."
There was more to be seen at the hostel: the laundry, where any girls who liked might wash their own clothes, and where several were busily at work with an ample supply of water and hot irons; the matron's little office, with its piles of papers neatly filed; and the store-room, with its sacks of flour, sugar, rice, and other commodities, that were weighed out daily and sent to the canteen.
"We lack a cosy sitting-room," said Miss Gordon; "we have to use our bedrooms instead. There's a recreation hall, where we can dance in the evenings if we wish, and I hope sometime there's going to be a library. At present everything's so new, and they have to think of the stern business part first before they give us luxuries. It's a utilitarian sort of life."
"Do you like it?" asked Avelyn.
"Yes, on the whole very much. It's interesting, and I always enjoy being among a crowd. Masses of people attract me, and I've got the community spirit at present, and want to work with the hive."
Avelyn looked thoughtful. It was not the kind of life that appealed to her at all. She loved Nature's solitudes, and the companionship of woods and streams more than crowds of people. To live in a hostel and canteen would be absolute purgatory.She hoped she was not unpatriotic. Then her face suddenly cleared.
"I could go on the land when I leave school!" she exclaimed with relief.
Mary Lascelles and Miss Gordon laughed. Avelyn's train of thought had been so evident. Palpably she was not attracted by what she saw.
"Yes, you'd be doing your bit on the land just as much as in a factory," said Miss Gordon kindly. "It isn't everybody who cares to take up canteen work. Let's hope the war will be over before you leave school. You'll have several years more at your lessons yet, I suppose."
The little country mouse was certainly turned into a town mouse for these Christmas holidays. Avelyn felt that she had never before seen so much of Harlingden, even when she had lived there. The Lascelles were very public-spirited people, who were interested in everything that was going on in the city and anxious to lend a hand in all schemes for the general good. They sewed national costumes for the Serbians, rolled bandages at the War Supply Depot, distributed dinners at the municipal kitchens, taught gymnastic classes at girls' clubs, visited crippled children, got up concerts for wounded soldiers, and organized Christmas parties for slum babies. They seemed to be occupied nearly every minute of the day, and they soon swept Avelyn into the whirl of the war activities. If it was not exactly her ideal life, she nevertheless liked it, and felt that she was being of use. She went with Cousin Lilia to the Town Hall, andrather enjoyed standing behind a counter handing out pies, or ladling soup into jugs for the rows of busy people who kept pushing in from the long queue standing in the courtyard outside. She admired the smart quick drill in Mary's gymnasium class, and marvelled that the girls had so much spirit left after their long day's work; she made the whole of a Serbian child's dress herself, with beautiful barbaric red-and-blue trimming on it; she helped to hand cigarettes round to the soldiers at their concert; and she played "Blind Man's Buff" and "Drop the Handkerchief" with the slum children at the New Year's party in the Ragged School.
She had an altogether fresh experience at the Crèche. This day nursery was a new institution in Harlingden, and had been opened in order that women who wished to help at munitions might leave their babies to be taken care of while they were at work. Gwen Lascelles gave two mornings a week to it, as a voluntary nurse, thereby releasing some of the staff to go off duty. One day she offered to take Avelyn with her, and the latter jumped at the invitation.
"Matron doesn't mind, and you'd be a help," said Gwen. "Nurse Barnes is away ill, so we're short-handed just now, and sometimes it's all I can do to manage. One or two of those toddlers are the limit!"
Elton Lodge had been lent by a patriotic citizen for use as a day nursery, and was well adapted for the purpose. It had plenty of accommodation, anda garden where the babies could be out of doors in summer. Gwen and Avelyn arrived here by ten o'clock, took off coats and hats, donned aprons, and entered the ward. This was a large, light, airy room, or rather two rooms thrown together. At one end stood twelve cribs in which lay twelve babies, most of them fast asleep. At the other end, grouped round the high fire-guard, were sixteen little toddlers of all ages from eighteen months to four years. The nurse in charge rose with an air of relief and handed over her duties to Gwen.
"They're all right," she remarked, "all but Curly, who's in a temper to-day. Don't let George bully the others, and smack Eddie if he tries to unfasten the fire-guard. He knows what to expect! Nurse Peters will be in the laundry if you want her."
The nurse made her escape, and the toddlers came crowding round Gwen, clamouring for her to open the toy-box. Avelyn strolled across the room to inspect the babies. They had just had their bottles, and indeed some had not yet quite finished and were sucking away contentedly. They were dear babies, some quite wee who counted their ages by weeks, and older ones with little tight silky curls. One blue-eyed, tearful, barefooted person stood up in her crib and held out a beseeching pair of arms. Avelyn could not resist the appeal. She took up the small creature and cuddled it; it clasped her tightly round the neck, put a confiding head on her shoulder, and sobbed gently. Gwen disengaged herself from the toddlers and came across.
"We're really not supposed to take them up and nurse them," she said. "But I own I break the rules sometimes. Poor little Queenie's a new-comer; she's been petted at home and hasn't got used to crèche ways yet. She'll soon settle down. Look at Arthur! Isn't he splendid? When he first came he was simply skin and bone through improper feeding. His mother used to give him tastes of tea and red herrings. This is Frankie, our special crèche baby. He lives here altogether. His mother is in prison for ill-treating him, poor wee darling! She's not to have him again when she comes out—the judge said so. I know you'd love Patty if she were awake. She's got the cutest little ways."
Gwen went round from cot to cot performing services for the babies, restoring a teat to a small mouth that had not yet finished its bottle, covering cold hands, turning the position of some, and patting others who were inclined to be fretful and wail.
"I just long to nurse them," she assured Avelyn. "But you see it really wouldn't do to let them get into the habit of thinking that they must be taken up and played with every time they cry."
