WHAT PRICE WHITE ELEPHANTS?Have you anything at home you don't want?Then bring it to the school and sell it!Do you wish to buy nice things cheap?Come to our WHITE ELEPHANT SALE!Bargains will be flying!You will go home all smiles!Remember, everything you buy helps to feed a British Prisoner of War!
WHAT PRICE WHITE ELEPHANTS?
Have you anything at home you don't want?Then bring it to the school and sell it!Do you wish to buy nice things cheap?Come to our WHITE ELEPHANT SALE!Bargains will be flying!You will go home all smiles!
Remember, everything you buy helps to feed a British Prisoner of War!
"Flatter myself it's rather telling!" she confessed, as she watched the juniors crowd round to look. "There's nothing like a bargain to appeal to people!"
"I reckon it's going to catch on!" chuckled Patsie.
It did catch on. The juniors decided that the idea was "topping", and readily promised contributions.
"We shall want cash too," Lorraine reminded them. "Remember, you've to buy somebody else's things as well as give your own."
"Right you are! We'll make a half-crown league, if you like."
"Oh, I wouldn't do that! It might be rough on some of the kids. Give what you can, that's all."
The next step in the proceedings was to hunt at home for white elephants. Lorraine and Monicaturned out drawers and cupboards in search of any articles with which they could dispense.
"It's not a rummage sale, so we mustn't send rubbish," decreed Lorraine. "It's got to be something somebody will take a fancy to. I wonder if Rosemary wants this book of songs? I believe Vivien would buy them."
"Then put them in the sale and ask Rosemary afterwards," counselled Monica, rapidly running through the contents of an Indian box, and contributing two chains of Eastern beads and some bangles. "I've a pile of old story books I've done with. I expect those First Form kids would like them. And I've some chalks and a drawing slate."
"And I've an almost new blotter, and some Indian curios, and some foreign stamps, and a very good post-card album, and a quite new birthday book."
"That Kate Greenaway one? Oh! you promised to give it tome!" exclaimed Monica.
"You've got two of your own already!"
"I don't care! I want this as well."
"Then buy it at the sale."
"No, I'm going to get Jill's box of pastels and Miriam's autograph album. I've bagged them in advance. Tibbiekins, Imusthave that birthday book!"
"You can't, Cuckoo! Don't be greedy!"
"But youpromised!"
"Well, I can't help it if I did, and I don't remember promising, anyway. That birthdaybook's going down to the sale, and if you want it, you'll just have to buy it. There!"
"You mean thing!" blazed Monica. "Just because you're head girl, you think you can do as you like. Keep your old birthday book, and sell it to anybody you can.Ishan't buy it! But I'll pay you out for this—see if I don't! I think you're perfectly hateful, Lorraine! I wish you'd go away to a boarding school, or to a college like Rosemary. I don't want you here at home, anyway!"
"All right, draw it mild!" said Lorraine, who was well accustomed to her younger sister's outbursts of temper.
"You really did promise poor Cuckoo that Kate Greenaway birthday book," remarked Mrs. Forrester later in the evening.
"I can't remember anything at all about it, Mother," said Lorraine impatiently. "Cuckoo makes such an absurd fuss. Surely she might be ready to give up something for the prisoners of war. It's not good for her always to get her own way! She's really so absurdly spoilt!"
"Somebody else likes her own way occasionally!" suggested Mrs. Forrester, with uplifted eyebrows.
"Well, you can't say I'm spoilt! The middle girl never is. It's Rosemary and Monica who get all the attention in this family!" declared Lorraine, flouncing out of the room in a state of mind bordering on rebellion.
She wrapped up the birthday book in white tissuepaper, and packed it the first of all her articles for the sale. The best of us have our faults, and there was a strain of obstinacy in Lorraine's disposition. She and Monica had waged war before this, on occasion. They did not speak to each other at supper.
"What a nice, cheerful thing it is to have two thunder-clouds sitting at the table!" commented Mrs. Forrester. "It's so pleasant for the rest of us, isn't it?"
"Mind the milk doesn't turn sour!" chuckled Mervyn. "You girls are the limit!"
The sale, by special permission of Miss Kingsley, was fixed for three o'clock on Thursday afternoon, a whole hour's lessons being remitted in its favour. It was to be held in the gymnasium, and the articles were to be spread out on benches. Each form had contributed its own quota, and had appointed two representatives as saleswomen. The goods were marked, but bargaining was permissible if the figure was considered by the saleswoman to be too high. The monitresses constituted a court of appeal on this score.
All had done really nobly in the way of bringing contributions, and most of the "white elephants" were quite useful and desirable possessions. The girls wandered round, looking at an assortment of brooches, penknives, pencil-boxes, paints, chalks, books, music, blotters, photo frames, toys, and a number of little trifles such as girls love. Lorraine, with three weeks' accumulated pocket money, a hitherto unspent birthday present, and what wasleft in her savings-box, felt in a position to be munificent, and determined to patronize each separate stall. She first made a tour of them all, before she should decide upon her purchases.
"It's quite a good show," said Vivien, fondly fingering a black cat mascot she had just bought and fastened upon her blouse. "Seen the kids' things? They're ripping, some of them. They must have been looting at home! I've got the prettiest little purse! I'll show it to you. Only gave sixpence for it. It's a real bargain!"
