Produced by Suzanne Shell and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net









The School by the Sea




    BLACKIE & SON LIMITED
    50 Old Bailey, LONDON
    17 Stanhope Street, GLASGOW

    BLACKIE & SON (INDIA) LIMITED
    Warwick House, Fort Street, BOMBAY

    BLACKIE & SON (CANADA) LIMITED
    TORONTO




[Illustration: "THERE IS SOMEBODY OR SOMETHING INSIDE THE BARRED ROOM!"
SHE GASPED _Page 149_ _Frontispiece_]




    The School by the Sea

    BY
    ANGELA BRAZIL

    Author of "Joan's Best Chum" "The School in the South"
    "The Youngest Girl in the Fifth"
    &c. &c.

    _Illustrated_

    BLACKIE & SON LIMITED
    LONDON AND GLASGOW




By Angela Brazil

    At School with Rachel.
    Ruth of St. Ronan's.
    Joan's Best Chum.
    Captain Peggie.
    Schoolgirl Kitty.
    The School in the South.
    Monitress Merle.
    Loyal to the School.
    A Fortunate Term.
    A Popular Schoolgirl.
    The Princess of the School.
    A Harum-Scarum Schoolgirl.
    The Head Girl at the Gables.
    A Patriotic Schoolgirl.
    For the School Colours.
    The Madcap of the School.
    The Luckiest Girl in the School.
    The Jolliest Term on Record.
    The Girls of St. Cyprian's.
    The Youngest Girl in the Fifth.
    The New Girl at St. Chad's.
    For the Sake of the School.
    The School by the Sea.
    The Leader of the Lower School.
    A Pair of Schoolgirls.
    A Fourth Form Friendship.
    The Manor House School.
    The Nicest Girl in the School.
    The Third Form at Miss Kaye's.
    The Fortunes of Philippa.




_Printed in Great Britain by Blackie & Son Ltd. Glasgow_




Contents


    CHAP.                                                 Page

        I. THE INTERLOPER                                    9

       II. A KINGDOM BY THE SEA                             20

      III. A MYSTERIOUS SCHOOLFELLOW                        30

       IV. "THE KING OF THE CASTLE"                         42

        V. PRACTICAL GEOGRAPHY                              51

       VI. RAGTIME                                          65

      VII. AN INVITATION                                    76

     VIII. A MEETING ON THE SHORE                           89

       IX. A MESSAGE                                        99

        X. MAROONED                                        114

       XI. "CORIOLANUS"                                    127

      XII. IN QUARANTINE                                   140

     XIII. THE LIFE-BOAT ANNIVERSARY                       153

      XIV. THE BEACON FIRE                                 166

       XV. THE OLD WINDLASS                                179

      XVI. HARE AND HOUNDS                                 192

     XVII. A DISCOVERY                                     205

    XVIII. AN ALARM                                        224

      XIX. A TORN LETTER                                   235




Illustrations


                                                        Facing
                                                         Page

    "THERE IS SOMEBODY OR SOMETHING INSIDE THE
    BARRED ROOM!" SHE GASPED                    _Frontispiece_

    A SMALL BOY WAS WAVING HIS CAP IN FRANTIC WELCOME       48

    THE MAN APPEARED TO HAVE MANY DIRECTIONS TO GIVE        96

    GERDA DARTED UPON THE BATHFUL OF OLD LETTERS           200




THE SCHOOL BY THE SEA




CHAPTER I

The Interloper


Girls! Girls everywhere! Girls in the passages, girls in the hall,
racing upstairs and scurrying downstairs, diving into dormitories and
running into classrooms, overflowing on to the landing and hustling
along the corridor--everywhere, girls! There were tall and short, and
fat and thin, and all degrees from pretty to plain; girls with fair hair
and girls with dark hair, blue-eyed, brown-eyed, and grey-eyed girls;
demure girls, romping girls, clever girls, stupid girls--but never a
silent girl. No! Buzz-hum-buzz! The talk and chatter surged in a full,
steady flow round the house till the noise invaded even that sanctuary
of sanctuaries, the private study, where Miss Birks, the Principal, sat
addressing post cards to inform respective parents of the safe arrival
of the various individual members of the frolicsome crew which had just
reassembled after the Christmas vacation. In ordinary circumstances
such an indiscretion as squealing on the stairs or dancing in the
passages would have brought Miss Birks from her den, dealing out stern
rebukes, if not visiting dire justice on the offenders; but for this one
brief evening--the first night of the term--the old house was Liberty
Hall. Each damsel did what seemed good in her own eyes, and talked,
laughed, and joked to her heart's content.

"Let them fizz, poor dears!" said Miss Birks, smiling to herself as a
special outburst of mirth was wafted up from below. "It does them good
to work off steam when they arrive. They'll have to be quiet enough
to-morrow. Really, the twenty make noise enough for a hundred! They're
all on double-voice power to-night! Shades of the Franciscans, what a
noise! It seems almost sacrilege in an old convent."

If indeed the gentle, grey-robed nuns who long, long ago had stolen
silently along those very same stairs could have come back to survey the
scene of their former activities, I fear on this particular occasion
they would have wrung their slim, transparent hands in horror over the
stalwart modern maidens who had succeeded them in possession of the
ancient, rambling house. No pale-faced novices these, with downcast eyes
and cheeks sunken with fasting; no timid glances, no soft ethereal
footfalls or gliding garments--the old order had changed indeed, and
yielded place to a rosy, racy, healthy, hearty, well-grown set of
twentieth-century schoolgirls, overflowing with vigorous young life and
abounding spirits, mentally and physically fit, and about as different
from their mediaeval forerunners as a hockey stick is from a spindle.

Among the jolly, careless company that on this January evening held
carnival in the vaulted passages, and woke the echoes of the
time-hallowed walls, no two had abandoned themselves to the fun of the
moment more thoroughly than Deirdre Sullivan and Dulcie Wilcox. They had
attempted to dance five varieties of fancy steps on an upper landing,
had performed a species of Highland fling down the stairs, and had
finished with an irregular jog-trot along the lower corridor, subsiding
finally, scarlet with their exertions, and wellnigh voiceless, on to the
bottom step of the back staircase.

"Oh!--let's--sit here--and talk," heaved Deirdre, her power of speech
returning in jerks. "I'm--tired--of ragging round--and--I've not seen
you--for ages!--and oh!--there's such heaps and heaps--to tell.
Look!--she's over there!"

"Who?" queried Dulcie laconically. She was stouter than Deirdre, and,
like Hamlet, "scant of breath".

"Why, she, of course!"

"Don't be a lunatic! Which she? And what she? And why she of all shes?"
gasped Dulcie, still rather convulsively and painfully.

"What 'she' could I possibly mean except the new girl?"

"You don't mean to tell me there's a new girl?"

"You don't surely mean to tell me you've never noticed her! You blind
bat! Why, there she is as large as life! Can't you see her, stupid? The
atrocious part of it is, she's been stuck into our bedroom!"

Dulcie sprang up, with hands outstretched in utter tragedy.

"No!" she wailed, "oh, no! no! Surely Miss Birks hasn't been heartless
enough to fill up that spare bed! Oh, I'll never forgive her, never! Our
ducky, chummy little room to be invaded by a third--and a stranger! It's
sheer barbarous cruelty! Oh, I thought better of her! What have we done
to be treated like this? It's pure and simple brutality!"

"Who's the lunatic now? Stop ranting, you goose! That bed was bound to
be filled some day, though it's hard luck on us. We did pretty well to
keep the place to ourselves the whole of last term. 'All good things
come to an end.' I'm trying to be philosophical, and quote proverbs; all
the same, 'Two's company and three's trumpery'. That's a proverb too!
You haven't told me yet what you think of our number three. She's
talking to Mademoiselle over there."

"So she is! Why, if she isn't talking German, too, as pat as a native!
What a tremendous rate their tongues are going at it! I can't catch a
single word. Is she a foreigner? She doesn't somehow quite suggest
English by the look of her, does she?"

The new girl in question, the interloper who was to form the unwelcome
third, and spoil the delightful _scène à deux_ hitherto so keenly
enjoyed by the chums, certainly had a rather un-British aspect when
viewed even by impartial eyes. Her pink-and-white colouring, blue eyes,
and her very fair flaxen hair were distinctly Teutonic; the cut of her
dress, the shape of her shoes, the tiny satchel slung by a strap round
her shoulder and under one arm--so unmistakably German in type--the
enamelled locket bearing the Prussian Eagle on a blue ground, all showed
a slightly appreciable difference from her companions, and stamped her
emphatically with the seal and signet of the "Vaterland". On the whole
she might be considered a decidedly pretty girl; her features were small
and clear cut, her complexion beyond reproach, her teeth even, her fair
hair glossy, and she was moderately tall for her fifteen years.

Dulcie took in all these points with a long, long comprehensive stare,
then subsided on to the top of the boot rack, shaking her head gloomily.

"You may call it British prejudice, but I can't stand foreigners," she
remarked with a gusty sigh. "As for having one in one's bedroom--why,
it's wicked! Miss Birks oughtn't to expect it!"

"Foreigners? Who's talking about foreigners?" asked Marcia Richards, one
of the Sixth Form, who happened to be passing at the moment, and
overheard Dulcie's complaints. "If you mean Gerda Thorwaldson, she is as
English as you or I."

"English! Listen to her! Pattering German thirteen to the dozen!"
snorted Dulcie.

"You young John Bull! Don't be insular and ridiculous! Gerda has lived
in Germany, so of course she can speak German. It will be very good
practice for you to talk it with her in your bedroom."

"If you think we're going to break our jaws with those abominable
gutturals!"--broke out Deirdre.

"Miss Germany'll have to compass English, or hold her tongue," added
Dulcie.

"Don't be nasty! You're wasting your opportunities. If I had your
chance, I'd soon improve my German."

"Why didn't Miss Birks put her with you instead?" chimed the injured
pair in chorus. "You're welcome to our share of her."

"Come along, you slackers!" interrupted Evie Bennett and Annie Pridwell,
emerging from the dining-hall. "You're wasting time here. Betty Scott's
playing for all she's worth, and everybody's got to come and dance. Pass
the word on if anyone's upstairs. Are you ready? Hurry up, then!"

"Oh, I say! I'm tired!" yawned Dulcie.

"We've had enough of the light fantastic toe!" protested Deirdre.

"Little birds that can hop and won't hop must be made to hop!" chirped
Evie firmly.

"How'll you make us?"

"The 'Great Mogul' has decreed that any girl who refuses to dance shall
be forcibly placed upon the table and obliged to sing a solo, or forfeit
all the sweets she may have brought back with her."

"'Tis Kismet!" murmured Deirdre, hauling up Dulcie from the boot rack.

"No use fighting against one's fate!" sighed Dulcie, linking arms with
her chum as she walked along the passage.

After all, it was only the younger members who were assembled in the
dining-hall--the Sixth, far too superior to join in the general romping,
were having a select cocoa party in the head girl's bedroom, and telling
each other that the noise below was disgraceful, and they wondered Miss
Birks didn't put a stop to it. (At seventeen one's judgment is apt to be
severe, especially on those only a few years younger!) Miss Birks,
however, who was forty-five, and wise in her generation, did not
interfere, and the fun downstairs continued to effervesce. Betty Scott,
seated at the piano, played with skill and zeal, and the others were
soon tripping their steps with more or less effect, according to their
individual grace and agility--all but two. Hilda Marriott had strained
her ankle during the holidays, and could only sit on the table and sigh
with envy; while Gerda Thorwaldson, the new girl, stood by the door,
watching the performance. Everybody was so taken up by the joys of the
moment that nobody realized her presence, even when whirling skirts
whisked against her in passing. Not a single one noticed her forlorn
aloofness, or that the blue eyes were almost brimming over with tears.
Mademoiselle, the only person who had so far befriended her, had beaten
a retreat, and was finishing unpacking, while the fourteen fellow pupils
in the room were still entire strangers to her. As nobody made the
slightest overture towards an introduction, and she seemed rather in the
way of the dancers, Gerda opened the door, and was about to follow
Mademoiselle's example, and make her escape upstairs. Her action,
however, attracted the attention that had before been denied her.

"Hallo, the new girl's sneaking off!" cried Annie Pridwell, pausing so
suddenly that she almost upset her partner.

"Here! Stop!"

"Where are you going?"

"You've got to stay."

"Come here and report yourself!"

The dancing had come to a brief and sudden end. Betty Scott, concluding
in the middle of a bar, turned round on the music stool, and holding up
a commanding finger, beckoned the stranger forward.

"Let's have a look at you," she remarked patronizingly. "I hadn't time
to take you in before. Are you really German? Tell us about yourself."

"Yes, go on! Where do you come from, and all the rest of it?" urged Evie
Bennett.

"Are you dumb?" asked Rhoda Wilkins.

"Perhaps she can't speak English!" sniggered Dulcie Wilcox.

Gerda Thorwaldson, now the target of every eye, had turned crimson to
the very roots of her flaxen hair. She stood in the centre of a ring of
new schoolfellows, so overwhelmed with shyness that she did not
volunteer a single response to the volley of remarks suddenly fired at
her. This did not at all content her inquisitors, who, once their
attention was drawn to her, felt their curiosity aroused.

"I say, why can't you speak?" said Barbara Marshall, nudging her elbow.
"You needn't look so scared. We're not going to eat you!"

"No cannibals here!" piped Romola Harvey.

"Lost, stolen, or strayed--a tongue! The property of the new girl.
Finder will be handsomely rewarded," remarked Mary Beckett facetiously.

"You've got to answer some questions, Gerda Thorwaldson--I suppose
that's your name?--so don't be silly!" urged Irene Jordan.

"Speak up! We shan't stand any nonsense!" added Elyned Hughes.

"What do you want me to say?" murmured Gerda, gulping down her
embarrassment with something suspiciously like a sob, and blinking her
blue eyes rapidly.

"Oh, you can talk English! Well, to begin with, are you German or not?"

"No."

"But you come from Germany?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever been in Cornwall before?"

"Never."

"I suppose you can dance?"

"No."

At this last negative a united howl went up from the assembled circle.

"Can't dance? Where have you lived? Make her try! She's got to learn!
Take her arm and teach her some steps! She won't? She'll have to! No
one's to be let off to-night!"

"Gerda Thorwaldson," said Evie Bennett impressively, "we give you your
choice. You either try to dance this very instant, or you stand on that
table and sing a song--in English, mind, not German!"

"Which will you choose?" clamoured three or four urgent voices.

"Oh, I say! It's too bad to rag her so, just at first!" protested Doris
Patterson, a shade more sympathetic than the rest.

"Not a bit of it! If she's really English, she must show it--and if she
won't, she's nothing but a foreigner!" blustered Dulcie Wilcox.

"This is easy enough," volunteered Annie Pridwell, performing a few
steps by way of encouragement. "Now, come along and do as I do."

"Fly, little birdie, fly!" mocked Betty Scott.

"She's too stupid!"

"She's going to blub!"

"Leave her alone!"

"No, make her dance!"

"Don't let her sneak out of it!"

"I say, what's going on here?" said a fresh voice, as Marcia Richards
entered the room, and, after pausing a moment to take in the situation,
strode indignantly to the rescue of poor Gerda, who, still shy and
half-bewildered with so many questions, stood almost weeping in the
midst of the circle.

"Is this the way you treat a new girl? You ought to be ashamed of
yourselves! No, she shan't learn to dance if she doesn't want to! Not
to-night, at any rate. Come along with me, Gerda, and have some cocoa
upstairs. Don't trouble your head about this noisy set. If they've no
better manners, I'm sorry for them!"

With which parting shot, she seized her protégée by the arm and bore her
out of the room.

Most of the girls laughed. They did not take the affair seriously. A fit
of bashfulness and blushing might be very agonizing to the new-comer,
but it was distinctly diverting to outsiders. New girls must expect a
little wholesome catechizing before they were admitted into the bosom of
their Form. It was merely a species of initiation, nothing more. No
doubt Gerda would find her tongue to-morrow, and give a better account
of herself. So Betty sat down again to the piano, and the others,
finding their partners, began once more to tread the fascinating steps
of the latest popular dance.

"We did rag her, rather," said Deirdre half-apologetically.

"Serve her jolly well right for talking German!" snapped Dulcie.




CHAPTER II

A Kingdom by the Sea


Please do not think because Miss Birks's pupils, on the first night of a
new term, ran helter-skelter up and down the passages, and insisted on
compulsory dancing or solo singing, that this was their normal course of
procedure. It was but their one evening of liberty before they settled
down to ordinary school routine, and for the rest of the eighty-eight
days before Easter their behaviour would be quite exemplary.

They were a very happy little community at the Dower House. They admired
and respected their headmistress, and her well-framed rules were rarely
transgressed. Certainly the girls would have been hard to please if they
had not been satisfied with Miss Birks, for allied to her undoubted
brain power she had those far rarer gifts of perfect tact and absolute
sympathy. She thoroughly understood that oft-time riddle, the mind of a
schoolgirl, and, while still keeping her authority and maintaining the
dignity of her position, could win her pupils' entire confidence almost
as if she had been one of themselves.

"Miss Birks never seems to have quite grown up! She enjoys things just
the same as we do," was the general verdict of the school.

Perhaps a strain of Irish in her genealogy had given the Principal the
pleasant twinkle in her eye, the racy humour of speech, and the sunny
optimistic view of life so dearly valued by all who knew her. Anyhow,
whatever ancestry might claim to be the source of her cheery attributes,
she had a very winning personality, and ruled her small kingdom with a
hand so light that few realized its firmness. And a kingdom it was, in
the girls' opinion--a veritable "kingdom by the sea". No place in all
the length and breadth of the British Isles, so they considered, could
in any way compare with it. Together with the old castle, for which it
formed the Dower House, it stood on the neck of a long narrow peninsula
that stretched for about two miles seaward. All the land on this little
domain was the private property of Mrs. Trevellyan, the owner of
Pontperran Tower, from whom Miss Birks rented the school, and who had
granted full and entire leave for the pupils to wander where they
wished. The result of this generous concession was to give the girls a
much larger amount of freedom than would have been possible in any other
situation. The isolated position of the peninsula, only accessible
through the Castle gateway, made it as safe and secluded a spot as a
convent garden, and afforded a range of scenery that might well be a
source of congratulation to those who enjoyed it.

There are few schools that possess a whole headland for a playground,
and especially such a headland, that seemed so completely equipped for
the purpose. It held the most delightful of narrow coves, with gently
shelving, sandy beaches--ideal bathing places in summer-time--and
mysterious caverns that might occasionally be explored with a candle,
and interesting pools among the rocks, where at low tide could be found
seaweeds and anemones, and crabs and limpets, or a bestranded starfish.
On the steep cliffs that rose sheer and jagged from the green water the
seabirds built in the spring; and at the summit, on the very verge of
the precipice, bloomed in their season many choice and rare wild
flowers--the lovely vernal squill, with its blossoms like deep-blue
stars; the handsome crimson crane's-bill; the yellow masses of the
"Lady's fingers"; the pink tufts of the rosy thrift; or the fleshy
leaves of the curious samphire. The whole extent of the headland was
occupied by a tract of rough, heathery ground, generally called "the
warren". A few sheep were turned out here to crop the fine grass that
grew between the gorse bushes, and a pair of goats were often tethered
within easy reach of the coachman's cottage; but otherwise it was the
reserve of the rabbits that scuttled away in every direction should a
human footstep invade the sanctuary of their dominion.

On these delightful breezy uplands, where the pleasant west wind blew
fresh and warm from the Gulf Stream, Miss Birks's pupils might wander at
will during play hours, only observing a few sensible restrictions.
Dangerous climbs on the edge of the cliffs or over slippery rocks were
forbidden, and not less than three girls must always be together. This
last rule was a very necessary one in the circumstances, for in case of
any accident to a member of the trio, it allowed one to stay with the
sufferer and render any first aid possible, while the other went at
topmost speed to lodge information at head-quarters.

The old dwelling itself was a suitable and appropriate building for a
school. Erected originally in the fourteenth century as a small nunnery,
it had in the days of Edward VI fallen into the hands of the then lord
of the Castle, who had turned it into a dower house. Successive
generations of owners had in their time added to it or altered it, but
had not spoilt its general atmosphere of mediaevalism. Little pieces of
Perpendicular window tracery, or remains of archways were frequent in
the old walls, and a ruined turreted gateway bore witness to the beauty
of the ancient architecture. Nobody quite knew what vaults and cellars
there might be under the house. Remains of blocked-up staircases had
certainly been found, and many of the floors resounded with a
suggestively hollow ring; but all tradition of these had been lost, and
not even a legend lingered to gratify the curious.

There was one element of mystery, however, which formed a perennial
interest and a never-ending topic of conversation among the girls. In
the centre of the first landing, right in the midst of the principal
bedrooms, stood a perpetually-closed room. The heavy oak door was
locked, and as an extra protection thick iron bars had been placed
across and secured firmly to the jambs. Even the keyhole was stopped up,
so that the most inquisitive eye could obtain no satisfaction. All that
anybody knew was the fact that Mrs. Trevellyan, who had a well-deserved
reputation for eccentricity, had caused a special clause to be made in
the lease which she had granted to Miss Birks, stipulating for no
interference with the barred room under pain of forfeiture of the entire
agreement.

"That means if we bored a hole through the door and peeped in the whole
school would be turned out of the house," said Evie Bennett once when
the subject was under discussion.

"Even Miss Birks doesn't know what's inside," said Elyned Hughes with an
awed shudder.

"Mrs. Trevellyan wouldn't let the place on any other conditions. She
said she'd rather have it empty first," added Annie Pridwell.

"What can she have there?"

"I'd give ten thousand pounds to find out!"

But though speculation might run rife in the school and a hundred
different theories be advanced, there was not the slightest means of
verifying a single one of them. Ghosts, smugglers, or a family skeleton
were among the favourite suggestions, and the girls often amused
themselves with even wilder fancies. From the outside the secluded room
presented as insuperable a barrier as from within; heavy shutters
secured the window and guarded the secret closely and jealously from all
prying and peeping. That uncanny noises should apparently issue from
this abode of mystery goes without saying. There were mice in plenty,
and even an occasional rat or two in the old house, and their gnawings,
scamperings, and squeakings might easily be construed into thumps,
bumps, and blood-curdling groans. The girls would often get up scares
among themselves and be absolutely convinced that a tragedy, either real
or supernatural, was being enacted behind the oak door.

Miss Birks, sensible and matter-of-fact as became a headmistress,
laughed at her pupils' notions, and declared that her chief objection to
the peculiar clause in her lease was the waste of a good bedroom which
would have been invaluable as an extra dormitory. She hung a thick plush
curtain over the doorway, and utterly tabooed the subject of the
mystery. She could not, however, prevent the girls talking about it
among themselves, and to them the barred room became a veritable
Bluebeard's chamber. At night they scuttled past it with averted gaze
and fingers stuffed in their ears, having an uneasy apprehension lest a
skeleton hand should suddenly draw aside the curtain and a face--be it
ghost or grinning goblin--peer at them out of the darkness. They would
dare each other to stand and listen, or to pass the door alone, and
among the younger ones a character for heroism stood or fell on the
capacity of venturing nearest to the so-called "bogey hole".

Though Miss Birks might well regret such a disability in her lease of
the Dower House, she was proud of the old-world aspect of the place, and
treasured up any traditions of the past that she could gather together.
She had carefully written down all surviving details of the Franciscan
convent, having after endless trouble secured some account of it from
rare books and manuscripts in the possession of some of the country
gentry in the neighbourhood. Beyond the dates of its founding and
dissolution, and the names of its abbesses, there was little to be
learnt, though a few old records of business transactions gave an idea
of its extent and importance.