"Don't they howl when they first come?"
"Simply yell for a day or two. Sometimes we have to put them in the isolation ward because they disturb the others so dreadfully. They soon get accustomed to crèche life, though. Their mothers bring them at about six in the morning, and takethem home after work in the evening. When they arrive here they're washed, and dressed in the crèche clothes, and their own clothes are put on again at night."
"They don't seem shy," remarked Avelyn, who was still hugging Queenie.
"No, that's the best of them. With seeing so many nurses and helpers they'll go to anybody. They're very sweet when you may have them up and attend to them. Queenie's getting sleepy. I think you'd better put her back to bed."
Avelyn disengaged the clinging little arms with reluctance. She would cheerfully have acted nurse all the morning if allowed. She lowered her sleepy burden into the crib, and turned her attention to the toddlers, who certainly needed it. Several of them had followed Gwen, and were popping mischievous fingers through the bars of the cribs and poking the babies; some were indulging in a free fight over a toy. Eddie, the black sheep, was attempting to climb the fire-guard; George was punching the head of a smaller boy, and Curly, for no particular reason, was standing with arms outstretched, yelling at the pitch of his lung power. It took the best energies of the two young helpers to restore order.
"My clothes aren't comfy!" pleaded one small sinner in a tight jersey. "I'd be good if you'd let me have my own clothes on!"
"George took my horse!"
"I want a doll!"
"Give me a picture-book!"
"I want one too!"
"You won't get anything at all unless you ask prettily!" declared Gwen sternly. "Where are your manners, I should like to know?"
By the end of the morning Avelyn decided that she could thoroughly sympathize with the trying experiences of the old woman who lived in a shoe. She felt in a perfect whirl of babies. They were sweet little souls, but she would have enjoyed them more individually; to wrestle with so many at once was decidedly wearing. At twelve o'clock came dinner. Tiny chairs were placed round low tables, feeders were tied on, and the children were put in their seats and taught to say grace. The nurses brought in an enormous rice pudding, and gave platefuls to those who were old enough to use spoons. Avelyn, sitting in a rocking-chair, fed alternately one small person on her knee and another by her side. Gwen was performing a like service.
When the meal was at length over, the toddlers trotted off to low camp-beds for their midday sleep, leaving a blissful calm in the ward, where the babies were now receiving their share of attention.
"Do you do this two mornings a week?" asked Avelyn as the girls walked home.
"Yes, but the children aren't always as troublesome as they were to-day, and if they get very bad I can call Matron, or a nurse."
"I'd like just the babies alone, if there weren't the toddlers as well to look after. But to havesixteen of them to keep in order is the limit. I feel——"
"You'd rather go on the land?" queried Gwen, with an amused smile.
"Yes, if I can choose my war work, I certainly should!"
When Miss Thompson had bought the connection of The Hawthorns, and amalgamated that school with her own, she had undertaken a more difficult task than she had altogether anticipated. She had spoken much of Silverside traditions, but it had never struck her that the Hawthorners might have some of their own to which they might cling tenaciously. It was not easy for the Principal to get to know the exact mind of the school. She saw the girls in class, respectful, well-behaved, and very much in awe of her, but it was another matter to judge the mental barometer of the play-room. She suspected that there was an undercurrent of trouble: the smallness of the Silverside Hockey Club, the rival stalls at the bazaar, and the scanty audience at the dramatic performance had shown her clearly which way the wind was blowing. She thought the matter over seriously. From her knowledge of girls she decided that it would be unwise to interfere directly. You cannot cause rival factions to love each other by act of parliament. She trusted that time and tact would cement a union,and meanwhile she meant to hold her judgment in the balance and favour neither party.
On the first day of the next term she made the important announcement that she had appointed two new prefects, Annie Broadside and Gladys Wilks, who would be given equal powers with their co-officers. It was a great step for the day girls to have their former leaders raised to a recognized position in the school. Though they were only two, as opposed to four prefects who were boarders, they could look after their own flock, and redress their grievances. Adah and her companions took the news badly. They considered that their old privileges were being outraged.
"What's Miss Thompsonthinkingof?" asked Consie indignantly.
"She absolutely truckles to those wretched Hawthorners!" declared Isobel.
"Will Annie and Gladys expect to come to our prefects' meetings?" demanded Joyce.
"Of course they will! That's the sickening part of it!" said Adah bitterly. "If Miss Thompson thinks she's going to manage us that way, she's mistaken. Iwon'tbe friends with those Hawthorners! I wish they'd never come to the school at all!"
"Pretty prefects Annie and Gladys will make!" sneered Joyce.
To do Annie Broadside and Gladys Wilks justice, they made excellent prefects. They were the acknowledged leaders of their own clique, and they insisted upon certain rules being obeyed. Theyeven suggested a few innovations, which, though resisted at first by Adah, were afterwards acknowledged as so excellent that they were put into force. It did not add to their favour with the boarders, however, to have the changes recommended as "what we always did at The Hawthorns".
"What you may have found expedient there need be no law for us here," replied Adah with uplifted eyebrows.
January 21st was the school birthday. It was exactly fourteen years since Miss Thompson had first opened Silverside, and she had kept the anniversary as a festival ever since. This year it was to be quite a public occasion. The house was far too small for the increased number of pupils, and she had decided to build on an annexe, consisting of a large hall and cloak-rooms. An architect had been busy drawing out plans, but, owing to the difficulty of getting labour during the war, the contracts had only just been passed. Now, after many delays, all was in training, and the builders were ready to begin their work. Miss Thompson felt that it would be an appropriate act for the foundation stone to be laid on the school birthday. She was fortunate enough to persuade the Bishop of the diocese to come and perform the ceremony. It was to be a great day at Silverside. The girls discussed it freely beforehand, especially the inmates of the Cowslip Room.