"I've been wanting a muff chain foryears!" declared Nellie. "I put it down regularly on my birthday and Christmas lists, but my family always gave me something else instead. Now don't you think this is just the jinkiest one you've ever seen? I can't think how Audrey could part with it!"
"Muff chains aren't fashionable now!"
"That won't trouble me in the least!"
"I hunted out my old dolls and dolls' clothes," said Claire, "and the kids went wild over them. Dora doesn't care for dolls, so it was no use keeping them forher. She's a regular tomboy."
"What did you bring, Claudia?" asked Nellie.
"ThoseArt Magazinesand copies ofThe Connoisseur. Dad let me have them from his studio."
"Oh, goody! They're the very things I want!" rejoiced Lorraine. "Tell Patsie not to sell them till I come!"
She had reached the Second Form stall, and was hurriedly reviewing its contents, gazing over the heads of a chattering mob of juniors. Suddenlyshe gave a gasp of consternation. In the middle of the bench, temptingly spread forth in a row, were a number of objects with which she was familiar—some coloured supplements from Christmas numbers, a mug with a robin on it, a sandalwood box, a carved photo frame, a travelling ink-pot, two plaques of Thorwaldsen's "Night" and "Morning", and a model of a Swiss chalet. They were household articles which she had appropriated to herself, and had hidden away for safety in a drawer on the top landing at home. Each one was a treasure. She loved the coloured supplements, and had meant to have them framed when she could afford it. The robin mug was her last link with childhood. The chalet, though really the property of Richard, had been knocking about in the attic till she had rescued it, and the other things had all been apparently discarded by their rightful owners until she had adopted them. To see them here, laid out ready for sale, was a shock.
"It's that abominable little wretch of a Cuckoo! I'll slay her for this!" she thought grimly, and started off to find the offender. She discovered her among a crowd of kindred pig-tails, and dragged her away into a discreet corner.
"What do you mean by prigging my things for your stall?" she demanded angrily.
"They're not your things!" retorted Monica. "Not more than anybody else's. Those coloured pictures belong to Father and Mother, and the chalet was Richard's, only I'm sure he doesn't want it, and the ink-pot's the one Aunt Ellie leftbehind, and the photo frame is Rosemary's. I found them all in a drawer on the top landing."
"You knew I'd put them there!"
Monica coloured to the tips of her ears.
"They're as much mine as yours!" she flared.
"Did Mother say you might have them?"
"I didn't ask her, and no more did you when you took them! Anyhow, they're 'white elephants' now, and 'on sale'."
"You must get them back, Monica!" urged Lorraine desperately. "Tell Kitty and Joan you took them by mistake!"
"How can I? Really, Lorraine, I wonder at you! Do you want me to disgrace the family? Nice thing it would look for the head girl's sister to take things back that she'd just given! Why, the whole form would scoff at us! Surely you might be ready to give up something for the prisoners of war? That's what you said about me, at any rate! If you want your old things, you must buy them back!"
And Monica, making a sudden dive between two Fifth Form girls, escaped from her sister, and sought the farthest corner of the gymnasium.
In spite of her indignation, Lorraine could not help acknowledging that there was justice in these remarks. It would certainly be most undignified, and in fact impossible, to take back articles once given to the sale. Cuckoo's taunt about the prisoners of war stung Lorraine badly. If she wanted her treasures, there was nothing for it but to put the best face she could on the matter, andbuy them at once before anybody else had an innings. It might already be too late. In considerable anxiety she hurried back to the stall, and found a curly-headed junior critically handling the robin mug. She snatched it from the child with scant ceremony.
"If you don't want this, Doris, I do! How much, Kitty, please? I'll take these pictures too; yes, and this chalet; and I'll have the ink-pot and the frame as well. That's all, if you'll make them into a parcel. Thanks!" and Lorraine sailed away, leaving Doris open-mouthed, and Kitty cheerfully clinking the change in her brown leather moneybag. It was annoying to have spent so much, for it meant forgoing a piece of music which she had intended to give to Morland. She watched her cousin buy it instead.
"I'll borrow it from Vivien and copy it," she thought rapidly. "Or if Morland plays it twice over, he'll have it by heart. Hallo! Four o'clock already, and these stalls not half cleared! We shall have to have an auction."
Patsie, on being consulted, agreed, and readily undertook the post of auctioneer, to which she was voted by general accord.
"I don't know whether to take it as compliment or not," she twittered. "I suppose you think I've got the gift of the gab, and will make a good Cheap Jack! Well, I'll do my best for you. Here goes! Give me a ruler or something for a hammer."
A treble line of girls spread themselves round in an amused circle. Patsie, and especially Patsiein a bantering mood, was always worth listening to. They prepared themselves for a half-hour of sheer fun.
The amateur auctioneer—or rather auctioneeress—seized upon the first thing that came to hand, which happened to be one of Claire's discarded dolls. She held it aloft, and descanted eloquently upon its virtues.
