Miss Julian was talking to Allison in the Principal's room. During periods when she was not taking a class, the Principal often sent for Allison to give her special coaching and to correct and set her studies. This Friday afternoon, however, the Principal was not discussing lessons. Her first words to Allison explained her purpose in sending for the Head Girl.
"Sit down, Allison, I wanted to speak to you about Monica."
"The subject's rather an interesting one, Miss Julian," replied Allison, smiling. "Is she better?"
"Yes, practically herself now. She is a highly strung, imaginative type of child, though, apt to exaggerate and to take things very much to heart. That has largely been the cause of the trouble, I believe."
"Has anything fresh come to light about that telegram, Miss Julian?"
The Principal nodded. "Yes. I was not in the least satisfied with my interview with the girl a week or so ago. She made no attempt to deny her part in the affair—confessed it quite frankly, in fact—but beyond a few bald statements I could get nothing out of her. I did not consider I knew enough either to condemn or acquit, and in order to get to the bottom of it I wrote a letter to the Principal of Fairhurst Priory School."
"What a splendid idea!" cried Allison, who was deeply interested and listening with close attention. "Have you had an answer yet?"
"Last Wednesday, by the afternoon post. The other girl, whose name is Lilian Dredge, confessed everything when taxed by her Principal. It appears that she is by no means the best type of girl we have in our schools. She professed to admire a girl like Monica, who openly defied authority, but she lacked the courage to follow her example except in little underhand ways that would not be judged with much severity even if discovered. She was the only girl willing to be friendly with Monica during her short stay at the school, the others shunning her because of her unfriendly, hostile disposition. Monica accepted this girl's professed friendship without caring in the least about it, and knowing perfectly well that it would last only as long as Lilian thought it to her advantage."
"Then it wasn't really friendship at all?"
"No, not really. Lilian is evidently the kind of girl—and there are such to be found in our schools, though happily they are rare—who takes little interest in anything belonging to school life except the games, and even though she cares for games she seems to lack the spirit of good sportsmanship which they are supposed to develop. She is a good hockey player, a member of the school eleven that had already won the shield two years in succession, and was able to make use of this skill of hers in courting a certain measure of popularity among the other girls. She was anxious for her team to win the shield this year, and after St. Etheldreda's defeated Stavely High School she regarded us as their most dangerous opponents and the only team the Priory really had to fear."
"That accounts for her letter, then?" interrupted Allison eagerly.
"Yes, she wrote that first letter to Monica, claiming her friendship and making flattering remarks about her clever ideas. I don't think Lilian had any crystallized plans—she was only fishing, as we say."
"And how did Monica reply?"
"At first she did not intend to reply at all. She had no desire to renew this semblance of a friendship that meant nothing to either girl. Later on, however, something happened; there was some sort of a quarrel between her and her study-mate, Nathalie Sandrich. I gather that Nathalie was angry and annoyed with her, and in the heat of the moment made some scathing remarks which Monica took very much to heart. As a result her preparation was neglected, leading to trouble next morning with Miss Bennett. In the bitterness of her spirit Monica employed the time which should have been spent at preparation in answering Lilian's letter. She relieved her feelings by saying in her reply that it would be an easy matter to spoil St. Etheldreda's chances by decoying you—Allison—away from the next match, by means of a bogus telegram summoning you home to London on account of illness. Everyone said that without you in the team St. Etheldreda's would fall to pieces. A feather in your cap, Allison!"
Allison blushed and laughed. "Oh, that's all nonsense!" she declared, then added: "Monica's idea wasn't very original, was it? It's been done so many times. Besides, she forgot there is such a thing as the telephone."
"Monica never really thought about it at all. She just put down the first thing that came into her head, with the idea of proving to Lilian what a simple task it was to anyone with brains."
Allison nodded. "I understand. Monica was just feeling sore and miserable, and not in a mood to care much what she said."