"Ever so many smart people will be there," said Laura delightedly. "Tommiekins is sending out heaps of invitations. I know, because Miss Kennedytold Consie, and Consie told Nita Paget. The Bishop will make a speech."
"And what arewegoing to do?"
"Stand round and listen, and look intelligent and appreciative, and all the rest of it, I suppose. We'll have to be saints during the ceremony, but we'll have some fun afterwards. D'you know the school's to be thrown open to all sorts of visitors? Not only old fogies who make speeches, but other people. The day girls may each ask three friends, and they can bring brothers if they like."
"You don't say so! Miss Thompsoniscoming on. Are you certain?"
"It's quite true," confirmed Avelyn. "I was allowed an invitation card too, and I've asked Mother and Daphne and David, and I've got Pamela to ask Anthony with one of her spare invitations."
"What sport!"
"We'll all have to wear our best dresses," said Janet.
"Rather! You bet we do!"
In preparation for the coming event, a wave of what Miss Hopkins would have dubbed "worldliness" swept over the Cowslip Room. The girls reviewed their frocks critically. Laura implored Miss Kennedy to allow hers to be sent to the dressmaker, to be lengthened two inches. Janet borrowed the last drops of Ethelberga's before-the-war bottle of benzoline, to remove a stain left by the dropping, butter-side down, of a piece of muffin. Avelyn brushed her hair every night witheau de Cologne to make it glossy. Ethelberga, in defiance of food saving, begged oatmeal from the cook, and rubbed it on her face to improve her complexion. Irma, after criticizing the costumes of her friends, sprang a surprise on them.
"I've sent home for a new dress," she announced carelessly.
"You haven't!"
"Yes, I have, and what's more, I expect it to-morrow. Mother wrote that she was telling Barclays to post it to me direct."
"Well, I do think you might have told us before."
The other girls felt as if Irma had stolen an advantage. If the idea had occurred to them they might also have written home for new dresses. It was unfortunately too late now. Irma alone, of the Cowslip Room, would attend the festival in the glory of a new gown. She gave herself airs in consequence. It was an unfortunate characteristic of Irma that she was apt to get swelled head on occasion. Her room-mates were constantly on the look-out for symptoms of this complaint, and generally applied drastic measures before things went too far. In a dormitory it does not do to allow a girl to maintain too exalted an opinion of herself.
"Irma's swanking no end!" affirmed Ethelberga.
"Putting on side galore!" agreed Janet tartly.
"We ought to do something to take the wind out of her sails a little," said Laura, looking pensive.
Avelyn's eyes suddenly sparkled.
"I've got it!" she chuckled. "We'll play a rag on her this afternoon. It'll be ever such fun! Oh, I've thought of a perfectly gorgeous plan. No, I don't think I'll tell you what it is yet; but stroll up to the dormitory as soon after four as you can, and make Irma come too on some excuse. Then I'll have a little surprise for you."
"You might tell us!"
"No, no! Not a word! It would spoil the surprise."
The members of the Cowslip Room were always ready for some diversion. They wondered what kind of a practical joke Avelyn was going to play on Irma. They took particular care to decoy their victim upstairs at four o'clock. As a bait, Ethelberga offered to lend Irma her manicure set. They were rubbing pink powder on Irma's almond-shaped nails when a rap came at the door.
"Entrez!" shouted Janet casually.
It was a demure-eyed junior who made her appearance, carrying a large parcel.
"This has just come, and it's for your room, so I brought it up," she announced, dumping it down on the bed, and leaning over to read the address. "Miss Irma Ridley. Wish it had been Miss Dorothy Elston. I've no luck. Ta-ta!" and she waved a rather impertinent hand, and trotted away.
Irma jumped up, upsetting the box of manicure powder, and scattering the other implements over the floor.
"It's never my box!" she exclaimed.
At that psychological moment Avelyn entered the room.
"I didn't expect it until to-morrow," rejoiced Irma. "They must have sent it by carrier instead of by post. Lend me your scissors, Janet. Oh, I'm just dying to look!"
The parcel was a large cardboard box done up in rather untidy brown paper. It had evidently suffered considerably on the journey. Irma cut the string with the utmost haste, and began to tear off the wrappers and open the box.
"I know Mother will have chosen me something pretty," she purred. "Mother's got such lovely taste, and she wrote that she'd seen the very thing, and was sure I should like it."
"It's well wrapped up," remarked Janet.
Irma was removing sheet after sheet of tissue paper with a pleased giggle. At last she reached the core of the package, and unfolded—not a smart new frock, but her own ordinary school evening dress. Her stare of blank astonishment was comical.
"What's this? What have they sent me?" she gasped.
But her room-mates were collapsing in various attitudes of mirth, and she understood. For a moment two red spots flared in her cheeks, then she had the sense to take the joke with a good grace. If she was angry, the others shouldn't have the triumph of seeing her annoyance.
"You geese!" she remarked. "I might have known the box couldn't arrive to-day. So this iswhy you hauled me upstairs, is it? Oh, go on and laugh if you like! It doesn't hurt me. I don't mind."
She hung the dress up again in her wardrobe, and folding the sheets of tissue paper, appropriated them.
"I've been wanting some tissue paper," she said airily.
The girls restrained themselves and sobered down.
"You're a trump, Irma!" declared Avelyn.
"It was too bad, but we couldn't help laughing," murmured Janet.
"Poor old Irmie, you took it sporting!" sympathized Ethelberga.
"You'll like your dress all the more when it really comes," comforted Laura.