"Look at this!" she proclaimed. "A real Parisian doll—bébé jumeau—je fais dodo—je voudrais une maman—and all the rest of it! Kindly notice, they're real ball joints, and not just slung together with bits of elastic. Observe the beautiful little teeth, that might have stepped out of a dentist's advertisement, and the richness of the brown curls. 'Hair rather thin', did someone remark? Well, buy a new wig for it, then; you can't expect everything! 'Lost a hand?' So have a good many of our soldiers. It's only in the fashion. Be glad it hasn't lost both, and a leg too! White silk dress and red coat, and clothes that take on and off! Why, I feel that I want to play with it myself, and take it to bed with me. What offers? Someone kindly make a bid to begin. Two shillings—thank you! Two and six! Three shillings! Come, ladies, it's worth pounds instead of shillings at present-day prices! Four shillings! Four and six! I see I shall have to buy it myself. Only four and six! I'm getting too fond of it to part with it! Five shillings! I'm going to name it Rosabelle! Five shillings! Going at only five shillings! With a red coat and a white silk dress! I'll throw in thishat as well. Five shillings—who'll say five and six? It's a real bargain. The sort you only meet once in a lifetime. Going at five and six! Real Parisian. Going! Going! Gone!"
Patsie struck her ruler on the back of an extemporized desk, and dropped the doll in question into the delighted arms of Virginia Hewlett; then, leaving Dorothy to complete the business part of the transaction, transferred her attention to other objects of sale.
"Here's a post-card album!" she announced. "If you don't collect post cards, you ought to; and if you haven't an album to put them in, now's your chance! Best crocodile back! 'Imitation', did somebody remark? Well, never mind, it's quite as good as original. We can't import crocodiles during the war. The Kaiser's bought them all up to manufacture crocodile tears! 'Some of the slips torn'? Mend them up with a little seccotine, and they'll be as good as new. Fourpence! Sixpence! Eightpence! A shilling! Going at a shilling! Going! Gone!"
There seemed no end to Patsie's powers of apt description. The girls giggled hysterically as, almost with tears in her voice, she descanted upon the merits of a cracked teapot, the beauties of a battered birdcage, or the capacity of a Japanese pencil-box. The fun of out-bidding spread like infection, and many of the articles fetched far more than they had originally been marked at by their owners. There are limits, however, to school-girl pockets, and Miss Kingsley had made a specialproviso that no credit was to be given. As the purses grew thin, the objects on sale went off, as Patsie expressed it, "dirt cheap", and several girls secured bargains surpassing even their wildest dreams.
"Time's getting on, and we put up the shutters at five," continued the loquacious auctioneeress. "I'll take the rest in lots. Some one please give me a cough lozenge, for my throat's getting hoarse. You don't wonder? Then take my place, and do the talking yourself. You're welcome to it. Oh! you'd rather not, when it comes to the point? Give me a bid, then, to start this charming assortment of fancy articles—chalks, marbles, pencils, wools all mixed together and going for next to nothing. Pennies will do it. We don't want to take anything home again."
Thanks to Patsie's persuasive tongue, the whole stock of goods was at last disposed of, and quite a nice little sum was counted up for the prisoners of war.
The girls trudged home with their parcels, in high spirits, voting the whole affair a huge success, and laughing immoderately over some of the incidents. Vivien, in an unwonted mood of generosity, actually offered to copy the piece of music for her cousin. Claire and Nellie, after quarrelling over a framed picture, patched up peace, and presented it between them to their form mistress.
Lorraine, when she reached her own bedroom, locked her particular treasures securely in her bottom drawer. But that night, when she wassettling snugly on her pillow, there was a patter of bedroom slippers along the landing, her door burst open, and a little sobbing, dressing-gowned figure came creeping into her bed.
"I'm sorry I took your things," it gulped. "I c—c—couldn't go to sleep till I'd said so. I t—t—took them because I was cross about the b—b—birthday book. I was a b—b—b—east!"
"I was a bigger beast, Cuckoo!" confessed Lorraine, hugging her tight. "Look here, I'll buy you another Kate Greenaway birthday book, exactly the same only absolutely new, and give it to you for Christmas. Would you like that?"
"Yes, I'd love it. But might I have itbeforeChristmas? I meant to copy some of those dear little pictures on to a calendar for Mother. She said she liked them so much, and I'd planned it for her present, andthatwas why I wanted the birthday book so badly."
"Poor old Cuckoo! I understand. I'll order it at once at Smith's."
"You don't think me greedy?"
"Not a bit of it! I wish I'd known about the calendar. There, wipe your eyes, and go back to your own bed. It's striking ten, and you ought to have been asleep an hour ago!"
'Twixt home and The Gables, Lorraine found her life that autumn a very busy one. As head girl, the demands made on her time were considerable. She sometimes thought it would have been easier to be at a boarding school, where her whole energies could have been focused upon school matters; private interests, though very enthralling, were certainly a hindrance. And there were so many of them—her painting lessons and delightful intimacy with Margaret Lindsay, and the rich art world that had thereby opened its doors to her; an increasing friendship with Morland Castleton, whose musical genius spurred her on to fresh efforts at her violin; her affection for Claudia and for the rest of the merry crew of the Castleton family; to say nothing of the dear home people who claimed her attention: Richard and Donald fighting in France, Rodney making his first flights in the Air Force, Rosemary hard at work in the college of music, and writing ecstatic weekly budgets of her experiences, Mervyn with his fun and nonsense and gossip from the GrammarSchool, and Monica, who was the spoilt darling of the family.
Whatever her faults, Lorraine possessed to the full that intense zest of life that the French call "using up one's heart". It is a gift that—thank God!—the war has given to most of our British girlhood. The old, fashionable attitude of boredom, that at one time spread like a blight over certain classes of society, is happily passing away, purged by the common need of sacrifice. It is incredible that at one time girls could exist in this world, possessed of eyes and ears, and pass by the touching, dramatic, joyous human comedy as though they were blind and deaf. All the things we learn at school are of no value to us unless with them we learn to love life—life in all its aspects of joy and sorrow, laughter and tears, work and pleasure.