"That was it. However, it wasn't long before she and Nathalie made up their quarrel, and Monica thought no more of Lilian till she received an answer to her letter. Lilian was pleased at the idea of Monica 'putting a spoke in our wheel.' So much the better for her own team's chances, though she did not put it like that to Monica. The important point, as far as I am concerned, is that Monica was now settling down happily into our ways and getting quite keen on her school winning the shield. She promptly wrote back to Lilian to say that she was sorry if she had misled her, but she hadn't the least intention of interfering with the hockey team and, in fact, wished them all success. She had been silly enough to write that other letter when she had been in a miserable and 'don't-care' mood. The Principal enclosed this letter for me to read, for fortunately Lilian had not destroyed it. To do her justice, I think Lilian was rather ashamed when she heard that another girl had got into serious trouble through her own misdeeds."
"Then Lilian alone was responsible for that telegram?"
"Yes. She says she got a cousin who lived in London to send it."
"But why didn't Monica explain all this?" asked Allison, perplexed.
"Ah! that is harder to understand. As I said before, I could get little out of her beside a few bald answers to direct questions. Some people find it very hard to unburden themselves, you know—especially children. I think it was chiefly because Monica felt that the responsibility was partly hers, since she had deliberately put the idea into the other girl's mind, and was therefore equally to blame. An extraordinary point of view to take, of course, but that was how she regarded it."
"Anyway," Allison commented, "it shows pretty plainly that she isn't without a conscience or a sense of right and wrong."
"On the contrary, those qualities seem to be highly developed in Monica for a girl of her age."
"Then I suppose that ends the telegram affair?"
"Yes. I am glad we have got to the bottom of it so successfully. By the by, you did not join in the paper-chase last Wednesday, did you, Allison?"
"No, I did not like to spare the time, Miss Julian. It was very fortunate the well was not deep and was practically dry, wasn't it?"
"Yes, indeed. I shudder to think of what might have happened otherwise. As it was, it was remarkable that Nathalie escaped almost scot-free. I don't think anyone yet realizes the part Monica played there."
"The part Monica played?" repeated Allison inquiringly.
"Yes. I wanted to tell you of that also."
"But I thought we knew all about it?"
"Apparently not. Yesterday morning Miss Perkins came to me and told me Monica had passed a restless night. Evidently she had her previous day's experiences on her mind, for several times she cried out and muttered in her sleep, and each time about the water in the well and how cold it would be. Miss Perkins said she seemed to have a horror of falling into cold water."
"But the well was dry," interjected Allison.
"Yes, but Miss Perkins was sure that was what she kept saying. I saw Monica later in the day and told her I had received an answer to an inquiry I had sent to the Priory School. I was more successful at this attempt," Miss Julian smiled, "and in a short time I managed to win her confidence and learnt what I have just been telling you. I also gathered further details of Wednesday's misadventure; how Nat slipped into the well and how Monica slid down the rope after her almost immediately, in the belief that there was deep water below and that if Nat were injured by the fall she would quickly drown."
"I see!" cried Allison. "It was really an attempt on her part to save Nat's life."
"Yes. The rope was only a few yards long, and when she came to the end she had to make up her mind what to do. For the first time she dared to glance down and saw what she thought to be the glimmer of water below, though we know it was only the soft wet mud at the bottom. She was a good swimmer, but did not know if she would be strong enough to hold Nat up till help arrived. But it was the only chance of saving Nat—so she thought—and desperately frightened though she was, she let go of the rope and dropped, expecting to plunge into icy cold water."
Allison leaned forwards her eyes glowing. "That was a very plucky thing to do, Miss Julian, believing what she did."
"It was, indeed; the more so as she was extremely frightened. I am quite convinced that there is a good deal of splendid material in a girl who can behave like that."
"It seems as if she thinks rather a lot of Nat," Allison ventured.
"Yes. Nathalie seems to be the only girl in her form she cares anything at all about. She said to me quite frankly that if it had been anyone else but Nat in the well she doesn't think she would have had sufficient courage to drop from the rope."
Allison was silent, wondering if her words to Monica that September afternoon in the summer-house had helped to change Monica's opinion of Nat. But aloud she only said: "Monica wouldn't chum up with any of the girls in the Fifth at first. But Nat's a nice girl—and I think one of the finest characters in the Fifth, though she doesn't shine there very much. When she volunteered to have Monica in her study I said to myself that if this new girl couldn't get on with Nat she couldn't get on with anybody. I suppose there is no doubt about her behaviour at Fairhurst before she came here?"
"Oh no, none at all. She was absolutely defiant and seemed quite hardened."