When Irma's parcel arrived the next day her room-mates, having played their joke upon her, had the grace to be nice and to admire the new frock, which was a charming creation in blue, and suited its owner admirably. They went out of their way to be pleasant about it, and Avelyn lent a hair ribbon which exactly matched the shade of colour, while Laura offered a chain of Venetian beads. They all felt, as they dressed for the festival, that if Irma's costume eclipsed the rest of them, she deserved her little triumph for keeping her temper.
"It's a shame to have to put a coat over it," said Ethelberga.
"Well, she certainly can't stand outside in the cold with only that thin dress on," decreed Laura.
The ceremony was to take place at three o'clock,and shortly before that hour all the school, in hats and coats, were marshalled outside to the spot where the new hall was to be erected. It was a cold, grey January afternoon, with one or two snowflakes floating down, and everybody stood and shivered. Some of the invited guests were keeping warm in the house, and others strolled out to the scene of action. The girls, drawn up in line, nodded and smiled to many friends from the town. They were cold, and impatient for the proceedings to begin. Waiting is weary work on a January afternoon. Their talk, which at first had been low and subdued, began to buzz, and rose higher and higher.
"What a disgraceful noise!" said Adah. "It's all those wretched Hawthorners. If Miss Thompson brings out the Bishop while all this clamour is going on she'll be thoroughly ashamed of the school. Less noise, girls! Do you hear?"
The girls heard perfectly well, but they did not heed, and the hum of unrestrained conversation continued. Adah waxed desperate.
"This can't go on! It mustn't!" she said indignantly.
She thought for a moment, then took an extreme measure. She walked up to Annie Broadside, and confronted her with flashing eyes.
"You're a prefect! If you've any influence with your old crew, why don't you stop this din? It's a disgrace to Silverside! I've said what I can!"
Annie looked astonished, but for once she fell in with the head girl's suggestion. Passing alongthe lines, she commanded silence, and she was obeyed. Where Adah had failed to restore order, she succeeded. At that moment the house door opened, and Miss Thompson appeared, ushering out the Bishop—a reverend figure in gaiters—and followed by the mistresses and a number of guests. A dead hush fell upon the school, and all eyes were fixed at attention.
The little ceremony was not very long—perhaps the Bishop himself felt the cold. There were one or two brief speeches, and Edna Esdale, the youngest member of Form I, handed a trowel decorated with ribbons, a dab of mortar was deposited, and the foundation stone laid. The girls sang "God Save the King", then, as the snow was beginning to come down in good earnest, everybody thankfully turned into the house. It was certainly a crowd, but it was pleasant to meet friends. The Watson family had all turned up, and had actually brought Mrs. Reynolds with them, to Pamela's great triumph, for as a rule her mother shunned all public gatherings. The poor lady, though very nervous, seemed to be mildly enjoying herself.
"I am glad Pam didn't ask her uncle," thought Avelyn. "I shouldn't have been surprised if he had insisted on coming!"
There was actually a birthday cake for the school, with fourteen little candles on it, and the Bishop, at Miss Thompson's request, cut the first slice. There was only enough for visitors, but the girls had had the satisfaction of viewing it lighted beforehand,and had known that it was not big enough to go round, so consequently were not disappointed. Irma, in her new blue dress, produced quite a sensation among those of her form who had not yet seen its beauties. Its attractions even went further.
Miss Thompson, ciceroning the Bishop round the premises and expatiating on the value of her new scheme of ventilation, let her eyes pass over a line of girls, flattening themselves dutifully against the wall, and singled out the creation in blue.
"We've many nice children here. Come here, Irma dear! This one is Irma Ridley. Run, child, and fetch me your Nature notebook. I should like the Bishop to look at it. We make a point of Nature study, my Lord."
Irma departed on her errand like a blue sunbeam. She stood smiling and speechless while the great Church dignitary benevolently examined her record of the months, and murmured his approval.
"Miss Thompson says it all went off splendidly," declared Janet, as the girls warmed themselves at the class-room fire afterwards.
"David and Anthony called it 'ripping!'" affirmed Avelyn.
"AndIwas introduced to the Lord Bishop of Howchester!" triumphed Irma, with the glamour of the honour still dancing in her shining eyes.
When spring came, bringing daffodils in the orchard, and primrose stars under the alder bushes in the meadow, and tiny green shoots on the hedges, and singing of larks and cawing of jackdaws and twitter of linnets, and all the other dear delights of the "return of Proserpine", Walden also celebrated a birthday. It was a year since the Watsons had obtained possession of their little property. To them all it had been a glad, golden, glorious year, full of fresh interests, new awakenings, and hitherto undreamed-of experiences. They had been living spiritually on a far higher plane; almost unconsciously the influence of hills and wide skies and dashing waters had passed into their lives and widened them. So much of what we are in our after years depends on the standard of happiness we form when we are quite young. If we learn to take Nature's hand and read in her book, she can teach us wonderful secrets, and lift our souls so that we can never again be really narrow, or vulgar, or petty, or commonplace. It is not the mere fact of living in the country that gives this inner vision. Too often country dwellersgo about with closed eyes and sealed hearts to the meaning of the beauty around them; but to those who will listen to Mother Nature's many voices, there comes a wonderful refinement and purity of taste, quite irrespective of wealth or class distinctions, the mark of the spirit that is daily growing, overmastering the claims of the physical body, and fitting itself for something that as yet we only grasp at but cannot reach. God must love His children very dearly to send them such beautiful things as the April sunshine, and the light on the hills, and the white spray of the whirling waterfall, and the violets in the hazel coppice. They may spoil His earth for themselves, but the springtime comes again, and the little heartsease flowers will bloom, not only over those graves in France, but over deeper graves of fallen hopes and lost ideals.