There was so much going on at The Gables, both in lessons and games. The hockey season had begun, and every Wednesday afternoon the school played in a field on the cliffs which they rented; under the coaching of Miss Paget, a new mistress, the teams were improving. Dorothy as captain made a much better leader than Helen Stanley had done a year ago, and Patsie and Vivien as half-backs were considered rising stars. The second team, which hitherto had been rather contemptible, raised its standard to an amazing extent, and seemed to promise great things. The girls began to look forward to Wednesdays.
One bright sunny afternoon in early November they were assembled on the field. In their navyserge skirts and scarlet jerseys they made a bright patch of colour against the green of the grass and the autumn blue of the sky and the grey-blue expanse of sea that spread beneath the yellow cliffs. It was a pretty scene, with a background of late-flowering gorse bushes and a foreground of corn marigold that edged the field. The sunshine fell on the athletic figures and hatless heads of the teams. A very pretty scene indeed, and so evidently thought a dark-faced, clean-shaven individual who was dodging about the gate, busy with a camera. He fixed a stand, put his head repeatedly under a black velvet cloth, and was apparently focusing upon the groups of players. The girls noticed him, and pointed him out to Miss Paget. The dragon in her was at once roused to wrath, and she advanced in defence of her flock.
"May I ask on what authority you're taking photographs of this school?" she asked icily.
The stranger was all smiles and civility. He displayed an excellent set of teeth as, with a decidedly foreign bow and flourish of his hat, he offered a plausible explanation.
"I ask your pardon, Madam! I am an American—a journalist. I have been sent by my newspaper to England to write an article upon Girls' Schools. I have heard of yours, and wish to include it in my report, with a photo of its pupils. I crave your permission to take a snapshot of the game."
Miss Paget stared at him with suspicion. She was a good judge of character, and had studied types of nationality; moreover, she had herselfspent six months in the United States. The man's physiognomy and accent were anything but American. She would set them down as decidedly Teutonic.
"Certainly not!" she replied. "Miss Kingsley would not dream of permitting it."
"But I have permission from Miss Kingsley!" he fawned. "I am to send her photos."
"Miss Kingsley did not mention the matter to me, and unless I have her express directions I cannot allow it. Will you kindly remove your camera?"
"Just one little snapshot!" he begged insinuatingly.
"You've interrupted our game. Will you please go? And I must remind you that this is a military area, and that, unless you have a signed permit for photography, you are liable to be arrested."
"Oh, that is all right! I have the credentials of my newspaper, as well as the assent of Miss Kingsley."
Miss Paget's temper, which had been rapidly rising, now fizzed over.
"If you don't take yourself off, I'll send some of my pupils to fetch the coast-guard!" she thundered.
With an apologetic shrug of the shoulders the interloper packed up his camera and departed, not without trying to secure a hurried surreptitious snapshot with a small kodak, an effort which was nipped in the bud by Miss Paget, who stood likea sentry at the gate, speeding his departure. She watched him till he was safely out of sight and then joined the excited girls, some of whom had overheard the conversation.
"That's no American!" she proclaimed. "And I don't for a moment believe that he had permission from Miss Kingsley to photograph the school."
"She'd have said so, surely," commented Vivien.
"Probably he didn't even know her name till you mentioned it, Miss Paget," said Lorraine.
"He's a foreigner in my opinion—possibly a spy," continued the mistress. "This field would make a most excellent landing-place for enemy aircraft. One can't be too careful in these matters—living as we do near the coast, in a military zone. The cheek of the man, too! Calmly to set up his camera and begin to take us without asking leave! Even in times of peace it would be unpardonable. I must say I have the very strongest suspicions of his intentions."
"It seems rather the wrong time for an American magazine to be wanting an article on English Girls' Schools," said Patsie.
"It's the most flimsy excuse."
The affair made quite a sensation in the school. Miss Kingsley, when the matter was reported to her, disclaimed all knowledge of the photographer or any commission to him to take the hockey teams. She was justly indignant, and almost thought of mentioning the incident to the police. The girls talked the affair threadbare. They were quite sure they had had an encounterwith a spy. Their suspicions were further justified in the course of a few days by an experience of Lorraine's.
She was going by train on Saturday morning to Ranock, a little place a few miles from Porthkeverne, whither her mother had sent her to return some books to a friend who lived near the station. There were several other people in the compartment; and sitting in the corner on the side next to the sea was a man whom Lorraine was nearly sure she recognized as the pertinacious stranger of the hockey field. She watched him now keenly. He was gazing out of the window at the sand-hills and stretches of marshy shore. Presently they passed the golf links, and, quick as thought, he whisked a little kodak from his pocket and began to take instantaneous photographs through the carriage window. Lorraine uttered an exclamation and nudged the gentleman who sat next to her. Promptly he interfered.
"Look here! Snapshots aren't allowed without a permit," he remonstrated.
The photographer slipped the kodak back into his pocket and smiled his former plausible smile.
"I am an American," he began, "a journalist. I have been sent by my newspaper to England, to write an article upon golf links. I wish to include those of Porthkeverne, with illustrations."
"Have you a permit?" persisted his fellow-passenger. "You'll get yourself into trouble if you haven't. The authorities are uncommonly strict about it."