"But why should she be? She hasn't been so here; unapproachable and moody, yes, and sometimes mischievous, but nothing worse."
"That was what I could not understand. Now that I know the cause it seems hardly credible that a child should be affected in such a peculiar way," and again Allison settled herself down in her chair to listen as the Principal went on talking.
When tea was over the Fifth, surprised by the news that Allison wished to speak to them in the common room before they settled down to their evening's prep, made their way thither in groups of twos and threes. Monica was among the company, having left the sick-room that afternoon, though excused from school work till the following morning. Everyone was standing about in groups, wondering what Allison had to say to them, when the Head Girl herself entered the room as brisk and cheerful as ever.
"You all seem to be here, I see. Let's settle down round the fire. Pull out the hassocks, some of you. I've brought some chestnuts mother sent me yesterday, and you can roast them while you listen to what I've got to tell you."
"It isn't a lecture, is it?" asked Ida apprehensively, as they all scrambled to secure seats round the fire.
"Lecture? Oh, no. I'm merely going to tell you a little story. Prinny was going to tell it to you, then she suggested you might like to hear it from me instead and I just jumped at the chance. I love telling stories and this is a true one. Only you must all promise not to interrupt till I've quite finished, or you'll make me lose the thread of it."
"Yes, we promise. Go on, please," came in an eager chorus, for everybody there knew that Allison had quite a genius for telling stories.
So Allison began:
"Well, this is a story about a girl like yourselves. Her name? We'll call her Alice. Unfortunately, Alice's parents died when she was quite young and she was left in the charge of her uncle, who was made her guardian. He was a soldier and was abroad a good deal, so Alice couldn't live with him. Instead, she lived in the country, in charge of her nurse. Alice led rather a lonely life, for she never went to school but had lessons instead at the Rectory, where the Rector taught her and several delicate little boys who were not robust enough to go to preparatory boarding-schools."
"What a rotten time she must have had!" remarked Glenda. "Didn't she know any other children?"
"Well, sometimes she visited the other children who lived near, but very often she had to make her own amusements and formed the habit of reading a great deal and dreaming over the books she read. The red-letter days in her life were her uncle's visits. Other children had mothers and fathers, it is true, but very few had for a guardian an officer in the British Army who wore rows of medals for brave and gallant deeds, and who could tell you breathless stories of daring and heroic actions, who was always kind to you and who made you want to grow up as brave and generous as he was."
"I'd rather have a mother and father," observed Ida, selecting a chestnut from the hearth and peeling off the shell. "However, I suppose he was the next best thing."
"Anyway," Allison went on, "Alice thought the world of him, and like many other young people she cherished a passionate hero-worship for this idol of hers—who, she felt, possessed all the virtues of nobility, gallantry, honesty and courage. You may guess how delighted she was when she heard that he had resigned his commission and had settled down to live in England, and that she was to make her home with him and his sister in the future. But a dreadful blow fell before she experienced this new happiness——"
"What blow?" demanded Ida, pausing in the act of popping the chestnut into her mouth. She hadn't been very interested in Alice up to that point, but now the story began to be more exciting.
"I warned you not to interrupt," Allison said severely. "I'm just going to tell you. Alice's nurse received the news, but kept it from her charge, and in answer to Alice's constant inquiries, 'When is uncle coming to fetch me?' she could only shake her head sadly. But her aunt came to fetch her at last, and Alice's sensitive spirit was chilled by her cold, unloving greeting. She soon learnt the truth. Her uncle and guardian had become involved in money difficulties and had fled the country secretly, taking with him the little fortune which Alice's parents had left in his charge for their child."
"What a shame!" cried several girls together. "Whatever did Alice do?" added Glenda. "I suppose she had nothing at all after that."
"For a little while after she heard the news she had a sort of lost, bewildered feeling as if she could feel no solid ground under her feet," continued Allison. "If her uncle could do this thing, then it seemed as if there was no honour, nor honesty, nor kindliness in the world. The lost, lonely feeling changed and hardened into a spirit of sullen resentment, which grew worse under her aunt's treatment of her. Her aunt, unfortunately, hadn't a very loving disposition and did not care for young people; but being very conscientious, she regarded it as her duty to look after the child her brother had robbed and deserted, though she made it quite plain to Alice that the duty was an unpleasant one. Alice, I suppose, argued that if people in this world had no scruples and were all selfish, why should she bother either? You can understand how she felt, can't you?"