Mrs. Watson reviewed the year at Walden as so much gain. To begin with, her primary object in the removal had been an entire success: Daphne, formerly pale, thin, and an object for anxiety, was now as radiant as a pink-tipped daisy, and pronounced by the specialist to be absolutely fit and sound. She spent most of her time out of doors, gardening and looking after her colony of fowls, and, though she might not be doing definite war work, felt that she was helping her country by the production of food-stuffs. Daphne had suddenly grown very pretty. Avelyn, who often looked at her critically, decided that point emphatically. It was a delicate, ethereal, elusive kind of beauty, dueas much to expression as to straight features and smiling grey eyes. Daphne never came out well in a photograph—that was quite a recognized fact in the family; to appreciate her, you had to see her when she was excited, or gardening, with her hair rumpled.
The Walden birthday fell early in April, and the Watsons decided to celebrate it by having a Saturday picnic. Captain Harper promised to join them—he came up sometimes from the camp to Lyngates—and they also asked Pamela and her mother. Rather to their surprise, Mrs. Reynolds accepted the invitation. The poor lady was still somewhat crushed and depressed, but she seemed to be trying to bestir herself, and, for her daughter's sake, to make faint, almost pathetic efforts at friendship. She was shy and uncommunicative, but she evidently liked Mrs. Watson, and would cheer up a little in her presence, and venture a few remarks, and even a watery smile. The picnic was to be in the pine woods, so all met at the cross-roads by the pond as a common starting-point, and set forth together, armed with tea baskets.
It was a two-mile walk up hill, along a road that twisted at sharp angles and gave lovely views of the landscape below. Presently they reached the beginnings of the wood, and some pines rose like giant sentinels guarding an enchanted land. As they tramped on, the trees stood thicker, tall and straight as the masts of a ship, with a carpet of soft fallen needles underneath. All at once a gleam of water flashed, and they had reached the bourneof their journey, a little grey lake set in the midst of the wood, with heather and whinberry growing round its banks. There was a space of shingle down by the water, and here, after a grand hunt to collect sticks, they lighted a fire and boiled the kettle they had brought with them.
It was fun sitting round in a gipsy circle, even if the tea was rather weak and smoky, and the war cake was conspicuous by its lack of sugar and currants. Everybody could have eaten a great deal more than the ration, and the provisions disappeared down to the very last crumb. Afterwards the young folks started to explore the banks, and had a wild time scrambling over fallen tree trunks, jumping small streams, and pushing through thickets. At a particularly large fallen pine Avelyn struck, and demanded a rest. She and Pamela perched themselves on the top, and announced their intention of sitting still for at least ten minutes. The boys, who had been cutting walking-sticks from the hazels by the lake edge, consented to a halt, and settled down with their penknives, whittling away busily. Mrs. Watson and Mrs. Reynolds were washing up the tea-cups at the picnic place, and the sound of their voices echoed faintly over the water. Daphne and Captain Harper seemed temporarily lost.
"It's like home to be right amongst the pines!" said Pamela, looking with far-away eyes at the vista of red-brown trunks and green needles.
"Did you live among them in America?" asked Avelyn.
"Yes, our ranch was out in British Columbia, close to the edge of the forest. At one time Daddy had lumbering business there, and we spent the summer at a log shanty right up on the mountain. It was glorious, and I loved it, but it was very lonely. Daddy used to be out all day, looking after the timber, and Mother and I would be left by ourselves until evening. Sometimes we didn't see anyone except our own family for weeks and weeks."
"Were you frightened?"
"Only once, and then we really had an adventure. I was more scared when it was over than at the time."
"Do tell us about it!" pleaded Avelyn.
Pamela hesitated, and threw pine cones into the lake. She had never been very expansive about her life in Canada, and the Watsons had heard few of her experiences there. They had a general impression that Mr. Reynolds had not prospered in the New World, and that Pamela shrank from letting her friends know the roughness of her early upbringing. As a rule they refrained from questioning her—she was not a girl whom it was easy to question—but an adventure could not be resisted.
"Do tell us, Pam!" urged the boys, wriggling nearer, and stopping their whittling.
Pamela threw away all the pine cones that lay in her lap, seemed to think a moment or two, then finally decided.
"All right, I'll tell you if you like! Well, as I've just said, we were living in a log-house ina little clearing in the forest. We used to hear the coyotes howling about at night, but we didn't mind those in the least. They're cowardly beasts, and we'd never seen anything else to frighten us. One day Father had a much longer round to go than usual, and he said he should not be back at night, but would sleep with some friends at a ranch a good many miles off. Mother and I did not mind being left. Daddy had been obliged to stop away like that before, so we were accustomed to it. I went out in the afternoon, across the clearing, and through part of the forest to some open pastures where the berries grew. I stayed there, picking some and eating them, and putting some in my basket, for just ages. It was nice there: I found flowers as well as berries; and I'd brought out a book with me, so I sat down and read and enjoyed myself. Suddenly I noticed that the sun was beginning to set, and I jumped up and felt guilty. I knew that Mother would have supper ready, and that she'd be waiting for me. I ran home all the way. It was getting quite dusk in the forest as I went through. When I came near the house, I could see that the shutters were up, covering the window. That didn't surprise me, because Mother generally closed them as soon as she lighted the lamp. But she always left the door standing open for me, and to-night the door was shut too. I was rushing forward to open it, when I heard Mother's voice calling me.
"'Pamela, stop! Don't come a step nearer, child!'
"I looked round to see where Mother was, and she was in the funniest place. Our log-cabin had a loft above it, which was reached by a ladder from the living-room. This loft had a tiny window in the roof, and, lo and behold, there was Mother peeping out of the window and waving me back! I thought it so funny that I began to laugh, but Mother wasn't laughing at all. She called out again:
"'Keep back!'
