"How are we going to get them?" asked Deirdre, wiping the tears from her eyes. "The baths are locked up now."
"Miss Cazalet has the key," Madge replied. "She is better and is getting up to-day. We'll ask her for the key and tell her the whole story. She'll enjoy the joke immensely, I know. To think how we searched every impossible chink and cranny in the building, where one couldn't hide a pencil, let alone a hockey stick!" And Madge went off into a fresh gale of laughter.
The swimming-bath, which was situated in the farthest corner of the grounds and certainly in rather a remote spot, was duly entered—and there were all the missing sticks, lying just as they had been dropped in the deepest end of the white-tiled tank. Each owner seized her own particular stick with a delightful feeling of familiarity at holding a much-tried and well-known weapon in her hands once again. The grey rain clouds had lifted, the rain had stopped and the rays of the sun were flooding the watery fields with pale but welcome light. With joyous cheers, and feeling as if they had been let out of prison, the girls made a bee-line for the hockey field and, unhindered by the fact that the rain had long since washed out all the marks, were soon waging a pitched battle with tremendous enthusiasm and energy.
"I thought all along you had a hand in it," Nat declared that evening, as she and Monica were hard at work. "But you said the sticks weren't hidden anywhere."
"No more they were. No one who walked into the baths could fail to see them."
"I'm all the more convinced that I daren't let you out of my sight. You see what invariably happens when I do! The other girls in the Fifth don't know whether to be annoyed with you or not."
"Irene does," replied Monica. "She still doesn't like me at all." She critically surveyed the latest notice she was printing for the study wall with her head on one side and added happily: "Wait till I come out top. She'll dislike me still more then."
"Did you hear about Allison going to the prefects' meeting to help them?" asked Nat eagerly, and when Monica shook her head she related the incident, quoting Allison's words about not standing outside when things were going wrong, not for fifty scholarships. Nat spoke with a glowing face and eyes alight with hero-worship. "That's just like Allison. It's true, too. That's why we would do anything for her when she was Head Girl last year and worked so hard for the school; why we think so much of her now."
Peace and harmony reigned supreme at St. Etheldreda's during the next few weeks, for the girls simply had no time to get into mischief, every minute of the day being fully occupied. Work, of course, came first, and the term examinations, which took place the second week in December, loomed appreciably nearer. Girls who had slacked at the beginning of the term decided that it behoved them to work harder if they did not wish to take home a poor report at Christmas. The Dramatic Society, with Glenda as its shining star—Glenda, who had set her heart on becoming a Silver Medallist that year—was busy preparing various scenes from Shakespeare which they hoped to perform on Speech Day. With the improvement in the weather, out-of-door pursuits were booming; groups of girls took long country walks, while games were in full swing.
There were no more quarrels between the netball and hockey clubs. The latter's hopes of gaining the shield were high, for should they win their next match they would be entitled to meet the victors in the other section—Fairhurst Priory, the present holders—in the Final.
On Friday morning—the day before the match—the postman was rather earlier than usual and Irene happened to be the only girl near the door to see him arrive, though usually he was accosted by an expectant crowd. She seized hold of the bundle of letters to take them into the hall, where they were spread on the table for their owners to claim. On the top of the bundle was a letter addressed to Miss M. Carr in extremely black, square handwriting, that set a chord of remembrance vibrating in Irene's mind. In a flash she recollected where she had seen it before. Here was another letter to Monica from the girl Lilian at Fairhurst Priory School.
Before Irene had finished spreading the letters on the table it was surrounded by a crowd of girls eagerly searching for their own names, while from others, who were unable to get close enough to see there came a chorus of inquiry.
One thought only was running like a flame through Irene's mind. Could she by any chance get a glimpse of the contents of Monica's letter? She waited by the table till most of the crowd had dispersed. At last she saw Monica, one of the late comers, saunter into the hall with Nat and, at a cry of "Letter for you, Monica. Aren't you going to claim it?" fetch her letter from the table. As she did so the prayer bell rang and Monica and Nat, with Irene close behind, joined the stream of girls hastening towards the assembly room.
Prayer bell rang at five to nine in order to give everyone time to be in her place for nine o'clock prayers. Then the girls filed off to their various classrooms and Irene watched Monica as, seated at her desk waiting for the entry of the mistress who was to take them for their first lesson, she tore open the envelope, hurriedly read the letter and, on Miss Moore's entry, thrust it inside her desk—the present style of frocks rarely provides anything in the way of pocket accommodation!
When the bell rang for the fifteen minutes' interval all the form left the room in groups of twos and threes, some to practise passing or shooting outside with a netball, some to stroll round the grounds chatting, many to partake of hot milk and biscuits. Irene stayed behind, under pretence of hunting for a mislaid book. Now, when the room was deserted by all except herself, was her chance. She opened Monica's desk, and after a hasty search found the letter thrust between two books. With the envelope in her hand she hesitated and glanced around guiltily, half inclined to put it back unread. Then came the insidious whisper that she owed it to the other girls, to the school, to read the letter and discover if the black sheep of St. Etheldreda's was plotting some fresh mischief against her fellow scholars. Spurred on by this thought she inserted her fingers in the envelope and drew out the letter. This time its contents were disappointing. They were brief and written very hurriedly:
"Dear Monica,
"Please excuse me for being so long in acknowledging your letter. Your idea about the telegram is really clever though quite simple. I shall be curious to see how it works. I suppose St. Etheldreda's girls are hoping to win the shield. So are our girls. Well, time will show!
"Supper bell, so I must finish. I will write a longer letter next time. The news may be more interesting then.
"With best wishes from,
"Lilian."
When she had finished reading this apparently quite harmless little letter Irene was conscious of a fervent wish that she had not meddled with it at all. She thrust it back into Monica's desk, and with cheeks that burned for some time afterward, slipped out of the classroom and rejoined her friends, who were partaking of milk and biscuits.
That evening the atmosphere in Nat's study was particularly serene. No clouds disturbed Nat's horizon, for once again her name had appeared in the team for the shield match—not, it is true, in Irene's place, but instead of the other wing, whose play Deirdre and the hockey committee now considered inferior to Nat's. As this was the second time she had been chosen to represent the school Nat now cherished the hope that her permanent place in the team was assured. She was doing her prep with prodigious pains, anxious to run no risk of getting a returned lesson or lines the next morning. So blissful was her state of mind that she even assisted Monica to hang a fresh set of recently-taught data upon the walls, and afterwards volunteered to hear her construe her Latin paragraph. Monica, too, seemed to be in a blithe and happy mood, for she made numerous jokes and witticisms as she worked, without any traces of the old sullen, defiant expression. When in a laughing, happy frame of mind, she really was quite an attractive girl, Nat thought to herself. What a pity it was she was prone to those queer moods and tempers.