"It's a queer dodge to photograph the golf links from a railway carriage," commented someone else.
"Not at all! I take hundreds of photos for my magazine in this way," explained the self-styled journalist.
"Well, you'll just not take any now," returned the other. "If you do, I shall inform the guard."
Lorraine listened excitedly. She was quite loath to leave the compartment at Ranock. She wondered to what destination the man was travelling, and hoped that the other passengers would keep an eye on him. She went that afternoon to see her uncle, Barton Forrester, who was a special constable, and told him about both incidents. He looked thoughtful.
"I'll report the matter to Wakelin," he commented. "One can't be too careful in a place like this. Of course the fellow might have a permit, but it had better be inquired into. Give me as accurate a description of him as you can."
Lorraine shut her eyes, visualized, and gave her impressions of the stranger. Uncle Barton rapidly jotted down a few notes. He communicated the result to the chief constable, who issued an order that the next time anyone answering to that description was sighted his photographic permit was to be demanded and inspected. There is such a thing, however, as shutting the stable door after the steed is stolen; and, in spite of the vigilance of the local police, nothing further was seen or heard of the enterprising photographer. He had evidentlybetaken himself and his camera to other scenes of adventure.
The school talked about the episode for a while with bated breath, then forgot it in the whirl of other interests. It was getting near Christmas time, and there was ever so much to be done in preparation. The excitement of the moment was the rhythmic dancing display. All the term a teacher had been coming weekly from St. Cyr, and those lucky individuals who were members of the dancing class had had the time of their lives. Of course the musical ones, and those with some idea of the poetry of motion, scored the most, but even those who were not naturally graceful enjoyed the movements.
Miss Kingsley had decided that her pupils should give a display of what they had learnt, and invited an audience of parents and friends to the gymnasium on breaking-up day. The performance was to begin at three o'clock, and long before that hour the proud band of selected artistes, arrayed in their costumes, were assembled ready in the small studio which served as a dressing-room. There were a good many of them, and the space was limited, so it was a decided cram.
"Everybody seems to take up so much more room than usual to-day," declared Patsie, flinging out a long arm with a floral garland, and hitting Effie Swan by accident in the eye.
"Of course they do, when they're as clumsy as you are," retorted that distressed damsel, with her handkerchief to the injured orb. "I call you theabsolute limit, Patsie—you're fit for nothing but a barn dance! Clogs would suit you better than sandals."
"Gently, child, gently! Sorry if I've hurt your eye, but don't let that warp your judgment. The Flower Quadrille's going to be rather choice, though I say it as shouldn't."
"The others' part of it, perhaps, but not yours."
"There, don't get excited! I forgive you!"
"It's for me to forgive, not for you, I think!" grumbled Effie. "A nice object I shall look dancing with my eye all red and inflamed!"
"I wish the gym. were a larger room!" groused Theresa. "The dances would have a much better effect if there were more space for them, and I should like a parquet floor."
"What else would you like?" snapped Lorraine. "Some people would grumble in Paradise. The old gym.'s not such a bad place for a performance, and the floor has been chalked. I think myself it's a very decent sort of room. Would you like to dance on the lawn?"
"Not in December, thanks!"
"Are you ready, girls?" asked Miss Paget, opening the door. "Miss Leighton has just come, and we're going to begin."
There was no doubt that the dances were extremely pretty. Miss Leighton was an excellent teacher, and her pupils did her credit. The audience was charmed, and clapped with the utmost enthusiasm at the end of each performance. There was a Daisy Dance, in which twelve little girls,dressed to represent daisies, went through a series of very graceful movements; and a Rose Gavotte that was equally pretty and tasteful. A Butterflies' Ball, in which the dancers waved gorgeous wings of painted muslin, was highly effective; and so was the Russian Mazurka, given by Vivien and Dorothy, attired in fur-trimmed costumes and high scarlet leather boots. The babies looked sweet in a Doll Dance, and little Beatrice Perry made a sensation by herpas seulas "Cupid", dressed in a classic toga with the orthodox bow and arrows. She was a beautifully made child of six, and danced barefooted, so she looked the part admirably, and quite carried the audience by storm.
Monica, with floating fair hair, a figured muslin dress and a basket of flowers, capered as a "Spring Wind" and dropped blossoms in the path of "April"; even Patsie, the overgrown, looked quite pretty in her Flower Quadrille. But everybody decided that the star of the afternoon was Claudia. She was beautiful to begin with, and her forget-me-not costume suited her exactly. Perhaps her long experience in posing as a model for her father's pictures made it easier for her to learn the right postures. She had dropped into the rhythmic dancing as into a birthright; her movements seemed the very embodiment of natural grace, and to watch her was like surprising the fairies at dawn, or the dryads and oreads in a classic forest. The best of Claudia was that she was quite without self-consciousness. She danced because she enjoyed it, not to command admiration.She received the storm of clapping quite as a matter of course, just as she took the exhibition of her many portraits in the Academy.
"I'd give anything to have your face," said Patsie enviously to her afterwards. "Some folks are luckers! Why wasn'tIborn pretty? It gives people such a tremendous pull!"
"I don't know," answered Claudia, rather taken aback at the question.
