"First of April; nicely sold!"
For a moment Gipsy gazed at the words without really comprehending their meaning. Then it dawned upon her that she was the victim of a most cruel hoax. The revulsion of feeling was so great, and the disappointment so intense, that she gave a little, sharp, bitter cry, and, leaning forward over her desk, buried her head in her arms, and sobbed audibly.
"What is it, Gipsy? What's the matter?" enquired her neighbours.
"Read it! Oh, how could anybody?" choked Gipsy.
Hetty Hancock seized upon the sheet, which had fallen to the floor, and after one brief glance at its contents turned upon Maude with blazing eyes.
"I never thought much of you, Maude Helm, but I didn't believe even you could have invented such a detestably mean, dastardly trick as this. You deserve to be boycotted by every decent girl in the school."
"It was only a joke," blustered Maude. "Everyone expects to be taken in to-day."
"It's a wicked, heartless joke—the cruellest thing you could have thought of—and you knew it, and did it on purpose!"
"How could you, Maude? It's hateful!" came in a chorus from the other girls. "We'll tell Miss White!"
"Well, I'm sure it's not so dreadful, and it was Gladys who thought of it, too!" protested Maude, finding popular opinion against her.
"Don't try and put it off on Gladys, though one of you is as bad as the other. Girls, I'm not going to speak to Maude Helm or Gladys Merriman for a week, and I hope nobody else will either!" thundered Hetty.
Lennie Chapman and Meg Gordon were trying to comfort Gipsy, and make her take heart of grace again, but she had suffered a severe shock, and controlled herself with difficulty. She sat up, however, as Miss White came into the room.
"Don't tell her!" she whispered huskily. "What's the use? It would only make a fuss, and I hate fusses. The thing's over now, and I'd rather try and forget it. Maude needn't be proud of such a poor joke!"
"What a stoic you are!" returned Meg admiringly.
Easterwas drawing very near, and the school was to break up for more than three weeks. Gipsy, to her intense delight, had been asked to spend the holidays with the Gordons, and Miss Poppleton had graciously allowed her to accept the invitation.
"We had meant to ask you for Christmas," said Meg, "and Mother had even got as far as writing a letter to Poppie; then Billy broke out in spots, and the doctor said we might all have taken the infection, and we must stop in quarantine. It was a horrible nuisance. I felt so savage! But we couldn't invite you to come and share measles! We're all looking forward most tremendously to your visit. I'm so excited I can hardly wait till the end of the term!"
After six months spent entirely at Briarcroft, Gipsy felt that the idea of a change was most welcome and exhilarating. She liked Meg, and wanted to see her home surroundings. The two younger sisters, Eppie and Molly, she knew already, as they were in the Lower Third and Second Forms, and she had always set them down, in school parlance, as "jolly kids". The rest of the family she hoped would prove equally interesting.
Poor Gipsy heaved many a sigh as she packed her box. Her outfit seemed such a very shabby one with which to go a-visiting, and she hoped Mrs. Gordon would not feel ashamed of her guest. At the last moment Miss Edith, looking rather guilty and self-conscious, popped hastily into the bedroom and thrust a small parcel into her hand.
"It's a little present, Gipsy dear," she said nervously, "just some new hair ribbons and a pair of gloves and a tie. You've no need to tell Miss Poppleton or anybody that I gave them to you. Don't thank me—I'd rather you didn't! I do hope you'll enjoy yourself, you poor child!"
"Oh, Miss Edie! If a letter should happen to come for me from South Africa while I'm away, you'd send it on, wouldn't you?" asked Gipsy wistfully.
"I'd bring it myself, at once," returned Miss Edith, as she scuttled out of the room in a desperate hurry.
Mrs. Gordon sent a cab to Briarcroft on breaking-up day, and when Gipsy's box had been placed on the top, Meg, Eppie, and Molly bore away their guest with great rejoicing. The Gordons lived at an old-fashioned house about a mile from the school. It seemed quite in the country, with fields all round, and had an orchard and large garden, a pond, an asphalted tennis court for wet weather, as well as a grass one, and a croquet lawn.
Mrs. Gordon welcomed Gipsy most kindly, and at once made her feel at home, and the remainder of the family were introduced by degrees. Mr. Gordon,a jovial, genial man, greeted her with a humorous twinkle in his eye.
"So this is Meg's idol! Glad to see you, my dear!" he remarked. "If you can cure Meg of standing on one leg and puckering up her mouth when she talks, I'll be grateful. She seems disposed to listen to you in preference to anyone here, so please act mentor."
"Oh, Dad! Don't be naughty!" shrieked Meg. "What will Gipsy think of you?"
"A favourable opinion, I trust," laughed Mr. Gordon, as he vanished into his own particular sanctum.
Donald, Meg's elder brother, seemed disposed to be friendly; but Billy, the twelve-year-old offender who had started the family with measles, was afflicted with shyness, and preferred to inspect the visitor from afar until he grew accustomed to her presence. Rob, the youngest, a roguish laddie of six, fell openly in love with Gipsy at first sight, and prepared to monopolize her company to an extent that Meg would by no means allow.