Lessons went well and smoothly next morning. Even Miss Bennett wore a beaming smile as she dismissed the Fifth, when the final bell rang, with her best wishes for their success that afternoon. Then there came a general scramble for the dormitories and a hasty change into sports' rig-out, for the team and the girls who had obtained permission to accompany them as spectators were to depart by train as soon as dinner was over.
Allison was changing in her cubicle when Pam tapped and poked her head inside. "Prinny wants you Allison," she said. "A telegram has just arrived for you."
Allison looked up, surprised. "A telegram! Who from, I wonder? I'm not expecting any important tidings."
"Not bad news, I hope," said Pam sympathetically, as Allison hurried out.
Miss Julian was in her room. "Oh, there you are, Allison," she said. "A telegram has just come for you," and she picked it up from the table. Allison took it and tore it open quickly. Miss Julian at once noticed the change in her expression. "Is it bad news, Allison?" she inquired with concern.
Allison nodded. "I'm afraid so," she replied in a low voice and she handed the telegram to the Principal, who read the brief message: "Mother taken ill suddenly. Come at once. Will meet you at Victoria next train—Father."
"This is very sudden, Allison," said Miss Julian gravely. "You have had no previous apprehensions concerning your mother's health, have you?"
"No," replied Allison, her voice shaking a little. "When I last heard from home, mother was perfectly well. I may go, may I not, Miss Julian?"
The Principal was already turning over the leaves of her time-table. "Yes, of course, Allison," she replied, "and we will hope that things may turn out less serious than might be imagined from this telegram. The next train for London leaves at a quarter to two. There will just be time for you to have your dinner, pack a few necessities for the night and catch the train. Do not trouble about packing much. We can soon send on anything you may require later."
"Thank you, Miss Julian," replied Allison gratefully, and still feeling stunned at the suddenness and vagueness of the news contained in the telegram, she hurried back to her cubicle to pull off her tunic, resume her ordinary frock, and throw a few things she would need into a small hand-case. She then sought out Deirdre and told her of her urgent and immediate summons to London.
"Oh, I am so sorry," said Deirdre at once. "Can't I do anything—help you pack?"
"No, thanks all the same. I'm not taking much with me. Only just got time to swallow some dinner—Prinny insists on it—then rush for my train. Sorry I have to let the team down like this," and Allison was gone, leaving the dismayed hockey captain to dash round the school, hunting out another recruit for the team. At length she ran down one of the Fourth Form players.
"Get into your tunic, Olive, will you?" she said peremptorily. "I want you to come as reserve. Lorna, who is down as reserve, will be playing after all."
Bad tidings travel quickly. In a very few minutes an excited little group of hockey players, who had gathered in the hall to await the dinner bell, were discussing the bad news in dismay.
"Oh dear!" said Glenda, as Madge gave them the details. "What hard luck for Allison! I do hope her mother's illness isn't serious! Rotten luck for us, too, though, of course, we shan't mind if things come right for Allison. I'm afraid it means losing the match to-day. Allison at centre-half is as good as half a dozen ordinary players, and we've no one to put in her place."
The girls nodded with grave faces. Allison's presence in the team did indeed make all the difference, for she was a tower of strength in the defence, her judgment in popping up just where the ball was coming being positively uncanny; her passes to her forwards were generally inspired, as Deirdre once said, and the fiercer the opposition the higher the level of play Allison seemed able to attain. Last, but by no means least, her presence in the team acted as a kind of moral support to the rest of the players. With these thoughts in their minds the girls looked at each other in dismayed silence. It was indeed hard luck—just when they had begun to believe that their dreams of seeing the shield the property of St. Etheldreda's had an excellent chance of becoming a reality.
Glenda was suddenly recalled to the present by a fierce and decidedly painful grip on her arm.
"Ow!" she gasped. "Who's pinching me?" and turned round to behold Irene standing at her elbow and wearing such a transformed expression—her face white with emotion, her eyes blazing with excitement—that she exclaimed in astonishment: "What's the matter, Irene? Have you just seen a ghost, or what?"
"The t—telegram!" stuttered Irene, speaking with a visible effort. "I've just remembered that the l—letter m—mentioned a telegram."
"What telegram? What letter? You're speaking in riddles."
Irene still seemed in the grip of some great emotion. "Wait here, all of you," she cried. "Don't move till I come back. I'll explain then," and with that she dashed off like a mad creature into the Annexe and along to her study, seized her writing-case and recklessly tossed out its contents till her fingers closed on the object of her search, the letter she had taken from Monica's study on the memorable afternoon when she had been locked in her own room. With the letter firmly clutched in her hand, she tore back to her mystified audience.
"It's one of Monica's letters," she explained, jerkily. "I—I found it weeks ago and—I read it by mistake, and because I thought it sounded so suspicious and because we all know what sort of a girl she is, I—I thought I was justified in keeping it. Listen, and I'll read it out," and while the girls were still trying to grasp what she had just said, she read the letter in a voice that shook both with emotion and lack of breath.
"But—surely——" Madge, who had joined the group with Deirdre, began doubtfully, as Irene stopped reading.
"Wait till I've finished," Irene interrupted. "That isn't all. Yesterday, I saw another letter of Monica's in the same handwriting lying about, and—oh, I don't care what you think of me for doing it!—but I read that one too. I can only say I thought it might be for the best. I was ashamed then, now I am glad I did. As nearly as I can remember, it said this," and Irene, who was gifted with a good memory, repeated the gist of the contents of the second letter.
"Don't you see—they were plotting to knock St. Etheldreda's out of the running for the shield! Monica Carr would love to spite the school like that. She hates us all, and she doesn't know what it means to be sporting. She was clever enough to realize that our chance of winning would be a poor one without Allison and so she planned to entice her away by a bogus telegram; the telegram referred to in the second letter is the telegram Allison has just received."
Madge looked incredulous. "But it can't be! It sounds like an old-fashioned melodrama. Besides—where was that telegram handed in?"
Deirdre shook her head. "Somewhere in London, I believe. But you don't really think Irene's idea is true, Madge?"
Madge glanced again at the letter Irene had handed her. "I don't know what to think," she confessed vexedly. "If it does happen to be a bogus telegram then we shall be made fools of—and Allison will have suffered all this anxiety for nothing. On the other hand, Allison must go if there's a chance of it's being genuine. She daren't risk it. The fact that her mother may be seriously ill means more to her than all the hockey in the world. Oh, bother! There's the dinner bell. What shall we do?"
"I think it's a case for Miss Julian," said Deirdre decidedly, and there were murmurs of relieved acquiescence from the other girls.
"You're right," cried Madge. "Come along with me, Irene, and Miss Julian will advise us what to do. Dinner must wait for once."
Irene followed her willingly, for to do her justice, she was ready enough to own up to the ignominy of prying into another girl's correspondence if by doing so she might prevent them all from walking into a trap carefully laid for them. Nat and Glenda, too anxious to trouble about breaking the rules of punctuality at meals, followed them instead of making for the dining-hall, and waited in the passage while they entered the Principal's sanctum.