Dearly as she valued the fourteenth-century origin of her establishment,
Miss Birks did not sacrifice comfort to any love of the antique. Inside
the ancient walls everything was strictly modern and hygienic, with the
latest patterns of desks, the most sanitary wall-papers, and each
up-to-date appliance that educational authorities might suggest or
devise. Could the Grey Nuns have but returned and taken a peep into the
well-equipped little chemical laboratory, they would probably have
fancied themselves in the chamber of a wizard in league with the fiends
of darkness, and have crossed themselves in pious fear at the sight of
the bottles and retorts; the nicely-fitted gymnasium would have puzzled
them sorely; and a hockey match have aroused their sincerest horror.
_Tempora mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis_--"the times are changed, and
we are changed with them!" Though we have lost something of the
picturesqueness of mediaeval life, the childlike faith of a childlike
age, the simplicity of a nation only groping to feel its strength, we
have surely gained in the long years of growth, in the gradual awakening
to the thousand things undreamt of by our forefathers, and can justly
deem that our lasses have inherited a golden harvest of thought and
experience from those who have trod before them the thorny and difficult
pathway that leads to knowledge.

Such were the picturesque and highly-appreciated surroundings at the
Dower House, and now a word on that much more important subject, the
girls themselves.

Miss Birks only received twenty pupils, all over fourteen years of age,
therefore there was no division into upper and lower school. Five elder
girls constituted the Sixth, and the rest were placed according to their
capabilities in two sections of the Fifth Form. Of these VB was
considerably the larger, and containing, as it did, the younger, cruder,
and more-boisterous spirits, was, in the opinion of the mistresses, the
portion which required the finer tact and the greater amount of careful
management. It was not that its members gave any special trouble, but
they were somewhat in the position of novices, not yet thoroughly versed
in the traditions of the little community, and needing skill and
patience during the process of their initiation. Almost insensibly the
nine seemed to split up into separate parties. Romola Harvey, Barbara
Marshall, and Elyned Hughes lived in the same town, and knew each other
at home; a sufficient bond of union to knit them in a close friendship
which they were unwilling to share with anybody else. The news from
Springfield, their native place, formed their chief subject of interest,
and those who could not understand or discuss it must necessarily be in
the position of outsiders. Evie Bennett, Annie Pridwell, and Betty
Scott were lively, high-spirited girls, so full of irrepressible fun
that they were apt to drop the deeper element out of life altogether. It
was difficult ever to find them in a serious mood, their jokes were
incessant, and they certainly well earned the nickname of "the three
gigglers" which was generally bestowed upon them.

Until Christmas, Deirdre Sullivan and Dulcie Wilcox had rejoiced in the
possession of a bedroom to themselves, a circumstance which had allowed
them the opportunity of cultivating their friendship till they had
become the most exclusive chums in the whole of the school. Deirdre, the
elder by six months, was a picturesque, rather interesting-looking girl,
with beautiful, expressive grey eyes, a delicate colour, and a neat,
slim little figure. Dulcie, on the contrary, much to her mortification,
was inclined to stoutness. She resembled a painting by Rubens, for her
plump cheeks were pink as carnations, and her ruddy hair was of that
warm shade of Venetian red so beloved by the old masters. It was a sore
point with poor Dulcie that, however badly her head ached, or however
limp or indisposed she might feel, her high colour never faded, and no
pathetic hollows ever appeared in her cheeks.

"I get no sympathy when I'm ill," she confided to Deirdre. "On that day
when I turned faint in the algebra class, Miss Harding had said only an
hour before: 'You do look well, child!' I wish I were as pale and thin
as Elyned Hughes, then I might get petted and excused lessons. As it
is, no one believes me when I complain."

Dulcie, who possessed an intense admiration for her chum, struggled
perpetually to mould herself on Deirdre's model, sometimes with rather
comical results. Deirdre's romantic tendencies caused her to affect the
particular style of the heroine of nearly every fresh book she read, and
she changed continually from an air of reserved and stately dignity to
one of sparkling vivacity, according to her latest favourite in fiction.
With Deirdre it was an easy matter enough to assume a manner; but
Dulcie, who merely copied her friend slavishly, often aroused mirth in
the schoolroom by her extraordinary poses.

"Who is it now, Dulcie?" the girls would ask. "Rebecca of York, or the
Scarlet Pimpernel? You might drop us a hint, so that we could tell, and
treat you accordingly."

And Dulcie, being an unimaginative and really rather obtuse little
person, though she knew she was being laughed at, could never quite
fathom the reason why, and continued to lisp or drawl, or to attempt to
look dignified, or to sparkle, with a praiseworthy perseverance worthy
of a better object.




CHAPTER III

A Mysterious Schoolfellow


It is all very well for a girl to be shy on her first night at school. A
certain amount of embarrassment is indeed considered almost "good form"
in a new-comer, indicative of her realization of the privileges which
she is about to enjoy, and the comparative unworthiness of any previous
establishment she may have attended. But when her uncommunicative
attitude is unduly prolonged, what was at first labelled mere becoming
bashfulness is termed stupidity, closeness, stuck-up conceit, or
intentional rudeness by her companions, who highly resent any repulse of
their offers of friendship. Gerda Thorwaldson, after nearly a fortnight
at the Dower House, seemed as much a stranger as on the evening when she
arrived. She was neither uncivil nor disobliging, but no efforts on the
part of her schoolmates were able to penetrate the thick barrier of her
reserve. She appeared most unwilling to enter into any particulars of
her former life, and beyond the fact that she had been educated chiefly
in Germany no information could be dragged from her.

"You've only to hint at her home, and she shuts up like an oyster,"
said Annie Pridwell aggrievedly. Annie had a natural love of biography.
She delighted in hearing her comrades' experiences, and was so well up
in everybody's private affairs that she could have written a "Who's Who"
of the school.

"You ought to know, Deirdre," she continued. "Doesn't she tell you
anything at all in your bedroom?"

"Hardly opens her mouth," replied Deirdre. "You wouldn't believe how
difficult it is to talk to her. She just says 'Yes' or 'No', and
occasionally asks a question, but she certainly tells us nothing about
herself."

"Never met with anyone so mum in my life," added Dulcie.

The question of Gerda's nationality still weighed upon Dulcie's spirits.
In her opinion a girl who could speak a foreign language with such
absolute fluency did not deserve to be called English, and she was
further disturbed by a hint which got abroad that the new girl had been
requisitioned to the school for the particular purpose of talking
German.

"If that's so, why has she been poked upon us?" she demanded
indignantly. "Why wasn't she put in a dormitory with somebody who'd
appreciate her better?--Marcia Richards, for instance, who says she
'envies our advantages'."

"Ask Miss Birks!"

"Oh, I dare say! But I don't like people who listen to everything and
say nothing. It gives one the idea they mean to sneak some day."

Though Gerda's attitude regarding her own affairs was uncommunicative,
she nevertheless appeared to take a profound interest in her present
surroundings. As Dulcie had noticed, she listened to everything, and no
detail, however small, seemed to escape her. She was anxious to learn
all she could concerning the old house, the neighbourhood, and the
families who resided near, and would ask an occasional question on the
subject, often blushing scarlet as she put her queries.

"Why, I should think you could draw a plan of the house!" said Dulcie
one day. "What does it matter whether the larder is underneath our
dormitory or not? You can't dive through the floor and purloin tarts!"

"No, of course not. I was only wondering," replied Gerda, shrinking into
her shell again.

Nevertheless, later on in the afternoon, Dulcie suddenly came across her
measuring the landing with a yard tape.

"What in the name of all that's wonderful are you doing?" exclaimed the
much-surprised damsel.

"Oh, nothing, nothing!" said Gerda, hastily rolling up her tape measure,
and slipping it into her pocket. "Only just an idea that came into my
head. I wanted to know the length of the passage, that was all!"

"What a most extraordinary thing to want to know! Really, Gerda, you're
the queerest girl I ever met. Is it having lived in Germany that makes
you so odd?"

"I suppose it must be," murmured Gerda, escaping as rapidly as possible
into the schoolroom.

I have said before that owing to the unique situation of the Dower House
the girls were allowed an amount of liberty in their play-hours which
could not so easily have been granted to them at other schools. They
wandered freely about the headland without a mistress, and so far had
never abused their privileges, either by getting into danger or staying
out beyond the specified time.

Though as a rule they rambled in trios, on the first of February the
whole of Form VB might have been seen walking together over the warren.
They had a motive for their excursion, for it was St. Perran's Day, and
St. Perran was the patron saint of the district. At the end of the
promontory there was a small spring dedicated to his memory, and
according to ancient legends, anybody who on his anniversary dropped a
pin into this well might learn her luck for the coming year. Formerly
all the lads and lasses from the villages of Pontperran, Porthmorvan,
and Perranwrack used to come to deck the well and try their fortunes,
but their annual visitation having degenerated into a rather riotous and
undesirable ceremony, Mrs. Trevellyan had put up extra trespass notices,
and given strict orders to her gamekeeper to exclude the public from the
headland.

Knowing of the ancient custom which had been practised from time
immemorial, it was of course only in schoolgirl nature to want to test
the powers of divination attributed to the old well. The Sixth Form,
who considered themselves almost grown up, treated the affair with
ridicule, and the members of VA, who copied their seniors slavishly,
likewise affected a supreme contempt for so childish a proceeding; but
VB, being still at an age when superstition holds an immense attraction,
trotted off _en bloc_ to pay their respects to St. Perran. Each, in
deference to the long-established tradition of the neighbourhood, bore a
garland of ferns and other greeneries, and each came armed with the
necessary pin that was to work the spell.

"Jessie Macpherson says we're a set of sillies," volunteered Betty
Scott. "But I don't care--I wouldn't miss St. Perran's Day for
anything."

"My wish came true last year," put in Barbara Marshall.

"Oh, I do hope I shall have some luck!" shivered Elyned Hughes.

The well in question lay in a slight hollow, a kind of narrow gully,
where in wet weather a small stream ambled between the rocks and ran
down to the sea. In the mild Cornish climate ferns were growing here
fresh and green, ignoring the presence of winter; and dog's-mercury,
strawberry-leaved cinquefoil, and other early plants were pushing up
strong leaves in preparation for the springtime. The famous well was
nothing but a shallow basin of rock, into which the little stream flowed
leisurely, and, having partially filled it, trickled away through a gap,
and became for a yard or two merged in a patch of swampy herbage.
Overhung with long fronds of lady-fern and tufts of hawkweed, it had a
picturesque aspect, and the water seemed to gurgle slowly and
mysteriously, as if it were trying in some unknown language to reveal a
secret.

The girls clustered round, and began in orthodox fashion to hang their
garlands on the leafless branches of a stunted tree that stretched
itself over the spring. They were in various moods, some giggling, some
half-awed, some silent, and some chattering.

"It isn't as high as it was last year, so I don't believe it will work
so well," said Evie Bennett. "St. Perran must be in a bad temper, and
hasn't looked after it properly. Tiresome old man, why can't he remember
his own day?"

"He's got to do double duty, poor old chap!" laughed Betty Scott. "You
forget he's the patron saint of the sailors as well, and is supposed to
be out at sea attracting the fish. Perhaps he just hadn't time this
morning, and thought the well would do."

"Let well alone, in fact," giggled Evie.

"Oh, shut her up for her bad pun! Dip her head in the water! Make her
try her luck first!"

"Pleased to accommodate you, I'm sure. Here's my pin," returned Evie.
"Now, if you're ready, I'll begin and consult the oracle."

St. Perran's ceremony had to be performed in due order, or it was
supposed to be of no effect. First of all, Evie solemnly dropped her pin
in the well, as a species of votive offering, while silently she
murmured a wish. Then placing a small piece of stick on the surface of
the water in the exact centre of the basin, she repeated the
time-honoured formula:

    "Perran, Perran of the well,
     What I've wished I may not tell,
     'Tis but known to me and you,
     Help me then to bring it true".

All eyes were fixed eagerly on the piece of stick, which was already
commencing to circle round in the water. If it found its way
successfully through the gap, and was washed down by the stream, it was
a sign that St. Perran had it safely and would attend to the matter; but
if it were stranded on the edge of the basin, the wish would remain
unfulfilled. Round and round went the tiny twig, bobbing and dancing in
the eddies; but, alas! the water was low this February, and instead of
sweeping the twig triumphantly through the aperture, it only washed it
to one side, and left it clinging to some overhanging fronds of fern
that dipped into the spring. Evie heaved a tragic sigh of
disappointment.

"I'm done for at any rate!" she groaned. "St. Perran won't have anything
to say to me this year. Oh, and it was such a lovely wish! I'll tell you
what it was, now it's not going to come off. I wished some aviator would
ask me to have a seat in his aeroplane, and take me right over to
America in it!"

The girls tittered.

"What a particularly likely wish to be fulfilled! No, my hearty, you
can't expect St. Perran to have anything to do with aeroplanes," said
Betty Scott. "The good old saint probably abhors all modern inventions.
I'm going to wish for something easy and probable."

"What?"

"Ah! wouldn't you like to know? I shan't tell you, even if I fail. Shall
I try next?"

Whatever Betty's easy and probable desire may have been, the result was
bad, and her stick, after several thrilling gyrations, tagged itself on
to Evie's under the cluster of fern. She bore her ill luck like a stoic.

"One can't have everything in this world," she philosophized. "Perhaps
I'll get it next year instead. Deirdre Sullivan, you deserve to lose
your own for sniggering! This trial ought to be taken solemnly. We'll
get St. Perran's temper up if we make fun of it."

"I thought he was out at sea, attracting the fishes!" said Deirdre.

"I'm not sure that Cornish saints can't be in two places at once, just
to show their superiority over Devonshire ones. Well, go on! Laugh if
you like! But don't expect St. Perran to take any interest in you!"

It certainly seemed as though the patron of the well had for once
forsaken his favourite haunt. Girl after girl wished her wish and
repeated her spell, but invariably to meet with the same ill fortune,
till a melancholy little clump of eight sticks testified to the general
failure.

"Have we all lost? No, Gerda Thorwaldson hasn't tried! Where's Gerda?
She's got to do the same as anybody else! Gerda Thorwaldson, where are
you?"

Gerda for the moment had been missing, but at the sound of her name she
scrambled down from the rocks above the well, looking rather red and
conscious.

"What were you doing up there?" asked Dulcie sharply. "It's your turn to
try the omen. Go along, quick; we shall have to be jogging back in half
a jiff."

Gerda paused for a moment, and with face full towards the sea muttered
her wish with moving lips; then turning to the tree, she carefully
counted the third bough from the bottom, and the third twig on the
bough. Breaking off her due portion, she twisted it round three times,
and holding it between the third fingers of either hand, dropped it into
the water, while she rapidly repeated the magic formula:

    "Perran, Perran of the well,
     What I've wished I may not tell,
     'Tis but known to me and you,
     Help me then to bring it true".

The girls watched rather half-heartedly. They were growing a little
tired of the performance. They fully expected the ninth stick to drift
the same way as its predecessors, but to everybody's astonishment it
made one rapid circle of the basin, and bobbed successfully through the
gap.

"It's gone! it's gone!" cried Betty Scott in wild excitement. "St.
Perran's working after all. Oh, why didn't he do it for me?"

"How funny it should be the only one!" said Elyned Hughes.

"I believe the water's running faster than it did before," commented
Romola Harvey. "Has the old saint turned on the tap?"

"Shall I get my wish?" said Gerda, who stood by with shining eyes.

"Of course you'll get it--certain sure. And jolly fortunate you are too.
You've won the luck of the whole Form. Don't I wish I were you, just!"

"You're evidently St. Perran's favourite!" laughed Annie Pridwell.

"Come along, it's nearly time for call-over. We'll be late if we don't
sprint," said Barbara Marshall, consulting her watch, and starting at a
run on the path that led back to the Dower House.

"It was a funny thing that our sticks should all 'stick', and Gerda's
just sail off as easily as you like," said Deirdre that evening, as,
with Dulcie, she gave an account of the occurrence to Phyllis Rowland, a
member of the Sixth. As one of the elect of the school, Phyllis would
not have condescended to consult the famous oracle, but she nevertheless
took a sneaking interest in the annual ceremony, and was anxious to know
how St. Perran's votaries had fared.

"Did you do it really properly?" she enquired. "An old woman at
Perranwrack once told me it wasn't any use at all if you forgot the
least thing."

"Why, we hung up our garlands and then wished, and said the rhyme, and
threw in our sticks."

"Oh, that isn't half enough. Where were you looking when you wished?
Facing the sea? Your stick should be chosen from the third twig on the
third branch, and it ought to be turned round three times, and held
between your third fingers. Did you do all that?"

The faces of Deirdre and Dulcie were a study.

"No, we didn't. But Gerda Thorwaldson did it--every bit. And the water
came down ever so much faster for her turn, too."

"Probably she went behind the well, and cleared the channel of the
stream. That's a well-known dodge to make the water flow quicker, and
help the saint to work."

"I certainly saw her climbing down the rocks," gasped Dulcie.

"Then she's a cleverer girl than I took her for, and deserves her luck,"
laughed Phyllis. "Look here, I can't stay wasting time any longer. I've
got my prep to do. Ta, ta! Don't let St. Perran blight your young lives.
Try him again next year."

Left alone, Deirdre and Dulcie subsided simultaneously on to a bench.

"It beats me altogether," said Dulcie, shaking her head. "How did she
manage to do it? How did she know? Who told her?"

"That's the puzzler," returned Deirdre. "Certainly not Phyllis, and I
don't believe anybody else ever heard of those extra dodges. Gerda's
only been a fortnight at the school, and says she's never been in
Cornwall in her life before, so how could she know? Yet she did it all
so pat."

"It's queer, to say the least of it."

"Do you know, Dulcie, I think there's something mysterious about Gerda.
I've noticed it ever since she came. She seems all the time to be trying
to hide something. She won't tell us a scrap about herself, and yet
she's always asking questions."

"What's she up to then?"

"That's what I want to find out. It's evidently something she doesn't
want people to know. She ought to be watched. I vote we keep an eye on
her."

"I really believe we ought to."

"But mind, you mustn't let her suspect we notice anything. That would
give the show away at once. Lie low's our motto."

"Right you are!" agreed Dulcie. "Mum's the word!"




CHAPTER IV

"The King of the Castle"


The members of VB often congratulated themselves that their special
classroom was decidedly larger than that of the Sixth or of VA. They
were apt to boast of their superior accommodation, and would never admit
the return argument that being so much larger a form, their room really
allowed less space per girl, and was therefore actually inferior to its
rivals. On one February evening the whole nine were sitting round the
fire, luxuriating in half an hour's delicious idleness before the bell
rang for "second prep.". Those who had been first in the field had
secured the basket-chairs, but the majority squatted on the hearth-rug,
making as close a ring as they could, for the night was cold, and there
was a nip of frost in the air.

"Now, don't anybody begin to talk sense, please!" pleaded Betty Scott,
leaning a golden-brown head mock-sentimentally on Annie Pridwell's
shoulder. "My poor little brains are just about pumped out with maths.,
and what's left of them will be wanted for French prep. later on. This
is the silly season, so I hope no one will endeavour to improve my
mind."

"They'd have a Herculean task before them if they did!" sniggered
Annie. "Betty, your head may be empty, but it's jolly heavy, all the
same. I wish you'd kindly remove it from my shoulder."

"You mass of ingratitude! It was a mark of supreme affection--a kind of
'They grew in beauty side by side', don't you know!"

"I don't want to know. Not if it involves nursing your weight. Oh, yes!
go to Barbara, by all means, if she'll have you. I'm not in the least
offended."

"That big basket-chair oughtn't to be monopolized by one," asserted Evie
Bennett. "It's quite big enough for two. Here, Deirdre, make room for
me. Don't be stingy, you must give me another inch. That's better. It's
rather a squash, but we can just manage."

"You're cuckooing me out!" protested Deirdre.

"No, no, I'm not. There's space for two in this nest. We're a pair of
doves:

    "'Coo,' said the turtle dove,
     'Coo,' said she".

"I'll say something more to the point, if you don't take care. What a
lot of sillies you are!"

"Then please deign to enlarge our intellects. We're hanging upon your
words. Betty can stop her ears, if she thinks it will be too great a
strain on her slender brains. What is it to be? A recitation from
Milton, or a dissertation on the evils of levity? Miss Sullivan, your
audience awaits you. Mr. Chairman, will you please introduce the
lecturer?"

"Ladies and gentlemen, I hasten to explain that owing to severe
indisposition I am unable to be present to-night," returned Deirdre
promptly.

"Oh, Irish of the Irish!" laughed the girls. "Did you say it on purpose,
or did it come unconsciously?"

"I wish I were Irish. Somehow I never say funny things, not even if I
try," lamented Dulcie.

"Because you couldn't. You're a dear fat dumpling, and dumplings never
are funny, you know--it's against nature."

"It's not my fault if I'm fat," said Dulcie plaintively. "People say
'Laugh and grow fat', so why shouldn't a plump person be funny?"

"They are funny--very funny--though not quite in the way you mean."

"Oh, look here! Don't be horrid!"

"You began it yourself."

"Children, don't barge!" interrupted Romola Harvey. "You really are
rather a set of lunatics to-night. Can't anyone tell a story?"

"I was taught to call fibbing a sin in the days of my youth," retorted
Betty Scott, assuming a serious countenance.

"You--you ragtimer! I mean a real story--a tale--a legend--a romance--or
whatever you choose to call it."

"Don't know any."

"We've used them all up," said Evie Bennett, yawning lustily. "We all
know the legend of the Abbess Gertrude--it's Miss Birks's favourite
chestnut--and what she said to the Commissioner who came to confiscate
the convent: and we've had the one about Monmouth's rebellion till it's
as stale as stale can be. I defy anybody to have the hardihood to repeat
it."

"Aren't there any other tales about the neighbourhood?" asked Gerda
Thorwaldson. It was the first remark that she had made.

"Oh, I don't think so. The old castle's very sparse in legends. I
suppose there ought to be a few, but they're mostly forgotten."

"Who used to live there?"

"Trevellyans. There always have been Trevellyans--hosts of them--though
now there's nobody left but Mrs. Trevellyan and Ronnie."

"Who's Ronnie?"

More than half a dozen answers came instantly.

"Ronnie? Why, he's just Ronnie."

"Mrs. Trevellyan's great-nephew."

"The dearest darling!"

"You never saw anyone so sweet."

"We all of us adore him."

"We call him 'The King of the Castle'."

"They've been away, staying in London."

"But they're coming back this week."

"Is he grown up?" enquired Gerda casually.

"Grown up!" exploded the girls. "He's not quite six!"

"He lives with Mrs. Trevellyan," explained Betty, "because he hasn't got
any father or mother of his own."

"Oh, Betty, he has!" burst out Barbara.

"Well, that's the first I ever heard of them, then. I thought he was an
orphan."

"He's as good as an orphan, poor little chap."

"Why?"

"Nobody ever mentions his father."

"Why on earth not?"

"Oh, I don't know! There's something mysterious. Mrs. Trevellyan doesn't
like it talked about. Nobody dare even drop a hint to her."

"What's wrong with Ronnie's father?"

"I tell you I don't know, except that I believe he did something he
shouldn't have."

"Rough on Ronnie."

"Ronnie doesn't know, of course, and nobody would be cruel enough to
tell him. You must promise you'll none of you mention what I've said.
Not to anybody."

"Rather not! You can trust us!" replied all.