"She's my friend, and hasn't come here to play with little boys. Run away to the nursery, and leave us alone!" she commanded, enforcing her words by a process of summary ejection, regardless of all wails.
Gipsy had further to form an acquaintance with two dogs, three cats, a dormouse, and a tame starling, before she was considered intimate with the whole household, but after that she felt thoroughly at home.
The Gordons were a particularly jolly, merry, happy-go-lucky set of young people, and they made their guest so entirely welcome that at the end of a fewdays she might have known them all for years. Even the bashful Billy soon ceased turning crimson whenever he spoke to her, while Eppie and Molly disputed fiercely over the honour of sitting next to her at tea. It happened to be a fine Easter, so outdoor occupations were in full swing. Gipsy was an ardent tennis player, and revelled in golf also. She and Meg and Donald made many cycling excursions, for the neighbourhood was pretty and the roads were good. With packets of sandwiches tied to their handlebars they would start off for a whole day's ride, to explore some ruined abbey or ancient castle, or to get a picturesque view of the fells. Donald, who was keen on collecting birds' eggs, would often stop the party, to hunt for nests in the hedges or banks; while Meg, whose hobby at present was wild flowers, kept a watchful eye for any fresh specimens that she might find growing by the roadside.
Mr. Gordon was an enthusiastic member of an Alpine Club, and he would sometimes take the elder and more reliable members of his family on to the fells for mountaineering practice. Many of the rocks afforded excellent training for Switzerland, without involving any special danger. These climbs were something quite new for Gipsy, and an immense delight. She was very fearless, and had a steady head, so she proved an apt pupil. Mr. Gordon would show her exactly how she must place her feet and hold herself so as to take advantage of the tiniest and narrowest ledges of rock, and she much enjoyed the excitement of accomplishing, under his guidance, whatwould have appeared to her impossible performances without his skilled advice. Meg and Donald had already received some training, and when Gipsy was sufficiently advanced to be able to keep up with them, Mr. Gordon allowed them all three to venture with him on a more difficult ascent, linked together with one of his Alpine ropes. Gipsy was proud indeed as she stood at the top of a jagged crag and waved her hand to Billy, who was taking a snapshot of the party from below.
Poor Billy was liable to fits of dizziness since his attack of measles, and was not allowed any real climbing, so he consoled himself by following the others about with a Brownie camera, and photographing them in the most dangerous-looking positions that he could catch.
"Billy must do some extra prints, and you could put them in the Magazine," suggested Meg to Gipsy. "You could write an article on 'Mountaineering in Cumberland'. It would be grand, and would make Maude Helm gnash her teeth with envy."
"Perhaps she's been doing something even more exciting to astonish us with," laughed Gipsy. "I wish we could have climbed a real mountain, like Skiddaw."
"Yes, there'd be some credit in that," commented Donald thoughtfully. He said no more at the moment, but a few days afterwards, when the three young people had set out on another cycling expedition, he had an enterprising plan to unfold.
"I vote we ride as far as Ribblethwaite, leave our machines there, and then climb Hawes Fell," heannounced. "We've started so early we'd have heaps and loads of time. It would be a thing worth doing! I didn't broach the idea at home because I knew the Mater'd be in such a state of mind, and think we were going to break our necks. It will be time enough to tell about it when we come back. Are you two game to go?"
"Rather!" exclaimed both the girls rapturously.
Gipsy, with her Colonial bringing up and independent American ideas, did not realize any necessity to ask permission for such an expedition. She had been in far wilder places, and considered the Cumberland fells civilized ground compared with portions of the Rockies and certain mountainous tracts of New Zealand with which she was familiar.
If Meg had any qualms of conscience she contrived to quiet them with the comforting assurance: "Dad would have taken us if he hadn't been busy at his office, and we can manage so well ourselves now, we can get on all right without him."
Ribblethwaite was a pretty little village about six miles away, a typical north-country hamlet with its stone cottages, with mullioned windows and flagged stone roofs, its grey turreted church tower, and its quick-flowing, brawling river. It was well wooded, but it stood high, and at this early season of the year the trees were still bare, and only a few green buds showed here and there on the hedges. The gardens were full of golden daffodils and clumps of opening polyanthus; but primroses—which had long been in blossom in the sheltered garden at Briarcroft—werehere only venturing into bud. As the inn looked clean and attractive, the three decided to leave their bicycles there, and to have a lunch of ham and eggs and coffee before setting out on their climb.
"Then we can take our sandwiches with us. We're sure to want them up there," said Donald.
"Yes; best to fortify ourselves thoroughly before we start," agreed Meg.
"Billy'll be fearfully sick when he hears where we've been," said Gipsy.
"Poor old Billy-ho! Yes, he'd have liked to follow us with his camera; but he's not quite up to tackling Hawes Fell just at present," agreed Meg.
The inn was a delightfully quaint, old-fashioned, primitive little place, such as is not often found in these days of modern improvements. Gipsy, who had had no opportunity before of seeing English country life, was enchanted with its sanded floor, its oak dresser with rows of willow-pattern plates, its pewter mugs and dishes, and the great brass preserving-pan that was set in the ingle-nook. She admired the oak beams of the ceiling, the rows of plant pots in the long mullioned window, the settle drawn up by the big fireplace, and the glass cases of stuffed pike and game birds that adorned the walls.