Miss Julian listened patiently as Irene repeated her story, and though she was doubtless very much amazed at hearing such an extraordinary tale she showed few signs of it in her quiet face, and quickly grasped the essential points of the case from Irene's sketchy and incoherent narrative.
"Allison must go unless we can verify beyond any doubt the falsity of the summons," she said with decision, as soon as Irene had finished. "However, I expect I can learn the truth from Monica herself. Will you fetch her, Madge? But no, wait one moment. Do you know if Allison's people are on the 'phone?"
Madge started forward, her eyes lighting up. "Why, yes, Miss Julian, I am sure they are. I never thought of the 'phone."
Miss Julian smiled as she lifted down her telephone directory, and her fingers swiftly turned over the pages. "It is the most obvious and the simplest expedients that usually are overlooked, Madge," she remarked, "especially by highly intellectual people. Yes, I have the number." She turned to the telephone by the wall. "Irene, find Allison and bring her here, please. Should the telegram prove genuine, there will still be time for her to catch her train, if the telephone exchange do not keep us waiting too long."
Irene ran off. Five slow minutes ticked by while the two in the room waited, Miss Julian in undisturbed calm—outwardly, at any rate—Madge in a fever of impatience which she could hardly control. At last the telephone bell rang sharply and Miss Julian picked up the receiver with a murmured: "We are fortunate, after all." Just then Irene burst with scant ceremony into the room, to halt and stand in silence as the Principal began to speak into the mouthpiece.
"This is the Principal of St. Etheldreda's. Who am I addressing? No, you need not disturb him. I only wish to know how Mrs. Ravenel is... Ah, yes... You see, Allison has received a telegram summoning her at once to London, on account of her mother's sudden illness... Yes, this morning, handed in at Victoria... Yes, we had reason to believe it a bogus telegram... No, but I think it will be easy to find out... Then there is no need for Allison to come?... Ah, thank you, that is all I wanted to know. Perhaps Allison can ring you up for herself later on. Good morning."
As she finished she wheeled round sharply. "You were right, Irene. Allison's people have no knowledge of the telegram. Where is Allison? Has she gone?"
"Yes, Miss Julian," Irene hastened to say. "She had just left the dining-room when I got there. I hurried to her study and her cubicle, but she wasn't there. Then one of the maids told me she had already set off for the station."
"We must stop her from going if possible," said Miss Julian. "It will save her a useless journey, as well as unnecessary anxiety."
"Glenda and Nat are outside," interposed Irene eagerly. "They both have bicycles in use. Shall I tell them to cycle to the station and stop Allison?"
Miss Julian nodded approval without inquiring what Nat and Glenda were doing outside in the passage when they should have been at dinner, and two minutes later both girls, hatless and gloveless, having stopped only to snatch their coats, were wheeling their machines out of the bicycle shed. In another two minutes they were pedalling furiously down the road that led to the station.
The school was perhaps a mile and a half from the station and fortunately the road, even when it passed through the town, was not much frequented by traffic; for Nat and Glenda paused for nothing their headlong career and did not slacken speed for a second till they jammed on their brakes and flung themselves off before the station entry.
"It's all right," gasped Nat, pointing to the station clock. "Five minutes yet before the train is due. My, didn't we scorch! I bet we could have given Jehu himself a start and then beaten him."
Allison was standing at the ticket office in the act of asking for her ticket when both her arms were seized from behind and she was violently dragged away, to the astonishment of the booking-clerk.
Jerking herself round, she beheld the crimson but familiar faces of the two St. Etheldreda's girls.
"No need to take a ticket, Allison!" cried Glenda. "That telegram was a fake. Prinny 'phoned through to your home. There's nothing whatever the matter with your mother."
The worried, anxious look vanished from Allison's face and was replaced by a dawning expression of joy and relief. "Are yousure?" she demanded.
"Absolutely sure," replied Nat. "Prinny sent us after you post-haste to stop you from starting. You're coming the other way with us—to the hockey match."
"The team will be here before long," added Glenda. "No sense in going back. We may as well wait at the station."
The three girls paced up and down the platform, talking eagerly.
"I was in such an awful hurry and so worried, I didn't think of anything but the fact that mother was ill and I must catch this next train at all costs," Allison confessed. "But as I was trying to swallow a mouthful of food and nearly choking in the attempt, it did cross my mind to wonder why dad didn't 'phone. I put it down to the 'phone being out of order. It was, the last time I was home. Fortunately Prinny thought of it."
"Yes, but not until we put it into her head to suspect the genuineness of the telegram," said Glenda.
"What do you mean? What made you suspect it wasn't genuine? I can't think who on earth played such a mean trick. It gave me a pretty bad half-hour, I can tell you."
"Wasn't it a beastly, low-down thing to do!" cried Glenda vehemently. "It was Irene who found it out. I don't quite know how—something about a letter she saw, a letter written to Monica Carr by one of the Fairhurst Priory girls. It's that girl Monica Carr who is at the bottom of this, of course. There'll always be trouble in the school as long as she's allowed to stay here."
Allison looked greatly disturbed. "I hope we are mistaken in thinking so. I should hate to think one of our own girls was responsible for this."
"Not much room for a mistake. And we can't call Monica Carr one of our own girls exactly. She's never fitted in with the rest of us."
"What do you think, Nat?" asked Allison, for Nat had not yet spoken. "I thought you and Monica were getting on pretty well together lately."
"So we were," replied Nat unhappily. "I was beginning to fancy she might perhaps be quite a jolly little soul when she forgot her queer moods and tantrums. Of course, I don't know anything about this. She's never mentioned it to me. But you can't exactly account for what she's going to do next."
"Evidently not," Alison agreed, a little dryly.
A few minutes later Miss Cazalet arrived, accompanied by Madge, Deirdre and half a dozen others, while many more were close behind. Quite a large number of girls were going to the match as spectators.
Deirdre welcomed Allison with heartfelt relief.
"Thank goodness! I've been wondering all the way how on earth I could fill your place without disorganizing the team too hopelessly, supposing Glenda and Nat had not been in time. However, it's all right now."
"And for once in my life," added Madge, "my scatterbrains have functioned properly. I've remembered to bring your stick and your pads, also your hockey kit, which I found flung in an untidy heap on your cubicle floor. Two other girls are bringing along your sticks, Glenda and Nat."
When the train steamed into the station there was a general scramble for empty carriages. Miss Cazalet, Madge, Deirdre, Pam, Allison and Nat crowded into one compartment with several other members of the team. While in the act of scrambling in, Nat recollected with dismay that the previous evening Monica had suddenly and inexplicably announced her intention of putting her name on the list of those who wished to accompany the team to the match, and she hung out of the window to see if there were any signs of her. Yes, there she was, getting into a carriage with several other girls. Nat withdrew her head hastily as the train began to move.