It was perhaps only natural that the affairs of the Castle should seem
important to the dwellers at the Dower House. The two buildings lay so
near together, yet were so isolated in their position as regarded other
habitations, that they united in many ways for their mutual convenience.
If Miss Birks's gardener was going to the town he would execute
commissions for the Castle, as well as for his own mistress; and, on the
other hand, the Castle chauffeur would call at the Dower House for
letters to be sent by the late post. Mrs. Trevellyan was a widow with no
family of her own. She had adopted her great-nephew Ronald while he was
still quite a baby, and he could remember no other home than hers. The
little fellow was the one delight and solace of her advancing years. Her
life centred round Ronnie; she thought continually of his interests,
and made many plans for his future. He was her constant companion, and
his pretty, affectionate ways and merry chatter did much to help her to
forget old griefs. He was a most winning, engaging child, a favourite
with everybody, and reigned undoubtedly as monarch in the hearts of all
who had the care of him. It was partly on Ronnie's account, and partly
because she really loved young people, that Mrs. Trevellyan took so much
notice of the pupils at the Dower House. On her nephew's behalf she
would have preferred a boys' preparatory school for neighbour, but even
girls over fourteen were better than nobody; they made an element of
youth that was good for Ronnie, and prevented the Castle from seeming
too dull. The knowledge that he might perhaps meet his friends on the
headland gave an object to the little boy's daily walk, and the jokes
and banter with which they generally greeted him provided him with a
subject for conversation afterwards.

The girls on their part showed the liveliest interest in anything
connected with the Castle. They would watch the motor passing in and out
of the great gates, would peep from their top windows to look at the
gardeners mowing the lawns, and would even count the rooks' nests that
were built in the grove of elm trees. Occasionally Mrs. Trevellyan would
ask the whole school to tea, and that was regarded as so immense a treat
that the girls always looked forward to the delightful chance that some
fortunate morning an invitation might be forthcoming.

Mrs. Trevellyan had been staying in London at the beginning of the term,
but early in February she returned home again. On the day after her
arrival the girls were walking back from a hockey practice on the
warren, swinging their way along the narrow tracks between last year's
bracken and heather, or having an impromptu long-jump contest where a
small stream crossed the path.

"It's so jolly to see the flag up again at the Castle," said Evie
Bennett, looking at the turret where the Union Jack was flying bravely
in the breeze. "I always feel as if it's a kind of national defence. Any
ships sailing by would know it was England they were passing."

"I like it because it means Mrs. Trevellyan's at home," said Deirdre
Sullivan. "A place seems so forlorn when the family's away. Did Ronnie
come back too, last night?"

"Yes, Hilda Marriott saw him from the window this morning. He was going
down the road with his new governess. Why, there he is--actually
watching for us, the darling!"

The girls had to pass close to a turnstile that led from the Castle
grounds into the warren, and here, perched astride the top rail of the
gate, evidently on the look-out for them, a small boy was waving his cap
in frantic welcome. He was a pretty little fellow, with the bluest of
eyes and the fairest of skins, and the lightest of flaxen hair, and he
seemed dimpling all over his merry face with delight at the meeting. The
girls simply made a rush for him, and he was handed about from one to
another, struggling in laughing protest, till at last he wriggled
himself free, and retiring behind the turnstile, held the gate as a
barrier.

[Illustration: A SMALL BOY WAS WAVING HIS CAP IN FRANTIC WELCOME
_Page 48_]

"I knew you'd be coming past, so I got leave to play here. Thank you all
for your Christmas cards," he said gaily. "Yes--I like my new governess.
Her name's Miss Herbert, and she's ripping. Auntie's going to ask you to
tea. I want to show you my engine I got at Christmas. It goes round the
floor and it really puffs. You'll come?"

"Oh! we'll come all right," chuckled the girls. "We've got something at
the Dower House to show you, too. No, we shan't tell you what it
is--it's to be a surprise. Oh, goody! There's the bell! Ta-ta! We must
be off! If we don't fly, we shall all be late for call-over. No, you're
not to come through the gate to say good-bye! Go back, you rascal! You
know you're not allowed on the warren!"

As the big bell at the Dower House was clang-clanging its loudest, the
girls set off at a run. There was not a minute to be lost if they meant
to be in their places to answer "Present" to their names; and missing
the roll-call meant awkward explanations with Miss Birks. One only,
oblivious of the urgency of the occasion, lingered behind. Gerda
Thorwaldson had stood apart while the others greeted Ronnie, merely
looking on as if the meeting were of no interest to her. Nobody had
taken the slightest notice of her, or had indeed remembered her
existence at the moment. She counted for so little with her
schoolfellows that it never struck them to introduce her to their
favourite; in fact they had been totally occupied among themselves in
fighting for possession of him. She remained now, until the very last
school sports' cap was round the corner and out of sight. Then she
dashed through the turnstile, and overtaking Ronnie, thrust a packet of
chocolates, rather awkwardly, into his hand.

The bell had long ceased clanging, and Miss Birks had closed the
call-over book when Gerda entered the schoolroom. As she would offer no
explanation of her lateness, she was given a page of French poetry to
learn, to teach her next time to regard punctuality as a cardinal
virtue. She took her punishment with absolute stolidity.

"What a queer girl she is! She never seems to care what happens," said
Dulcie. "I should mind if Miss Birks glared at me in that way, to say
nothing of a whole page of _Athalie_."

"She looked as if she'd been crying when she came in," remarked Deirdre.

"She's not crying now, at any rate. She simply looks unapproachable.
What made her so late? She was with us on the warren."

"How should I know? If she won't tell, she won't. You might as well try
to make a mule gallop uphill as attempt to get even the slightest, most
ordinary, everyday scrap of information out of such a sphinx as Gerda
Thorwaldson."




CHAPTER V

Practical Geography


Miss Birks often congratulated herself on the fact that the smallness of
her school allowed her to give a proportionately large amount of
individual attention to her pupils. There was no possibility at the
Dower House for even the laziest girl to shirk lessons and shield her
ignorance behind the general bulk of information possessed by the Form.
Backward girls, dull girls, delicate girls--all had their special claims
considered and their fair chances accorded. There was no question of
"passing in a crowd". Each pupil stood or fell on the merits of her own
work, and every item of her progress was noted with as much care as if
she were the sole charge of the establishment. Miss Birks had many
theories of education, some gleaned from national conferences of
teachers, and others of her own evolving, all on the latest of modern
lines. One of her pet theories was the practical application, whenever
possible, of every lesson learnt. According to the season the girls
botanized, geologized, collected caterpillars and chrysalides, or hunted
for marine specimens on the shore, vying with each other in a friendly
rivalry as to which could secure the best contributions for the school
museum.

There was no subject, however, in Miss Birks's estimation which led
itself more readily to practical illustration than geography. Every
variety of physical feature was examined in the original situation, so
that watersheds, tributaries, table-lands, currents, and comparative
elevations became solid facts instead of mere book statements, and each
girl was taught to make her own map of the district.

"I believe we've examined everything except an iceberg and a volcano,"
declared Betty Scott one day, "and I verily believe Miss Birks is on the
look-out for both--hoped an iceberg might be washed ashore during those
few cold days we had in January, and you know she told us Beacon Hill
was the remains of an extinct volcano. I expect she wished it might
burst out suddenly again, like Vesuvius, just to show us how it did it!"

"Wouldn't we squeal and run if we heard rumblings and saw jets of steam
coming up?" commented Evie Bennett. "I don't think many of us would stay
to do scientific work, and take specimens of the lava."

"Where are we going this afternoon?" asked Elyned Hughes.

"Mapping, Miss Birks said. We're to make for the old windmill, and then
draw a radius of six miles, from Kergoff to Avonporth. Hurry up, you
others! It's after two, and Miss Harding's waiting on the terrace. What
a set of slow-coaches you are!"

It was the turn of VB to have a practical geography demonstration, and
they started, therefore, under the guidance of the second mistress, to
survey the physical features of a certain portion of the neighbourhood,
and record them in a map. Each girl was furnished by Miss Birks with a
paper of questions, intended to be a guide to her observations:

    1.--Using the windmill as a centre, what direction do the roads
    take?

    2.--What villages or farms must be noted?

    3.--What rivers or streams, and their courses?

    4.--What lakes or ponds?

    5.--The general outline of the coast?

    6.--Are there hills or mountains?

    7.--What historical monuments should be marked with a cross?

Armed with their instructions, pocket compasses, and note-books, the
girls set off in cheerful spirits. They dearly loved these country
rambles, and heartily approved of this particular method of education.
It was a beautiful bright afternoon towards the middle of February, one
of those glorious days that seem to anticipate the spring, and to make
one forget that winter exists at all. The sky was cloudless and blue,
not with the serene blue of summer, but with that fainter, almost
greenish shade so noticeable in the early months of the year, and
growing pearly-white where it touched the horizon. There was a joyous
feeling of returning life in the air; a thrush, perhaps remembering that
it was St. Valentine's Eve, carolled with full rich voice in the bare
thorn tree, small birds chased each other among the bushes, and great
flocks of rooks were feeding up and down the ploughed fields. In
sheltered corners an early wild flower or two had forestalled the
season, and the girls picked an occasional celandine star or primrose
bud, and even a few cherished violets. The catkins on the hazels were
shaking down showers of golden pollen, and the sallows were covered with
silky, silvery tufts of palm; the low sycamores in the hedge showed rosy
buds almost ready to burst, and shoots of bramble or sprays of
newly-opened honeysuckle leaves formed green patches here and there on
the old walls.

The girls walked at a brisk, swinging pace, in no particular order, so
long as they kept together, and with licence to stop to examine
specimens within reasonable limits of time. Miss Harding, who was
herself a fairly good naturalist, might be consulted at any moment, and
all unknown or doubtful objects, if portable, were popped in a basket
and taken back to be identified by the supreme authority, Miss Birks.

Though they fully appreciated the warren as a playground, it was
delightful to have a wider field for their activities, and the
opportunity of making some fresh find or some interesting discovery to
report at head-quarters. Miss Birks kept a Nature Diary hung on the wall
of the big schoolroom, and there was keen competition as to which should
be the first to supply the various items that made up its weekly
chronicle. It was even on record that Rhoda Wilkins once ran a whole
mile at top speed in order to steal a march on Emily Northwood, and
claim for VA the proud honour of announcing the first bird's nest of the
year.

The special point for which the girls were bound this afternoon was a
ruined windmill that stood on a small eminence, and formed rather a
landmark in the district. From here an excellent view might be obtained
of both the outline of the coast and the course of the little river that
ambled down from the hills and poured itself into the sea by the tiny
village of Kergoff. No fitter spot could have been chosen for a general
survey, and as the girls reached the platform on which the building
stood, and ranged themselves under its picturesque ragged sails, they
pulled out their note-books and got to business.

It was a glorious panorama that lay below them--brown heathery common
and rugged cliff, steep crags against which the growing tide was softly
lapping, a babbling little river that wound a noisy course between
boulders and over rounded, age-worn stones, tumbling in leaps from the
hills, dancing through the meadows, and flowing with a strong, steady
swirl through the whitewashed hamlet ere it widened out to join the
harbour. And beyond all there was the sea--the shimmering, glittering
sea--rolling quietly in with slow, heavy swell, and dashing with a dull
boom against the lighthouse rocks, bearing far off on its bosom a chance
vessel southward bound, and floating one by one the little craft that
had been beached in the anchorage, till they strained at their cables,
and bobbed gaily on the rising water. Only one or two of the girls
perhaps realized the intense beauty and poetry of the scene; most were
busy noting the natural features, and calculating possible distances,
marking here a farm or there a hill crest, and trying to reproduce in
some creditable fashion the eccentric windings of the river.

"That little crag below us just blocks the view of the road," said
Deirdre. "I can't get the bend in at all. Do you mind, Miss Harding, if
some of us go to the bottom of the hill and trace it out?"

"Certainly, if you like," replied the mistress. "I'm tired, so I shall
wait for you here. It won't take you longer than ten minutes."

"Oh, dear, no! We'll race down. I say, who'll come?"

Dulcie, Betty, Annie, Barbara, and Gerda were among the energetically
disposed, but Evie, Romola, and Elyned preferred to wait with Miss
Harding.

"We'll copy yours when you come back," they announced shamelessly.

"Oh, we'll see about that! Ta-ta!" cried the others, as they started at
a fair pace down the hill.

The road was certainly the most winding of any they had attempted to
trace that afternoon. It twisted like a cork-screw between high banks,
then hiding beneath a steep crag plunged suddenly through a small fir
wood, and crossed the river by a stone bridge. The girls had descended
at a jog trot, trying to take their bearings as they went. Owing to the
great height of the banks it was impossible to see what was below,
therefore it was only when they had passed the wood that they noticed
for the first time an old grey house on the farther side of the bridge.
It was built so close to the stream that its long veranda actually
overhung the water, which swept swirling against the lower wall of the
building. Many years must have passed since it last held a tenant, for
creepers stretched long tendrils over the broken windows, and grass grew
green in the gutters. The dilapidated gate, the weed-grown garden, the
weather-worn, paintless woodwork, the damp-stained walls, the damaged
roof, all gave it an air of almost indescribable melancholy, so utterly
abandoned, deserted, and entirely neglected did it appear.

"Hallo! Why, this must be 'Forster's Folly'!" exclaimed Barbara. "I'd no
idea we were so close to it. We couldn't see even the chimneys from the
windmill."

"What an extraordinary name for an even more extraordinary house!" said
Deirdre. "Who in the name of all that's weird was 'Forster'? And why is
this rat's-hall-looking place called his folly?"

"He was a lawyer in the neighbourhood, I believe, and, like some
lawyers, just a little bit too sharp. It was when the railway was going
to be made. He heard it was coming this way, and he calculated it would
just have to cut across this piece of land, so he bought the field and
built this house on it in a tremendous hurry, because he thought he
could claim big compensation from the railway company; and then after
all they took the line round by Avonporth instead, five miles away, and
didn't want to buy his precious house, so he'd had all the trouble and
expense for nothing."

"Served him right!" grunted the girls.

"They say he was furious," continued Barbara. "He was so disgusted that
he never even painted the woodwork or laid out the garden properly. He
tried to let it, but nobody wanted it; so he was obliged to come and
live in it himself for economy's sake. He was an old bachelor, and he
and a sour old housekeeper were here for a year or two, and then he died
very suddenly, and rather mysteriously. His relations came and took away
the furniture, but they haven't been able to sell the house, it's in
such a queer, out-of-the-way place. Then everybody in the neighbourhood
said it was haunted, and not a soul would go near it for love or money."

"It looks haunted," said Dulcie with a shiver. "Just the kind of
lonely-moated-grange place where you'd expect to see a 'woman in white'
at the window."

"Never saw anything so spooky in my life before," agreed Deirdre.

"Did you say it used to belong to Mr. Forster, the lawyer?" asked Gerda.
"The one who had business at St. Gonstan?"

"I don't know where he had business, but it was certainly Mr. Forster,
the lawyer. I don't suppose there'd be more than one."

"When did he die?"

"About five years ago, I fancy. Why do you want to know?"

"Oh, nothing! It doesn't matter in the least," returned Gerda, shrinking
into her shell again.

"It's the weirdest, queerest place I've ever seen," said Deirdre. "Do
let's go a little nearer. Ugh! What would you take to spend a night
here alone?"

"Nothing in the wide world you could offer me," protested Betty.

"I'd go stark, staring mad!" affirmed Annie.

"Hallo!" squealed Dulcie suddenly. "What's become of Gerda? She's
sneaked off!"

"Why, there she is, peeping through one of the broken windows!"

"Oh, I say! I must have a squint too, to see if there's really a ghost!"
fluttered Annie.

"You goose! You wouldn't see ghosts by daylight!"

"Well, I don't care anyhow. I'm going to peep. Cuckoo, Gerda! What can
you see inside?"

When Annie Pridwell led the way, it followed of necessity that the
others went after her, so they scurried to catch her up, and all ran in
a body over the bridge and into the nettle-grown garden. Gerda was still
perched on the window-sill of one of the lower rooms, and she turned to
her schoolfellows with a strange light in her eyes and a look of
unwonted excitement on her face.

"I put my hand through the broken pane and pulled back the catch," she
volunteered. "We've only to push the window up and we could go inside."

"Oh! Dare we?"

"Suppose the ghost caught us?"

"Oh, I say! Do let us go!"

"It would be such gorgeous sport!"

"I'm game, if you all are."

As usual it was Annie Pridwell who led the adventure. Pushing up the
window, she climbed over the sill and dropped inside, then turning round
offered a hand to Gerda, who sprang eagerly after her. It was imperative
for Deirdre, Dulcie, Betty, and Barbara to follow; they were not going
to be outdone in courage, and they felt that at any rate there was
safety in numbers. There was nothing very terrible about the
dining-room, in which they found themselves, it only looked miserable
and forlorn, with the damp paper hanging in strips from the walls, and
heaps of straw left by the remover's men strewn about the floor.

"We'll go and explore the rest of the house," said Annie, with a
half-nervous chuckle. "Come along, anybody who's game!"

Nobody wished to remain behind alone, so they went all together, holding
each other's arms, squealing, or gasping, or giggling, as occasion
prompted. They peeped into the empty drawing-room and the silent
kitchen, where the grate was red with rust; hurried past a dark hall
cupboard, and found themselves at the foot of the staircase.

"Oh, I daren't go up; I simply daren't!" bleated Barbara piteously.

"Suppose the ghost lives up there?" suggested Betty.

"My good girl, no self-respecting spook likes to make an exhibition of
itself," returned Annie. "The sight of six of us would scare it away. I
don't mean to say I'd go alone, but now we're all here it's different."

"We've been more than Miss Harding's ten minutes," vacillated Deirdre.

"Oh, bother! One doesn't often get the chance to explore. Come along,
you sillies, what are you frightened at?"

So together they mounted the stairs and took a hasty survey of the upper
story. Here the remover's men had evidently done their work even more
carelessly than down below, for though the furniture had been taken
away, enough rubbish had been left to provide a rummage sale. All kinds
of old articles not worth removing were lying where they had been thrown
down on the bedroom floor--old curtains, old shoes, scraps of mouldy
carpet, the laths of venetian blinds, broken lamp shades, empty bottles,
torn magazines, cracked pottery, worn-out brushes, and decrepit straw
palliasses.

"Did you ever see such an extraordinary conglomeration of queer things?"
said Annie. "I wonder they didn't tidy the house up before they went. No
wonder nobody would take it! And look, girls! They've actually left a
whole bathful of old letters! Somebody has begun to tear them up, and
not finished. They ought to have burnt them. Just look at this piece! It
has a lovely crest on it."

"Oh, has it? Give it to me; I'm collecting crests," cried Deirdre,
commandeering the scrap of paper. "It's a jolly one, too. I say, are
there any more? Move out, Annie, and let me see!"

"Look here," remonstrated Barbara; "I don't think we ought to go
rummaging amongst old letters. It doesn't seem quite--quite honourable,
does it? They are not ours, Annie. I wish you'd stop! No, Gerda, don't
look at them, please! Oh, I say, I wish you'd all come away! Let's go.
Miss Harding will think we're drowned in the river, or something; and at
any rate she'll scold us no end for being so long. Do you know the
time?"

There was certainly force in Barbara's remarks. Their ten minutes' leave
had exceeded half an hour, and Miss Harding would undoubtedly require a
substantial reason for their delay.

"Oh, goody! It's four o'clock!" chirruped Betty. "I'd no idea it was so
late! We don't want to get into a row with Miss Birks. I believe I hear
Romola shouting in the road. They've come to look for us!"

"We'd best scoot, then," said Annie, and flinging back the letters into
the bath, she turned with the rest and clattered downstairs.

Miss Harding, grave, annoyed, and justly indignant, was waiting for them
on the bridge. She received them with the scolding they merited.

"Where have you been, you naughty, naughty girls? You're not to be
trusted a minute out of my sight! I gave you permission to go straight
to the bottom of the hill and back, and here you've been away more than
half an hour! What were you doing in that garden? You had no right
there! Come along this instant and walk before me, two and two. Miss
Birks will have to hear about this. A nice report to take back of your
afternoon's work at map drawing!"

Map drawing! They had forgotten all about the maps. The girls looked at
one another, conscience-stricken; and Deirdre, with an awful pang,
realized that she had left her note-book on the mantelpiece of the
dining-room. She had been disposed to titter before, but she felt now
that the affair was no joking matter.

"Miss Harding mustn't know we've been inside the house," she whispered
to Gerda, with whom in the hurry of the moment she had paired off.

"No one's likely to tell her, and she couldn't see us come out of the
window from where she was standing," returned Gerda.

"We shall get into trouble enough as it is. I didn't think Miss Harding
would have cut up so rough about it. I say, just think of leaving those
old letters all lying about! I got one--at least it's a scrap of
one--with a lovely crest, a boar's head and a lot of stars--all in
gold."

"What!" gasped Gerda. "Did you say you found that on a letter?"

"Well, it's a piece of a letter, anyway."

"Oh, do let me see it!"

"Is Miss Harding looking? Well, here it is. Be careful! She's got her
eye on us! Oh, give it me back, quick!"

Gerda had turned the scrap of paper over and was glancing at the writing
on the other side. She reddened with annoyance as Deirdre snatched back
her treasure.

"Let me see it again!" she pleaded.

"No, no; it's safe in my pocket! Better not run any risks."

"You might give it to me. I'm collecting crests."

"A likely idea! Do you think, if I wanted to part with it, I'd present
it to you? No, I mean to keep it myself, thanks."

"I'd buy it, if you like."

"I don't sell my things."

"Not if I offered something nice?"

"Not for anything you'd offer me," returned Deirdre, whose temper was in
a touchy condition, and her spirit of opposition thoroughly aroused. "We
don't haggle over our things at the Dower House, whatever you may do in
Germany."

Gerda said no more at the time, but at night in their bedroom she
returned once more to the subject.

"You won't get it if you bother me to the end of the term," declared
Deirdre, locking up the bone of contention in her jewel-case and putting
the key in her pocket.

"What do you want it for so particularly, Gerda?" asked Dulcie sharply.

"Oh, nothing! Only a fancy of my own," replied Gerda, reddening with one
of her sudden fits of blushing, as she turned to the dressing-table and
began to comb her flaxen hair.




CHAPTER VI

Ragtime


If there was one thing more than another that the girls of the Dower
House considered a particular and pressing grievance it was a wet
Saturday afternoon. They were all of them outdoor enthusiasts, and to be
obliged to stop in the house instead of tramping the moors or roaming on
the sea-shore was regarded as a supreme penance. On the Saturday
following the mapping expedition there was no mistake about the rain--it
seemed to come down in a solid sheet from a murky sky, which offered
absolutely no prospect of clearing.

The overflowing gutter-pipes emptied veritable rivulets into a temporary
pond on the front drive; the lawn appeared fast turning into a morass;
and even indoors the atmosphere was so soaked with damp that a dewy film
covered banisters, furniture, and woodwork, and the wall-paper on the
stairs distinctly changed its hue. In VB classroom the girls hung about
disconsolately. There was to have been a special fossil foray that
afternoon under the leadership of a lady from Perranwrack, who took an
interest in the school, and who had thrown out hints of a fire of
driftwood and a picnic tea among the rocks.

"It's so particularly aggravating, because Miss Hall has to go up to
London on Monday and won't be back for weeks, so probably she won't be
able to arrange to take us again this term," grumbled Romola.

"It's too--too _triste_!" murmured Deirdre in a die-away voice,
arranging a cushion behind her head with elaborate show of indolence.

"Weally wetched!" echoed Dulcie lackadaisically, sinking into the
basket-chair with an even more used-up air than her chum.

"Good old second best!" laughed Betty. "Whom are you both copying now?
Have you been gobbling a surreptitious penny novelette? I can generally
tell your course of reading from your poses. These present airs and
graces suggest some such title as 'Lady Rosamond's Mystery' or 'The
Earl's Secret'. Confess, now, you're imagining yourselves members of the
aristocracy."