The lunch was a great success—a smoking dish of fried ham and eggs, home-made bread and farmhouse butter, thin oatcakes and moorland honey, and coffee, with thick yellow cream to pour into it.
"Beats school, doesn't it?" said Donald, with a chuckle of enjoyment, as he helped himself to a thirdserving of honey. "I say, though, we shan't have to stop too long feasting here if we mean to get to the top of Hawes Fell. It's a jolly good step, I can tell you."
"We're ready!" returned Meg smartly. "We were only waiting for you to finish gormandizing."
"Thanks for the compliment! One doesn't get the chance of heather honey every day, and I've a remarkably sweet tooth. Anything in the way of jam or preserves left near me invariably vanishes."
The way up the fell lay first over the old stone bridge that spanned the river, then across fields, and by a narrow footpath leading up a steep and thickly-wooded hillside. Though the trees were still in their winter garb they were none the less lovely for that; the lack of foliage revealed the delicate tracery of their boughs and the beauty of their straight stems, which, in one or two terraced glades, were like the columns and shafts of some great cathedral. The sun shining down the glen gave a soft purplish tint to the bare twigs, and brought out in bolder contrast the deep dark green of the innumerable masses of ivy that had utterly taken possession of and choked some of the trees supporting them.
"Isn't it glorious? I always say our fells need a great deal of beating," said Meg, who was an enthusiast over her native county. "I don't believe there's a wood equal to this anywhere!" and she began to sing the old north-country ditty:
"A north-countree maidUp to London had strayed,Although with her nature it did not agree.She wept and she sighed,And she bitterly cried:'I wish once again in the north I could be!Oh! the oak and the ash and the bonny ivy tree,They all grow so green in the north countree!'"
"Don't know whether you'll get Gipsy to agree with you; she ought to be a dab critic of scenery by now," grunted Donald.
"Oh, it's lovely!" said Gipsy, who was enjoying herself immensely. "Of course it's quite, quite different from America, or Australia, or South Africa. It's smaller, but it's prettier in its own way. It looks much more cultivated."
"Ah! wait till you get right out on the moor at the top. You won't insult that by calling it cultivated."
The woods were soon left behind, and the pathway led ever upwards, first through a tangle of heather and bilberry and gorse; then, higher still, over short, fine, slippery tracts of grass. They were reaching the upper region of the fell, where the hard rock cropped out into great splintered crags, weathered by countless winter storms, and where no bushes or softer herbage could face the struggle for existence. So far the walk had been comparatively easy, but now the footpath had disappeared, and they were obliged to trust to their knowledge of mountaineering. The top still towered above them a very long way off, and they calculated it would need a two hours' climb before they could reach the particular crag that marked the extreme summit.
Donald assumed the leadership of the party, and,scanning the mountainside with what he called an Alpine eye, decided which would be their best course to pursue. There were several steep precipices and awkward places that must be avoided, for though they were all quite ready to try their skill at scaling rocks, it seemed no use to waste unnecessary time over performing difficult feats.
"I expect that last crag will give us enough practice in that," remarked Donald. "I've brought a rope with me in case we want it—got it wound round and round my waist under my coat."
"Oh, that explains why you look so stout to-day!" laughed Meg. "I should think it's pretty uncomfortable."
"Not a bit of it! It keeps me warm. I call it jolly cold up here."
"I believe we've reached the Arctic zone!" agreed Gipsy.
The air had undoubtedly grown colder with every hundred feet of their ascent. The sunshine had disappeared, grey clouds had gathered, and feathery flakes of snow began to fall lightly. The grass was soon covered with a thin white coating which gave a delightfully Alpine aspect to the scene. The prospect was glorious—the sharp, splintered, snow-crested crags stood out in bold relief against the neutral-tinted sky, and the long stretches of moor below them looked soft and blurred masses of whiteness.
"We can find our way home by our footsteps in the snow!" said Gipsy, drawing long breaths of the pure, exhilarating air.
"I wonder if we ought to turn back," said Meg, rather doubtfully.
"Turn back!" exclaimed Donald. "You don't mean to say you want to turn tail now, Meg? Why, we're just getting to the exciting part!"
"I was only thinking of the snow."
"Why, that makes it all the more like Switzerland! You don't suppose Dad turns back at the snowline when he's doing a climb? We're in luck to have the chance of a little snow. I wish there'd been a keen frost, and we could have tried an ice axe somewhere. Pluck up your courage, Meg! You'll never do the Matterhorn if you shirk Hawes Fell!"
Thus encouraged Meg said no more, though she had her private doubts about the wisdom of proceeding farther. It is an unpleasant task to be a drag on other people's amusement, and both Donald and Gipsy were very keen on making the ascent. So they scrambled onward and upward, slipping often on the rapidly freezing rocks, helping each other over difficult places, sighing for nailed boots and alpenstocks, but laughing and enjoying the fun of the adventure.