There were only two members of the team in the party who occupied Monica's carriage, Olive James—the girl who had come in as reserve when it was thought Allison would not be playing—and Lorna Payne, the original reserve, who played inside-right. Of course, as things had turned out, it was probable that neither would be called upon to play. Among the others were Prue and Meggie, who had forgotten their animosity against the hockey club when there was a chance of a day's outing. Prue had an extraordinary nose for scandal or a lively story of any description and seemed able to smell one a mile off, as her sister Pam was wont to say rather unkindly. Therefore no one was surprised when, the moment they were all seated, Prue turned to Lorna and Olive and demanded:
"Hey, what's this we hear about someone sending a bogus telegram to entice Allison away? I heard Madge and Deirdre say something about it."
"You would," returned Lorna sarcastically, while Olive piped in: "All I know is that, just before dinner, Deirdre grabbed me in an awful stew and told me I should be going as reserve and Lorna would be playing, as Allison had had bad news from home and wouldn't be able to come."
Lorna was one of those girls who had been present when Irene told her tale. "The story comes from Irene," she explained. "She accused Monica of plotting with one of the girls at her old school, Fairhurst Priory, to entice Allison away with a sham telegram in order to spoil our chances of winning the shield."
Monica, who occupied a corner seat and had been gazing out of the window, turned round with a start as she heard her name mentioned. "What do you mean?" she demanded. "What does Irene say about me?"
"She read one of your letters by mistake, the letter this Fairhurst girl sent you. Irene kept the letter. In fact, she showed it to us."
Great commotion amongst the listeners!
Prue pretended to fan herself vigorously, overcome with horror. "Tell it me again," she exclaimed, "my poor wits won't grasp it."
Lorna, with a glance of contempt at Monica, repeated Irene's story. Prue listened attentively and Meggie cried indignantly:
"What a mean trick! Fancy having a real, live traitor in the school."
"It seems," said Prue with equal indignation, "that we have been nourishing a viper in our bosoms. What have you to say for yourself, miss?" addressing the culprit.
Monica seemed to shrink back in her seat.
"Nothing," she replied sullenly. "I haven't anything to say. I didn't send the telegram, though."
"We don't suppose you did," retorted Lorna with sarcasm, "seeing that it was sent from London. No doubt you got someone to send it for you."
"Don't argue with her, girls," advised Olive. "She isn't worth it. Just ignore her. If this is true, there are plenty who will see the matter isn't overlooked."
"Prinny for one," stated Lorna. "Madge and Irene went to tell her all about it."
Another sensation!
"My gracious!" said Meggie solemnly. "Prinny will soon get to the bottom of it. I wouldn't be in Monica Carr's shoes for anything. This will mean expulsion for her, girls, mark my words."
Monica turned her face to the window again and continued to gaze out as if absorbed in the scenery, and for the rest of the short journey her fellow-travellers ignored her completely.
"Now, Monica," said Nat firmly, as she closed the study door upon the outer world. "I want to know all about it. Did you send that telegram, and if so, why? I thought I had successfully managed to keep my eye upon you since the last upset," she added reproachfully.
Monica sat down in the nearest chair with a tired sigh. "Oh, what does it matter? You won, after all. I think I'm glad you did now. As for me, the girls in the train said they expected Prinny would expel me. Do you think I shall be expelled, Nat?"
"It's within the bounds of possibility," replied Nat severely, for she felt that Monica deserved a good fright. "But you don't seem to mind about that sort of thing."
"I shouldn't have minded a bit when I first came," confessed Monica, "but it's different now. I don't want to be expelled now."
She had such a forlorn look that Nat's susceptible heart was touched. She recalled how all the girls, at the match and on the return journey, had pointedly cut Monica, and she herself had been the only one who would speak to her.
"Your best chance will be to confess all you know about it," she said sensibly, "and tell Prinny you are sorry. She's not half a bad sort really. I'd rather tell her anything than—than Miss Bennett, for instance."
"I didn't send the telegram," Monica said, "that's true. But I'm responsible for having it sent. It was my idea, so I suppose I'm chiefly to blame." She looked inquiringly at Nat.
"If you mean, is the person who plans a wrong just as bad as the person who carries it out, I'd certainly say yes, she is," Nat answered. "But you still haven't told me much about it."
Before Monica could speak again there was a tap at the door and Pam looked in. "Prinny wants to see Monica in her room at once," she said briefly.
The dread summons had come. Monica moved reluctantly towards the door, then turned and came back. "I say, Nat." There was earnest appeal in the eyes she raised to Nat's face. "Truly, I'm glad the telegram plan wasn't successful and that the school won. You do believe me, don't you?" and Nat heard herself replying quite heartily: "Of course I do, if you say so."
Monica's interview with the Principal was not at all reassuring. Miss Julian looked so very stern and severe that Monica found it too difficult a matter to follow Nat's advice and confess the story in all its details, and fell back upon brief and reluctant answers to the Principal's questions.
"Are you responsible for having this telegram sent, Monica?" the Principal began, pointing to the fateful document which lay on the table.
Monica hesitated, wondering how to answer without telling a deliberate untruth. She could feel her knees shaking beneath her.
"I did not send it, Miss Julian," she answered at last. "I did not even know it had been sent till I heard the other girls talking about it."
"Do you know who sent it?"
"I—I think so."
"Who was it, then?"
Monica was silent.
"A girl in this school?"
Monica shook her head.
"Was it one of the Fairhurst Priory girls? This girl with whom you correspond?"
Again Monica was silent.
"Come, Monica," said Miss Julian. "I must know the truth. I shall be obliged to think the worst of you if you don't speak up frankly. Can you explain why this girl wrote such a letter to you?" and she picked up from the table the letter Irene had purloined. "Do you think this is a very nice kind of letter to receive from a girl in another school? Listen to this, for instance: 'Do you still hate rules and regulations and persons in authority? ... Don't you think it would be fun to put a little spoke in their wheels, I mean in St. Etheldreda's hopes of winning the shield? I know how clever you are and how full of ideas. I should love to see if you could pull it off.' That does not sound very loyal to your school, does it?"
Monica looked shamefacedly at the floor, but still remained dumb. It was harder than ever to speak up. Miss Julian continued her questions.
"Have you the other letter Irene saw?"
"No. I tore it up afterwards."
"Is it true that it said: 'Your idea about the telegram is clever, though simple. I shall be curious to see how it works?'"
"Y—yes. Something like that," Monica replied faintly.
"Did she have the telegram sent or did you?"
"She did."
"But you planned it? It was your idea?"
"Yes."
"But why didn't you want the school to win, Monica? Besides, apart from that, didn't you realize what a cruel trick it was to play on Allison; what hours of anxiety and suspense it would cause her?"
The Principal's voice was very stern, so stern that Monica dared not lift her glance from the carpet pattern she was so desperately studying. Yet a few months before she had stood and listened with an attitude of hard defiance when told that she would not be allowed to return to her first school after the holidays.