The listeners, now really interested, nodded, and Glenda remarked feelingly: "I guess I should have felt rather like it myself."
"In a very short time," Allison went on, "her aunt despatched her to a boarding-school, still a rebel, and there Alice had a brief but hectic career, which ended in her being expelled for cheating. Everybody cheated in this life when it served their purpose, Alice had decided, so why shouldn't she? As for being expelled, nobody wanted her at the school, so what did it matter?"
At this point in Allison's story the girls, who were now listening with close attention, began to steal glances at each other, then to look round the room as if in search of someone. Monica, who had been sitting in the farther-most corner, near the door, flushed and stirred uncomfortably.
"I say, this girl Alice——" Glenda was beginning, but Allison broke in peremptorily.
"Now, Glenda. You know you promised not to interrupt. Fill your mouth with a chestnut instead."
"Sorry, Allison," said Glenda meekly. "I won't transgress again. Hurry up and tell us what happened to Alice after that."
"Let me see, I had just got to where Alice left her first school. Well, her aunt was naturally extremely annoyed, and I don't quite know what would have happened to Alice if a former great friend of her mother's had not offered to have her at the school of which she was Principal. This lady wanted Alice to have a fair and square start at her school"—here someone was heard to murmur "St. Etheldreda's" under her breath, but Allison took no notice and went on as if she had not heard—"so she purposely ignored the aunt's warnings that her niece must be dealt with very firmly indeed or she would be quite unmanageable. She told no one that Alice had been sent away from one school, only asked the other mistresses to make allowances for her at first, because she had not been accustomed to school life and school rules. Unfortunately, the story leaked out——"
"Glenda had a letter," Ida interjected, hastily, but at Allison's frown she apologized quickly: "Sorry, Allison. I forgot."
"The story, as I said, leaked out, and Alice, who by this time was beginning to feel that perhaps she had made a mistake in judging everybody by the actions of her uncle, and that there were plenty of people in the world who were kind and generous and honourable, learnt straight away that she was not to be given another chance and that all the girls, as she thought, had been carefully warned against her. Once again she felt hurt and sore, and in that 'don't-care-a-hang' mood."
Allison paused, looked round her little circle of listeners to see if they were following her, then added impressively:
"You know yourselves how much you are sometimes affected by quite little things. It was quite a little thing that restored Alice's lost faith in mankind. Or perhaps"—here Allison's expression lost some of its solemnity and her eyes twinkled mischievously—"I oughtn't really to call Nat little, because she's rather big—especially her hands and feet. But——"
Nat jumped visibly at the unexpected sound of her own name, and her serene, placid expression changed to one of confused amazement.
"I?" she stuttered. "What—what had I got to do with it?"
"Only that later on Mon—I mean Alice, heard how one girl in her form had stood up for her and pleaded that she should be given a chance to make a fair start. And afterwards that girl treated her—well, just as she would have treated any other girl of her acquaintance. In return Alice tried to show her gratitude, but her first venture was not very successful. She locked up one of the members of the hockey team, with the sole idea of giving her friend a chance of achieving her ambition and playing in the first eleven. But the friend was angry at the methods she used and quarrelled with her."
Then Allison related the story of the telegram in much the same words that the Principal had used in telling it to her, and when she had finished she went straight on with the adventure of the well from Monica's point of view, which, up till then, had never occurred to anyone.
When Allison had concluded there was silence for just a few minutes—the chestnuts, forgotten, burned unnoticed on the bars of the grate—then Glenda looked round the room.
"By the by, where is Monica?—for of course that's whom you mean, though you called her Alice."
But Monica had disappeared; the place which she had occupied on the outskirts of the group was vacant.
"She was here a minute ago," said someone. "She must have slipped out while we were listening to Allison," Ida suggested.
Allison rose leisurely to her feet, smoothing down the creases in her dress.
"And that's my story, girls. After all, you see, Alice wasn't the desperately wicked character we thought her at first. Certainly she had some funny ideas in her head at one time, but I think she had pretty well got rid of them before she had been here a couple of months. As for the telegram business, the Principal will make a short public announcement at prayers to-morrow to put the responsibility of the dark deed on the real culprit. Thank goodness, we've no girls like that at St. Etheldreda's."