To climb to the summit certainly taxed all their strength. The mountain seemed to heave before them in a succession of huge boulders, and as each one was scaled another appeared beyond it. At length they reached a piled confusion of rocks, where a little cairn had been built of small stones and loose pieces of shale.
"There we are! The very place!" shouted Donald. "I knew we'd find it if we pegged along. Now, canyou girls tackle this last bit? Wouldn't you like to use the rope?"
The final piece of crag was slippery enough to justify Donald's offer, and as he seemed particularly anxious not to have brought his rope in vain, the others consented to give it a trial. With its aid the difficult bit was accomplished fairly easily, and the three were soon standing in triumph by the cairn, hurrahing and waving their handkerchiefs with much excitement.
"I'm going to eat my sandwiches here; I'm fagged out," declared Gipsy, sitting down on a stone and suddenly realizing that she was tired and hungry.
The others followed suit, very ready for a rest and a picnic. It was a long time since their lunch at the inn, and the frosty air had given them keen appetites. It was too cold to sit still, however, for more than five or ten minutes; a bitter wind had sprung up, and the snow, which had only fallen very lightly before, began to come down in thicker and heavier flakes.
"We'd better be going, or we shan't be able to find our way," worried Meg anxiously.
"Right-o! only we must each add a stone to the cairn first," replied Donald. "I've a pencil here, and we'll write our names on them as proof conclusive that we've been, in case anybody doubts our word afterwards."
So "Gipsy Latimer", "Margaret Gordon", and "Donald Alexander Gordon" were duly inscribed on smooth pieces of shale and placed as evidence on the top of the pile, after which ceremony the three begantheir descent with something of the feeling of Arctic explorers who had reached the Pole.
It was indeed high time to return. Clouds were blowing up fast, and with the thickening snow began rapidly to obscure the view. The trio went very cautiously, trying to remember various landmarks which they had noticed on the way up. Gipsy's idea of retracing their footsteps in the snow soon proved futile, for already all tracks were obliterated. It was impossible to see far in front of them, and but for the compass that hung on Donald's watch-chain they would have had no notion of where they were going.
"We must keep due west, and look out sharp for precipices. Don't let us get separated on any account. Hadn't we better use the rope again?"
"I don't believe we're anywhere near the way we came up. I don't recognize these rocks in the least," said Meg.
"Never mind, if we get down somewhere to civilization," returned Gipsy.
"Yes, but we don't want to be five miles away from our bicycles!"
"We're all right!" exclaimed Donald jubilantly. "Here's the piece of white quartz we were sitting on, I'm sure. Yes!" (grubbing about under the snow) "I'm right, for here's a scrap of the silver paper from the chocolate we were eating. Hurrah! I'm going to set up for an Alpine guide!"
The snow was clearing considerably as they got farther down the mountainside, and after a while they were able to recognize various points of thelandscape, and realized that Donald's compass and instinct for locality had led them correctly.
"It was a narrow squeak, though," confessed Meg. "I don't mind telling you now that I thought we should have to stay up there all night! It's getting fearfully late—we must sprint back when we reach our machines."
"We'll have some hot tea at the inn first," declared Donald. "You girls will never sprint six miles without!"
Very tired, but exceedingly proud of themselves, the mountaineers reached home at half-past eight, to find Mr. and Mrs. Gordon looking out anxiously for their return.
"You young scamps! I'd no idea you were going climbing on your own!" said Mr. Gordon. "I'd have forbidden it if I'd known. Hawes Fell is a nasty little bit at the finish."
"But we did it, Dad!" cried Meg excitedly. "We put our feet on all the right ledges, just as you taught us. Oh! Don't you think I'm old enough to go to Switzerland with you next summer, and try some real ice work? You promised you'd take me when I was fifteen!"
Afterthe delightful three weeks spent with the Gordons, Gipsy felt that so pleasant an experience of English home life made it doubly difficult to return to Briarcroft. No news of her father had arrived during her absence, and she was received with black looks by Miss Poppleton. She had begun to dread, with a shrinking, nervous horror, those futile interviews with the Principal—interviews in which she could only state again how little she knew, and listen to fresh reproaches. She tried to brace herself for the ordeal when ordered to the study, but her heart failed her as she tapped at the door, and she entered with something of the apprehension of a victim of the Inquisition facing the torture chamber. She advanced hesitatingly towards the Principal's desk, and stood without speaking, a forlorn enough little figure to have excited compassion in the most mercenary heart. Miss Poppleton glanced at her furtively, and looked away again. She had made up her mind not to allow herself to be worked upon by her feelings, and meant to speak plainly.
AN INTERVIEW WITH MISS POPPLETONAN INTERVIEW WITH MISS POPPLETON
"It's no use mincing matters, Gipsy!" she began,blustering a little to hide her own sense of uneasiness. "Here we are at the beginning of another term, and things are exactly the same as they were at Christmas. Not a word from your father, or from your New Zealand relations either. It's plain enough they mean to abandon you! Now, I want you to understand that I can't be responsible for you. You must think again. Are there absolutely no relations or friends to whom you can apply?"