"I believe the penny novelettes are invariably written in top garrets by
people who've never even had a nodding acquaintance with dukes and
duchesses," said Barbara. "The real article's very different from the
'belted earl' of fiction. The Clara-Vere-de-Vere type is extinct now. If
you were a genuine countess, Deirdre, you'd probably be addressing
hundreds of envelopes in aid of a philanthropic society, instead of
lounging there looking like a dying duck in a thunderstorm. Don't glare!
I speak the solemn words of truth."

"You make my he--head ache," protested Deirdre with half-closed eyelids,
but her complaint met with no sympathy. Instead, several strong and
insistent hands pulled her forcibly out of her chair and flung away the
cushion.

"I tell you we're sick of 'Lady Isobel' or whoever she may be. For
goodness' sake be somebody more cheerful if you won't be yourself. Can't
you get up an Irish mood for a change? A bit of the brogue would hearten
up this clammy afternoon."

"Oh, isn't it piggy and nasty!" exclaimed Annie, stretching out her arms
in the agony of an elephantine yawn. "I want my tea! I want my tea! I
want my tea! And I shan't get it for a whole long weary hour!"

"Poor martyr! Here, squattez-ici on the hearth-rug and I'll make you a
triscuit."

"What on earth is a triscuit?"

"Oh, you're not bright or you'd guess. It's a biscuit toasted nicely
brown and eaten hot. Don't you twig? A biscuit means 'twice cooked';
therefore if it's cooked again it must be a triscuit. That stands to
reason."

"Is it to be a barmecide feast? I don't see your precious biscuits."

"'"I've got 'un here," sez she, quite quiet-like,'" returned Betty, who
was a Mrs. Ewing enthusiast, and quoted Dame Datchet with relish. "Half
a pound of cream crackers, and I mean to be generous and share 'em
round. Don't you all bless me? Now the question is, how we're going to
'triscuit' them."

The girls crowded round with suggestions. Toasting biscuits was
certainly more entertaining than doing nothing. Deirdre forgot for the
time that she was a heroine of fiction, and plumped down by the fender
with a lack of high-born dignity that would have scandalized "Lady
Isobel".

"You'll smash them up if you try sticking your penknife through them,"
she observed. "It'll burn your fingers too to hold them so close to the
fire. Try the tongs."

"Some of them might be tilted up in the fender," volunteered Gerda,
whose rare remarks were generally to the point. "They'd be getting hot,
and we could finish them off afterwards."

"Right you are! Stick them up in a row. Now if I take this one with the
tongs and hold it just over that red piece in the fire----"

"Be careful!"

"Remember it's fragile."

"There, I knew you'd smash it! Oh, pick the other half out, quick! It's
burning!"

"What a Johnnie-fingers you are! It's done for."

In the end--and it was Gerda's quiet suggestion--the tongs were placed
over the fire like a gridiron and the biscuits successfully popped on
the top and turned when one side was done. Everybody appreciated them
down to the last crumb, and awarded Betty a vote of thanks for her
brilliant idea.

"The worst of it is, they're finished too soon," sighed Evie, "and we've
nothing else to fill up the gap till tea-time. I want to do something
outrageous--break a window or smash an ornament, or damage the
furniture! What a nuisance conscience is! Why does the 'inward monitor'
restrain me?"

"Probably the wholesome dread of consequences my dear. You might cut
your hand in a wild orgy of window smashing and there'd be bills to pay
afterwards for reglazing and medical attendance."

"But can't we do anything interesting?"

"Let's play a trick on VA," suggested Annie. "It would do them good and
shake them up. My conscience gives me full leave."

"It's celebrated for its well-known elasticity!" chuckled Evie.

"But what could we do?"

"Oh, just rag them a little somehow. It would be rather sport."

"Plans for sport in ragtime wanted! All offers carefully considered.
Now, then, bring on your suggestions."

Everybody stared hopefully at everybody else, but no one rose to the
occasion.

"Going--going--going--a first-rate opportunity for mirth-provoking----"

"Could we get them into the passage and one of us hide behind the
curtain of the barred room and act ghost?" proposed Romola desperately.

Her suggestion, however, was received with utter scorn.

"Can't you think of anything more original than that?"

"We're fed up with that ghost trick. Nobody even calls it funny now."

"Besides, Miss Birks said she'd punish anyone who did it again. She was
awfully angry last time."

Duly squashed, Romola subsided, and the silence which followed resembled
that of a Quakers' meeting.

"I've got it!" shouted Betty at last, clapping her hands ecstatically.
"The very thing! Oh, the supremest joke!"

"Good biz! But please condescend to explain," commented Evie.

"Oh, we'll try thing-um-bob--what d'you call it? Mesmerism--that's the
word I want. With dinner plates, you know."

Apparently nobody knew, for all looked interested and intelligent, but
unenlightened.

"Do you mean to say you've never heard of it? Oh, goody! What luck!"

"Look here," interposed Annie, "you're not going to rag us as well. It's
to be for the benefit of VA if there's any sell about it."

"All right! They'll really be enough, and you shall act audience. Only
with fourteen of you it would have been so----"

"Betty Scott, give us your word this instant that you won't play tricks
on your own Form."

"I won't--I won't--honest, I won't!"

"And tell us what you're going to do."

"No, that would spoil it all. You must wait and see. Barbara, go to the
kitchen door and cajole Cook into lending us seven dinner plates. Say
you'll pledge your honour not to break them. And purloin a candle from
the lamp cupboard. Be as quick as you can! Time wanes."

Barbara executed her errand with speed and success. She soon returned
with the plates and set them down on the table. Betty lighted the
candle, laid one plate aside, then held each of the others in turn over
the flame till the bottoms inside the rims were well coloured with
smoke. The girls watched her curiously.

"Now, I'm ready!" she announced, "but I want a messenger. Elyned, you go
and tap at VA door and say we shall be very pleased if they care to come
and try a most interesting experiment. Mind you put it politely, and for
your life don't snigger."

Now VA had been spending an even duller and more wearisome afternoon
than VB, for they had not had the diversion of toasting biscuits. They
were yawning in the last stages of boredom when Elyned arrived and
delivered her message. Usually they considered themselves far too select
to have much to do with the lower division, but to-day anything to break
the monotony was welcome. They accepted the invitation with alacrity,
and came trooping in to the rival classroom with pleased anticipation in
their faces.

"It's a most curious experiment," began Betty. "I learnt it from a
cousin who's been out East. He saw it practised by some Chinese priests
at a josshouse. I believe it's one of the first steps of initiation in
Esoteric Buddhism. My cousin's not exactly a Theosophist, but he's
interested in comparative theologies, and he went about with a lama, and
found out ever so many of their secrets. He wrote down the formulary of
this for me."

"What's it about?" asked the elder girls, looking considerably
impressed.

"It's a species of mesmerism--or animal magnetism, as some people prefer
to call it. You make certain passes, and repeat certain words after me,
and then you all get into the hypnotic state. Of course it depends how
psychic you are, but anybody with even undeveloped mediumistic powers
will sometimes give replies to questions they couldn't possibly answer
in the normal state."

"I suppose it won't hurt us?" asked Agnes Gillard rather gravely.

"Oh, not at all! It's wonderful sometimes to find how people who've
never even suspected they possessed psychic gifts bring out absolutely
unaccountable pieces of information. It really would be quite uncanny,
except for the latest theory that it's merely utilizing a natural power
once cultivated by man, but long forgotten except by a few priests in
the Tibetan monasteries. The Theosophical Society, of course, is trying
to revive it."

"I'm afraid I don't know anything about Theosophy," murmured Hilda
Marriott.

"It's akin to the Eleusinian mysteries and the cult of Isis," continued
Betty unblushingly. "You have to understand 'Karma' (that's
reincarnation) and 'Yoga' (that's flitting about in your astral body
while you're asleep), and--and--" But here both memory and invention
failed her, so she hurriedly changed her point. "Oh! it would take me
years to explain, and you couldn't understand unless you'd been
initiated. Let's get to the experiment. Will you all stand in a row?"

"Aren't any of you going to try?" asked Irene Jordan, addressing the
members of VB, who, solemn as judges, stood slightly in the background.

"We can only do it with seven, the mystic number--and there are eight of
them, and they can't agree who's to be left out," said Betty hurriedly.
"It's always done with six neophytes and one initiated. If you're ready,
we'd best begin, and not waste any more time."

She arranged her neophytes in a line, and gave to each a plate, telling
her to hold it firmly in the left hand. Then, taking her stand facing
them, she raised her own plate to the level of her chest.

"Now you must do exactly as I do!" she commanded. "All fix your eyes on
me, and don't take them off me for a single instant. The concentration
of the seven visual currents is of vital importance. Put the middle
finger of the right hand beneath the plate exactly in the centre, then
describe a circle with it on the under side of the plate. Be sure the
circle follows the same course as the sun, or we may break the mesmeric
current. Watch what I'm doing. Now describe a circle on your face in the
same manner, beginning with the left cheek. Copy me carefully. And now
we must repeat the cabalistic formulary (the oldest in the
world--Solomon got it from El Zenobi, the chief of the Genii): 'Om mani
padme hum'. Let us say it slowly all together seven times, performing
the orthodox circles at each."

The neophytes played their parts admirably. They never removed their
gaze from the face of their instructress; they copied her every
movement, and repeated the mystic words to the very best of their
ability. "Om mani padme hum" rolled from their lips seven times, and
seemed to suggest the dreamy atmosphere of the occult.

"The mesmeric current is forming! I can feel it working!" declared
Betty. "It only requires further visualization for the hypnotic state to
follow. To complete the magnetic circle, will you all kindly turn and
face each other?"

Still holding the plates, the obedient six swung round, stared at one
another, then gasped and shrieked. And well they might, for, one and
all, their countenances were besmirched with black in a series of
concentric rings which caused them to resemble Zulu chiefs or
American-Indian warriors on the warpath.

"Oh! oh! oh!" came from the members of VB, who, having been stationed
behind the neophytes, had been in equal ignorance of the trick that was
being played on them. Then everybody exploded.

"Oh, you look so funny!"

"Is the magnetic current working?"

"Is it the cult of Isis?"

"Oh, my heart! Oh! ho! ho!" gurgled Betty. "You didn't twig your plates
were smoked and mine wasn't! Oh, I've done you! Done you brown,
literally!"

"You p-p-p-pig!" spluttered the victims.

"Don't break the plates! Here, put them on the table! Oh, don't look so
indignant, or you'll kill me! I've got a stitch in my side with
laughing. Here, don't stalk off like offended zebras! I'll apologize!
I'll go down on my bended knees! It was a brutal rag--yes--yes--I own up
frankly! I'll grovel! _Peccavi! Peccavi! Miserere mei!_"

"I've got some chocolates here," murmured Annie Pridwell. "I was keeping
them for Sunday, but do have them," handing the packet round among the
outraged upper division.

The occasion certainly seemed to warrant some form of compensation. Evie
hastily followed Annie's example, and sacrificed a private store of
toffee on the altar of hospitality. Blissfully sucking, the six seniors
allowed themselves to be mollified. As connoisseurs of jokes, they were
ready to acknowledge the superior excellence of the trick played upon
them; moreover, they found one another's appearance highly diverting.

"Betty Scott, you'll be the death of me some day," remarked Rhoda
Wilkins. "Oh, Agnes! If you could only see yourself in the glass!"

"It's the pot calling the kettle! Look at your own face!"

"Do you think we could possibly work it on the Sixth?"

"No, they'd smell a rat."

"I want my tea," said Annie. "Oh, cock-a-doodle-doo! There's the first
bell! Hip-hip-hooray! I say, you six, if you don't want to give Miss
Birks a first-class fit, you'd best be toddling to the bath-room, and
applying the soap-and-water treatment to your interesting
countenances."




CHAPTER VII

An Invitation


    "Zickery, dickery, lumby tum,
     Tip me the wink, and out I'll come,
     Leave my pagoda so glum, glum, glum,
     To drink green tea with my own Yum-Yum!"

So chanted Evie Bennett on the following Monday, bursting into VB room
with a face betokening news, and a manner suggestive of Bedlam.

"What's the matter, you lunatic? Look here, if you go on like a dancing
dervish we shall have to provide you with a padded room! Mind the
inkpot! Oh, I say, you'll have the black-board over! Hasn't anybody got
a strait-waistcoat? Evie's gone sheer, stark, raving mad!"

"I've got news, my hearty! News! news! news!

    'What will you take for my news?
     I know it will make you enthuse!
     There isn't a girl who'll refuse,
     Or offer to make an excuse.'

Ahem! A poor thing, but mine own. I'm waxing so poetical, I think I must
be inspired."

"Or possessed! Sit down, you mad creature, and talk sense. What's your
precious news?"

"Mrs. Trevellyan requests the pleasure of the company of the young
ladies of Miss Birks's seminary to drink tea with her on the occasion of
the natal day of her nephew, Master Ronald Trevellyan," announced Evie,
changing suddenly to a ceremonious eighteenth-century manner, and
dropping a stiff curtsy.

"Ronnie's birthday!"

"Oh, what sport!"

"It's on Wednesday."

"Has she asked only us?"

"No, the whole school is to go, mistresses and all," returned Evie.
"Mrs. Trevellyan wants to introduce Ronnie's new governess to us."

"There are sure to be games, and perhaps a competition with prizes,"
rejoiced Annie Pridwell; "and we always have delicious teas at the
Castle. Gerda Thorwaldson, why don't you look pleased? You take it as
quietly as if it were a parochial meeting. What a mum mouse you are!"

"Is it anything to get so excited over?" replied Gerda calmly.

"Of course it is! The Castle's the Castle, and Mrs. Trevellyan is--well,
just Mrs. Trevellyan. There are the loveliest things there--foreign
curiosities, and old pictures, and illuminated books, and we're allowed
to look at them; and there's special preserved ginger from China, and
boxes of real Eastern Turkish Delight. Oh, it's a fairy palace! You may
thank your stars you're going!"

In spite of Annie's transports, Gerda did not look particularly
delighted. She only smiled in a rather sickly fashion, and said nothing.
The others, however, were much too occupied with their own pleasurable
expectations to take any notice of her lack of enthusiasm. They had
accepted her quiet ways as part of herself, and had set her down as a
not very interesting addition to the Form, and thought her opinions--if
indeed she possessed any--were of scant importance.

Gerda had made very little headway with her companions; her intense
reserve seemed to set a barrier between them and herself, and after one
or two efforts at being friendly the girls had given her up, and took no
more trouble over her. "Gerda the Silent," "The Recluse," "The Oyster,"
were some of the names by which she was known, and she certainly
justified every item of her reputation for reticence. If she did not
talk much, she was, however, a good listener. Nothing in the merry chat
of the schoolroom escaped her, and anybody who had been curious enough
to watch her carefully might have noticed that often, when seemingly
buried in a book, her eyes did not move over the page, and all her
attention was given to the conversation that was going on in her
vicinity.

Having received an invitation to Ronnie's birthday party, of course the
burning subject of discussion was what to give him as a present. Miss
Birks vetoed the idea of each girl making a separate offering, and
suggested a general subscription list to buy one handsome article.

"It will be quite sufficient, and I am sure Mrs. Trevellyan would far
rather have it so," she decreed.

"It's too bad, for I'd made up my mind to give him a box of soldiers,"
complained Annie, in private.

"And I'd a book in my eye," said Elyned.

"Perhaps Miss Birks is right," said Romola, "because, you see, some of
us might give nicer presents than the others, and perhaps there'd be a
little jealousy; and at any rate, comparisons are odious."

"Miss Birks has limited the subscriptions to a shilling each," commented
Deirdre.

"Then let's take our list now. I'll write down our names, and you can
tell me the amounts."

For such an object everyone was disposed to be liberal--everyone, that
is to say, except Gerda Thorwaldson. When she was applied to, she flatly
refused.

"Don't you want to join in the present to Ronnie?" gasped Romola, in
utter amazement.

"Why should I?"

"Why, because we're going to tea at the Castle; and Ronnie is Ronnie,
and Mrs. Trevellyan will be pleased too!"

"I don't know Mrs. Trevellyan."

"Well, you soon will. You'll be introduced to her on Wednesday. She
always says something nice to new girls--asks them where their homes
are, and if they've brothers and sisters, and how old they are--and if
she finds out she knows their parents or their friends she's so
interested. And she has such a good memory for faces! She actually
recognized Irene Jordan, although she'd never seen her in her life
before, because Irene is so like an aunt, a Miss Jordan who is a friend
of Mrs. Trevellyan's."

Gerda had turned a dull crimson at these remarks. She kept her eyes
fixed on the floor, and made no reply. What her inward thoughts might
be, no one could fathom.

"Isn't your name to go down at all, then, on the list?" asked Romola,
with considerable impatience.

"No, thanks!" replied Gerda briefly, turning awkwardly away.

Wednesday arrived, and perhaps even Ronnie hardly welcomed his birthday
more than did his friends at the Dower House. His present--a toy
circus--had arrived, and had been on exhibition in Miss Birks's study,
and everybody had agreed that it was the very thing to please him. At
three o'clock the girls went to change their school dresses for more
festive attire, and were more than ordinarily particular in their choice
of preparations.

"How slow you are, Gerda Thorwaldson!" said Deirdre, whose own
immaculate toilet was complete. "You haven't put on your dress yet. Why
don't you hurry?"

"You needn't think we'll wait for you," added Dulcie.

Instead of replying, Gerda calmly donned her dressing-gown, and,
volunteering no explanation, went out of the room and shut the door
behind her.

She walked downstairs to Miss Birks's study, and, tapping at the door,
reported herself.

"May I, please, stay at home this afternoon?" she begged. "I'm afraid I
don't feel up to going out to tea to-day."

"Not go to the Castle? My dear child, I hope you're not ill? Certainly
stay at home, and lie down on your bed if your head aches. Nettie shall
bring your tea upstairs. I'm sorry you'll miss so great a treat as a
visit to Mrs. Trevellyan's."

Gerda made no comment; but as she was habitually sparing of speech, her
silence did not strike Miss Birks as anything unusual. It was time to
start, and the Principal had her nineteen other pupils to think about,
so she dismissed the pseudo-invalid with a final injunction to rest.

Gerda did not return to her bedroom till she was perfectly sure that
Deirdre and Dulcie had left it. She had no wish to run the gauntlet of
their inevitable criticisms, or to be questioned too closely on the
nature of her sudden indisposition. She loitered about the upper landing
until from the end window she saw the whole school--girls, mistresses,
and Principal--file down the drive and out through the gate in the
direction of the Castle. Then, going to her dormitory, she rang the
bell, and lay down on her bed.

"Would you mind bringing my cup of tea now, Nettie, please?" she asked,
when the housemaid appeared. "And then I should like to be left
perfectly quiet until the others come back."

"Of course I'll bring it, miss," said the sympathetic Nettie. "Nothing
like a cup of tea for a headache. The kettle's on the boil, so you can
have it at once. I won't be more than a minute or two fetching it."

Nettie was as prompt as her word. She returned almost directly with the
tea, and arranged it temptingly on a little table by the bedside.

"Shut your eyes and try and go to sleep when you've drunk it," she
recommended. "You'll perhaps wake up quite fresh. It is a pity you
couldn't go with the other young ladies to the Castle. They were all so
full of it--and Master Ronnie's birthday, too! I know how disappointed
you must feel."

Gerda finished her tea far more rapidly than is usual for invalids with
sick-headaches; then, instead of taking Nettie's advice and closing her
eyes, she rose and put on her school dress, her coat, and her cap. She
opened the door and listened--not a sound was to be heard. The servants
must surely be having their own tea in the kitchen, and no one else was
in the house. With extreme caution she crept along the passage and down
the stairs. The side door was open, and as quietly as a shadow she
passed out and dodged round the corner of the house. A few minutes later
she was running, running at the very top of her speed across the warren
in the direction of a certain rocky creek not far from St. Perran's
well.

       *       *       *       *       *

When the girls returned at half-past six, full of their afternoon's
experiences, they found Gerda lying on her bed, with the blind drawn
down. There was an almost feverish colour in her cheeks.

"We'd a ripping time!" Dulcie assured her. "A splendid 'Natural Objects'
competition. I nearly got a prize, but I put 'snake-skin' down for one,
and it was really a piece of the skin of a finnan-haddock. Emily
Northwood won the first, with sixteen objects right out of twenty, and
Hilda Marriott was second with fourteen. I might have known that
specimen was fish scales.

"Ronnie was delighted with his circus," added Dulcie. "He gave us each a
kiss all round. And Mrs. Trevellyan was so nice! She was sorry you
couldn't come, and hoped she'd see you some other time. By the by, how's
your headache?"

"Rather better. I think I'll get up now," murmured Gerda. "I haven't
touched my Latin to-day."

"Plucky of you to come and do prep. If I had a headache, wouldn't I just
make it an excuse to knock off Virgil!"

It was getting near to the end of February. The days were lengthening
visibly, and the sun, which only a month ago had appeared every morning
like a red ball over the hill behind the Castle, now rose, bright and
shining, a long way to eastward. In spite of occasional spring storms,
the weather was on the whole mild, and every day fresh flowers were
pushing up in the school garden. The warren, attractive even in winter,
was doubly delightful now primrose tufts were venturing to show among
the last year's bracken, and the gorse was beginning to gleam golden in
sheltered stretches. The girls were out every available moment of their
spare time, rambling over the headland or haunting the sea-shore. For
most of them the latter provided the greater entertainment.

They had discovered a new occupation, that of salvaging the driftwood,
and found it so enthralling that for the present it overtopped all other
amusements. The high spring-tides and occasional storms washed up
quantities of pieces of timber, and to rescue these from the edge of the
waves, and carry them into a place of safety, became as keen a sport as
fishing. Quite a little wood-stack was accumulating under the cliff, and
the girls had designs of carrying it piece by piece to a point on the
top of the headland, and there building a beacon of noble proportions to
be fired on Empire Day amid suitable rejoicings.

It was exciting work to skip about at the water's edge, grasping at bits
of old spars or shattered boards. The sea seemed to enjoy the fun, and
would bob them near and snatch them away in tantalizing fashion,
sometimes adding a wetting as a point to the joke. To secure a fine
piece of wood without getting into the water was the triumph of skill,
attended with considerable risk, not to life or limb, but to length of
recreation, for Miss Birks had laid down an inviolable rule that anybody
who got her feet wet at this occupation must immediately return to
school, change shoes and stockings, and desist from further attempts on
that day. One or two of the girls were lucky enough to possess
india-rubber wading boots, with which they could venture to defy Father
Ocean and rob him of some of the choicest of his spoils, but they were
the highly-favoured few; the rank and file had to content themselves
with the ordinary method of swift snatching with the aid of a hockey
stick.

Two days after Ronnie's birthday party a strong wind and squall during
the night had furnished material for more than usually good sport, and
the whole school betook itself to the beach to try to reap a harvest.
Laughing, joking, squealing, the girls pursued their quarry, enjoying
the fun all the more for the accidents of the moment. Evie Bennett
dropped her hockey stick, and nearly lost it altogether. Romola Harvey
slipped and fell flat into a pool of water; and many other minor mishaps
occurred to keep up the excitement until the catch of the year was
secured, a large piece of timber which it took the united efforts of all
arms to drag successfully up the beach. Deirdre and Dulcie at last,
grown reckless ventured a risky experiment on their own account, with
the result that a wave caught them neatly, and gave them the full
benefit of sea-water treatment.

"Oh, you're done for. Go back at once!" commanded Jessie Macpherson, the
head girl, whose office it was to see that the rule about changing shoes
was duly observed.

"Sea-water doesn't hurt," protested the chums.

"Your feet are wet through, so back you trot this instant. Do you want
me to report you?"

Very loath to leave the shore, Deirdre and Dulcie were nevertheless
bound to obey, so they toiled regretfully up the steep path from the
cove, casting a lingering eye on their companions, who were still hard
at work.