The Fifth looked at each other, much impressed.
"Really, perhaps we weren't as nice to Monica as we might have been," murmured Glenda pensively, as if the thought had just occurred to her.
"Take my advice," said Allison, "and treat her like any other ordinary schoolgirl, and you'll find she'll soon be one."
Irene's cheeks were burning—and it wasn't the fire, though she was quite close to it.
"Anyway," she burst out with explosive suddenness, "this'll be a lesson to me never to go prying into other people's correspondence again."
"To think," said Nat sadly, "that Monica believed she was risking her life to save a clumsy elephant like me, and I've never even said thank'ee for it."
"Plenty of time yet, Nat," said Allison cheerfully. "Well, I mustn't linger any longer. Virgil calls me. Thanks for listening so patiently. Good-bye, everybody."
"Good-bye, Allison," came in an answering chorus.
"Isn't Allison a brick?" said Ida impulsively as the door closed behind the Head Girl. "She might have pointed out what a mean, self-opinionated lot we've been—all, that is, except Nat—but she never said a word. As for Nat, I guess she's the only one of us who's 'put in' much kindness or consideration this term. You remember what Miss Julian said on first day?"
"Oh, rot!" protested Nat with scarlet cheeks.
"No, there's no Head Girl like ours," agreed Glenda, "and I think you're right about Nat, too. Well, I must begin to see about prep, or there'll be wigs on the green tomorrow." She hurried off and the rest of the girls, also with thoughts of the prep that was waiting, reluctantly dispersed.
Allison, however, had not quite completed her mission. On leaving the common room she set out in quest of the missing Monica and speedily ran her to earth in her cubicle.
"Just the person I wanted to see," she declared, as Monica looked up, startled, when she appeared in the doorway. "What made you run away in the middle of my story? Weren't you interested in Alice?"
"I——" stammered Monica, and stopped.
"Well, never mind now," said Allison cheerfully. "I finished the story without you, as it happened. What I've come to tell you now is that Prinny wants to see you in her room. Nothing dreadful," as Monica looked rather apprehensive, "only something she intended to ask you about before, but forgot."
"Am I to go now?"
"Yes. Run along." Allison's smile was both kind and cheery, and Monica went off feeling reassured. When she knocked at the Principal's door and went inside, Miss Julian was still looking as kind as she had done during Monica's last interview with her in the sick-room.
"Allison said you wished to see me." Monica explained her appearance.
"Yes. Sit down, Monica. It is nothing to do with what we were talking about before, but I want you to answer me just as frankly. It is about your exams. How came you to have such a low position? I have had some really good reports about your work and intelligence from some of the mistresses and I know you are capable of doing much better. You did not do your best, did you, Monica?"
Monica wriggled uneasily.
"No, Miss Julian," she confessed, truthfully.
"Why not?"
"Must I tell you?" asked Monica in a low voice, but this time she lifted her eyes frankly to Miss Julian's face. "I will, if you insist, but I would rather not. It is nothing disgraceful," she added hurriedly, "and I promise that I will try to be nearer the top than the bottom next term."
Miss Julian hesitated a moment. She felt sure that Monica was speaking the truth when she denied any discreditable intentions, and from the very clear idea she had now formed of Monica's character, she shrewdly guessed at some queer quixotic motive underlying her act. Quickly she made up her mind.
"No, you need not tell me this time," she replied. "I am going to take your word for it when you say there was nothing discreditable about it. But I shall expect you to keep your promise and do better next term. Now run along and find your form companions. I am sure that you will soon find out that they are ready to be friends, if you are."
So Monica left the Principal's study and made her way towards her own room with a light step that now and again degenerated into a little dancing skip, and with the idea firmly rooted in her mind, and growing stronger every minute, that she was going to find plenty of happiness in her future life at St. Etheldreda's.
Monica was seated in her chair, absorbed in her favourite occupation of reading, when Nat entered. Nat had intended to say a few well-chosen words expressing her gratitude and thanks, but unfortunately emotion with Nat was generally accompanied by inarticulation, and all she achieved was a casual "Hello!"
Monica glanced up, said: "Hello!" in reply, then returned to her book.