Gipsy sighed as she gave the same old answer. Had she been possessed of any information, how gladly would she have supplied it!
"I can't keep a school for philanthropy," frowned Miss Poppleton. "I'm afraid your father is an adventurer pure and simple. He's left you on my hands, and gone off, who knows where? I'll let you have one more term here, just on the chance of his turning up; but if we've heard nothing by the summer holidays, then I shall be obliged to apply to the Emigration Society, and send you out to New Zealand. Your relatives there would be forced, at least, to support you, though I suppose I shall have to write down your fees here as bad debts. In the meantime you must make yourself as useful as you can, out of school hours. You might help Miss Edith with the mending, and look after No. 1 dormitory. I can't afford to keep you here on the same footing as an ordinary pupil. It's an unpleasant business from beginning to end."
Very unpleasant, thought poor Gipsy, as she availed herself of permission to go. Her proud spirit could not bear her position of sufferance in the school, andshe would almost have preferred to be handed over to the Emigration Society, and deported to New Zealand. That her father should be called an adventurer seemed the cruellest cut of all. The reason for his long silence she could not fathom, but she was positive he would never abandon her, and her faith in him did not waver. Some day, if he were still alive, she knew he would come to claim her; and in the meantime, though life was dark, for the sake of her own self-respect she must show a brave front. Gipsy certainly needed all the courage and fortitude of which she was possessed.
If last term had been hard, the present term was harder still. Miss Poppleton's hint about making her useful was no idle remark, as she soon found to her cost. Instead of joining the other girls at tennis and croquet in her play hours, she was expected to sit in the linen room, darning stockings and hemming dusters, or mending damaged garments. She was made into a kind of attendant for the little ones who slept in No. 1 dormitory, and was responsible for brushing their hair, seeing that they had their baths, putting away their clothes, and keeping their room in order. It was a recognized thing that she was to be at the beck and call of all the mistresses, to run errands, take messages, fetch articles wanted, and do innumerable little "odd jobs" about the house.
She was willing enough thus to help to earn her salt, but the unfortunate part was that the extra work made serious inroads upon her time. Her new dormitory duties took a large slice out of each evening, and no allowances were made in class for the fact that her hours of preparation were curtailedShe resented the injustice of being reproached for badly learnt lessons, when she had been busy the night before washing the hair of her little charges, copying some notes for Miss Lindsay, sorting music, filling inkpots, and stitching fresh braid on Miss Poppleton's skirt. The mistresses did not really mean to impose upon Gipsy, but having been told to make the girl of use, it was so easy to hand over all the tiresome extra things for her to do, and completely to forget that an accumulation of trifles may make a large sum. It never struck anybody that Gipsy's legs could grow weary with constantly running up and down stairs, or that she preferred tennis to darning and croquet to brushing children's coats; all were supremely busy with their own concerns; and though Miss Edith sometimes noticed that she looked tired, loyalty to Miss Poppleton forbade the least interference. So Gipsy plodded away, with a grim determination to do her best, and not to give in under any circumstances whatsoever. She was much too proud to make complaints to her friends, even if they could have helped her, and met their compassion for her non-appearance at the tennis courts with an assumption of indifference.
"I can't get at Gipsy nowadays!" said Hetty Hancock to Dilys Fenton. "She seems quite changed this term, since Poppie's made her into a kind of pupil teacher. It's as if there were a barrier suddenly set up between us."
"So there is—a barrier of her own making," sighed Dilys. "I've tried to get across it myself, and I can't. The fact is, Gipsy's about the proudest girl in theschool, and she's eating her heart out at finding herself in this queer position. She's neither exactly a pupil, nor a teacher, nor a monitress, nor anything: indeed, Poppie treats her more as a servant; sometimes she absolutely wipes her boots on her! Gipsy's like a princess sold into slavery! She's taking it hardly, but she won't let it crush her spirit. I think she feels so sore, she can't even bear our sympathy."
"I wish we could do something," groaned Hetty.
"Nothing would be of any use, unless you could find her father. I'm afraid, myself, he must be dead."
"She's fighting a battle against fearful odds," said Hetty, shaking her head. "She's keeping her self-respect when most girls would have given way utterly. I suppose there's nothing to be done but just look on and admire her pluck. I should like to speak my mind to Poppie sometimes!"
"You'd do Gipsy no good, I'm afraid."
"I wonder Miss Edith doesn't stand up more for her."
"Miss Edith! She's a jellyfish—a crushed worm—a mere serf and vassal! She's frightened to death of her sister, in my opinion, and hardly dare call her soul her own. She'd be nice enough to Gipsy if Poppie'd let her."
"Look here! I hope Gipsy's going to the Fourth Form picnic next week."
"Gracious! So do I. I hadn't thought of it. She never does go to anything now that needs paying for. Oh, but she must! We can't have her left out of it. Let's beard Poppie boldly in her den, offer to pay Gipsy's share in private, and beg for her to come."
"I'm game if you are, and ready to go halves."