"Where's Gerda?" asked Dulcie. "She's not down there, and now I think of
it, I haven't seen her for the last half-hour or more. Did she get
wet?"

"I really didn't notice. I suppose she must have, and been sent back. We
shall probably find her in the garden."

The two stepped briskly over the warren, their shoes drying on their
feet with a rapidity which made them disparage Miss Birks's excellent
rule about changing.

"It's just her fuss--we should have taken no harm," said Deirdre. "I
say, surely that's Ronnie's laugh. I'd know it anywhere. Where is the
child?"

The girls were passing close to the high wall which separated the Castle
grounds from the warren, and as it seemed more than probable that Ronnie
was inside, playing in the garden, they managed with considerable
effort, and the aid of some strong ivy, to climb to the top and peep
over. Here a most unexpected sight met their gaze.

On the grass, under a tamarisk bush, sat Gerda with Ronnie on her knee.
She had evidently made friends with the little fellow to a great extent,
for he seemed very much at home with her, and the two were laughing and
joking together in the most intimate fashion. It was such an absolutely
new aspect of Gerda that Deirdre and Dulcie were dumb with amazement.
When, at the Dower House, had she laughed so gaily, or talked in so
animated and sprightly a fashion? No shy, reserved, taciturn recluse
this; her eyes were shining, and her whole face was full of a bright
expression, such as the others had never seen there before.

"Hallo, Gerda! What are you doing here?" called Deirdre, finding speech
at last.

Gerda dropped Ronnie, and sprang to her feet with a sharp exclamation.
No one could have looked more utterly and egregiously caught. She stood
staring at the two faces on the top of the wall, and offered no
explanation whatever. Ronnie, however, waved his hand merrily.

"We've been playing Zoo," he volunteered. "Gerda's been a lion, and
gobbled me up, and she's been an elephant and given me rides, and we
were both polar bears, and growled at each other. Listen how I can growl
now--Ur-ur-ugh! Oh, and look what she's given me for my birthday! It
comes from Germany," producing from his pocket a little compass. "Now if
ever I get lost, I can always find my way home. See, I can show you
which is north, and south, and east, and west."

"You'd better be going back, Gerda," remarked Dulcie grimly. "You know
we're not allowed in the Castle grounds without a special invitation."

"I'll come through the side gate," replied Gerda, turning from Ronnie
without even a good-bye. Deirdre and Dulcie dropped from the wall, and
met their room-mate at the identical moment when she passed through the
turnstile.

"Well, of all mean people you're the meanest!" observed Deirdre. "I call
it sneaky to take such an advantage, and go to play with Ronnie by
yourself. We'd do it if it were allowed, but it isn't."

"I wonder his governess wasn't with him," said Dulcie. "He's generally
so very much looked after."

"And as for going inside the Castle garden, it was most fearful cheek,"
continued Deirdre. "We, who know Mrs. Trevellyan quite well, never think
of doing such a thing."

"What I call meanest," put in Dulcie, "was to try and curry favour with
Ronnie by giving him a birthday present on your own account. Miss Birks
said there were to be no separate presents: we were all to join, so that
there'd be no jealousy--and you wouldn't subscribe. Oh, you are a nasty,
hole-and-corner, underhand sneak! Have you anything to say for
yourself?"

But Gerda stumped resolutely along with her hands in her coat pockets,
and answered never a word.




CHAPTER VIII

A Meeting on the Shore


"D'you know, Dulcie," remarked Deirdre, when the chums were alone, "the
more I think about it, the more convinced I am there's something queer
about Gerda Thorwaldson."

"So am I," returned Dulcie emphatically. "Something very queer indeed. I
never liked her from the first: she always gives me the impression that
she's listening and taking mental notes."

"For what?"

"Ah, that's the question! What?"

"I certainly think we ought to be on our guard, and to watch her
carefully, only we mustn't on any account let her know what we're
doing."

"Rather not!"

"She's no business to sneak away by herself when we're all salvaging on
the beach. She knows perfectly well it's against rules."

"She doesn't seem to mind rules."

"Well, look here, we must keep an eye on her, and next time we see her
decamping we'll just follow her, and watch where she goes. I don't like
people with underhand ways."

"It doesn't suit us at the Dower House," agreed Dulcie.

Though the chums kept Gerda's movements under strict surveillance for
several days, they could discover nothing at which to take exception.
She did not attempt to absent herself, or in any way break rules; she
asked no questions, and exhibited no curiosity on any subject. If
possible, she was even more silent and self-contained than before.
Rather baffled, the girls nevertheless did not relax their vigilance.

"She's foxing. We must wait and see what happens. Don't on any account
let her humbug us," said Deirdre.

One afternoon a strong west wind blowing straight from the sea seemed to
promise such a good haul at their engrossing occupation that the girls,
who for a day or two had forsaken salvaging in favour of hockey
practice, turned their steps one and all towards the beach. As they
walked along across the warren they had a tolerably clear and
uninterrupted view of the whole of the little peninsula, and were
themselves very conspicuous objects to anyone who chanced to be walking
on the shore. Deirdre's eyes were wandering from sea to sky, from
distant rock to near primrose clumps, when, happening to glance in the
direction of the cliff that overtopped St. Perran's well, she was
perfectly sure that she saw a white handkerchief waved in the breeze. It
was gone in an instant, and there was no sign of a human figure to
account for the circumstance, but Deirdre was certain it was no
illusion. She called Dulcie's attention to it, but Dulcie had been
looking the other way, and had seen nothing.

"Probably it was only a piece of paper blowing down the cliff," she
objected. "How could it be anyone waving? Nobody's allowed on the
warren."

"It might be Ronnie and Miss Herbert."

"Oh no! We could see them quite plainly if it were."

"Gerda, did you notice something white?"

"I don't see anything there," replied Gerda, surveying the distance with
her usual inscrutable expression. "I think you must have been mistaken."

It seemed quite a small and trivial matter, and though Deirdre, for the
mere sake of argument, stuck to her point all the way down to the beach,
the others only laughed at her.

"You'll be saying it's a ghost next," declared Betty. "I think you're
blessed with a very powerful imagination, Deirdre."

Arrived on the shore, the girls found their expectations fully
justified. Several most interesting-looking pieces of driftwood were
bobbing about just at the edge of the waves, and with a little clever
management could probably be secured, and would make a valuable addition
to the stack which was to furnish their beacon fire. Jessie Macpherson,
who possessed a pair of wading boots, was soon in command, directing the
others how to act so that none of the flotsam should be lost, and
marshalling her band of eager volunteers with the skill of a
coastguardsman.

"Wait for the next big wave! Have your hockey sticks ready! Doris and
Francie and I will wade in and try to catch it, then, when the wave's
going back, you must all make a rush and try to hold it. Not this wave!
Wait for that huge one that's coming. Are you ready? Now! Now!"

The owners of the wading boots did their duty nobly. They caught at the
floating piece of timber and held on to it grimly, while a line of girls
followed the retreating wave, and, making a dash, seized the trophy, and
rolled it into safety.

"Oh, it's a gorgeous big one--the largest we have!"

"That was neatly done!"

"We've robbed old Father Neptune this time!"

"It's a piece of luck!"

"Of flotsam, you mean!"

"Three cheers for the beacon!"

"Hip, hip, hip, hooray!"

"Hooray! Hooray!" echoed Dulcie, then she looked round, and suddenly
touched Deirdre on the arm.

In the midst of the general excitement Gerda had vanished. Where had she
gone? That was the question which the chums at once asked each other. It
was impossible that in so short a space of time she could have scaled
the steep path from the cove on to the top of the cliff. She must surely
have run along the shore instead. To the east the great mass of crags
formed an impassable barrier, but it was just practicable to round the
headland to the west. Without a moment's delay they dashed off in that
direction. They tore in hot haste over the wet sand, scrambled anyhow
amongst the seaweed-covered rocks at the point, regardless of injury to
clothing, and, valiantly leaping a narrow channel, turned the corner,
and found themselves in a second cove, similar to the former, but larger
and more inaccessible from the cliffs. They were rewarded for their
promptitude, as the first sight that caught their eyes was Gerda,
speeding along several hundred yards in front of them, as if she had
some definite object in view.

"Shall I shout after her?" gasped Dulcie.

"Not for the world," returned Deirdre. "We mustn't let her know she's
being followed."

"If she looks back, she'll see us."

"We'll hide behind this rock."

"She'll be round the next corner in a minute."

"So she will. Then, look here, we must wait till she's gone, and then
climb up the cliff, and run along and peep over from the top."

"Whew! It'll be a climb."

"Never mind, we'll manage it. Let us take off our coats and carry them.
I'm so hot."

Deirdre's precautions proved to be most necessary. Gerda turned at the
far headland, and took a survey of the bay before she scrambled round
the point. She did not see the two heads peeping at her from behind the
big rock, and, apparently, was satisfied that she had eluded pursuit. No
sooner had she disappeared than Deirdre and Dulcie hurried forth, and,
choosing what looked like a sheep track as the best substitute for a
path, began their steep and toilsome climb. Excitement and determination
spurred them on, and they persevered in spite of grazed knees and
scratched fingers. Over jagged pieces of rock, between brambles that
seemed set with more than their due share of thorns, catching on to
tufts of grass or projecting roots for support, up they scrambled
somehow, till they gained the level of the warren above.

The course that followed was a neat little bit of scouting. Making a
bee-line for the next cove, they then dropped on their hands and knees,
and, crawling under cover of the gorse bushes to the verge of the cliff,
peeped cautiously over. Gerda was just below them, standing at the edge
of the waves and looking out to sea. This creek was a much smaller and
narrower one than the others, and the rocks were too precipitous to
offer foothold even to the most venturesome climber.

Well concealed beneath a thick bush that overhung the brow of the crag,
Deirdre and Dulcie had an excellent view of their schoolmate's movements
without fear of betraying their presence. Gerda stood for a moment or
two gazing at the water, then she gave a long and peculiar whistle, not
unlike the cry of the curlew. It was at once answered by a similar one
from a distance, and in the course of a few minutes a small white dinghy
shot round the point from the west. It was rowed by a big, fine-looking,
fair-haired man, who wore a brown knitted jersey and no hat.

With powerful strokes he pulled himself along, till, reaching the
shallows, he shipped his oars, jumped overboard, and ran his little
craft upon the beach. He had scarcely stepped out of the water before
Gerda was at his side, and the two walked together along the beach, he
apparently asking eager questions, to which she gave swift replies. Up
and down, up and down for fully ten minutes they paced, too absorbed in
their conversation to look up at the cliff above, though had they done
so they would scarcely have spied the two spectators who cowered close
under the shelter of the overhanging hazel bush, squeezing each others'
hands in the excitement of the scene they were witnessing.

The man appeared to have many directions to give, for he talked long and
earnestly, and Gerda nodded her head frequently, as if to show her
thorough comprehension of what he was saying. At last she glanced at her
watch, and they both hurried back to where they had left the boat. He
launched his little dinghy, sprang in, seized the oars, and rowed away
as rapidly as he had arrived. Gerda stood on the beach looking after him
till he had rounded the point and disappeared from her view, then,
crying bitterly, she began to walk back in the direction from which she
had come. Deirdre and Dulcie waited until she was safely past the corner
and out of sight, then they sprang up and stretched their cramped limbs,
for the discomfort of their position had grown wellnigh intolerable.

"Ugh! I don't believe I could have kept still one second longer,"
exploded Dulcie.

"My feet are full of pins and needles," said Deirdre, stamping her
hardest, "and my elbow is so sore where I have been leaning on it, I
can't tell you how it hurts."

"It can't be worse than mine."

"I say, though, we've seen something queer!"

"Rather!"

"Who can that man be?"

"That's just what I want to know."

"It looks very suspicious."

"Suspicious isn't the name for it. Do you think we ought to tell Miss
Birks?"

"No, no, no! That would never do. We must say nothing at all, but go on
keeping our eyes open, and see if we can find out anything more. Don't
let Gerda get the least hint that we're on her track."

"Suppose Jessie asks us why we left the cove? What are we to say?"

"Why, that we missed Gerda, and as she's our room-mate, we went over the
warren to see if we could find her and make a threesome. It was our
plain duty."

Dulcie chuckled.

"Oh, our duty, of course! And naturally, of course, we didn't find her
on the warren. She wasn't there."

"She'll have to make her own explanations if Jessie asks her where she
was."

"Trust her for that!"

"I wonder what excuse she'll give?"

[Illustration: THE MAN APPEARED TO HAVE MANY DIRECTIONS TO GIVE
_Page 95_]

As it happened, everything turned out most simply. Deirdre and Dulcie
overtook Gerda farther on along the warren, and concluded that she had
probably climbed up from the second cove by the same path as themselves.
They discreetly ignored her red eyes and made some casual remarks upon
the weather. The three were walking together when the rest of the school
came up from salvaging. The head girl looked at them, but seeing that
they formed an orthodox "threesome" made no comment, and passed on. She
probably thought they had been taking a stroll on the warren. Gerda
looked almost gratefully at her companions. She had evidently felt
afraid lest they should mention the fact that she had not been with them
the whole time. She made quite an effort to speak on indifferent
subjects as they walked back, and was more conversational than they ever
remembered her. At tea-time, however, she relapsed into silence, and
during the evening nobody could draw a word from her. Dulcie woke once
during the night, and heard her crying quietly.

The two chums puzzled their heads continually over the meaning of the
strange scene they had witnessed. Many were the theories they advanced
and cast aside. One only appeared to Deirdre to be a really possible
explanation.

"I'll tell you what I believe," she said, "I think that man in the brown
jersey is a German spy. You know, although Gerda sticks to it that she
is English, we've always had our doubts. She looks German, and she
speaks better German than Mademoiselle, though Mademoiselle's Swiss, and
has talked two languages from babyhood. Gerda isn't an English name. She
says it was taken from Gerda in 'The Snow Queen', but can one believe
her? I'm called 'Deirdre' because my family's Irish, and it's an old
Celtic name, but 'Gerda' is distinctly Teutonic. Then she spells
Thorwaldson 'son' but in one of her books I found it written
Thorwaldsen, which is most suggestive. No, mark my words, she's a
German, and she's come here as a spy."

"What has she to spy on?" asked Dulcie, deeply impressed.

"Why, don't you see? A knowledge of this part of the coast would be
simply invaluable to the Germans, if they wanted to invade us. All these
narrow creeks and coves would be places to bring vessels to and land
troops, and the Castle could be taken and held as a fort, and perhaps
the Dower House too."

"Is that why she was measuring the passage?"

"It might very easily be! She'd give them a plan of the school."

"Oh! Would they come and turn us out and kill us?"

"One never knows what an enemy might do. This bit of shore is not at all
well protected; we're a long way from a coastguard station on either
side. It's just the sort of spot where a whole army could be quietly
landed in a few hours, before anyone had an inkling of what was going
on. There's no doubt that we ought to watch Gerda most carefully. It may
mean saving our country from a terrible catastrophe."




CHAPTER IX

A Message


Now that they had decided on an explanation of their schoolfellow's
mysterious conduct, the chums felt that every circumstance seemed to
point in its favour. They wondered they had never thought of it before.
The importance of keeping a strict watch was realized by both. There was
a certain satisfaction in doing so. They felt as if they were rendering
their country a service, almost indeed as if they were members of a
secret diplomatic corps, and had been told off for special duty. Who
knew what England might have to thank them for some day? Possibly at no
very far-off date the whole country might be ringing with their names,
and the newspapers publishing portraits of the two schoolgirls who had
averted a national disaster. Just to be prepared for emergencies, they
took snapshots of each other with Dulcie's Brownie camera, and added a
series of photographs of the school, all of which they thought would be
very suitable to give to the enthusiastic reporter who would demand an
illustrated interview. They were rather disappointed with the results of
the portraits, which in their estimation scarcely did them justice.

"I look more like forty than fourteen!" said Deirdre, regarding ruefully
the dark shadows on her cheeks and the lines under her eyes. "It doesn't
show my hair properly, either. No one could tell it was curly."

"And I look as fat as a prize pig, with no eyes to speak of, and an
imbecile grin."

"I wonder how real photographers manage to touch things up, and make
them look so nice?"

In spite of their best efforts it had proved impossible to do their
developing and printing without their handiwork being seen by their
companions. The photographs of the school were so good that the girls
begged them shamelessly to send home. Gerda was particularly
importunate, and even offered to buy copies when they were refused as a
gift.

"We don't sell our things," said Dulcie bluntly. "You may go on asking
till Doomsday, and you won't get a single print, so there!"

To the chums, Gerda's request was full of significance.

"It shows pretty plainly we're on the right track," said Deirdre. "Of
course she wants them to send to her foreign government. They'd pay her
handsomely."

"Don't she wish she may get them!" snorted Dulcie.

The affair made an added coolness in their dormitory. Gerda appeared to
think them unkind, while they stood more than ever on the alert. They
watched her unceasingly. For some days, however, they could find nothing
of an incriminating nature in her conduct. Possibly she was aware of
their vigilance, and was on her guard against them.

"I believe we're overdoing it," said Deirdre anxiously. "Best slack off
a little, and seem as if we're taking no notice of her. Don't follow her
about so continually. It's getting too marked altogether. We must be
diplomatic."

Just at present Gerda's behaviour was perfectly orthodox. If she went on
the warren, it was invariably as one of a "threesome", and the chums
could detect her in no more solitary and clandestine excursions. She
seemed to have assumed a sudden interest in salvaging, and particularly
in the beacon which the girls were beginning to build upon the headland.
No one was ready to work harder in carrying up the pieces of driftwood
from the beach, and piling them on to the great stack which every day
grew a little higher and higher, till it really began to be a
conspicuous object, and could be seen from both the villages of
Pontperran and Porthmorvan, and from the sea. It was at Gerda's
suggestion that a Union Jack, fastened to a pole, was kept flying from
the top--a little piece of patriotism which appealed to the school at
large, though it roused suspicion in the minds of the chums.

"It's a signal, of course," said Dulcie.

"Some fine day she'll pull it down, and substitute the German flag,"
agreed Deirdre. "She's only waiting her opportunity."

"Unless we circumvent her. There are two Britishers here who mean to
look after their country!"

It was curious how many little things, really quite trivial in
themselves, seemed to point in the direction of the chums' fears. Miss
Birks greatly encouraged a debating society among her girls, and on her
list of subjects for discussion had placed that of "National Truth
versus Diplomatic Evasions". Gerda had certainly been chosen to speak
for the opposition, and was therefore pledged to the side of diplomacy;
but Deirdre and Dulcie thought she made far too good a case of it, and
pleaded much too warmly the cause of the ambassador who on behalf of his
country's honour is obliged to meet guile with guile, and outwit the
enemy by means of stratagems and deeply-laid schemes.

"Any expedient is allowable for the sake of your fatherland," she had
contended, and Dulcie quoted the words with a grave shake of her head as
she talked the matter over with Deirdre.

"Notice particularly that she said fatherland! Now the Vaterland is
always Germany. She didn't mean Britain, you may depend upon it.
No--she's planning and scheming for another war!"

"Then we'll plan and scheme for King George! We'll accept her
principles, and 'make use of any stratagem to outwit the enemy'."

So they waited and watched, and watched and waited, in what they
flattered themselves was true Machiavellian style, till they were almost
growing tired of so fruitless an occupation.

Then one day, quite unexpectedly, something happened. It was a wild,
windy March morning, and the girls were taking a hasty run on the
warren between morning school and dinner, to "blow away cobwebs" and
give them an appetite. There was not time to go far, but they dispersed
in all directions, trying which could make the biggest distance record
available. Gerda had started with Annie Pridwell and Betty Scott, but
under pretence of beating their speed she had got considerably ahead and
left them panting in the rear.

"Where's Gerda?" asked Deirdre, who, with Dulcie and Evie Bennett, had
followed the first "threesome".

"We simply can't keep up with her! She walked as if she had
seven-leagued boots. She's gone over the hill there. I'm going to wait
till she comes back."

"There's no sense in flying like the wandering Jew!" protested Betty. "I
hope she won't be long, because I don't want to walk back as fast as I
came."

"Dulcie and I'll go after her," said Deirdre promptly. "We don't mind
running. You two can be toddling along with Evie as leisurely as you
like."

It only meant a change of "threesomes", so the girls agreed readily and
departed at once, leaving the chums to act escort to the truant.

"She's done it on purpose," gasped Dulcie as soon as they were alone.

"Of course. It's a perfectly transparent dodge. Now we must do Secret
Service work again and not let her see she's being followed."

The chums really congratulated themselves that they were getting on in
the matter of scouting, they availed themselves so cleverly of the cover
of rocks and bushes and proceeded with such admirable caution and care.
Their efforts were successful, for after a few minutes of skilful
stalking they caught sight of their quarry.

Gerda was climbing down the cliff side, fully a hundred feet below them,
and had nearly reached the level of the beach. She descended quickly,
almost recklessly, scrambling anyhow over rocks and through brambles,
and splashing through a boggy piece where a trickle of water had formed
a pool. Arrived on the shingle, she went straight to a hole among the
rocks, searched in the seaweed, and produced a bottle. Taking a piece of
paper from her pocket, she folded it into a long narrow slip and put it
inside, replacing the cork tightly. Then she ran towards the crag at the
mouth of the cove, and climbing up higher than was compatible with
safety she hurled the bottle as far as she could throw it into the sea.
She stood looking for a moment or two as it bobbed about on the surface
of the water, then, turning round, began to scramble back with more
haste than care.

"We've seen enough! Come quick before she spies us!" whispered Deirdre,
dragging Dulcie away. "We mustn't let her know we were anywhere near.
Let us run and be a long way off before she gets to the top of the cliff
and sees us."

The clanging of the first dinner bell, which could plainly be heard in
the distance, certainly offered a reasonable excuse for hurry. The chums
fled like hares, and even with their best efforts only took their places
at table when grace was said and the beef carved. Gerda was later still
and scurried in, hot and breathless, after the potatoes had been handed.
She drank her whole glassful of water at a gulp. Deirdre and Dulcie
avoided looking at her, but they nudged each other secretly. It was a
satisfaction to know what she had been doing, though they could not
openly proclaim their rejoicing. The penalty for lateness at meals was a
fine, but they put their pennies in the charity box with the feeling of
philanthropists. They considered them as contributions to a most
excellent cause.

It was Wednesday, and a half-holiday. At three o'clock the whole school
was to start for a walk to Avonporth, and in the meantime the girls were
expected to busy themselves with minor occupations. A certain number
were due at the pianos for practising or music lessons, and from the
rest stocking-darning, mending, and the tidying of drawers would be
required. Gerda marched off with a volume of Beethoven, and was soon
hard at work on the Moonlight Sonata under Mademoiselle's tuition. She
played well, for she had been carefully taught in Germany, and had a
good execution and sympathetic touch.

Deirdre and Dulcie stood outside the door for a moment or two listening
to her crisp chords.

"She's boxed up there safe for an hour," commented Deirdre.

"Yes, Mademoiselle won't let her off," agreed Dulcie.

"I could do my darning after tea, and my drawers are as tidy as tidy."

"So are mine!"

"Should we? Do you think we dare?"

"Yes, yes. I'm game if you are."

Then the pair did a scandalous deed, such as they had never even
contemplated in all their schooldays before. They took French leave and
went out on to the warren. They knew the consequences would be
disastrous if they were caught, for they were breaking three rules all
at once, absenting themselves without permission, going two together
instead of in a "threesome", and being on the headland at a forbidden
hour. Perhaps the very riskiness of the undertaking added to its
enjoyment.

"We must try and get that bottle, and here's our opportunity," said
Deirdre.

"We can't explain to Miss Birks now, but we can tell her some day that
we went out of sheer necessity," argued Dulcie.

"Of course; it's only our duty. Even the best of rules have to be broken
sometimes when it's a matter of expediency. Miss Birks will quite
appreciate that."