"Her voice sounded so queer that it suddenly scared me. My legs began to shake in the silliest way.
"'What's the matter?' I shouted.
"Mother's voice quavered a little:
"'Don't be too frightened, darling! There's a puma shut up in the house!'
"I was fearfully frightened, all the same. I should have run away if Mother had not been at the window. I stared at the house, picturing that horrible thing moving about inside. Mother went on explaining:
"'I'd lighted the lamp and closed the shutters, and I'd left the door open for you. Then, suddenly, I saw the creature creep into the room. My first idea was that it would rush out and catch you just as you were coming home, so I slammed the door, and dashed up the ladder into the loft, and then kicked the ladder away. He's downstairs quite safe, and I'm up here and he can't get at me. I've put down the trap-door.'
"'Can't you crawl through the window, Mummie?' I gasped.
"'No, it's too small. I've tried. I'm caged up here, just as much as the puma is caged down below, and I can hear him raging about. If he upsets the lamp, the whole place will be on fire.'
"I gave a great cry at that, because it seemed almost a certain thing that the puma would upset the lamp, and then I knew the log-cabin would be in a blaze. What could I do? Daddy would not be returning home that night, and our nearest neighbours were miles away. Yet I must get help, and at once. There was nothing else for it; every minute was of consequence.
"'I'll go to the Petersons' ranch, Mummie!' I shouted, and I started off running without waiting for her to reply.
"I was only eleven, and the forest was getting dark. I had never been out alone in it at that time of evening. I wasn't brave at all. My legs shook under me as I ran, and I imagined a puma behind every bush. Then I was rather uncertain about the trail. In that dim light it would be very easy to lose my way and never reach the ranch at all. I decided to keep near the stream, which would guide me. I went stumbling on for what seemed a long time, and everything was getting darker, when suddenly, on the other side of the stream, I saw the light of a camp fire. I knew some lumbermen must be spending the night in the woods there, and that they might help me. I hallooed and cooeed as loudly as I could, but the wind was in the wrong direction and carried my voice away, and the stream was noisy, so I couldn't make them hear me.
"I didn't know what to do. Then, a little farther down, I saw that a tree had fallen across the stream. I ran along and looked at it. It was a horrible bridge—I'm a coward at crossing water—but I had to crawl over it somehow. For a year afterwards I used to dream that I was doing it again, and would wake up gasping. I've hated running water ever since. Well, I managed to get across, though I never quite knew how I did it, and then I ran up to the camp fire, shaking so that I could hardly tell what I wanted.
"Three men were sitting there, cooking their supper, and one of them called out: 'Hallo! What's up with you, young 'un?'
"When I said there was a puma inside our house they all whistled. Then the one who had spoken reached for his gun, and said: 'We'll come with you, lassie!'
"The others didn't say anything, but they got up and found their guns too. One of them took me on his back and carried me across the bridge when he saw how I funked it. He went over without minding it in the least. I don't know how he could!
"It was fearfully dark going home through the wood, and I could only just manage to find the trail. We got to our shanty at last, and I shouted, and Mother looked out of the window and said: 'Thank God you're back safe!'
"The three men talked over the best way of killing the puma. One of them prised open the shutters and the other two stood ready with theirguns. The creature had been quiet (so Mother told us afterwards) for a long while, but when the shutters fell back it went wild, and came tearing across the room to the window, knocking over the table and upsetting the lamp. It was shot directly, and fell dead inside the room. But the lamp had broken and set up a blaze. The men rushed to our shed for spades and threw earth on the burning paraffin, managing to put the fire out before any real damage had been done. Then they fixed the ladder again, and Mother came down from the loft.
"When Daddy came home next day she said she daren't be left alone in the woods again, so he took us to the settlement, and we lived there the rest of the summer."
"Did you keep the puma's skin?" asked Anthony, who had followed the story with breathless interest.
"No, I'd have liked to, but the lumbermen had dragged the thing outside, and the coyotes got hold of it in the night, so there wasn't much skin left by morning."
"I think you were immensely plucky!" exclaimed Avelyn warmly.
"Plucky! What else could I have done? I tell you, I felt the biggest coward out!"
It was Easter time when the Lavender Lady first rose upon the horizon of Lyngates. She came with the dog violets and the ground ivy and the meadow orchises, and several other lovely purple things, at least that was how her advent was always associated in Avelyn's mind. She took the furnished bungalow near the church, lately vacated by the curate, and it was rumoured in the village that she composed music and had published poetry, and that she had come down into the country for a rest.
When Avelyn first saw her she was sitting in the flowery little garden raised above the road. She wore a soft lavender dress and an old lace fichu, and she had dark eyes and eyebrows, and cheeks as pink as the China roses, and fluffy grey-white hair that gleamed like a dove's wing as the sun shone on it. She looked such a picture as she sat there, all unconscious of spectators, against a background of golden wallflowers and violet aubrietias, that Avelyn was obliged just to stand still and gaze. In that thirty seconds she fell in lovewith the Lavender Lady. It was not a mere mild liking, but a sudden, romantic, absolute, headlong falling in love. It had come all in a minute and overwhelmed her. She crept away softly to dream dreams about the vision she had seen in the garden. At home there were some beautiful illustrated editions of William Morris'sEarthly Paradiseand of Dante Gabriel Rossetti's poems. She took them out and pored over them. The gorgeous pre-Raphaelite pictures had always appealed to her innate artistic sense, and set her nerves athrill with a something she could not analyse. There was not one of them so beautiful as her Lavender Lady among the flowers.