The Upper and Lower Fourth Forms always joined in an excursion, which was invariably held on the first Saturday in June. They went, under the care of Miss White, to visit some place of interest in the neighbourhood, and the journey was made either by train or in hired wagonettes. Tea was provided at a farmhouse or hotel, and counting the price of admission to ruins and tips to guides, the little jaunt generally worked out at about three or four shillings per head. All the other Forms in the school had similar picnics: the Fifth and Sixth invariably combined, as did the First and Second; and the Third, which like the Fourth consisted of Upper and Lower divisions, was large enough to have its own outing. To miss the annual excursion would be felt by any girl as a terrible omission, almost as bad as missing the prize-giving or the Christmas soirée.
Hetty and Dilys hastened therefore to Miss Poppleton's study, to make quite sure that on such an important occasion Gipsy should not be left behind. They stated their case with considerable eagerness and enthusiasm.
"We'd pay all Gipsy's share between us, only, please, we'd rather she didn't know anything about that part of it," ended Dilys, who did the most of the talking.
Miss Poppleton received the suggestion with a coldness that was particularly damping.
"I can't decide anything at present," she said briefly. "I doubt if Gipsy can be spared. Her new duties keep her occupied in looking after the little ones, and Saturday is a busy day. No, Dilys, I can't promise.Gipsy must remember it is impossible for her to have everything the same as other girls, and she must not expect it."
"Oh, she didn't ask us to ask you! She doesn't know anything about it. It was our idea entirely," put in Hetty hastily.
"I'm glad to hear it," returned Miss Poppleton dryly, and dismissed the girls without further ceremony.
"I don't believe she means to let her go," declared Dilys indignantly, as they walked down the passage. "Poppie's taken an absolute spite against Gipsy lately. But I'll be even with her! I've got an idea. Let's make the picnic a Guild affair, and persuade all the Lower School to join together and do the same excursion on the same day. Then Gipsy'd be bound to go, to help to look after those kids! Besides, she's the Secretary."
"Stunning! I believe we shall compass it. Only don't say what's our object, or Maude Helm or somebody will be putting a spoke in our wheel perhaps. We'll call a meeting of the Guild and propose it. You bring it up, and I'll second it."
Dilys's and Hetty's suggestion was very well received by the Guild. The idea of a big united picnic sounded attractive, so the motion was carried unanimously. It was of course necessary to refer the matter to Miss Poppleton and the mistresses, but they were not likely to offer objections to a scheme favoured by the whole of the Lower School. It would indeed be easier for the mistresses to co-operate than for each to take charge of a separate Form. It was decidedto ask permission for the excursion to be regarded as the annual treat of the Guild, and particularly to request that all officers should be present and wear their badges.
"Done Poppie for once, I believe!" triumphed Dilys. "She can't have the cheek to keep our Secretary at home. The Guild would mutiny."
"She's made such a fuss of the Guild, she's bound to allow us some latitude," agreed Hetty.
"Then on Saturday week Gipsy shall get one treat, if she doesn't get another all this term."
But before Saturday week something happened.
Among the various rules of Briarcroft, one of the strictest was that which forbade any boarders to go outside the grounds without first obtaining special permission from Miss Poppleton. The day girls at the school wore the regulation sailor hat with a plain band of navy-blue ribbon, but the boarders, to distinguish them from the others, had a navy band with a white stripe in it. They were extremely proud of these stripes, which they regarded as a badge of superiority, similar to the gold tassels which, many years ago, were worn by the sons of the nobility on their college caps at Oxford. The hats were of course very well known in the neighbourhood, and nobody who lived anywhere near the school could possibly mistake the Briarcroft "sailor".
Now it came to Miss Poppleton's ears, through the medium of one of those malicious little birds who have a reputation for carrying inconvenient pieces of information, that on several evenings, just at dusk, a girl who wore a boarder's hat had been seen to leave thegarden and hurry up the road, returning about five minutes later to dodge with great caution inside the gate. Such a proceeding was manifestly irregular and highly improper. Miss Poppleton, at first indignant at the very idea that one of her pupils could be guilty of so great an indiscretion, nevertheless felt it her solemn duty to investigate the matter thoroughly, and either expose the offender or deny the imputation. She was the more particularly annoyed because the hint came from a quarter which, if not absolutely hostile, was inclined to regard her establishment as old-fashioned, and to air the notion that there was room for another high-class ladies' school in Greyfield. In the face of such reports, the scandal must be instantly suppressed. She arranged, therefore, that a careful watch should be kept on the school, and if anyone were seen going out or returning in a surreptitious and unorthodox fashion, the occurrence must be immediately reported, so that she could act promptly and catch the delinquent. She said nothing about the affair to the girls, as she did not wish to put them on their guard, but Miss Edith and the mistresses were instructed to use extreme vigilance.
One of the manifold duties that had lately been heaped upon Gipsy's shoulders was the task of sorting the stockings that came from the wash, and putting in a pile those that required darning. She had been very busy one evening with this rather uncongenial occupation, and had barely finished the necessary counting and arranging, when the bell rang for preparation. During the last few days Miss Lindsay had insisted upon Gipsy joining the others and learningher lessons as usual, and had scolded her if she were absent, even on an errand for another mistress. It was most unreasonable to reproach her for what was seldom her own fault; but knowing that Miss Lindsay would expect her to be in her place, she hastily put the stockings away, and fled to fetch her books.