"Yes--when she knows the whole."

Meantime Miss Birks did not know, and the sense that their disinterested
motives might be liable to misinterpretation caused the chums to proceed
warily and avoid exposing themselves to any observer from the upper
windows. They tacked along bypaths and went rather a roundabout route to
reach their destination. Their hope was that the rising water might have
washed the bottle back on to the beach, for Gerda's arm had not been
strong enough to throw it sufficiently far to carry it into the open
sea, and when they last saw it it had been whirling round and round at
the mouth of the creek. They climbed down the cliff side by the same
track that she had followed, and ran eagerly to the edge of the waves.

The tide was much higher than it had been before dinner, and was rolling
up its usual toll of sticks, seaweed, and miscellaneous debris. What was
that dark-green object that kept appearing and disappearing, half-hidden
by a mass of floating brown bladderwrack? One moment it had vanished,
and the next it bobbed up persistently. Deirdre and Dulcie did not wait
to ask. With one accord they whisked off shoes and stockings (a
proceeding utterly and entirely forbidden except in the months of June
and July) and plunged into the water. They were both adepts in the art
of salvaging, but no piece of driftwood ever gave them more trouble than
that elusive bottle, which dipped and dived and evaded them with the
skill of an eel. The beach was shingly, not sandy, which made their
fishing not only a slippery but a most agonizing performance. They were
obliged to grip each other's hands to keep their foothold at all. At
last a larger wave than usual proved helpful, and indeed did its office
so thoroughly that it dashed the bottle against Dulcie's shins. With a
squeal of pain she caught it, nearly upsetting herself and Deirdre in
the process, and the pair hobbled back to where they had left their
shoes and stockings.

"Ugh! I'm absolutely lame! I didn't know stones could cut so,"
complained Deirdre.

"Look at my leg! It will be black and blue, I know," groaned Dulcie.

The possession of the bottle, however, was ample compensation for any
scars they might have won in the struggle for its acquisition. They
tried with impatient fingers to pull out the cork, but as that proved
obdurate they cut the Gordian knot by breaking the neck on a stone. The
thin piece of foreign note-paper was quite untouched by wet. Together
they unfolded it, knocking their heads in their eagerness to read it
both at once. At last, surely, they were within reach of Gerda's secret.
But the letter was written in German, and alas! the chums were still in
the elementary stages of the language, so that except for a chance word
here and there they could not decipher a line of it. Their
disappointment was keen.

"What does she mean by writing in her wretched old Deutsch?" demanded
Dulcie indignantly.

"Oh, bother her! I wish I could read it!" moaned Deirdre.

Never had the advantages of education appealed to the girls more
strongly. They began to think quite seriously of the necessity for
studying foreign languages.

"Why didn't I have a Fräulein in my babyhood instead of an ordinary
English nursery governess?" lamented Deirdre.

"We may be able to do something with a dictionary," said Dulcie more
hopefully.

The idea was consoling enough to prompt them to put on their shoes and
stockings, pocket the document, and climb the cliff. After all, if they
could make little out of it themselves, they had at least prevented the
message from falling into the hands of the person for whom it was
destined, and so had frustrated Gerda's intention. That was sufficient
reward for their trouble, even without the chance of learning its
contents.

"We can keep asking separate words or even sentences until we can piece
it all together," said Dulcie sagely.

"Right you are! and now we'd best rush back as fast as we can."

Time waits for nobody, and during their excursion to the beach it had
seemed to roll on above the speed limit. Unless they meant to be late
for the walk, they must hurry. They were obliged to skirt the cliffs,
for they did not dare to show themselves on the open tract of the
warren. It was not particularly easy to make haste along a narrow path
beset with briers and riddled with rabbit holes. Deirdre went first,
because she always naturally took the lead, and Dulcie, whose physical
endurance was less, panted after her a bad second. Suddenly Deirdre
stopped, and, shading her eyes with her hand, looked intently over the
sea at a small object in the far distance.

"What's that?" she asked sharply.

For a moment or two it had the semblance of a huge bird, then a strange
whirring noise was heard, and as it drew rapidly nearer and nearer they
could see it was an aeroplane flying at no great height over the water.
Apparently it was aiming for the exact spot where they were standing,
and, quite scared, the girls crouched down beside a gorse bush. With a
loud whirr it passed over their heads, and, steering as easily as a
hawk, alighted gently on the moorland only about a hundred yards farther
on.

Here was a pretty state of things! Had the vanguard of the German army
arrived already? And did the enemy mean to swoop down on the school?
They peeped timorously from behind the bush and saw two airmen in full
oilskins dismount hastily and make an examination of the machine.
Whether they were Germans it was impossible to tell; they spoke in tones
too low for their words to carry, and certainly their garments gave no
hint of their nationality. They looked round searchingly, as if
verifying their whereabouts, glanced in the direction of the girls who
cowered under their gorse bush, devoutly hoping they were not visible,
and consulted a map; then, after an earnest conference, entered their
machine again and started off in a northerly direction, flying over the
warren towards Avonporth. The chums, almost spellbound, watched the
aeroplane till it waned into a mere speck in the sky; then fear lent
them wings and they scuttled back to school at a pace they had never
attained even at the annual sports. Fortune favoured them, and they
managed to dodge unnoticed into the garden, run round to the front, and
just in the nick of time take their places among the file of girls
assembled on the drive.

Nobody mentioned the aeroplane, so evidently nobody but themselves could
have seen it. Whence it came and where it was going remained a mystery,
though Deirdre and Dulcie had a settled conviction that Gerda could have
enlightened them on that point. She was quite unconscious of the trick
they had played her, and as they walked just behind her they chuckled
inwardly at the knowledge that her cherished letter lay in Deirdre's
pocket. Outward and visible triumph they dared not venture on: it was
too dangerous an indulgence for those who wished to keep a secret. As it
was, they found it difficult to evade the enquiries of their friends.

"What became of you two just now?" asked Evie Bennett. "Miss Harding was
inspecting drawers, and she sent me to fetch you. I'd such a hunt all
over the place and couldn't find you anywhere."

"You're a notoriously bad looker, you know, Evie," returned Deirdre,
laughing the matter off.

"So Miss Harding said; but it isn't fair to expect one to find people
who aren't there."

"Perhaps Betty had mesmerized us into the hypnotic state and rendered us
invisible to mortal eyes such as yours!"

"Now, don't rag me! Oh, wasn't that joke spiffing! I shall never forget
VA with their faces all streaked with black! I laughed till I nearly
died. They haven't forgiven us, and I believe they're plotting something
to pay us back in our own coin."

"Let them try, if they like. We're not easily taken in."

"By the by, I was hunting for you two just now," Annie Pridwell broke
in. "I wanted to borrow some darning wool, and as I couldn't find you I
helped myself off your dressing-table. I don't know whose basket it was
I rifled. I took the last skein."

"Mine, but you're welcome," said Dulcie. "My stockings are darned for
this week, and shown to Miss Harding and put away. I'll get some more
wool on Saturday, if we go to the village."

"But I couldn't find you when I looked for you," persisted Annie.

"Yes, where were you?" asked Evie again.

But to such an inconvenient question the chums prudently turned deaf
ears.

Deirdre and Dulcie were determined to leave no stone unturned until they
had obtained a translation of the letter which they had purloined from
the bottle. They did not care to show the manuscript itself to any of
the elder girls, as to do so might be to betray their secret, but by
dint of asking odd sentences and words they made it out to run thus:
"Very little to report. No progress at all just at present. Extreme
caution necessary. Better keep clear of headland for a while, and let
all plans stand over." There was neither beginning nor signature, and no
date or address.

To the chums the communication had only one meaning. It must refer to a
German attack upon the coast. The aeroplane had probably been
prospecting for a suitable place to land troops. It was Gerda who was to
supply the information needed by the foreign government as to a
favourable time for executing a master-stroke.

Evidently she did not consider the hour was yet ripe. For the present
England was safe, but who knew for how long?

"It's that man in the brown jersey who's engineering the mischief," said
Deirdre. "When we see him sneaking about in his boat we may know there's
something on foot."

"What ought we to do?" asked Dulcie doubtfully.

"Nothing can be done just now, if they're on their guard and lying low.
We must be vigilant and keep a general eye over things. If anything
unexpected crops up we can warn the police. But, of course, we should
have to have very good grounds to go upon in that case, a perfectly
circumstantial story to tell."

"We've nothing but suspicions at present."

"That's the worst of it. We want more direct evidence. They might only
laugh at us for our pains, and we should get into trouble with Miss
Birks for interfering in concerns that aren't ours. No; we'll keep the
police as the very last resource, and only tell them what we know in the
face of a great emergency."




CHAPTER X

Marooned


Miss Birks's birthday fell on the 1st April, and so did Betty Scott's.
It was not a particularly happy date for an anniversary, but they both
declared they liked it. To Betty it was certainly a chequered event, for
the girls treated her to the jokes they dared not play on the
head-mistress, and she had to endure a double dose of chaffing. But, on
the other hand, a birthday shared with Miss Birks was luck above the
common. There was invariably a whole holiday, and some special treat to
celebrate the occasion. The nature of the festival depended so entirely
upon the day that it was not generally decided till the last minute,
which added an element of surprise, and on the whole enhanced the
enjoyment. Whether this year's jollification would be outdoors or
indoors was naturally a subject of much speculation, but the morning
itself settled the question. Such a clear blue sky, such brilliant
sunshine, and so calm a sea pointed emphatically to an excursion by
water, and Miss Birks at once decided to hire boats, and take the school
for a picnic to a little group of islets due west of the headland.

The girls loved being on the sea, and did not often get an opportunity
of gratifying their nautical tendencies, for they were, of course, never
allowed to hire boats on their own account. Miss Birks was too afraid of
accidents to permit lessons in rowing, though many of her pupils
thirsted to try their skill with the oars, and had often vainly begged
leave to learn in the harbour. To-day three small yachts, with steady
and experienced boatmen, were waiting by the quay at Pontperran, and
even Mademoiselle--the champion of timorous fears--stepped inside
without any nervous dread of going to the bottom of the ocean. It was
delightful skimming out over the dancing, shining water, so smooth that
the worst sailor could not experience a qualm, yet lapping gently
against the bows as if it were trying to leap up and investigate the
cargo of fair maidens carried on its bosom. With one accord the girls
struck up some boat songs, and the strains of "Row, brothers, row!" or

    "Speed, bonny boat, like a bird on the wing,
         Over the sea to Skye,"

rang clear and sweet in the fresh spring air.

Everybody agreed that the passage was too short, and they were almost
sorry when they arrived at their destination. The islands were nothing
more than a group of five rocks, too small for cultivation, and
inhabited only by sea-birds. Some rough grass and bushes grew on the
largest, where there was also a shelving sandy strip of beach that
formed a safe landing-place. Here all disembarked, and the provision
hampers were carried ashore, together with the big iron trivet and
cauldron used for picnics. There was something very fascinating in thus
taking possession of a desert island, if only for a few hours. For the
present the school felt themselves a band of girl Crusoes, and set to
work at once in pioneer fashion to make preparations for lunch. There
was an ample supply of drift-wood lying above high-water mark to serve
as fuel under their trivet, so while some got the fire going, others
took garden spades which they had brought with them and dug sand seats
sufficient to accommodate the company. The chairs destined for the
mistresses were quite superior erections, provided with backs, and that
of Miss Birks was adorned with shells, specially collected from the
rocks by a committee of decoration told off for the purpose. In shape
and elaboration of ornament it resembled a throne, and as a finishing
touch the motto "A Happy Birthday" was placed in yellow periwinkles at
the foot.

By the time these extensive preparations were finished, the cauldron was
boiling, for the fire had been well kept up, and replenished with wood.
Miss Harding dropped in the muslin bag containing the tea, Jessie
Macpherson assumed command of the milk can, and a willing army carried
cups and laid out provisions. The boatmen were provided each with a
steaming pint mug of tea, and a basket of comestibles amongst them, and
retired to one of the yachts with grins of satisfaction on their
countenances. That hospitality having been settled, the cauldron--which
combined the function of urn as well--flowed busily, filling cup after
cup till the whole school collected on the sand seats to do justice to
the provisions. There were rival birthday cakes: Miss Birks's, a
nobly-iced erection decorated with candied violets, was perhaps the
larger of the two, but Betty's--sent from home--had the glory of fifteen
coloured candles.

"Yours ought to have had candles too, Miss Birks," she said, as she
carefully struck a match.

"I'm afraid they'd be too thick on the ground!" laughed Miss Birks. "I
used to have them when I was a child, but I barred the exhibition of my
years after I was twenty-one."

"I once knew a gentleman who had a huge birthday cake with seventy
candles on, and all his grandchildren came to his party," volunteered
Hilda Marriott.

"That must have been a truly patriarchal cake, and something to
remember. I'm afraid I can only offer you candied violets. Betty, shall
we each cut our first slice at the same moment? Here's to everybody's
health and prosperity and good luck for the rest of the year!"

It was the first real picnic since last autumn, so, added to the double
birthday, it seemed a more than ordinary festivity, and everybody waxed
particularly jolly. Miss Birks told humorous Irish stories, and made
endless jokes; even Miss Harding, usually the pink of propriety, was
guilty of an intentional pun. The merry meal was over at last, and when
the baskets had been repacked, all dispersed to wander round the tiny
island. It did not differ particularly from the mainland, but the girls
found it amusing to investigate new coves, and ramble about on the
grassy expanse at the top of the cliffs. A few sought out Miss Birks and
begged to be allowed to explore the next largest islet of the group, so
after a little discussion half a dozen were sent off under charge of
Miss Harding in one of the boats. As there only remained about forty
minutes before it would be necessary to go back, it was arranged that
this boat should not waste time by returning to the bigger island, but
should start on its own account, independently of the other two, as soon
as its party had made a brief survey of the islet.

Deirdre and Dulcie, who were venturesome climbers, took advantage of the
extra liberty allowed them on this special day to escape by themselves
without the tiresome addition of the usual third, and scaled the very
highest point of the rocky centre. Here they found they had an excellent
view of the whole of the small group, and could command a prospect of
cove and inlet quite unattainable from the shore. Dulcie had brought a
pair of field-glasses, and with their aid distant objects drew near, and
what seemed mere specks to the ordinary vision proved to be sea-birds,
preening their wings, or resting upon the rocks. They watched with great
interest the progress of the boat to the other island.

"Didn't know Miss Birks was going to let anyone go, or we'd have gone
ourselves," lamented Deirdre. "Who's in her? Can you see?"

"Perfectly. Miss Harding and Jessie Macpherson, Phyllis Rowland, Doris
Patterson, Rhoda Wilkins, Irene Jordan, and Gerda Thorwaldson. David
Essery is rowing them."

"Oh, I wish we'd gone!" repeated Deirdre enviously. "Give me the
glasses, and let me take a look."

It was a very long look, that swept all round the islands and took in
every detail of cliff and rock. Deirdre repeated it twice, then gave a
sudden exclamation.

"Dulcie, you see that big black cliff over there--rather like a
seal--count three points farther on, and tell me if you don't think
there's a boat in that tiny inlet."

Dulcie seized the glasses, and proceeded to verify the statement.

"It is! Oh, it certainly is! It's moving out now from behind the rock.
Somebody's in it, rowing--Deirdre! I do believe----"

"Not him!" shrieked Deirdre ungrammatically, snatching the glasses from
her friend. "Oh, it is! I'm perfectly persuaded it is! It's just his
figure, and he rows in the same way exactly--the man in the brown
jersey!"

"Then Gerda's engineered that expedition to go and meet him. It's as
plain as plain!"

Their excitement was intense. It did indeed seem an important discovery,
and an added link in their chain of circumstances. Should they stay
where they were, and watch the meeting through the field-glasses, or
would it be possible to follow the matter up more nearly? They resolved
to make a try for the latter. Climbing down as rapidly as they could
from their point of vantage, they found Miss Birks, and entreated to be
allowed to join the party on the other island.

"John Pengelly would row us over, and we'd catch them up immediately,"
they pleaded. "Oh, do please let us go!"

Miss Birks was in a birthday frame of mind, and prepared to listen to
any fairly-reasonable request.

"There would be quite room for you to go home in David Essery's boat,"
she acquiesced. "Yes, you may go if you wish. John Pengelly can take you
at once. Tell Miss Harding I sent you, and you're to return with her
party."

The boatman was good-natured, and apparently did not mind making the
extra journey. He grinned at the girls as he pushed off.

"Can't have too much of the sea, missies?" he ventured. "I'll soon pull
you over there."

He landed them carefully on the second island, then rowed back to the
first landing-place to join his fellow boatman and smoke a pipe till it
was time to start. Deirdre and Dulcie knew exactly which way Miss
Harding and the girls had gone, and their plain duty was to follow them
as rapidly as possible, and report themselves as additions to the party.
They did nothing of the sort, however. Instead, they took exactly the
opposite direction, and made for the western side of the islet, where
they had seen the mysterious boat.

"You may depend upon it we shall find Gerda there," said Deirdre. "It's
better not to let her know we're here. We're far more likely to catch
her."

With a little scrambling they reached an inlet, which--so they
calculated--must be the one they had marked through the field-glasses.
They could see no boat, however, and no Gerda. They waited for a while,
then rambled farther along the shore, but finding nothing, came back to
their former point. They had so entirely counted upon Gerda being there
that they felt decidedly disappointed.

"Perhaps she couldn't sneak off," suggested Dulcie. "Miss Harding's very
tiresome and particular sometimes."

"I wonder if the boat's waiting about for her?" said Deirdre. "I should
very much like to know."

Obeying a sudden impulse, she advanced to the edge of the waves and
reproduced, as nearly as she could remember it, the long peculiar curlew
cry which Gerda had given as a signal on the former occasion. The effect
was instantaneous. There was an answering whistle, and from behind a
rock not very far away a small craft shot out into the creek. It was
undoubtedly the same white dinghy which they had seen before, and
contained the same tall, fair man who had spoken with their school-mate.
He rowed forward with a few rapid strokes, then seeing Deirdre and
Dulcie he paused, took a searching glance round the shore, turned his
boat, and rowed away from the island, passing as quickly as possible
behind the shelter of the next of the group. Deirdre stood watching him
through the field-glasses as he disappeared. She was not altogether sure
whether she had not made a false move. It was perhaps hardly wise to
have thus put him on his guard, and let him become aware that they knew
of the curlew signal. She already regretted her hasty, thoughtless act.
She was conscious that it would defeat her own ends. It seemed no use
staying any longer in the creek, for he would certainly not be likely to
return after such an alarm.

"We'd better go and find Miss Harding," suggested Dulcie.

It was undoubtedly high time they reported themselves, so, putting the
field-glasses back in their case, they set off for the other side of the
island. Arrived at the opposite cove, they looked eagerly for their
school-mates, but nobody was to be seen.

"I expect they're a little farther on," suggested Deirdre, hiding the
fear she dared not own.

But they were not farther on, and though the girls climbed the cliff, so
as to have a thorough view of the shore, and shouted and cooeed till
they were hoarse, there was not a sign of a human being anywhere. Far on
the horizon were three tiny specks.

Dulcie took out the all-useful glasses, and adjusted the focus
anxiously. One glance confirmed her worst apprehensions--the boats had
gone, and left them behind! It was perfectly easy to see how it had
happened. Miss Birks, having sent them specially across the sound,
believed them to be with Miss Harding's party, and Miss Harding did not
even know that they had left the larger island. It was their own fault
entirely for not reporting themselves. While they had been watching the
mysterious boatman on the wrong side of the island, the others must have
been starting, utterly unconscious that two of their number were
missing.

"We're marooned! That's what it amounts to." Deirdre's voice shook a
little as she made the unwelcome admission.

"Well, of all idiots we're the biggest! We have got ourselves into a
jolly fix!" exploded Dulcie.

It was highly probable that they would not be missed until the arrival
at the harbour. Then, no doubt, someone would come back for them, but
the tide was rising rapidly, and perhaps by the time a boat could return
it would not be possible to land and take them off. The prospect of a
night spent on a desert island was not enlivening. Then, too, came
another fear. The mysterious stranger was in the near neighbourhood.
Hidden behind rocks and creeks he might have accomplices, who might take
it into their heads to reconnoitre. The idea was horrible. They felt an
intense dread of the unknown man in the brown jersey. He must be very
angry that they had discovered his signal. Suppose he were to find them,
and wreak his vengeance upon them? They bitterly rued their folly,
though that did not mend matters in the least.

"We won't go over to that side of the island again, in case he might see
us," quavered Dulcie. "Let us sit down here, in this sheltered corner.
How cold it's getting!"

"I'm hungry, too," sighed Deirdre. "There's nothing to eat on the place
except raw periwinkles!"

The sun had set behind a bank of grey clouds, and even in the last ten
minutes the daylight had faded noticeably. A chilly wind had sprung up,
and the girls shivered as they buttoned their coats closely.

"Do you hear something?" said Dulcie presently.

It was a sound of oars, and both pricked up their ears, half-nervously,
half-hopefully. They did not venture to show themselves till they could
ascertain whether it were friend or enemy. Hidden under the shadow of
the rock, they watched the darkening water, then gripped each other's
hands in terror--it was the white boat that appeared round the corner.
Its brown-jerseyed occupant was rowing slowly and leisurely, with a
careful eye on the shore as he went. Would he see them? They were only
partially concealed, and a keen observer might easily detect their
presence. To Deirdre those few minutes equalled years of agony--her
lively imagination summoned up every possible horror. He paused at last
on his oars, and gave the long shrill curlew call. A hundred seagulls
screamed in reply. Twice, thrice he repeated it, then apparently judging
it a failure, he rowed away in the direction of the mainland.

Dulcie was crying with fright and cold. She let the tears trickle
unwiped down her plump cheeks. She was not cut out by nature for a
heroine, and would gladly just then have given up all chance of seeing
her portrait in the newspapers if she could have found herself safely
back in the schoolroom at the Dower House. Adventures might be all very
well in their way, but this one had gone decidedly too far.

"I wish you'd never suggested our coming," she said fretfully. "It was
your fault, Deirdre."

"Don't be mean, and try and throw the blame on me! You were just as keen
as I was!"

"I'm not keen now! I wish to goodness we'd never bothered our heads
about Gerda. You won't catch me on such a wild-goose chase again!"

"I'm utterly disgusted with you, Dulcie Wilcox!" returned Deirdre
witheringly; and Dulcie wept yet harder, to have added to her physical
troubles a quarrel with her chum.

It was almost dark before a search party, consisting of Miss Birks and
three boatmen, arrived to fetch them, and the tide had risen so high
that it was impossible to land as before, so that John Pengelly had to
wade through the water and carry each of them in turn on his back to the
boat. Miss Birks said little, but they knew it was the ominous silence
before a storm, and that she would have much to say on the morrow. They
were intensely thankful when they at last saw the lights of Pontperran,
and felt they were within measurable distance of food and fire.

"You provided a nice birthday treat for Miss Birks, I must say,"
commented Jessie Macpherson sarcastically. "What possessed you to go off
on your own in that silly way? There was nothing in the least
interesting on that side of the island, and you knew where we were, and
that we should be starting almost directly. I simply can't understand
such foolishness! Why did you do it?"

But an explanation of the motives that had influenced their conduct was
the very last thing in the world that Deirdre and Dulcie felt disposed
to offer, even to mitigate the scorn of the head girl.