"Look here!" said Lorraine; "we've got to take the faces our mothers gave us. Haven't you heard of a beautifulplainperson? I know several who haven't a single decent feature, and yet somehow they're lovely in spite of it all. Some of the most fascinating women in the world have been plain—George Sand hadn't an atom of beauty, and yet she enthralled two such geniuses as Chopin and Alfred de Musset."
"I'll go in for fascination, then," rattled on Patsie. "We can't all be in the same style. Claudia shall do the Venus business, and I'll be a what-do-you-call-it? Siren?"
"Oh, no! Sirens were wretches!"
"Why, I thought they were only a sort of mermaid! Well, I'll be very modern—chic, andspirituelle, and witty, andfin-de-siècleand all the rest of it; and I'll have a salon like those French women used to have, and everybody'll want to come to it, and talk about the charming Miss Sullivan, only perhaps I'll be Mrs. Somebody by that time! I hope so, at any rate. I don't mean to be left in the lurch, if I can help it!"
"What shall you do if you are?" laughed Lorraine.
"Go in for a career, my dear!" said Patsie airily. "Farming, or Parliament, or doctoring. Everything's open to us women now!"
"Well, I wouldn't try Rhythmic Dancing, at any rate! You're certainly not cut out for that!" scoffed Effie, whose injured eye was still smarting.
"When the bitter north wind blows,Very red is Baba's nose,Very cold are Baba's toes:When the north wind's blowing.When the north wind's blowing!"
"When the bitter north wind blows,Very red is Baba's nose,Very cold are Baba's toes:When the north wind's blowing.When the north wind's blowing!"
"When the bitter north wind blows,Very red is Baba's nose,Very cold are Baba's toes:When the north wind's blowing.When the north wind's blowing!"
So sang Monica, rather out of tune, as she reached home, in a scratchy mood, on the first afternoon of the January term, and hurried up to the fire.
"I don't like school! Idon'tlike it!" she proclaimed to a sympathetic audience of Rosemary, Cousin Elsie, and Richard (who was home on leave). "I call it cruelty to send me every single day to sit for five whole hours at a horrid little desk, stuffing my head with things I don't want to know, and nevershallwant to know, if I live to be a hundred.Whymust I go?"
"Poor kiddie!" laughed Richard. "You've got it badly! It's a disease I used to suffer from myself. They called it 'schoolophobia' when I was young. They cured it with a medicine called 'spinkum-spankum', if I remember rightly—one of those good old-fashioned remedies, don't you know, that our grandmothers always went by."
"You're making fun of me!" chafed Monica. "And I do really mean what I say. It's cold at school, and horrid, and Miss Davis is always down on me, and I hate it. Why must I go?"
"Andwhymust I go back to the trenches?"
"Don't!"
"All serene! You and I'll find a desert island together somewhere, and live upon it for the rest of our lives. You see, they'd never have us back again if we deserted. We'd have to stop on our island for evermore!"
"I thought you liked The Gables?" yawned Elsie. "Vivien does. I'm sure it's a very nice school."
"Oh, Vivien! I dare say! It's all very fine for monitresses. But when you're in the Third Form, and your desk's on the cold side of the room, it's the limit. Yes, I dare say Ishallget chilblains if I sit close to the fire,but I don't care!"
"The first day's always a little grizzly," agreed Lorraine, who had followed Monica to the hearth-rug and joined the circle of fire-worshippers. "One hates getting into harness again after the holidays. I believe Rosemary's the only one of us who really enthuses. You'll be gone, too, by next week, Quavers! But I suppose you reallyenjoysinging exercises, and having professors storming at you."
"Of course I do," said Rosemary, with a rather unconvincing note in her voice.
Lorraine glanced at her quickly, but the littlebrown head was lowered, and shadows hid the sweet face. Lorraine could not understand Rosemary these holidays. She had returned from her first term at the College of Music seemingly as full of enthusiasm as ever, and yet there was "a something". She gave rapturous accounts of pupils' concerts, of singing classes, of fellow-students, of rising stars in the musical world, of favourite teachers, of fun at the College and at the hostel where she boarded. She had made many new friendships, and was apparently having the time of her life.
"From her accounts you'd think it was all skittles, but I'm sure there's a hitch somewhere!" mused Lorraine.
Rosemary, with her big eyes and bigger aspirations, had always been more or less of a problem. The family had decided emphatically that she was its genius. They looked for great things from her when her course at the College should be finished. They all experienced a sort of second-hand credit in her anticipated achievements. It is so nice to have someone else to do the clever things while we ourselves wear a reflected glory thereby. Mrs. Forrester, mother-proud of her musical chick, could not refrain from a little gentle boasting about her daughter's talents. She told everybody that she liked girls to have careers, and that parents ought to make every effort to let a gifted child have a chance. In Lorraine's estimation Rosemary's future was to be one round of triumph, ending possibly in a peal of wedding bells. Lorraine was fond ofmaking up romances, and had evolved a highly-satisfactory hero for her sister. He was always tall, but his eyes varied in colour, and he sometimes had a moustache and sometimes was clean-shaven. Though his personal appearance varied from day to day, his general qualities persisted, and he invariably possessed a shooting-box in Scotland, where he would be prepared to extend a warm welcome to his bride's younger sister.
Meantime, though Rosemary had been a whole term at the college, her family had no means of judging her progress. She had diligently practised scales, exercises and arpeggios, but had steadfastly refused to sing any songs to them. Vainly they had begged for old favourites; she was obdurate to the point of obstinacy.