When Miss Julian spoke again, Monica was astonished at the sudden change from severity to gentleness.
"You know, of course, Monica, that you came to St. Etheldreda's with a poor character. I was told that at your last school you were naughty, stubborn and unmanageable, finally bringing disgrace upon yourself and the school by bare-faced cheating in a public exam, for which behaviour you were quite unashamed and unrepentant. The Head Mistress's statement was confirmed by your aunt. Because I knew both your parents, and knew what splendid people they were, it was hard for me to believe that their only child should be so deficient in moral stability. I wrote also to your old nurse, under whose care you lived for many years after your parents' death, and she declared that though highly strung and sometimes full of mischief you had never been a bad girl, never unmanageable, dishonest or untruthful.
"For the sake of the great friendship between your mother and myself I resolved to give you another chance here on equal terms with the rest of my girls. So far I have not been unduly disappointed. At first I received reports that you did not always settle down in class as well as you should and were sometimes troublesome to the mistresses. I asked the mistresses to take into account the fact that you were not used to school ways and school routine like the rest of our girls. On one occasion Miss Bennett had to punish you severely for neglecting your preparation, but since then reports on your work have been mainly good and Miss Andrews in particular is highly delighted with your Latin. I had hoped such progress was going to continue till the end of the term, but this trick you have tried to play on Allison is one I cannot overlook. You should have broken with this girl on leaving your last school and not have continued your friendship with her when you realized it was proving a bad influence. Cannot you tell me all about it, Monica? You have told me very little except the bare facts."
"There isn't anything else to tell," Monica murmured, still wondering miserably if the Principal was going to expel her. How gladly she would have denied her share in the matter! But she could not.
"Then I shall leave the matter where it is for a few days' consideration," the Principal replied. "Perhaps by then you will be willing to tell me why you planned this unkind trick. I shall speak to you again about it later, probably in about a week's time."
The astonished Monica was dismissed, still ignorant of her fate. A reprieve of a week! What was really in the Principal's mind? She wished she knew. This uncertainty was far worse than the actual punishment.
For a few days Monica and the sham telegram formed the chief topic of conversation at St. Etheldreda's. Whatever room you entered, at whatever time of the day—save actual lesson hours—you might be sure to hear somebody discussing the affair. For indeed, schoolgirls, like everybody else, must have something to talk about and a sensational story like this was pounced upon with avidity. Everyone wondered why the Principal delayed in pronouncing sentence, and though the Fifth and Sixth, unlike the lower forms, had never believed it to be an offence calling for the extreme punishment, they certainly did not think Monica should escape altogether.
After about three days the outburst of feeling began to die a natural death, though it was not forgotten entirely. For a while the Fifth vigorously sent Monica to Coventry, but as she had never been on friendly or intimate terms with her form companions, this was not such a great hardship as it sounds. Glenda and one or two others had tried hard to persuade Nat also to ostracize Monica, but in vain.
Nat's attitude towards her study-mate was a curious one; and in truth, Nat herself could not account for her own feelings in the matter. She was the sort of girl who scorned sentimentality of any kind and yet had a very soft spot for helpless creatures in distress, particularly dumb animals. During her first year at St. Etheldreda's, when a girl of eleven in the Second Form, she had broken the school ranks while on an afternoon's walk to rush to the rescue of a miserable, bedraggled cat some boys were teasing, attacking them with fists and feet till the mistress in charge came to the rescue. The cat was old and mangy and evil-smelling and should have been painlessly chloroformed, but Nat had begged to be allowed to take it to school and give it a saucer of milk, after which it had been placed, dirt and all, upon the best silk cushion in front of the library fire. Had Monica continued to show the same sullen, defiant front as she had done during her first week or two in the study, Nat would probably have condemned her as severely as any of the Fifth, perhaps more severely; but something in Monica's plea that Nat should believe she regretted the telegram trick, and in her shrinking fear of being expelled again, touched the soft spot in Nat's heart in the same way as the bedraggled, mangy cat had done.
Besides, Monica showed a certain courage in the way she patiently ignored the scornful looks and sneers that came from some of the girls, and Nat admired pluck. Nat wouldn't have had the least sympathy with a girl who cried and made an unnecessary fuss at receiving a blow on the hockey or cricket field, though she would have been one of the first to run to help her.
By the end of a week the girls had certainly forgotten their first bitter animosity. They had been busy with term examinations for several days, and when they met together after lesson hours now, it was to compare answers and discuss the difficulty or otherwise of the various papers. Everyone was glad when Tuesday evening arrived, for the next morning would see the last of the examination papers, and after that they would be able to take things more easily—lessons, that is, for there was still Speech Day to prepare for, a fortnight hence, and the hockey Final to be played.
On Tuesday evening the Fifth were full of a suggested paper-chase for Wednesday half-day. It was the weather that was chiefly responsible for the idea. It had turned very cold, and violent exertion was necessary to keep oneself warm. The ground was quite hard, the air clear and frosty, and there was no wind: simply ideal weather for a paper-chase. Besides, it was very good training for their hockey Final and they would find it a relief to "let off steam" after the strain of the examinations.
It was decided that the paper-chase should be a really good one, not a half-and-half affair, as Glenda put it, but five or six miles over the country. Most of the Fifth, with the exception of a few of the less physically energetic whose spirits quailed at the thought of those five or six miles, agreed to join in. Many of the Fourth were eager to participate, and Pam and Deirdre of the Sixth also announced that they would like to share the fun. The Fifth had already selected Nat as hare, for two reasons. Firstly, she was one of the quickest and most tireless runners in the school, and secondly, in the summer months she was so fond of taking long walks and cycling expeditions in search of flowers or botanical specimens for the nature-study competition, that she had an extensive and detailed knowledge of the surrounding country, and could be relied upon to choose a suitable and interesting route. Following their usual custom, they left it to Nat to select a girl to accompany her as second hare.
While most of the Fourth and Fifth were busily engaged in the common room, tearing up paper into small pieces, Nat, who was nothing if not practical, declared her intention of running five or six times round the garden to see how long it would take to get her "second wind." As she slipped out of the back door she became aware that Monica had followed her.
"Hullo, what do you want?" she asked, in surprise. "Are you going to join in the paper-chase or do you consider it waste of time and energy?"
"Take me with you as the other hare," was Monica's amazing proposal. "I am sure I should make a good hare."
Nat gasped. "But—but do you really mean it?" she stuttered.
"Yes, of course I do. I can run fast, though I've never learnt any of your games. I used to run about for miles in the country where I lived, and never get tired."
Nat surveyed the slight but alert figure beside her.
"Well, you are certainly light and skinny rather than fat," she admitted, "and you look as if you could run. Come on round with me and let's see how long you can last."