CHAPTER XI

"Coriolanus"


It was an old-established custom at the Dower House that at the end of
every term the girls must make a special effort to distinguish
themselves. They would get up a play, or a concert, or a Shakespeare
reading, sometimes a show of paintings, carving, and needlework, or a
well-rehearsed exhibition of physical exercises and drill. It was quite
an informal affair, only intended for themselves and the mistresses,
though occasionally Miss Birks invited a few friends to help to swell
the audience. Now April was here, the Easter holidays seemed fast
approaching, and preparations were accordingly made for the usual
function. As a rule, the girls organized the affair themselves, under
the direction of the Sixth Form, but this term Miss Harding stepped in
and assumed the management. She decreed that all the members of the
Latin classes should give a Latin play, and selected a version of
_Coriolanus_ for their performance. About half the school took Latin,
just enough to make up the cast required, so both senior and junior
students were set to work to learn speeches and get up orations. At
first they were entirely dismayed at the prospect of so arduous an
undertaking.

"I hardly thought Miss Harding was serious when she proposed it," said
Annie Pridwell, who with Deirdre, Dulcie, and Gerda made up the four
representatives of VB.

"Serious enough in all conscience," groaned Dulcie, turning over the
leaves of the small volume with an air of special tragedy.
"Volumnia--Volumnia--yes, here she comes again--Volumnia--oh! why am I
chosen for Volumnia? I'll never get all this stuff into my head!"

"You'll look the character nicely," said Annie consolingly. "You've
really rather a classic sort of nose, and you'll have a big distaff and
spindle, and be spinning as you talk."

"That won't help me to remember my part, unless I can write it on a
scrap of paper and hide it among the flax. I declare, it's not fair!
Volumnia has far more to say than Tullus Attius or Sicinius. You ought
to have something extra tagged on to your parts."

"We've quite enough, thanks!" declared Deirdre and Annie hastily.

"As for Gerda," continued Dulcie, "she's being let off too easily
altogether. Her Senator's speech is only eight lines."

"Well, it's my first term at Latin, remember," said Gerda.

"Jessie Macpherson will have to swot like anything to get up 'Caius
Marcus Coriolanus'. I'm glad I'm not picked for the show part, anyhow."

"Jessie won't mind swotting if she has a chance to shine. There'd have
been trouble if she'd had to play second fiddle."

"No one would be rash enough to suggest that. She's not head of the
school for nothing."

"Look here! Is this play to be part of the Latin lesson or an extra?
Shall we be excused our ordinary prep.?"

"Not a line."

"Oh, what a shame! Then it's giving us double lessons. I wish Miss
Harding had left us to get up a concert by ourselves."

Although the girls might grumble and make rather a fuss over learning
their parts, they soon committed the little play to memory, and thanks
to Miss Harding's efforts rehearsals went briskly. Jessie Macpherson,
whose cleverness certainly justified her assumption of general
superiority, rose to the occasion nobly, and tripped off her long
speeches as if Latin were her mother tongue, to the envy and admiration
of those who still halted and stumbled.

"Jessie had got through her grammar before she came to the Dower House,
though," said Irene Jordan, herself a beginner. "It gives her an
enormous pull to have started early."

"Boys' schools get up ever such grand Latin plays," remarked Rhoda
Wilkins. "At Orton College, where my brothers go, they did the _Phormio_
of Terence. We went to see it, and it was splendid. It took fully two
hours. Ours won't take one."

"Well, one expects boys to be better at Latin."

"Some girls' schools run them hard," said Phyllis Rowland. "I know girls
who can beat their brothers."

"Oh, yes, at the big High Schools, where you choose classics or modern
languages, and stick to one side. At the Dower House we dabble in
everything all round, maths., and science, and accomplishments thrown in
as well. Well, it gives you the chance to see which you like best."

The most serious question in connection with the performance was the
arrangement of the costumes. Miss Harding and the elder girls pored over
illustrated Roman histories and classical dictionaries, trying to get
the exact style of the period.

"It's difficult to reproduce with twentieth-century materials," said the
mistress. "One feels all the linens ought to be homespun, and woven in a
loom like Penelope's; and as for the scenery--well, we shall just have
to do the best we can."

"As long as we avoid anachronisms we shall be all right," said Jessie
Macpherson. "We shall have to leave something to the imagination of the
audience."

The whole school was requisitioned to help, and large working parties
were held in the dining-room. The girls found it an amusement to hem
togas or construct shields out of cardboard and brown paper, and
stitched quite elaborate borders on the robes of Veturia, Volumnia, and
Valeria. One of the difficulties that presented itself was the question
of footgear. Roman matrons did not wear serviceable school shoes with
heels, or elegant French ones either. It would certainly be necessary to
contrive sandals.

"We can't cut our best shoes down for the occasion!" said Marcia
Richards.

"I'd leave the school first!" returned Phyllis Rowland.

Hiring "Roman" sandals was too great an expense, and an ambitious
attempt of Jessie Macpherson's to make them out of paper turned out a
ghastly failure.

In the end Miss Harding cut some from strips of cloth, and this effect
proved classical enough to serve the purpose.

"That will be the best we can manage," she said.

"I'm thankful I haven't to do a dance in mine. It would be a queer sort
of shuffle!" confided Dulcie to her chum.

In honour of the very special effort which was being made, Miss Birks
decided to send a number of invitations and ask quite a considerable
gathering to an afternoon performance.

"It's going to be really a swell thing for once," said Deirdre. "I hear
Miss Birks is getting new curtains--those old ones are quite worn
out--and the joiner is to come and fix a rod. And there's to be tea
after the entertainment. Such heaps of people are coming!"

"Who?" asked Gerda.

"Oh, Major and Mrs. Hargreaves and their little boys, and Canon Hall and
Miss Hall, and Dr. and Mrs. Dawes, and all the four Miss Hirsts, and the
Rector of Kergoff, and Mr. Lawson, and of course Mrs. Trevellyan."

"And Ronnie?"

"Rather! We wouldn't leave Ronnie out of it! Miss Herbert is to come
too, if she hasn't gone home for the holidays."

"You've never seen Mrs. Trevellyan yet, Gerda?" put in Dulcie.

"Only in church."

"Well, but I mean to speak to. You didn't go to Ronnie's birthday party,
and the day she came here you were as shy as a baby, and scooted out of
the way."

"I can't help being shy," returned Gerda, blushing up to the very tips
of her ears.

"Why, there you are, turning as red as a boiled lobster! Miss Birks says
shyness is mostly morbid self-consciousness, and isn't anything to be
proud of. Why don't you try to get out of it? It looks right-down silly
to colour up like that over simply nothing at all. I'd be ashamed of
it!" said Dulcie, who could be severe on other people's faults, though
she demanded charity for her own.

"Gerda's copying eighteenth-century heroines!" mocked Deirdre. "They
always tried to outvie the rose. Didn't Herrick write a sonnet to his
Julia's blushes? And I'm sure I remember reading somewhere:

        'O, sweet and fair,
        Beyond compare,
        Are Daphne's cheeks.
    And Daphne's blushing cheeks, I swear!'

Go it, Gerda! Can you possibly get a little redder if you try? If you
outvie the rose, there's still the peony left!"

Gerda took her room-mates' teasing, as she took everything else at the
Dower House, with little or no remonstrance. It would have pleased the
girls much better if they could have raised a spark out of her. Her
queer, self-contained reserve was not at all to their taste, and they
awarded the palm of popularity to Betty Scott, whose high spirits,
perpetual jokes, and amusing tongue made her the public entertainer of
the Form.

"I wish Betty were acting," sighed Dulcie. "She's always the life and
soul of a play. It was very stupid of her mother not to want her to
learn Latin."

"I'm afraid Gerda'll be a perfect stick as Ancus Vinitius," whispered
Deirdre.

"An absolute dummy," agreed her chum.

But they underestimated Gerda's talents. Her part was a small one, yet
she rendered it excellently. She walked, acted, and spoke with a calm
dignity well in keeping with the character she represented. Everybody
agreed that she made a most reverend and stately senator.

"I ought to look old, though," she maintained. "It's absurd for us all
to look so youthful."

"Powder your hair," suggested Irene.

"Not enough. I think I can do better than that."

Rather to the girls' amusement, Gerda seemed more than ordinarily
anxious about her costume.

"She couldn't make more fuss if she was taking Coriolanus himself!"
laughed Dulcie. "The Senator might be the chief part."

Gerda had notions of her own, which she proceeded to carry out. She went
to Jessie Macpherson and borrowed the white wig, and with the help of
some more sheep's wool contrived a beard to match. On the afternoon of
the performance she not only donned these, but blackened her eyebrows
and painted her face with a series of wrinkles and crows'-feet.

"Why, it's splendid!" exclaimed the girls. "You look seventy at the very
least. Just the sort of venerable old city father you're meant for."

"You'd hardly know me, would you?" enquired Gerda casually.

"Nobody would know you. I don't believe even Miss Birks will recognize
you. It's the best make-up of anybody's. Jessie'll be proud to see her
wig used after all. She'll almost wish she'd worn it herself."

The performers found the dressing nearly the greatest part of the fun.
They arranged Volumnia's classical garments and ornaments, adjusted her
gold fillet; draped the folds of Veturia's flowing robe, and persuaded
Brutus to abandon spectacles for the occasion.

"You forget we're supposed to be in _circum_ 490 B.C.," remarked Jessie
Macpherson.

"I shall be blind without them!" objected Brutus.

"Never mind! You must catch hold of Sicinius's toga if you get into
difficulties."

"The Chinese used spectacles ages ago. Couldn't a pair of them have got
imported into Rome?"

"Certainly not. Those goggles of yours would spoil the whole classical
spirit of the play, and I shan't allow them."

"Well, I suppose I'll worry through somehow; but if I upset the rostrum
don't blame me!"

"You've just got to go through your part without upsetting anything,
spectacles or no spectacles, or you'll have to settle with me
afterwards!" observed Jessie grimly.

By half-past three all the invited guests had arrived and taken their
places in the dining-hall, where a temporary platform had been put up.
From behind the curtains the performers could take surreptitious peeps
and watch the arrival of the audience. Dulcie, with her eye at a tiny
opening, reported progress to the others.

"There's the Vicar! There's Mrs. Hargreaves with all the boys! There's
Canon Hall! Oh, here's Mrs. Trevellyan, and Miss Herbert and Ronnie
behind her!"

"Where are they sitting?" asked Gerda.

"Right in the middle of the front row. Do you want to peep?"

"Thanks--just for a second. Tell me, is my beard all right? Miss Birks,
or--anyone else--wouldn't know me?"

"Not from Adam! What a fuss you make about your costume!" said Dulcie
impatiently. "Nobody'll notice it all that much. There are ten others
acting as well as yourself."

"I'm glad you snubbed her," said Deirdre, as Gerda having taken her peep
between the curtains, retired to the back of the stage.

"She really needs it sometimes. It isn't good for people to let them get
swollen head."

"Are you all ready?" asked Miss Harding anxiously. "Then ring the bell,
Marcia. Now, Rhoda, don't forget your cue, 'Satis verborum,' and
remember to speak up. And, Doris, do put the right accent on 'Dulce et
decorum est pro patria mori'. I shall be so ashamed if you get it
wrong."

The audience clapped vigorously as the curtains parted and disclosed an
atrium with Veturia and Volumnia seated spinning and chatting as Roman
matrons may very possibly have chatted in the year 490 B.C. The scene
was really pretty, and became impressive when Caius Marcius arrived with
his proud news. Jessie Macpherson had an excellent idea of acting, and,
as her features were classical, she made an ideal personation of the
future Coriolanus, putting just the right amount of aristocratic
haughtiness into her demeanour and calm command into her tone of voice.
Miss Harding had been nervous about many points, but as the play went
on, and scene succeeded scene, she breathed more freely. Every girl was
on her mettle to do her best, and things that had dragged even at the
dress rehearsal now went briskly. Nobody needed prompting, and nobody
forgot her cue; all spoke up audibly, and even the lictor, who had been
the most difficult to train, did not turn his back on the audience.
Though many of the guests certainly could not understand the dialogue,
the plot of the play was so palpable that all could easily follow the
story from its interesting opening to the end. Coriolanus died nobly,
and fell to the ground with a really heroic disregard of possible
bruises; and Veturia commanded the sympathy of the entire room as she
shared his fate. The performers received quite an ovation as they stood
in a line making their bows.

"Really, Miss Birks, your girls are too clever for anything," remarked
Canon Hall. "Their Latin was most excellent."

"The soft pronunciation makes it sound just like Italian," said Mrs.
Trevellyan. "They deserve many congratulations."

"Yes, they caught the classical spirit of the thing so well," agreed Mr.
Poynter, the vicar.

"Considering that many of them are beginners, I think it is fairly well
to their credit, and certainly to Miss Harding's," said Miss Birks.
"This is the first Latin play they have attempted. Another time they
will do better."

The next part of the function was tea in the drawing-room, to which
guests and pupils were alike invited.

"Be quick and change your costumes!" commanded Coriolanus behind the
scenes. "Here! somebody please unfasten me at the back! Where are my
shoes gone to?"

"Why need we change?" interposed Gerda quickly. "It will take so long,
tea'll be over before we're ready. Why can't we go in as we are?"

"Oh, yes, let us keep on our costumes!" agreed Dulcie, who liked being a
Roman lady. "Miss Harding, mayn't we have tea in character?"

"Why, I dare say it will amuse the visitors. Yes, run in as you are if
you wish. Gerda, wouldn't you like to take off that beard and wash your
face? Come here and I'll help you."

"No, thanks! I'd rather keep it on, really."

"I don't know how you'll negotiate any tea!"

"I don't mind."

The eleven performers made quite a sensation as they filed into the
drawing-room. All the children among the guests wanted to examine their
garments and handle their mock daggers. Ronnie in particular persisted
in calling his aunt's attention to every detail.

"I like Jessie and Rhoda and Hilda the best," he declared frankly. "I
didn't know Marcia at first. And who do you think that old man is? It's
Gerda--Gerda Thorwaldson! Gerda, do let Auntie look at you! Yes, you
must come! I'll drag you! Here she is, Auntie!"

"How do you do, my dear? Your make-up seems excellent," said Mrs.
Trevellyan kindly, smiling as the senator blushed furiously under his
painted wrinkles. "Ronnie, you mustn't be naughty! Don't hold her if she
wants to go. What a little tyrant you are!"

"Gerda is such a very shy girl," said Miss Birks, as Ronnie loosed his
hold and Ancus Vinitius made his escape. "I always have the greatest
difficulty in persuading her to speak to strangers. It amounts to a
fault."

"A pardonable failing at her age," returned Mrs. Trevellyan. "She'll
outgrow it presently, no doubt. At any rate, it's pleasanter than too
great self-assurance, which is generally the reproach cast at young
people of the period. It's quite refreshing nowadays to meet a girl who
is shy."




CHAPTER XII

In Quarantine


However excellent the arrangements of a school, and however happy the
girls may be there, the word "holidays" nevertheless holds a magic
attraction. Miss Birks's pupils thoroughly appreciated the Dower House,
but they would not have been human if they had not rejoiced openly in
the immediate prospect of breaking-up day. Already preparations were
being made for the general exodus; the gardener was carrying down trunks
from the box-room, Miss Harding was checking the linen lists, and the
girls were sorting the contents of their drawers and deciding what must
be left and what taken home.

"These are going to be extra-special holidays," triumphed Deirdre. "You
know, my sister's at school at Madame Mesurier's, near Versailles? Well,
Mother and I are to have ten days in Paris, so that we can see Eileen
and take her about. Won't it be absolutely ripping? I've never been
abroad before, and I'm just living for it. We're to go and see all the
sights. Eileen's looking forward to it as much as I am."

"I'm going to stay with my cousins in Hampshire," said Dulcie. "They're
mad on horses, so I shall get some riding. They always give me 'Vicky',
the sweetest little chestnut cob. She goes like a bird, and yet she's so
gentle. When we're not riding we play golf. Their links are gorgeous."

"Where are you going, Gerda?" asked Deirdre.

"To London, to meet Mother," replied Gerda, with a light in her eyes
such as the chums had not seen since she arrived. She offered no details
of further plans, but evidently the prospect satisfied her. All three
girls were counting the hours till their departure. There is a dour old
proverb, however, which states that "there's many a slip 'twixt cup and
lip", and for once its pessimistic philosophy was justified.

On the very morning of the breaking-up day Deirdre, who had passed a
funny, feverish night, woke up to find her face covered with a rash.
Dulcie went for Miss Birks, who, after inspecting the invalid and
finding on enquiry that both Dulcie and Gerda had slight sore throats,
forbade the three to leave their bedroom until they had been seen by a
medical man. Very much disconcerted, they took breakfast in bed.

"It may be only nettle-rash," said Deirdre. "I had it once before when
I'd eaten something that disagreed with me."

"And I expect Gerda and I caught cold on the warren yesterday. No doubt
it's nothing," said Dulcie, trying to thrust away the horrible
apprehensions that oppressed her.

When Dr. Jones arrived, however, and examined his patients he sounded
the death-knell of their hopes. He pronounced Deirdre to be suffering
from a slight attack of German measles, and from Dulcie's and Gerda's
symptoms diagnosed that they were sickening for the same complaint.

"The rash will probably be out to-morrow," he announced. "With care in
the initial stages it should prove nothing serious, but for the present
they are as well in bed."

The three victims could hardly believe the calamity that had overtaken
them. To stop in bed with measles when their boxes were packed and the
last things ready to go into their hand-bags, and their trains arranged
and their relations notified of the time of their arrival!

"It's--it's rotten!" exclaimed Deirdre, turning her flushed face to the
wall.

"If it's German measles I believe it's your fault, Gerda!" declared
Dulcie, weeping openly.

"I didn't start them!" objected poor Gerda.

"You've had them packed in your box, then!" snapped Dulcie, who was
thoroughly cross and unreasonable. "Oh, won't it make a pretty
hullaballoo in the school?"

The sympathies of the moment might well be with Miss Birks. She had
caused each of her remaining seventeen pupils to be examined by the
doctor, and as all appeared free from symptoms was sending off seventeen
telegrams to inform parents of the circumstances and ask if they wished
their daughters to return home or to remain in quarantine. Without
exception the replies were in favour of travelling, so the usual cabs
and luggage carts drove up, and the girls, rejoicing greatly, were
packed off under Miss Harding's escort by the midday train to Sidcombe
Junction, where they would change for their various destinations.

In spite of strict injunctions to keep warm, Deirdre got out of bed and
watched the departure from the window.

"To think that I ought to have been sitting inside that bus, and my box
ought to have been on that cart!" she lamented. "Oh, I could howl!
Mother will have got our tickets for Paris. I wonder if she'll go
without me? Oh, why didn't I powder my face and say nothing about it?"

"You couldn't have hidden that rash! Besides, it's horribly dangerous to
catch cold on the top of measles. Get back into bed, you silly! I'll
tell Miss Birks if you don't! Do you want what the doctor called
'complications'? I think you're the biggest lunatic I know, standing in
your night-dress by an open window!" Dulcie's remarks were sage if not
complimentary, so Deirdre tore herself away from the tantalizing
spectacle of the start below and dutifully returned to her pillow just
in time to save herself from being found out of bed by Miss Birks, who,
having said good-bye to the travellers, came upstairs to condole with
the three invalids.

"I can't think how we caught it!" sighed Dulcie.

"At our performance of _Coriolanus_, I'm afraid," said Miss Birks. "Dr.
Jones tells me that all the little Hargreaves are down with it. He was
called in to attend them yesterday. Probably they were sickening for it
and gave you the infection."

"I hope Ronnie won't have caught it!" gasped Gerda.

"I trust not, indeed. I shan't feel easy till I have sent to the Castle
to enquire about him. It certainly is the most unfortunate happening.
But Deirdre may be glad she had not started for Paris. There is nothing
so miserable or so disastrously expensive as to be laid up in a foreign
hotel. The proprietor would have demanded large compensation for
measles, even if he had allowed her to remain in the house. Probably she
would have been removed to a fever hospital."

"Not a pleasant way of seeing Paris!" said Deirdre, summoning up a
smile.

"You'll have a holiday there another time, I'm sure. And now you must
all be brave girls and try to make the best of things. Fortunately, none
of you seem likely to be really ill. We'll do what we can to amuse
ourselves."

Miss Birks spoke brightly, and her cheery manner hid her own
disappointment, though she might justly have indulged in a grumble, for
she had been obliged to cancel all her arrangements for a motor tour and
stay to attend to her young patients. The responsibility of looking
after them and the subsequent disinfecting which must be done would
completely spoil her holiday. She was not a woman to think of herself,
however, and she put her aspect of the case so entirely aside that the
girls never even suspected that her regrets were equal, if not superior
to their own.

As the doctor had prophesied, both Dulcie and Gerda developed the rash
on the following day. Fortunately, all three girls had the complaint
very slightly, and beyond a touch of sore throat and sneezing were not
troubled with any very disagreeable symptoms.

"The microbes have only fought a half-hearted battle, and they are
retiring worsted," declared Miss Birks; "they're not as savage as
scarlet-fever germs."

"Quite tame ones," laughed Dulcie.

"Germs 'made in Germany' aren't likely to be A1," said Deirdre, with a
quip at Gerda.

After a day or two in bed, Dr. Jones pronounced his patients
convalescent, gave them permission to go downstairs, and held out the
promise of a walk on the warren if they continued to improve. Their
period of isolation was a fortnight, after which they were to be allowed
to go home for the remaining week of the holidays. If it had not been
for the thought of what they were missing, they might have congratulated
themselves on having an extremely good time. Miss Birks was kindness
itself, and allowed every indulgence possible. They were kept well
supplied with books, in cheap editions which could be burnt afterwards,
and had licence to pursue any hobby which admitted of disinfection. Dr.
Jones brought good reports of the Hargreaves children, who were now
convalescent. Ronnie had most fortunately not caught any germs, and was
away with Mrs. Trevellyan in Herefordshire. Of the seventeen girls who
had returned home, Irene Jordan only had developed a slight rash, so
that on the whole the school had escaped better than might have been
expected.

After the constant society of their class-mates, the three invalids felt
the Dower House to be very large and empty and lonely. It was
astonishing how different it seemed now the rooms were untenanted. The
whole place wore a changed aspect. In ordinary circumstances they hardly
ever gave a thought to the ancient associations of the house, but now
they constantly remembered that it had been occupied as a convent, and
that hundreds of years ago gentle grey-robed figures had flitted up and
down those identical stairs and paced those very same passages. It was
the code of the school to laugh at superstition, and none of the girls
would confess to a dislike to go upstairs alone, but it was remarkable
what excuses they found for keeping each other company.

Gerda was the worst off in this respect, for Deirdre and Dulcie, though
ready to accommodate each other, did not show her too much
consideration, and would often ruthlessly disregard her palpable hints.
They kept very much together, and though not openly rude, made her feel
most decidedly that she was _de trop_. She never complained, nor offered
the least reproach; her manner throughout was exactly the same as it had
been since her first arrival, gentle, reserved, and uncommunicative.
Sometimes the chums, out of sheer naughtiness, tried to pick a quarrel
with her, but she never lost her self-control, and either kept entire
silence, or replied so quietly to their gibes that they were rather
ashamed of themselves. To Miss Birks Gerda did not open her heart any
more than to her room-mates. She appeared grateful for kindness, but
the Principal's best efforts could not make her talk, and on the topic
of her home and her relations she was dumb. To any questions she would
return the most brief and unwilling answers, and seemed reluctant to
have the subject mentioned at all. After several vain attempts to win
her confidence, Miss Birks gave up trying, and allowed her to go on in
her usual self-contained silent fashion--a negative policy not wholly
satisfactory.

All three girls made excellent progress, and Dr. Jones very soon gave
permission first for a gentle walk round the garden at midday, then for
a longer time out-of-doors.