"She's a little like 'The Blessed Damozel', who leaned out 'from the gold bar of heaven'," mused Avelyn. "And then again she's like Gainsborough's picture of 'The Duchess of Devonshire'. I wonder what her name is, and if I shall ever know her? I don't believe I'd dare to speak to her. I'd be too shy."
For a whole week Avelyn, terribly in love, lived in a mystic world in which the Lavender Lady, robed in the glory of the purple night and stars, was as the central sun, and she herself revolved like a planet round her orbit. The family could not understand why she insisted upon choosing heliotrope for her new dress.
"It won't suit you, dear," demurred Mrs. Watson, bewildered by the firmness of her daughter's sudden attitude.
They were sitting round the table, with threeboxes of patterns from west-end London firms spread out temptingly before them.
"You of all people in helio, Ave!" objected Daphne. "It's the one colour you ought never to wear—you're far too much of a brunette for any violet shades. You'd look nice in this biscuit, or this saxe blue. I always liked you in that blue dress you had a couple of years ago."
"There's a perfectly charming stripe here," recommended Mrs. Watson.
"I want the helio, please," said Avelyn doggedly.
"Butwhyshould you want helio when you know it doesn't suit you?" stormed Daphne. "It's really only pig-headedness, because you've happened to say so. You can't see yourself in your own dress. If you could you'd choose another colour."
"You know nothing about it," retorted Avelyn; and matters nearly grew warm between the two girls.
"There's no need to send the patterns back to-day," interrupted Mrs. Watson, sweeping the whole consignment back into their boxes. "We'll bring them out to-morrow and talk about them."
As a matter of fact she sent for the biscuit shade without consulting Avelyn again, much to the disgust of that damsel, who consoled herself by taking energetically to gardening, and replanting the round border in the middle with wallflowers and purple aubrietias. It was the Easter holidays, so she had time to dream. She made up at least six romances about the Lavender Lady's past; some of themended happily and some unhappily. She could not decide which was really the more artistic. She walked past the cottage every evening. Once she threw a bunch of violets over the wall just to the place where the lady had been sitting. Then she ran away frightened at her own daring. Another evening as she passed she heard the strains of a piano and the sound of a rich, sweet contralto voice. She stood and listened spellbound. It was a song she had never heard before—a lovely, crooning song, like a cradle lullaby. She would have liked to stay and listen to more, but the Vicar's wife and daughters were coming down the road, and she fled. Somehow she did not want to be talked to just at that moment.
On Sunday she chivied the family off to church at least ten minutes too soon, and they sat in their pew in stately dignity while the rest of the congregation trickled in. Avelyn, from a post of vantage near the pillar, eyed everyone that entered with increasing disappointment. Then her heart gave a great thump. Her Lady was coming up the aisle—not in lavender this time, but in black and white, with a bunch of violets and a big picture-hat trimmed with silver ribbon, and a white ostrich boa and dainty white kid gloves. The verger was showing her to a seat in front, actually the next pew but one, and Avelyn felt thrills running down her spine. She was so glad the verger had selected a pew in front. If it had been behind, she would have been absolutely obliged to disgrace herself by turning round. After the service she managed to drop herbook, and to fumble for it long enough to delay her family for a few moments and prevent them from leaving before the Lavender Lady. They passed her in the churchyard. She was actually speaking to the Vicar's eldest daughter. Avelyn decided that Barbara Holt had more than her share of luck. At dinner-time, over the joint of roast beef, Mrs. Watson remarked:
"That seems a sweet lady staying at the bungalow. Miss Carrington, I hear, her name is. She comes from London, and Mrs. Holt says she's very musical. I think I shall have to call."
Avelyn went on eating beef and potatoes with a jumping heart but outward composure. It had not struck her that it was possible to pay social calls on Dante Gabriel Rossetti heroines. What if she were to meet the Lavender Lady at close quarters? Even speak to her? The idea seemed to need preparation.
Mrs. Watson had quite made up her mind.
"Daphne and I will go on Tuesday," she said.
It was of course appropriate that Daphne, being the eldest, should go, but Avelyn envied her all the same.
When the momentous afternoon arrived she enquired anxiously what her sister was going to wear. It seemed vitally important that the family should make a good impression.
"You'll put on your grey coat and skirt, won't you?" she said beseechingly.
"I don't think I will. I really don't want to go at all," yawned Daphne.
Not want to go! Avelyn could hardly believe it. She stared at Daphne incredulously.
"Don't you feel well?" she asked.
"Oh yes! it isn't that, but I hate paying calls, and I promised the boys to walk to Fulverton. Captain Harper said he'd meet us and show us a squirrel's nest he's found. Suppose you go and call with Mother instead of me?"
Avelyn gasped. Such unselfishness took away her breath.
"Do you really mean you'll let me go instead of you?"
"With all the pleasure in life, child, if you want to." Daphne's manner was airy and elder-sisterly. "Of course it's nothing to me whether we meet Captain Harper or not, only he made rather a point about it, and perhaps it would seem—well, rude, if I let the boys go without me. He's been very kind to David and Tony, and one doesn't like to hurt his feelings."
Two things swept across Avelyn's bewildered consciousness: first, that Daphne was growing up—growing up most suddenly and unmistakably; and secondly, that she had resigned her privilege, as elder daughter, to call on the Lavender Lady. The first would have to be considered at leisure, in all its bearings and side issues; the second was for the moment uppermost.
"Go and ask Mother what you're to put on," said Daphne, as if the whole question of the exchange were settled.
It was an outwardly calm and self-possessed, butinwardly much-agitated Avelyn who entered, in her mother's wake, into the little drawing-room at the bungalow. One comprehensive glance took in the fact that the room was utterly different from what it had been during the curate's occupation. There were books and flowers, and other pretty things about. The general tone had changed from commonplace to artistic. On the window-sill lay a half-finished sketch of the village. There was music on the open piano. But these details faded into secondary consideration, for the Lavender Lady was entering, in the soft heliotrope gown, with a sprig of wallflower pinned into the lace fichu.