Nat stood in the middle of the room, surveying its walls, her brow corrugated with thought. Suddenly she seemed to come to a decision, for she shook herself, moved towards the nearest wall with an air of great firmness, and proceeded deliberately and methodically to take down all the notices pinned there, piling them neatly on the table. Monica watched her in silence. When the walls were quite bare Nat spoke, in firm decisive tones to match her manner.
"If you don't want these papers, Monica, I'm going to put them in the rubbish bin. I've quite made up my mind that this room is no longer going to be called the Chamber of Horrors. Next term there will be no more of these—these atrocities. The walls will be devoted to decorative and artistic purposes. You can have two for your Raphaels and Rubens and I'll have the other two for my dogs."
"I don't mind," Monica replied with amazing indifference. "No, I don't want them. Burn them if you like."
Nat scooped up a bundle of papers and departed with them in her arms, returning a minute later to remark in tones of satisfaction: "There, thank goodness I shan't be staring at Pythagoras' Theorem all next week. Good riddance to the horrible things!"
"De mortuis—speak no evil of the departed," admonished Monica gently. "After all, they have served their purpose."
"I say," said Nat, blushing a little. "I'm sorry you—er—didn't come out very well in the exams. Of course, I know you could have done a lot better if you hadn't been so worried, and all that."
"Oh, I didn't mind," replied Monica cheerfully. "I'm afraid I'm not really a proper schoolgirl yet, for I don't seem to care in the least whether I come out top or bottom. I don't see that it matters much. But perhaps it's because I've no real home to take a report to. That must make a difference."
"Yes, I suppose you value it more for your people's sake and what they think of you than for your own," agreed Nat sympathetically. "I'm going to write home this week-end and ask mother if you can come to our place for the Christmas vacation."
"That's awfully good of you, I should love to come."
"We always fill the house up at holiday times. My brothers often bring their friends home," said Nat.
She went towards the cupboard, then suddenly stopped half-way, as if struck by an entirely new idea. She turned and came slowly back towards Monica, conflicting expressions chasing each other across her face.
"What's up?" asked Monica. "Garter busted?"
Nat ignored the question; in fact, she did not seem to hear it.
"Don't tell me I'm more of a blockhead than I already knew I was," she said slowly. "Look here, Monica, for whose benefit was all that stuff put on the walls, yours or mine?"
"What bee have you got in your bonnet now?"
"Please answer my question," said Nat.
Monica made no reply, only put her head on one side and twinkled in her impish, Puck-like way.
"You need not answer," Nat continued. "You've given yourself away. I remember telling you that one of my three ambitions was—not to be bottom of the form. Only you'd already said you intended to be top. Didn't you mean it?"
Monica burst out laughing.
"I only said it for fun; just to make a little commotion among the self-satisfied Fifth. I never cared a brass farthing about it."
"All the same, you are cleverer than most of the girls in the Fifth," Nat persisted. "It's absurd to think of you being bottom. Did you do it on purpose?"
"Well, as I didn't care a scrap if I occupied the place and you cared very much, I thought I might as well rob you of it," Monica confessed, laughing.
Nat sat down in a chair and gazed at Monica wonderingly.
"Youarea queer girl. I see it all now. You pretended you wanted to be top and that the stuff on the walls was to help you to remember the work, when it was really to try and knock something intomyhead. And always making me hear you say your prep, just when I was off for a game of chess—— Whatever did you do it for?"
"Oh, just for fun. You aren't stupid enough to be always at the bottom of the form, you know, Nat."
"You meanyouaren't," retorted Nat. "Still," she added after a moment's consideration, "though I'm sure it's good of you to take so much trouble over me, I think I'd almost rather be bottom than sit in a room decorated in the same way again."
"Perhaps we can manage it without such extreme measures next term," Monica said optimistically.
"If my luck holds out. However, I've a sort of feeling that's it's going to change for the better. Something tells me that next Saturday, when St. Etheldreda's wins the hockey match, I shall not slip up in the goal circle instead of shooting the winning goal; that on Speech Day the following Wednesday I shall not make my entry as Cæsar's ghost at the wrong cue, as I did last year. You see, I feel that I have you as my mascot now," and Nat heaved a huge sigh of supreme content.
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