Nat started off with a burst of speed, but glancing round after covering two or three hundred yards she found that Monica was only a few feet behind her. "Yes, you can run quite fast," she jerked out, then dropped into a jog-trot. When they had circled the garden several times, Nat pulled up, breathing deeply; Monica was still a few feet behind her, red in the face and panting, but showing no signs of wanting to give up yet.
"I really believe you could do it," Nat declared. "Well, I'll try to work it for you, but I don't know if the rest of the girls will be willing, particularly the Fifth."
When Nat announced that she had chosen Monica as her fellow-hare, there was a general chorus of disapproval.
"But why not?" Nat persisted. "What's your objection? She's quite a good runner or I wouldn't have chosen her."
"You know why not," replied Glenda coldly. "We object to having a girl like that sharing in our pastimes."
"But why do you object?"
"You know why, well enough. Because of what happened a week ago."
"But are you going on punishing her for that for the rest of her life at school? She's done nothing else so desperately wicked. Besides, she hasn't really been proved guilty yet. Prinny said she was going to wait a few days before making any decision. Time enough for us to follow suit when Prinny sets the example."
Some of the more peace-loving, milder-tempered girls looked at each other, obviously impressed by Nat's arguments. After all, you couldn't keep the hymn of hate going for ever.
Nat saw the impression she had made and hastened to deepen it.
"Has Allison, the one most injured, said or done anything to Monica? You know she hasn't. She's been content to leave the matter in Prinny's hands. It isn't like Allison to hit anyone who's down. Besides, Monica's sorry for it now. She told me so."
Even Glenda, who was by no means an ill-natured girl, began to waver. "Well—if Deirdre and Pam don't mind, I don't suppose it really matters very much who goes with you," she said weakly.
There was still one dissentient voice.
"I think it matters very much," Irene interjected sharply. "Personally I refuse to take part if Monica Carr does. She can't play fair."
Nat answered smartly. "I don't see that you have any right to criticize anyone for not playing fair. Do you call it playing fair to pry into and purloin another girl's private correspondence?"
Irene subsided with flaming cheeks and a look on her face that was half anger, half shame.
So Nat got her way in the end. Punctually at a quarter to two the next afternoon a large crowd of girls assembled at the school gates. Nat and Monica, the former looking like a large man o' war with a small craft in tow, and each with a couple of bags bursting with paper scent slung across her shoulder, stood by the gates in readiness for the start. They set off down the road at a brisk pace as the church clock struck the quarter. The rest of the girls skipped and jumped about impatiently till, a quarter of an hour later, Miss Cazalet gave the signal to start and they all streamed into the road after the thin trail of paper scent.
The hunt had begun.
Nat set a brisk pace for the first part of the paper-chase, declaring that she liked to get well out of sight of the hounds as soon as possible. She led the way across fields and through copses, over a stream by whose banks each year meadowsweet and herb-willow grew profusely; several times they climbed gates, and once they laid a trail along the bottom of a dry ditch, scrambling through a hole in the hedge at the end. Here Monica accidently brushed by a bed of stinging nettles, but though they must have stung her legs, her companion noticed with satisfaction that she made no complaint, and when Nat chose to set a very hard pace she kept up with dogged determination.
At length they came out upon a stretch of rough common land, where Nat explained that her scheme was to lay a trail right through the Haunted Farm, and thence to make their way back to the school gates as fast as they could. They were walking quickly up a rather steep slope that led to a collection of not very extensive and decidedly dilapidated farm buildings. Monica pricked up her ears.
"Did you say haunted?" she inquired with interest.
"It's only a name," replied Nat with contempt. "It has been unoccupied for the last half-dozen years or more, so of course, folk say no one will live there because it is haunted. The truth is that the land has been bought by a neighbouring farm and these buildings aren't required. Besides, the soil just here is poor and not of great value for farming purposes."
She led the way through the farm gate that hung by one hinge, across a muddy yard, then clambered through a paneless side-window.
The two girls found themselves in a house where dust lay inches thick everywhere and where bats, birds and mice found a pleasant abode. The farmhouse itself was only a cottage, and after passing through two empty rooms they let themselves out by the back door, which was bolted from the inside but not locked.
"Come along," said Nat, "straight down this slope; not too fast, as the grass is rather slippery. Then we'll make tracks for home as quickly as we can. My bag is getting rather light."
"So's mine," said Monica, then added, pointing: "What is that down in the little hollow? Looks like a square fence."
"It's an old well, supposed to be very historical. It's called the Saxons' well, because, when the Saxon army, fighting against the Danish invaders, was encamped behind the earthworks on the hill yonder, it is said they used to steal down and get their water from this well. Whether that is true or not I can't say, but the well is certainly very old. People also say it is so deep no one has ever yet touched the bottom, but I expect that's all rubbish. I've never been right up to it."
"Let us just have a glance at it," suggested Monica. "It's not an ordinary common or garden well, you know."
"Well, just a peep," replied Nat, as they came abreast of the fencing that bordered the well-mouth. Monica pointed to the rusty but stout windlass that was erected over it.
"Is that what the Saxons used to draw up their water?"
"Don't be silly! I suppose the last occupants of the farm used it for watering their cattle." As Nat spoke she slipped through the bars of the fence and, crouching down, tried to peer over the edge of the well, around which the grass grew in thick, coarse tufts. From outside the fence you could only see the outline of the wide, gaping mouth.
"Be careful!" Monica said anxiously, and though she also slipped through the fence, which stood several feet away from the well itself, she was careful to remain standing close beside it with a firm hold on the top bar. She had not Nat's utter contempt of physical danger; moreover, her more vivid imagination was apt to see danger where Nat never thought of looking for it.
How the accident happened neither girl could clearly explain afterwards, but it was probably due to the fact that the high grass and soil around the unusually wide mouth of the well hung treacherously far over the edge. By the irony of fate Nat was just saying: "I should like to know how deep it is. I can't see down it without bending right over——" when her words broke off abruptly as the soil and clumps of grass at the edge gave way under her. She made a desperate but futile effort to recover her balance, then disappeared over the edge amid a shower of dirt and small stones. Monica made one frantic clutch after her and actually succeeded in grasping her sleeve, but the material was torn out of her hand in the same second.
For one awful instant Monica stood rooted to the spot with terror, clutching frantically at the fence. Then, flinging herself flat on the ground, she lay as near the edge of the well as she dared and shouted: "Nat! Nat!" as loudly as she could.
But there was no answer to her frenzied calls. Springing to her feet again she stared wildly round. Not a soul was in sight, nor could she see any signs of habitation. So ignorant was she of this countryside that she did not even know in what direction to search for the nearest house. She might waste a long time wandering vainly about. The hounds were nowhere in view; it might be twenty minutes or more before any of them arrived at this spot. If Nat were injured she would even now be drowning in the well water. What—oh, what could she do?