Preparation was being held in the Juniors' room, and the girls were sitting on forms round the long table. Gipsy, scuttling in just in time to avoid the mistress's censure, took a seat between Hetty Hancock and Lennie Chapman, and, opening her French grammar, began to write an exercise. All the Junior boarders were at work with the exception of Dilys Fenton, Leonora Parker, and Barbara Kendrick, who were practising, for the girls had to take turns to use the pianos, according to a carefully arranged monthly music list. Gipsy plodded on with her exercise, and had arrived at sentence No. 9 when suddenly a horrible thought struck her. It had been rather dark in the linen room, and in order to examine the stockings better, she had switched on the electric light. She was almost certain that in her hurry she had forgotten to turn it off again. Leaving on the electric light unnecessarily was one of Gipsy's worst crimes, a negligence for which Miss Poppleton had often rebuked her severely. If the Principal were to walk past the linen room she would certainly enquire who had been there last, and would administer a scolding, at the prospect of which Gipsy shivered.
She wondered if she dared ask Miss Lindsay to allow her to go and ascertain. It was a mild, wetevening, much darker than usual, and the mistress sat reading close by the window, so as to catch the advantage of the fading light. Her profile, rather stern in its outline, did not look particularly encouraging, and Gipsy sighed, knowing that her request would probably be met by a prompt refusal. What was she to do? It was a question of braving either Miss Lindsay's or Miss Poppleton's wrath—perhaps both. 'Twixt two fires she hesitated, then an idea occurred to her. If she could get out of the room and return to her place without the governess discovering her absence, all would be well. Miss Lindsay seemed absorbed in her book, and as long as her pupils kept quietly at work she took no particular notice of them. As before stated, she was seated close to the window, while the girls were placed round a long table, the end of which, nearest to the open door, was unoccupied. Gipsy hastily scribbled on a scrap of paper: "I'm going to do a bolt—don't give me away!" and, with her finger on her lips for silence, showed it to her two neighbours, Lennie and Hetty. Then very quietly and cautiously she dropped from the form, and began to creep underneath the table in the direction of the open door. Lennie and Hetty, after a glance at the paper, comprehended her scheme, and moved nearer together, lest her absence should be betrayed by a telltale gap. Some of the other girls of course noticed the occurrence, but, being loyal to Gipsy, they held their tongues and made no sign. As gently as a mouse she crept under the whole length of the table, chuckling inwardly at the fun of the adventure.
I do not believe anyone in the school except Gipsywould have thought of such a rash and risky experiment; but she had not yet entirely forgotten her old Colonial habits, and every now and then, despite Miss Poppleton's discipline, her wild spirits would crop up and assert themselves in very questionable ways. Miss Lindsay read calmly on, quite oblivious of the fact that one of her pupils was crawling through the doorway on all-fours, and that the greater proportion of the rest were consciously aiding and abetting such a scandalous proceeding. Once she had gained the passage in safety, Gipsy sprang to her feet and ran with all speed to the linen room. As she expected, the light was still on, so she switched it off with supreme satisfaction, congratulating herself heartily that Miss Poppleton had not been before her. It was only the work of a minute, and she hoped she could regain her place at the table in the same way as she had left it, without being missed by Miss Lindsay. She was hurrying back along the passage when Leonora, coming from practising, entered from the opposite direction, and without seeing Gipsy or noticing her frantic signs, went into the Juniors' room and closed the door behind her.
The Peri shut out of Paradise was as nothing to the disconcerted girl who stood blankly in the corridor. Poor Gipsy was indeed in a dilemma. It was utterly impossible to open the door and walk in, but in the meantime every minute increased the probability of her absence being detected. There seemed nothing for it but to hang about on the chance that Dilys or Barbara might also return from practising, and that she could persuade one of them to leave thedoor open, so as to give her the opportunity of entering. But the corridor was not a safe place to wait in. Mistresses or Seniors might very possibly be passing, and would ask awkward questions. It seemed more discreet to retire downstairs, where she might catch Dilys as she came from the library. There was a large cupboard in the hall where the boarders kept some of their outdoor clothes, and here Gipsy took refuge, listening to the five difficult bars of a sonata with which Dilys was wrestling, and wishing her friend's half-hour at the piano might soon expire. As she stood among the coats and waterproofs, peeping out through a small chink of the door, she noticed Miss Poppleton come from the drawing-room, and cross the hall in the direction of the library. Gipsy was in a panic of fright. What account should she give of herself if her retreat were to be discovered? Alarm made her draw her breath sharply, and the action, combined perhaps with some dust or a slight cold—alack! alack!—brought on a terrific and utterly uncontrollable fit of sneezing.
"Ha-chaw! Ha-chaw! Ha-chaw!" issued from the cupboard with horrible distinctness. Miss Poppleton paused for a second, then made an instant dart, and seized the culprit in the very midst of her fourth convulsive gasp.