Occasionally in our lives we meet with people whose whole electric atmosphere seems to merge and blend with our own. We feel we are not so much making a new acquaintance as picking up the lost threads of some former soul-friendship. Avelyn experienced thrills as she shook hands. She was far too shy to say much, but she sat and listened rapturously while her mother and Miss Carrington did the talking. For the present it was enough to be in the vicinity of her goddess. The maid brought in tea. There were a dainty, open-hem-stitched Teneriffe cloth, Queen Anne silver teapot and Apostle teaspoons, and scones and honey. A bowl of primroses and forget-me-nots was on the table.
The half-hour's visit passed like a dream.
"You'll come and see me again, dear, won't you?" said Miss Carrington, as she held Avelyn's hand in good-bye.
The hot colour flooded the girl's face. Her eyes shone like stars.
"Oh, may I?" she cried impulsively.
That afternoon marked an epoch. Friendship is a matter more of temperament than of years. That the Lavender Lady was middle-aged, and Avelyn barely sixteen, made not the slightest difference to either of them. Each character dove-tailed comfortably into the other. Miss Carrington had a great sympathy for girls, and she seemed to understand Avelyn at once. As for the latter, she had utterly lost her heart. But for the fear of making herself a nuisance she would have nearly lived at the bungalow. She went there very often by special invitation, and spent glorious, delightful afternoons sitting in the garden, talking about art and books and music, and the foreign places Miss Carrington had visited. It fascinated Avelyn to hear about Venice and Rome and Sicily and Egypt, and made her long to go and see them for herself.
"You shall, some day, when the war's over," said the Lavender Lady confidently.
Sometimes they would go for walks together, or Avelyn would wait with a book while Miss Carrington sketched, or—what she loved immensely—would sit in the twilight while her friend improvised soft dreamy music at the piano. The little volume of poems,Cameos, by Lesbia Carrington, she already knew almost by heart; the small, white-and-gold edition, with its signed autograph, was her greatest treasure. To Avelyn it was a mostinspiring friendship, that roused dormant hopes and ideals in her nature which promised to make rapid growth afterwards. Her Lavender Lady proved the most delightful of confidantes. It was possible to tell her everything. She never laughed at Avelyn's secrets, though she was merry enough on occasion.
One evening she and Avelyn sat in the little garden, watching the red glow of the setting sun fade away behind the dark boughs of the yew trees. The air was heavy with the scent of flowers; from the fields came the caw of rooks, as long flights passed homeward to roost. Avelyn squatted on the grass, with her head against the Lavender Lady's knee, and held her hand tight.
"Next week I shall be back at Silverside," she whispered. "I just hate the thought of it!"
"Poor little woman!"
"It isn't as nice there as it ought to be, somehow. Things seem always at sixes and sevens, and it's so horrid."
"What's the trouble?"
"The old school and the new school won't mix. The Silversiders look down on the Hawthorners, and the Hawthorners resent it, of course, and just detest the Silversiders. It's a constant bickering the whole time. I think it's almost worse since Annie and Gladys were made prefects. It's perfectly wretched for me, because I'm between two stools."
"How's that?"
"Well, you see, in a way I'm a boarder, butthen I'm the only weekly boarder, so the others who stay there the whole term rub it into me that I'm not quite one of themselves. They can't forget that I used once to go to The Hawthorns, even though it's a long time ago, and they keep bringing it up against me as if I were a sort of traitor in their midst. Then it's quite as awkward for me with the day girls. I like some of them very much; they used to be old chums of mine, and I'd like to go on being friends with them. But if I even speak to them in school, Laura or Janet are down on me like anything, and ask me if I've forgotten I'm a member of the Silverside League."
"What is the League, please?"
"It's a kind of blood-brotherhood among the boarders to keep up Silverside traditions. When the day girls heard of it, they started an 'Old Hawthorners' League' in opposition."
"But surely you're all Silversiders now?"
"We are in name, but nothing else. We still feel two separate schools. The day girls wouldn't play hockey with us in the winter. They got up a club of their own, and wore their old school colours. They won ever so many matches, and the Silverside Club did so badly. Adah was dreadfully sick about it. She thought them so mean to desert."
"Perhaps they felt they wouldn't be welcome."
"That's exactly the point. Instead of pulling together, it's always boarders versus day girls; and as for poor little me, I'm neither fish, flesh, fowl, nor good red herring!"
The Lavender Lady smiled, and then looked thoughtful. She stroked Avelyn's hair.
"Poor little woman!" she said again.
"I feel like Mohammed's coffin, slung between earth and heaven."
"Can't something be done to bring these rival factions into harmony? You're one school now, and ought to work together for the common good."
"That's what Miss Thompson says, but it doesn't make any difference."
"Girls often won't listen to teachers. The movement must come from within, not without. It seems to me, Ave, you're the one to set it in motion."
"I?"
Avelyn turned up her face in the greatest amazement to meet the Lavender Lady's calm eyes.
"Yes,you, darling! Don't you see you have an absolutely unique opportunity? You're the only girl in the school who is in touch with both sides. You can get at both the boarders and the day girls. The hockey season is over, and I suppose next term you'll be starting tennis and cricket?"
"Yes, so we shall."
"Well, suppose directly you get back to Harlingden you propose a United League of all Silversiders to win credit for the school. You could set about it very tactfully, and sound your principal parties first."
"I?But they'd think it such cheek! A Fifth Form girl, and only a weekly boarder."