All these thoughts flashed through Monica's mind in a few fleeting seconds. Then her glance fell upon the windlass and the rope hanging over the well-mouth, falling into the depths below. It was only six years, Nat had said, since the farm had been occupied and the well used. Holding the windlass with one hand she bent forward and, catching the rope with the other, gave it a strong tug. The rope was a stout one, and although frayed on the outside by the weather seemed sound enough.
Monica had already learned to climb the ropes in the gymnasium with confidence, and clutching this rope frenziedly with both hands she swung herself over the well-mouth. For one horrible moment she hung there suspended by her hands; the next she had found and gripped the rope firmly between her feet and was sliding down in a series of jerks, hand over hand. Four—five—six—she counted them to herself, and now her head was considerably below the edge of the well-mouth; then her heart gave a jump of horror, as her feet failed to grip the rope and she realized that she had now come to the end of it before reaching the surface of the water.
"For one horrible moment she hung there suspended by her hands.""For one horrible moment she hung there suspended by her hands."
Till then she had purposely refrained from looking below, for the very thought of that gloomy depth turned her sick and giddy. But now, clutching the rope despairingly, she essayed a hasty glance down. In the dim light, about six feet below, she caught the glimmer of water. Again half a dozen thoughts flashed through her mind in one lightning second of time. Should she climb up again or should she drop into the water? If Nat were still alive she might hold her up till the girls traced them to the well. She was a good swimmer and had been accustomed to the water from childhood, but it was the numbing cold she feared—and the water would be very cold indeed this winter day. She dared not waste a precious second in hesitation. With a quick sobbing breath she slid to the very end of the rope and dropped, prepared for an almost instantaneous plunge into icy water.
There was no plunge of any sort, however. Instead, she alighted on her feet quite unhurt in some three or four inches of soft mud and water, and almost before she had recovered from her astonishment a voice, which seemed to come from a spot close to her feet, said in faint tones: "Hallo, is that you, Monica?" and Nat herself rose up in much the same way as did the apparition of the Crowned Child inMacbeth—or so it seemed to Monica.
She heard herself laughing shakily. "Then you're not dead after all, Nat! I—I thought you were, as you didn't answer when I called."
Nat, leaning against the chalky side of the well, put her hand up to her head very gingerly. "My head is ringing like—like anything. There's a bump as big as an egg on one side. I suppose I must have struck it against the side when I fell. Probably it stunned me, for I don't remember anything very clearly till you dropped from the skies. How long have I been down here?"
"I don't know. It seems hours since you disappeared over the edge, but I suppose it's really only a minute or two."
"How on earth did you get here? You didn't fall too?"
Monica pointed upwards. "I came down the rope. But it wasn't long enough, so I had to drop. I—I thought perhaps you were hurt." There was a sob in her voice.
"Well, it was a fortunate chance you didn't drop on me, as you might very well have done. There isn't much area space down here. Isn't that rope-end tantalizing, dangling just out of reach! Do you think you could grab it if I lifted you up, or you stood on my back?"
Their united efforts to reach the rope, however, proved unavailing; the end still dangled a few inches too high.
"Oh dear!" said Monica. "I hope we shan't have to wait here much longer. It's so dirty and unpleasant. How long do you think the girls will be? Supposing they lose the trail and fail to track us here!"
It was Nat's philosophy to look on the bright side. "Not they," she replied confidently. "Besides, having come so far they would guess I was making for this point. You can't exactly wander over the country how you like; too many hedges and barbed wire fences about. And if I know Pam and Deirdre and one or two others, they won't be very far behind, either. You know, we wasted several minutes stopping to look at the well. We must shout."
They shouted as loudly as they could, but there was no response.
"Anyway, we know now how deep the well is," remarked Nat, still endeavouring to be cheerful. "Not a bit deep, really, so you can't believe all the exaggerated stories you hear. I wish it were quite dry, though this mud was certainly soft to fall on. I wonder there aren't some stones here. It seems such a fascinating occupation—I mean, throwing stones down wells to hear the splash."
"It's more fascinating than throwing yourself down," sighed Monica, on whose more highly strung nerves the strain of their unpleasant situation was beginning to tell. In response Nat shouted again, but still there was no answer to their cries for help. At last even Nat, whose head was throbbing violently, began to lose heart.
"I feel like Alice in Wonderland," she said dismally. "Only I'm sure she didn't find falling down a rabbit-hole nearly as unpleasant as falling down a well."
Monica giggled a little hysterically. "Or the Dormouse's treacle well," she suggested. "How long do you think we've been down here, Nat? Half an hour?"
"Ten minutes, more likely. Come on, we'd better keep shouting now. It would be awful if they passed us by and left us here."
"They won't do that. I left my bag of scent on the top. They are sure to notice it."
"And I brought mine down with me," said Nat ruefully. "What an ass I was to get so near an overhanging edge like that!"
They kept up their shouts for perhaps another five minutes and at last were rewarded by hearing the confused sounds of many voices from somewhere above; then quite distinctly came Pam's voice.
"My goodness! I believe they are down the old Saxon well. Hang on to my legs, someone. I don't want to slip over," and a head appeared over the edge, peering cautiously down.
"Coo-ee!" sang Nat, and once again came Pam's voice in accents of alarm and astonishment. "Someone's certainly down here. Who is it?"
"It's us," called Nat. "Monica and I."
"Good gracious!" once more ejaculated Pam. "It's both of them. Whatever are you doing down there?"
"Picking daisies," retorted Nat with pardonable exasperation.
"You aren't hurt, I hope?" Pam inquired anxiously.
"Nothing to speak of, but for goodness' sake hurry up and get us out."
"Can't you climb up the rope?"
"No, it's just out of reach. If you can lengthen it by any means, I expect we'd manage it, or you could haul us up."
"Right-oh! We'll soon have you out," Pam promised, and her head disappeared from view as she turned to explain what had happened to the alarmed group of girls who clustered round the fence. There was no time to waste wondering how both girls had managed to get themselves into such an extraordinary predicament.
"Off with your girdles," said Deirdre briskly, "and join them together. Somebody pull up that rope. Be careful how you knot the girdles; no grannies, mind!"
In a very short time they had knotted their tunic girdles firmly together and by this means had lengthened the rope. Then, not without a few decidedly difficult moments, they managed to haul the girls safely to the surface.
Both Monica and Nat, though not seriously injured, were white-faced and shaken, their shoes and stockings were caked with mud and their tunics stained and torn. It was not the time for long explanations, as Deirdre saw at once.
"Let us make our way to the high road as quickly as possible," she said decisively. "Then perhaps we can get a lift. I think we ought to get Monica and Nat back to school as soon as we can.
"Well, I suppose the paper-chase is at an end and we must consider ourselves caught," Nat admitted resignedly.