"Oh, indeed! So it's you, Gipsy Latimer, is it?" said the Principal grimly. "What are you doing here, I should like to know?"
Too much taken aback even to sneeze again, poor Gipsy stood looking the picture of guilt, without volunteering any explanation of her presence in thecupboard. She felt that to do so would only involve her in further difficulties. Miss Poppleton's keen, suspicious eyes seemed to note every detail of her embarrassment.
"You've been out, Gipsy Latimer; it's easy enough to tell that! So you're the one who's been seen every evening in Mansfield Road!"
"Out!" gasped Gipsy, galvanized into speech by the utter falsity of the accusation. "No, indeed! I haven't been out of the house at all."
"It isn't the slightest use denying it," returned Miss Poppleton harshly. "I might have known it would be you. Besides—" (here she began to examine the waterproofs and hats that were hanging upon the hooks), "Oh, you wicked, wicked girl! Here's proof conclusive that you are telling a deliberate untruth! Why, your 'sailor' and your mackintosh are quite wet! Look at them, marked with your name, and try to deceive me if you dare!"
"But, Miss Poppleton, indeed, indeed, you're mistaken!" protested Gipsy with warmth. "If you want proof, look at my shoes—they're not wet."
"You may think you're very clever, but you're not able to blind me! Whose galoshes are these, I should like to know, all muddy and covered with gravel? I suppose you'll pretend your initials are not 'G. L.' Go along immediately to your bedroom. I intend to sift the matter to the bottom. So this is how you repay me for my kindness in keeping you here!"
From Miss Poppleton's point of view the case against poor Gipsy certainly looked extremely black. Apparently she had been caught in the very act of returningfrom some clandestine excursion, and was leaving her incriminatingly moist garments in the cupboard when she was surprised.
The more the affair was investigated, the more everything seemed to indicate her guilt. The girls who had been present with her at preparation were obliged, much against their will, to confess how she had left the room without Miss Lindsay's knowledge by crawling under the table, and what had been merely a piece of mischief assumed a far graver aspect when coupled with other circumstances. It was really a very serious fault of which poor Gipsy was accused. She was supposed not only to have set the school rules deliberately at defiance by taking a surreptitious walk alone in the evening, but to have shielded herself by the most brazen falsehoods. Remembering how, when she had first come to Briarcroft, she had begged to be permitted to go out, had chafed against the confinement of her life, and had constantly quoted the larger liberty allowed in American schools, Miss Poppleton could easily believe that she would be ready to break bounds if she found a suitable opportunity; and though hitherto Gipsy had been strictly truthful, her previous reputation for honour could not do away with the circumstantial evidence of the damp waterproof and galoshes.
The neighbours who had reported noticing one of the Briarcroft boarders in Mansfield Road on several successive evenings could give no account of the truant's personal appearance. It had been dusk at the time, and they had only seen a girl in a sailor hat with a blue-and-white striped band hurrying rapidly past, asif anxious to escape observation. They thought she had dark hair, and that she must be about fourteen or fifteen years of age, but otherwise could not identify her in the least. The description might or might not fit Gipsy, but Miss Poppleton, misled by her own prejudice, jumped immediately to the conclusion that she and no other was the miscreant. If she had been harsh with the girl before, she was terribly stern with her now. She considered it an act of the very basest ingratitude and the most double-dyed deceit, and was the more particularly angry because the episode had brought the school into discredit. She had always prided herself upon the immaculate behaviour of her boarders, and it was extremely galling to have such an occurrence talked about in the neighbourhood. The reputation of Briarcroft, hitherto above reproach, had sustained a serious blow, from which it might take some time to recover.
"This is what comes of fostering the children of adventurers!" she said bitterly. "I feel as if I had warmed a serpent, and it had turned and stung me for my pains."
"I couldn't have believed it of Gipsy!" sobbed Miss Edith, who, if anything, was even more concerned than her sister, owing to her predilection for the offender.
"You were always much too generously disposed towards her," sniffed Miss Poppleton. "She certainly has not proved worthy of your kindness."
The affair made the most immense sensation in the school. Nothing else was talked of next morning, and the day girls questioned the boarders closely upon every detail.
"Isn't it awful?" sighed Lennie Chapman. "And to think that we had to tell about her!"
"We don't believe she's really done it, though," protested Hetty Hancock.
"It looks bad, I'm afraid," said Mary Parsons, shaking her head gravely. "It's so queer!"
"Very queer for a girl who set herself up to teach other people, like Gipsy," sneered Maude Helm. "What do you think of your precious leader now?"
"Where is Gipsy?" asked Meg Gordon.
"Locked up in the dressing-room next Poppie's bedroom till she confesses, and that she declares she won't do, if she stays there till she dies! We've none of us seen her, of course. We're forbidden to go anywhere near."
"Oh, poor Gipsy! I'm so sorry for her! Whatever did she go and do it for?" wailed Daisy Scatcherd.
"You don't for a second suppose Gipsy's guilty?" said Meg Gordon indignantly. "If you do—well then, you just don't know Gipsy Latimer, that's all!"