"Signor Arezzo doesn't want me to! I'm studying on his special method, and he's most particular about it. He keeps everybody at exercises for the first term. When I go back he says perhaps he'll let me have justonesong."
"But surely it couldn't spoil your voice to sing 'My Happy Garden'?" demanded her father, much disappointed.
"He forbade itentirely!" declared Rosemary emphatically.
This new attitude of Rosemary's of hiding her light under a bushel was trying to Lorraine. She had been looking forward to showing off her clever musical sister to Morland. She had expected the two to become chums at once, but they did nothing of the sort. Rosemary treated Morland with theairy patronage that a girl, who has just begun to mix with older men, sometimes metes out to a boy of seventeen. She was not nearly as much impressed by his playing as Lorraine had anticipated.
"He ought to learn from Signor Rassuli!" she commented. "Nobody who hasn't studied onhismethod can possibly have a touch!"
"But Morland's exquisite touch is his great point!" persisted Lorraine indignantly.
"I can't stand the boy!" yawned Rosemary.
It is always most amazing, when we like a person exceedingly ourselves, to find that somebody else has formed a different opinion. With all his shortcomings, Lorraine appreciated Morland. He often missed his appointments, and was generally late for everything, but when he turned up he played her accompaniments as no one else ever played them. Moreover, he was a very pleasant companion, and full of fun in a mild artistic sort of fashion of his own. He was certainly one of the central figures in the beautiful, shiftless, Bohemian household on the hill. Lorraine had a sense that, when he went, the Castleton family would lose its corner stone. Yet some day he would be bound to go.
"I expect to be called up in March!" he announced one day.
"EVERYTHING'S GONE WRONG!" DECLARED LORRAINE TRAGICALLY
Lorraine looked at him critically. Morland, with his ripply hair and the features of a Fra Angelico angel, would seem out of place in khaki. His dreamy, unpunctual ways and general lack ofconcentration would be highly exasperating to his drill-sergeant. She wondered what would happen when, as usual, he turned up late. Artistic temperaments did not fit in well with the stern realities of life. She had a feeling that they ought to be exempted.
Music, this term, was more to the fore than usual in Lorraine's horizon. After Christmas a fresh teacher had come to the school, who gave lessons in French, violin, and piano. Her name was Madame Bertier, and she was a Russian by birth, though her husband was a Belgian at present interned in Germany.
She was a new arrival at Porthkeverne, and had rooms in the artists' quarter of the town. She spent her mornings at The Gables, and filled up her afternoons by taking private pupils. Like most Russians, she had a charming manner, and was brimming over with talent. She was a striking-looking woman, with a clear, pale complexion, flashing hazel eyes, and carefully arranged coiffure. Her delicate hands were exquisitely manicured. She dressed becomingly, and wore handsome rings. Her foreign accent was decidedly pretty.
Most of the school, and the Sixth Form in particular, went crazy over her. They admired her frocks, her hair, her earrings, and the whole charming air of "finish" about her. It became the fashion of the moment to adore her. Those girls who took private music lessons from her were counted lucky. The members of the French class vied with one another in presenting offerings ofviolets or early snowdrops. She accepted the little bouquets as gracefully as a prima donna.
"She'sthemost absolutely topping person I've ever met!" affirmed Vivien, who was one of her most ardent worshippers.
"Um—well enough!" said Lorraine, whose head was not turned by the new idol. "She's not quite my style, somehow. I always feel she's out for admiration."
"Well, she deserves to be admired."
"Not so consciously, though."
"I think she's too precious for words. It's something even to be in the same room with her!" gushed Audrey. "I've scored over you, Vivien, because she's written two verses in my album, and she only wrote one in yours!"
"Yes, but it was original poetry in mine!"
"How do you know, when it's in Russian?"
"She said so, at any rate."
"Oh! I must ask her to put in an original one for me."
"She's coming to tea with us to-morrow."
"You lucker!"
There seemed no lengths to which the girls would not go. Several of them kept sentimental diaries in which were recorded the doings and sayings of their deity. Audrey's ran as follows:—
Jan. 15th.—A new sun rose in the sky, and the world of school has changed for me. I could do nothing but gaze.Jan. 16th.—Her name is Madame Bertier.Jan. 17th.—Her Christian name is Olga Petrovna.Jan. 18th.—She looked directly at me, and I blushed.Jan. 19th.—To-day she smiled upon me.Jan. 22nd.—To-day she accepted my flowers.Jan. 23rd.—A black day. Vivien has engrossed her entirely.Jan. 24th.—I have asked Mother to call upon her.Jan. 25th.—The world dark. Mother too busy to call.Jan. 30th.—Mother called to-day. Hooray!Feb. 1st.—She is coming to tea. I feel I am treading on air.Feb. 2nd.—She has been to our house. It was the happiest day of my life.
Jan. 15th.—A new sun rose in the sky, and the world of school has changed for me. I could do nothing but gaze.
Jan. 16th.—Her name is Madame Bertier.
Jan. 17th.—Her Christian name is Olga Petrovna.
Jan. 18th.—She looked directly at me, and I blushed.
Jan. 19th.—To-day she smiled upon me.
Jan. 22nd.—To-day she accepted my flowers.
Jan. 23rd.—A black day. Vivien has engrossed her entirely.
Jan. 24th.—I have asked Mother to call upon her.
Jan. 25th.—The world dark. Mother too busy to call.
Jan. 30th.—Mother called to-day. Hooray!