When they arrived at St. Etheldreda's Nat and Monica were handed into the charge of Miss Perkins, the house mistress, Nat to have her many bruises well rubbed with embrocation and her scratches bathed. Strange to say, she appeared to be the better man of the two in spite of her fall and the blow which had temporarily stunned her, and declared that save for a headache and the soreness of her bruises she felt little the worse. At her own request she was allowed to spend the evening in her study, on condition that she rested and did not talk or excite herself too much.
On the other hand Monica, though she managed to keep a firm hold on herself till they reached the school, partially collapsed afterwards from nervous strain, and Miss Perkins put her to bed in the sick-room, declaring that a good rest was probably all she needed and that doubtless she would be herself again in the morning.
The juniors, and the seniors too, were so excited over this sensational end to the paper-chase that they simply had to spend a considerable time in the common room talking it well over. Meggie, who had seen Miss Perkins taking Monica to the sick-room, was listened to with close attention as she described the incident with relish, concluding: "She wasn't hurt at all—hardly at all, anyway. It was just her nerves, Miss Perkins said. She was very white, and kind of shaking all over."
"What seems so queer to me," remarked Prue, "is how they both managed to get down there. You can understand one slipping over—though that seems rather extraordinary—but not both of them."
Here Olive chimed in. "I heard Glenda say it was Nat who fell in. Monica climbed down the rope after her, but as it wasn't long enough they couldn't get out again."
"Whatever did Monica do that for?" demanded Prue. "I should have thought the most sensible thing to do would be to run to the nearest house for help, or to turn back for the girls who were following them."
Olive shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know what her idea was. Lost her head, I expect, and hardly knew what she was doing."
"Still," said Prue reflectively, "it took a little pluck to slide down that rope. An old well isn't a nice thing to lower oneself into, even if it isn't deep. And I saw that rope, too. It hadn't been used for some years and might easily have been more rotten with age and exposure to the weather than it proved to be," and the other girls agreed that, whatever her faults, the black sheep had pluck.
"Isn't it just like Nat to spoil a good paper-chase by falling into a well!" cried Meggie. "Like her, too, to bob up out of it practically unhurt," and the discussion ended in a general laugh.
The next day went by very quietly. Monica did not appear. She had passed a restless night and the Principal agreed with Miss Perkins that it would be best to continue to keep her in absolute quiet in the sick-room for another day or two.
Everyone was looking forward to Friday morning with mixed feelings, among which apprehension played a large part; for the exam results were to be read out at prayers. At St. Etheldreda's term exam lists were not published till the exams were over and all papers marked. Then it was the Principal's custom to read out the position lists at prayers one morning, and make any comments she thought necessary.
The Fifth were particularly interested in their own results that term. All remembered the boasts of the new girl that she could and would wrest Irene's position from her and occupy it herself, and it was common knowledge that in her zeal for swotting she had decorated the walls of her study with useful tit-bits of information. Someone had pointed out that good though Monica's Latin and English subjects were, her maths were very shaky, while she had only attained a Third Form standard in French. When the exam began, however, it was ascertained that the French difficulty would be no hindrance to Monica, for she would take the Third Form paper, and the marks she obtained for it would be included in her total. As for her weakness at maths, in her zeal for her friend's cause Glenda was unkind enough to suggest that she would probably resort to her previous method of overcoming this difficulty and smuggle a book of theorems into the geometry examination. But, though several girls had watched her closely, no one had detected her cheating this time.
"She has learnt her lesson," Glenda observed cynically.
Girls nudged each other meaningly as Miss Julian entered the assembly hall for prayers, carrying sheets of foolscap under her arm. Irene was observed to be looking a little pale and strained. Had this new girl really been in earnest over her boasting, or was it merely a great game of bluff she was putting up to scare them all? Nat was gloomily resigned to her fate and had even ceased trying to remember whether she had or had not headed that last page of her history paper.
The short Sixth Form position list was soon finished. The Sixth, without exception, smiled cheerily from beginning to end of the reading. No one in the Sixth took exams with great seriousness; as long as they pulled through comfortably they were content. They all knew that Madge would be top—her fluent flow of English would secure this position for her; Pam was intelligent, but careless and happy-go-lucky; Deirdre and the other three were not in the least "brainy."
Now it was the Fifth Form's turn. At Miss Julian's first words the tension left Irene's face and a sigh of relief passed her lips. How hard she had studied this last month! Now came her reward. In her mind the Principal's words still rang joyously.
"Irene has maintained her position at the top. I must congratulate her, especially as the mistresses report that she has been working very hard. If she continues in the same way I am sure she will bring honour to the school when the Oxford Senior results are announced. Lorna is second with seventy per cent, two per cent behind Irene, and Glenda and Ida are bracketed third."
The Fifth Stole stealthy and amazed glances at each other as name after name fell from the Principal's lips and still Monica Carr's was not among them. When the list was finished the girls looked at each other with stunned incredulity. Monica's name came last, actually the very last! Nat was fourth from bottom, a feat which left her wondering all through the proceedings which followed how she had possibly achieved it. By the time Miss Julian had finished with the lowest form Nat had decided that she could not, after all, have omitted to head that last page of the history paper.
The Principal did not attempt to read out the lists of the separate subjects, but the head girl of each form was called out to receive them, so that she might pin them up in the classrooms. There the girls were allowed a good ten minutes' grace before the entry of the mistress, to read the lists.
Hubbub reigned in the Fifth formroom. No one appeared to be bothering much over their own marks; all were chiefly concerned with those of the absent Monica, and all seemed to be talking at once.
"Just fancy! I never thought for a minute she would be top, but it's rather a come-down to find herself at the bottom!"
"Great was the fall thereof, n'est-ce pas, likewise nicht-wahr! That's what comes of boasting!"
"Nonsense! In my opinion she knew she hadn't the slightest chance of being top. It was just bluff, to annoy us all—particularly Irene."
"As if she could beat our top girl!"
"Look at her marks, girls—failures in all the maths papers, algebra, geometry and arithmetic. I expect she copied most of her maths prep from Nat. She's done badly in French too, though I suppose that isn't surprising as this was her first term at it. I thought she'd do better in English, though."
"And Latin. Everyone made sure the Ablative Absolute would be top and she's only third. Miss Andrews will look blue."
Here Nat, coming out of an absorbed perusal of her marks to see where she had gained her unexpected rise, thought it time someone spoke a word in defence of the absent victim.
"Monica isn't as stupid as that list makes out," she declared firmly. "She's quite intelligent really, but you can't expect her to do good work after the worrying time she's had. Wondering during exams whether she was going to be expelled or not, cut by the rest of the form—how could you expect anyone to do herself justice, to have her mind on her work sufficiently to obtain good results!"
The majority of the form were willing to agree that there was something in this argument, and if they were rather unsettled for the rest of the day, the mistresses made allowances. Two girls at least passed the time in blissful anticipation of the moment when they should present their reports to their people at home. Both had attained their ambitions, Irene in maintaining her place at the top, Nat in escaping at last the teasing jeers and laughter which hitherto had fallen to her lot.