Feb. 1st.—She is coming to tea. I feel I am treading on air.
Feb. 2nd.—She has been to our house. It was the happiest day of my life.
Though she came as a stranger to Porthkeverne, Madame Bertier very soon found friends. Her attractive personality and her musical talent gained her the entrée into the artistic and literary circles of the town. Two principal figure-painters asked her to sit for her portrait, and her violin was much in demand for concerts at the Arts Club. Like most of the Bohemian residents of the place, she found her way to the studio at Windy Howe, and a pastel drawing of her profile soon stood on Mr. Castleton's easel. She did not win universal favour, however, at the house on the hill. Claudia, walking from school one day with Lorraine, exploded upon the subject.
"I can't bear the woman! I don't know what Vivien and the others see in her. I call it very flashy to wear all that jewellery at school. She's always up at our house, and Morland's fearfully taken with her. They play duets by the hour together. Father's going to paint her as'The Angel of Victory' in that huge cartoon he's designing for the Chagstead Town Hall. I don't think she's a scrap like an angel! She pats Lilith and Constable on the head, just for show, but she looks terrified if they come near her smart frocks. Violet detests her. It's the one thing Violet and I agree about. We've been squabbling over everything else lately. It's a weary world!"
"Madame's fascinating enough on the surface," agreed Lorraine thoughtfully, "but she's not the kind of woman I admire. Somehow I don't quite trust her. Do you believe in first impressions? So do I. Well, my first feeling about her was distinctly non-attractive. We ran away from each other mentally, like two pieces of magnetized steel. She's very sweet to me at my music lessons; but I'm sure it's all put on, and she doesn't care an atom. It's an entirely different thing from my Saturday lessons."
One great reason why Lorraine had not, with the rest of the school, fallen under the spell of the fascinating Russian lady, was the intense affection she had formed for her art teacher. She could not worship at both shrines, and she felt strongly that Margaret Lindsay was infinitely more worthy of admiration. The studio down by the harbour was still her artistic Mecca. She had a carte blanche invitation to go whenever she liked. She turned in there one Friday afternoon on her way from school.
"Carina," she said, flopping into a basket-chair by the fireside, "I'm just fed up to-day!"
The friendship, which had begun conventionally with the orthodox "Miss Lindsay", now expressed itself by "Margaret", "Peggy", or such pet terms as "Carina" and "Love-Angel".
"What's the matter?" asked her friend, squeezing a little extra flake-white on to her palette, and putting the cap on the tube again. "It isn't oftenyou'refed up with life!"
"Everything's gone wrong!" declared Lorraine tragically. "My head aches, and I didn't know my literature, and Miss Janet glared at me, and maths. were a failure this morning too, and I felt scratchy and squabbled with everybody. I'm afraid I was rather hard on some of those kids, though they were the limit! Carina, whenyouwere at school, did you sometimes have a fling out all round, or were you always good?"
"I confess," said Carina humorously, "that, when I trod the slippery paths of youth, I often flopped flat, and made an exhibition of myself. I don't think I was a nice child at all!"
"I call you a saint now! I wonder what most saints were like when they were young."
"Many of them began as sinners. I expect even St. Francis of Assisi howled when he was a baby, and smacked his nurse. We all feel more or less scratchy sometimes. What you want, child, is a good blow on the hills. If it should be as fine and mild to-morrow as it was this morning, we'll have our painting lesson out of doors. Bring your thick coat and a wrap and we'll go right up towards Tangy Point, take ourlunch and our sketch-books with us, find a sheltered place in the sun, and paint some pretty little bit on the cliffs. You'll go back to school on Monday feeling at peace with all mankind, or rather girlkind. Do you like my prescription?"
"Rather! You're the best doctor out! It'll be glorious to get away from everybody for a day. I have too much of Monica on Saturdays as a rule. I've an instinct it's going to be fine to-morrow!"
Porthkeverne had its share of sea-fog in winter, but it also had its quota of sunshine, and this particular February day turned out a foretaste of spring. Birds were singing everywhere as teacher and pupil, with lunch and sketching materials in their satchels, set off on their tramp over the moors. They crossed the common, where Lorraine had stood among the thistles for "Kilmeny", and came to "the little grey church on the windy hill", which Mr. Castleton had chosen as the scene for his illustrations to "The Forsaken Merman". The sound of the organ came through the open door, and, peeping in, Lorraine could see Morland's golden hair gleaming like a saint's halo in the chancel, and caught a glimpse of Landry's perfect profile as he sat listening in the dusty gallery.
"Shall we go and speak to them?" asked Margaret Lindsay.
"No," said Lorraine emphatically. "I'm not friends with Morland to-day. He promised to practise an accompaniment with me last night, and he never turned up. I shall just leave him to himself. He's a bad boy!"
"He has his limitations!" agreed Margaret.
The breath of early spring was in the air as they walked through the cluster of houses termed by courtesy "the village", and, climbing a stile, took the path along the cliffs. On such days the sap seems to rise in human beings as well as in the vegetable world. Lorraine literally danced along. Margaret Lindsay's artist eyes were busy registering impressions of sunlight on pearly stretches of sea, or effects of green sward and grey rock in shadow.
"The Cornish coast in February is perfect," she decided, "and it's so delightfully quiet. Heaven defend me from the 'fashionable resort', which is some people's idea of the seaside. I read the most delicious poem once. It began—