"We've been making invalids of them, though they're not invalids at
all," he said jokingly. "They're nothing but three humbugs! Look at
their rosy cheeks! And I hear reports of such excessive consumption of
chicken broth, and jelly, and other delicacies, I shall have to diet
them on porridge and potatoes. I think Miss Birks is too good to you,
young ladies. When I was at school I wasn't pampered like this, I assure
you, whatever infectious complaints I managed to catch. They used to
dose us with Turkey rhubarb, no matter what our ailment; it was a kind
of specific against all diseases, and nasty enough to frighten any
microbe away."

"May we go home next week?" pleaded Deirdre.

"Girls who catch German measles don't deserve to go home. But I know
Miss Birks wants to get rid of you, so I won't be too severe. Yes, I
think I may consider you cured, and give you your order of release for
next Wednesday."

That evening three very jubilant girls sat in the small schoolroom
scribbling their good news.

"This day week we shall be at home," rejoiced Deidre.

"Oh, goody! I am so glad! I can hardly write sense. I hope Mother'll
understand it. She's accustomed to my ragtime letters, though."

"Miss Birks is sending post cards about the trains," volunteered Gerda.

"A good thing, too, for I never remember to put the time. Shall I read
you what I've said, Deirdre?

    "DARLING MUMMIE,

    "I'm coming home--oh! isn't it spiffing? Do let us have trifle
    and sausages for supper, and let Baba stop up for it. I've made
    her a present, and it's not infectious, because Miss Birks has
    had it stoved. And it will be ripping to see you all again. I'm
    so glad I shan't miss Douglas. I hope Jinks is well, but don't
    let them bring him to the station to meet me, in case he gets on
    the line. Oh, high cockalorum for next week!

        "Heaps and heaps of love from
            "DULCIE."

"It's a good thing Miss Birks is sending a post card, you silly child,"
remarked Deirdre crushingly. "You've never told your mother which day
you're coming, to say nothing of mentioning a time."

"Oh, haven't I? No more I have. I'll put it in a P.S. I hope Mother
won't forget I said trifle and sausages. She always lets me choose my
own supper on the day I go home, and we have it all set out in the
breakfast-room. Generally we only get biscuits and milk before we go to
bed. I think they might let Baba sit up this time. She's nearly six. Oh,
bother! My stamps are upstairs. Do come with me, and I'll fetch them. I
simply hate going alone."

"You're as big a baby as Baba," returned Deirdre. "No, I can't and won't
and shan't go with you. You must pluck up your courage for once. Dear me
there's nothing to be afraid of, you scared mouse."

Thus duly squashed by her own chum, Dulcie made no further plea; she
only banged the door in reply, and they could hear her footsteps
stumping slowly and heavily upstairs. In a few moments, however, she
descended with a much swifter motion, and, looking pale and frightened,
burst into the schoolroom.

"There's somebody or something inside the barred room," she gasped.
"It--whatever it is--it's tapping on the door. I daren't go past."

Both Deirdre and Gerda rose to the rescue, and--three strong--the girls
ventured to investigate. With a few pardonable tremors they drew aside
the curtains that concealed the door of the mysterious room. There was
nothing to be seen or heard, however. The iron bars had not been
tampered with, and all was dead silence within.

"Your nerves are jumpy at present, and you'd imagine anything," decided
Deirdre.

"I didn't imagine it. I really heard it. I tell you I did. Oh, I say!
There it is again!"

Instinctively the girls clung together, for from inside the door
certainly came the sound of rapping, not very loud, but quite
unmistakable.

"Who's there?" quavered Deirdre valiantly. But there was no reply. "If
you want help, speak," she continued.

The three held their breath and listened. Dead silence--that was all,
nor was the rapping repeated.

"I've heard it before," whispered Gerda.

"When?"

"Several times. Once just after I came, and again in the middle of the
term, and about three weeks ago. It's always the same. A few taps, and
then it stops."

"Did any of the other girls hear it?"

"I didn't ask them."

"It's spooky to a degree. What can it be?"

"Oh, do you think there's anybody inside?" whimpered Dulcie.

"Why didn't he answer, if there was?"

"He might be deaf and dumb. Oh, perhaps that's the secret of the room.
Is some poor creature shut up there? Oh, it's too horrible!"

"Don't get hysterical!" said Deirdre. "Mrs. Trevellyan wouldn't go
shutting up deaf and dumb people! It is very mysterious, though."

"Shall we tell Miss Birks?" suggested Dulcie.

"No, certainly not. She's always fearfully down on us if we get up any
scares about the barred room. Don't you remember how cross she was with
Annie Pridwell and Betty Scott last term?"

"Do you ever hear any other noises?" asked Gerda.

"No, only what might reasonably be rats or mice."

"Has anyone any notion what's inside?"

"Not the very slightest. I don't believe even Miss Birks knows."

"Well, look here," said Dulcie. "I shall never dare to go down this
passage alone again. One of you will simply have to come with me."

"I don't think we'll very much care to go alone ourselves," returned
Deirdre.

"You called me a scared mouse!" Dulcie's tone was injured, as if the
epithet still rankled.

"Well, we're three scared mice, and it's a case of 'see how they run!'"
laughed Deirdre, getting back her self-possession. "We'll go up and down
in threesomes for the future."

"You promise? You'll never make me pass here by myself again?"

"Faithfully, on my honour! We'll act police, and protect you against a
dozen possible spooks. Do stop squeezing my arm, you've made it quite
sore!"

"I don't know how it is, Deirdre, you never take things seriously. I
can't see anything to laugh about myself. The whole thing's queer, and
uncanny, and mysterious, and I hate mysteries. Why can't Mrs. Trevellyan
have the bars taken down and let us look into the room?"

"Ah! Ask me a harder."

    "'While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
      As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door,'"

quoted Gerda, who was learning "The Raven".

"You're both determined to make fun of it, and it isn't a laughing
matter," complained Dulcie. "I haven't got my stamps yet. Come along!"




CHAPTER XIII

The Life-boat Anniversary


On the following Wednesday three much-disinfected girls took their
places in the train, and started off for the short remainder of their
holiday.

"I wish we didn't smell so horribly of carbolic!" protested Dulcie. "I'm
sure everybody'll think we're coming from a fever hospital, and give us
a wide berth."

"All the better if we can keep the carriage to ourselves," chuckled
Deirdre. "Those three old ladies were just going to come in, when they
turned suspicious and sheered off in a hurry. I feel rather inclined to
label myself 'Recovering from Measles'."

"Then you'd come under the Infectious Diseases Act, and be fined for
travelling in a public conveyance. Perhaps they'd turn you out, and put
you in the guard's van."

"To give him measles? How kind! But I'd travel in a cattle-truck to get
home. Only one week of the holidays left! I mean to get the most amazing
amount into the time, I assure you."

Deirdre and Dulcie were travelling together to Wexminster, where their
ways parted, and Gerda was to go on to Hunstan Junction, where she
would be met by a relative. If she was pleased at the prospect, she did
not betray much excitement, nor did she vouchsafe any details of what
was in store for her. The chums were too busy with their own plans to
concern themselves with hers, and jumped out of the train at Wexminster
in such a hurry that they almost forgot to bid her good-bye. Rather
conscience-stricken, Dulcie remembered just in time, and turned back to
the carriage window.

"Good-bye! I hope you'll have as jolly holidays as mine," she called.

"Thank you!" said Gerda, waving her hand, with a wan little smile, as
the train began to move. And for the first time since they had known one
another, it struck Dulcie that there was something infinitely sad and
pathetic about her mysterious school-fellow.

Could she really be a spy? The chums had discussed the question again
and again. Her German associations, her intense reserve, and, above all,
her incriminating meetings on the shore, seemed highly suspicious. What
was the secret that she so persistently concealed? And what the
explanation of the letter she had placed in the bottle? For the present
the riddle must remain unanswered. Both they and she had turned their
backs on Pontperran for one brief week, and during that time neither
suspicions nor speculations must disturb the full bliss of their belated
holiday.

Deirdre and Dulcie made up for the shortness of the vacation by the
thorough enjoyment of each precious day, and when they returned to the
Dower House had enough material for conversation to last them a month or
more. Even Gerda appeared cheered by the change. Though she did not
offer any details of her doings, she admitted she had enjoyed herself in
London. She looked brighter, and was more ready than formerly to join in
the life of the school and take some part in all that was going on. The
chums watched her closely, but found her conduct perfectly regular and
orthodox. She indulged in no more surreptitious expeditions to the
shore, and did not attempt, when on the warren, to separate herself from
the others. Since the day they had been marooned on the island, Deirdre
and Dulcie had not seen the brown-jerseyed stranger again. They
concluded that he must have left the neighbourhood, and have suspended
his evil designs till a more favourable season.

Though they could not in any degree trust her, they certainly found
Gerda a more genial companion than she had been last term. Her reserve
about her own affairs remained unshaken, but she began to show an
interest in school doings. She took keenly to tennis, and improved so
rapidly that she was soon one of the best players, and even vanquished
Jessie Macpherson in singles--a great triumph for VB.

"She's 'Gerda the Sphinx' still, but she's not quite so bad as she was
before," said Dulcie.

The bedroom shared by the three girls had been well disinfected and
repapered before their return after the measles. They themselves were
regarded rather in the light of heroines by the others.

"You weren't quite clever enough, though," said Betty Scott. "If you'd
managed to catch it in term time it would have been a real excitement,
and perhaps it would have spread, and we should have had one of the
dormitories turned into a nice little hospital."

Betty spoke regretfully, as if she had lost an opportunity which might
not occur again. Evidently measles at school was an experience she
craved for. Not a solitary germ, however, had survived the stoving and
whitewashing, and the health record at the Dower House maintained its
former standard of excellence.

The summer term was always of more than usual interest. The school lived
largely out-of-doors, many classes were held in the garden, and meals,
when weather permitted, were often taken on the lawn. The girls would
particularly petition for breakfast in the open air. It was delightful
to sit in the warmth of the early morning sunshine, with birds singing
in chorus in the trees and shrubs around, and the scent of lilac and
hawthorn wafted by the gentle little breeze that was blowing white caps
to the waves on the gleaming sea below the cliffs. The whole
neighbourhood of Pontperran changed annually after Easter. During the
winter it was as sleepy and quiet a spot as could be imagined, with no
excitements beyond an occasional temperance meeting or village concert.
In the summer it woke up. Every farm or cottage that had a room to spare
let it to visitors. The place had a reputation amongst both artists and
anglers, and throughout the season easels might be seen pitched at every
picturesque corner, and the one hotel blossomed out into the
head-quarters of the "Izaak Walton Club". So long as the visitors did
not attempt to trespass on the headland, the girls rather enjoyed their
advent. It was interesting to try to catch a glimpse of an artist's
picture as they passed his easel, and the added gaiety in the village
found its way to the school. Miss Birks took her pupils to an occasional
concert or entertainment, and never omitted to let them attend such
important functions as Hospital Saturday Parade and the Life-boat
celebrations.

It had been decided by the local authorities this year to keep the
Life-boat anniversary on Whit Monday. On that day large numbers of
visitors often came to Pontperran from other seaside places, a
circumstance which would largely enhance the possibility of a good
collection. The girls at the Dower House, having had a long Easter
holiday, were not going home for Whitsuntide, so, with Miss Birks's
permission, they were pressed into the service, and requisitioned to
sell flowers and take donations. As it was the first time they had been
allowed to play such a public part, they were much delighted and
excited.

"It's as good as a bazaar, only more fun, because it will be in the
streets," said Evie Bennett.

"We'll just make people buy," announced Annie Pridwell. "I'm not going
to take a single flower back with me, I've made up my mind about that!"

"I hope people will feel generous," said Elyned Hughes.

It was arranged that the girls should be dressed in white, and should
wear their school hats, and a badge consisting of a scarlet sash tied
over the shoulder and under one arm. The flowers--imitation
corn-flowers--were supplied at the public hall; they were made into tiny
buttonholes, which were to be sold for the sum of twopence, or anything
more that the charitable felt disposed to give for them. The collectors
were to go two and two together, one to sell the flowers, and the other
to hold the miniature life-boat into which the pennies were to be
dropped. Dulcie begged hard to be allowed to collect with Deirdre, but
this Miss Birks would not permit, apportioning an elder girl to each
younger one, so that Dulcie, instead of having her chum for a partner,
found herself, rather to her chagrin, placed with Jessie Macpherson, the
head of the school.

"It isn't going to be fun at all!" she lamented. "I'd almost as soon go
about with Miss Harding. I thought we should have had a ripping time.
I'll undertake Jessie will want to sell all the flowers herself, and
make me rattle the box."

Jessie decidedly had views on the due subordination of younger girls,
and would probably have fulfilled Dulcie's gloomy prophecy, had not Miss
Birks intervened with the injunction that the seniors were to commence
the sale of the flowers, then when half the stock was disposed of, the
remainder was to be handed over to the juniors, so that each might have
a fair part in the proceedings.

"Jessie looked rather sulky about it," chuckled Dulcie. "I shall see
that those flowers are divided equally and she doesn't take more than
her legitimate share of them. Twenty buttonholes apiece is the portion.
I've a good mind to label mine."

This particular anniversary was to be one of more than ordinary
interest, for a new life-boat had been presented to the station, and was
to be launched amid general rejoicings. A large influx of visitors was
expected, so there seemed every reasonable hope of a speedy sale of the
pretty little bouquets.

"I only wish they'd been real flowers," said Deirdre, who, with Irene
Jordan, had been apportioned a beat in the main street near the
principal shops.

"The real ones fade so horribly quickly," replied Irene. "They would
have been drooping by the time we got them down to the town, and they'd
only last about an hour in people's buttonholes. These are really very
pretty, and can be kept as mementoes. I shan't part with mine till next
year. Now, are you ready? I'm going to tackle that old gentleman over
there; he looks charitably disposed."

At first the girls were rather shy in pressing their wares, but people
responded so kindly and readily that they took courage, and offered them
even in unlikely quarters. It was amazing how many and what varied
customers they found. A ragged, roguish-looking urchin, who generally
begged from them when he could snatch the opportunity, came up now, and
invested his twopence in the biggest posy he could select, standing with
quite the air of a dandy as Irene pinned the treasure on to his faded
little jersey. He dropped the coppers into the life-boat with keen
enjoyment, and retired beaming, satisfied that he had contributed his
small share to the general fund. Day trippers proved a harvest, some
putting threepenny bits or sixpences in place of pennies, and buying
more than one bouquet. A waggish young fellow decorated his sailor hat
with enough bunches to form a wreath, quite finishing Irene's stock, and
encroaching on Deirdre's half of the tray. Several ladies tied bouquets
on to the collars of their pet dogs, and a sweet little girl insisted
upon making a purchase on behalf of her doll. A small, very spoilt boy
wanted to carry off the miniature life-boat, and howled lustily when he
realized that it was not for sale; but was consoled when Irene allowed
him to hold it for a few minutes, and rattle it suggestively at
passers-by. So delighted was he with the novel occupation that his nurse
could scarcely tear him away, and it was only by the bribe of a bun that
she cajoled him into restoring the box to its lawful owner.

"It's getting almost too full to shake!" laughed Irene. "If everyone
else has done as well as ourselves, this ought to be a record day. Oh,
look! There's Miss Herbert with Ronnie! They're coming this way!"

"Ronnie must have one of my bunches, if I buy it myself and give it
him!" declared Deirdre.

But Ronnie had come with his small pockets well lined with pennies which
he was burning to spend. He gallantly chose a buttonhole for his
governess first then one for himself, and would have added a third for
his aunt had not Miss Herbert reminded him that he would meet other
friends with trays of flowers if they walked farther down the street.

"I want to buy some from Jessie," he sighed, "and from Gerda. I do like
Gerda--the best of anybody!"

"He's taken quite a fancy to Gerda," laughed Miss Herbert. "He often
talks about her. And really she's very kind. She gives him so many
picture post cards--the sort he loves, with photographs of animals on
them. I think she must get them from Germany. I've never seen any like
them in England."

"Gerda's ripping!" remarked Ronnie as he trotted away.

Deirdre looked after him in much astonishment. She remembered how on the
occasion of Ronnie's birthday Gerda had paid him a surreptitious visit,
and given him a present on her own account, but she had no idea that the
friendship had been continued. Gerda must surely have seen him on other
occasions, and won his favour. Ronnie was so entirely the "King of the
Castle" to the school at the Dower House that Deirdre felt hugely
indignant at the notion of her room-mate stealing a march on his
affections. It was an extraordinary thing, she reflected, that Ronnie
should care for anybody so silent and uninteresting. Then a mental
vision returned to her of Gerda's eager, animated face, as she had seen
it when she had peeped unobserved over the wall. No, Gerda had not
looked silent and uninterested when she was alone with Ronnie.

"The girl's a riddle. I can make nothing of her," decided Deirdre.

By half-past eleven the enthusiastic flower vendors had the extreme
satisfaction of finding their trays cleared, and their miniature
life-boats grown extremely heavy. They carried the latter to the public
hall, and delivered them safely to the secretary of the fund; then,
being off duty, they wended their way to the quay to await that
most-important function, the launching of the new life-boat. Quite a
crowd was assembled, of both visitors and townspeople, and the place for
once seemed full almost to overflowing. A long jetty stretched out from
the harbour, and here, during the summer months, large numbers of lasses
were busy every day packing fish into barrels and boxes. They were a
bonny, picturesque crew, most of them wearing gay-coloured handkerchiefs
tied over their heads, and short sleeves which showed their well-shaped
arms to advantage. They were brought to Cornwall for the summer from
Scotland, in a special vessel chartered for the purpose, and performed
their task of fish packing with a skill and dispatch in which nobody
could rival them.

For the moment they had ceased work, and, wiping the scales from their
hands, stood watching the preparations with as keen interest as anybody.

"They're talking Gaelic to each other!" exclaimed Ronnie, running up to
Deirdre in great excitement. "Oh, it sounds so funny! Miss Herbert says
it's rather like Welsh. I asked one of them to say something, and she
just gabbled gibberish, and said it meant I was a sweet, nice little
boy. She let me stand on a barrel, and I could see so well, but Miss
Herbert made me get down, because she said it was too fishy."

"Come and stand here with me," suggested Deirdre persuasively.

"No, I'm going to Gerda--she's over there and smiling at me. Good-bye!"
and Ronnie rushed away tumultuously to join his latest favourite,
placing himself so extremely near to the edge of the quay as to have
involved imminent danger, had not Gerda held one of his small hands, and
Miss Herbert the other.

As everybody seemed to be collected, and the appointed hour of noon was
already past, a flag was waved as a signal for the proceedings to begin.
First a blank charge was fired, which rang over the water with a
tremendous report, scaring those who were not quite prepared for it, and
making some people clap their hands over their ears. Then the great
doors of the National station swung open, and the beautiful new
life-boat came gliding gently out on her path to the sea. All her crew
were in new jerseys and scarlet caps, and as the bow of their vessel
first touched the water, they broke into a mighty ringing cheer. It was
taken up by the crowd, and from every side came hurrahs and shouts of
congratulation. Ronnie was flourishing his hat frantically (with Miss
Herbert and Gerda both clutching him in the rear) and hurrahing with all
the power of his young lungs; the fish packers were clapping and waving
handkerchiefs; and even the sea-birds, frightened probably by the gun,
screamed as if adding their quota to the general disturbance.

"I do like anything that makes a noise!" declared Ronnie, when the
excitement had calmed down a little, and everyone was tired of shouting.
"I'm going to ask Auntie to let me fire the two old cannon on the
terrace at home when I go back."

"I'm quite sure she won't!" laughed Miss Herbert.

The life-boat made a short trial trip round the harbour, then, returning
to the quay, the coxswain announced that they would be pleased to take
visitors on board in relays, and gave a special first invitation to the
young ladies who had so kindly sold flowers in the interest of the
institution. With Miss Birks's permission the delighted girls descended
the stone steps, and were jumped by sturdy sailors into the boat. Ronnie
begged so hard to be of the party that his pretty wistful little face
gained the day, and the coxswain himself took him in his arms, and
handed him safely on board. Very proud he was of his trip, and very
loath to go back to dry land when the vessel, after a partial tour of
the harbour, returned to take a fresh cargo of young people.

When those of the juveniles among the crowd who cared to venture had had
their turn, the crew provided a fresh sensation by giving an exhibition
of life-saving. One of their number jumped into the water, and, throwing
up his hands, shouted as if in the utmost jeopardy of his life.
Immediately the boat was turned, a rope flung, and in record time he was
rescued, hauled on board, and revived. The rocket apparatus was next
fixed, and the crowd watched with deepest interest as a rope was fired
over the vessel, and skilfully caught and attached by the crew, who then
drew up the "cradle", a rough canvas bag, in which the passage from the
life-boat to the shore must be made. Without wasting a moment one of the
men was popped in, then those on shore hauled him as rapidly as possible
to land. He kept dipping in the water as he came, so the girls decided
that in a real storm it must be an extremely perilous passage, and he
would be likely to arrive half-drowned.

"I don't think I'd ever dare to be saved in a dreadful thing like that!"
shuddered Dulcie. "I'd rather stay on board and take my chance."

"I wish they'd let me go in it!" said Ronnie. "Are they going to take
visitors as passengers? I'm going to run down the steps, and ask them to
have me first!"

"No, you're not!" laughed Miss Herbert. "You're getting too
obstreperous, young man, and I must take you home. Say good-bye to the
girls."

"Good-bye! Oh, hasn't it been glorious! I have so enjoyed myself! When
will the next fun be?"

"Not till Empire Day. Then we'll have the beacon fire on the headland."

"Oh, lovely! I wish it was to-morrow! What, Gerda?" as his friend bent
over him and murmured something. "Really? Oh, how spiffing! Rather!"

"What was Gerda whispering to you?" asked Deirdre jealously.

"Shan't tell you! It's a secret between her and me," chirruped Ronnie as
he danced away.




CHAPTER XIV

The Beacon Fire


The girls at the Dower House were extremely keen upon celebrating, with
due ceremony, every festival that was marked in the calendar. They
bobbed for apples on All-Hallows Eve, made toffee and let off fireworks
on 5th November, tried to revive St. Valentine's fete on 14th February,
practised the usual jokes on 1st April, and plaited garlands of flowers
on May Day. They had thoroughly enjoyed Life-boat Monday, and now turned
their attention to providing adequate rejoicings on Empire Day. All
through the winter they had been collecting drift-wood on the beach, and
carrying it to the headland to form the huge bonfire which they intended
should be a beacon for the neighbourhood. They had built up their pile
with skill and science, and, thanks to their heroic exertions, it had
reached quite large and important proportions. A kindly wind had dried
the wood, so that there was every prospect of its burning well, and Mrs.
Trevellyan had promised a large can of paraffin, to be poured on at the
last moment before lighting, so as to ensure a blaze. The only flaw in
the arrangement was the fact that the sun did not set until past eight
o'clock, and that owing to the long twilight it would probably not be
really dark until ten, so that the effect of their beacon would be
slightly marred.

"If we could have had it at midnight!" sighed Annie Pridwell.

"Yes, that would have been scrumptious, if we could have got people to
come. Ronnie wouldn't have been allowed."

"No; Mrs. Trevellyan's making a great concession as it is to let him
stop up till nine. It's a pity she's laid up with sciatica, and can't
come herself."

"She'll watch it from a window, and Miss Herbert will bring Ronnie."

Mrs. Trevellyan had been extremely kind in the matter of the bonfire;
she had given Miss Birks carte blanche in respect to it, and told her to
regard the headland as her private property for the evening, and ask any
guests whom she wished to join in the celebration. Quite a number of
invitations had been sent out to various friends in the neighbourhood,
and a merry gathering was expected. Some were to arrive at the school
and walk over the warren, and others had decided to come by boat to the
little cove directly under the headland, an easier means of getting from
Porthmorvan or St. Gonstan's than going round by road.

Naturally, the girls were all at the very tiptop of expectation: even
the dignified Sixth betrayed signs of excitement, and VB was in a state
verging on the riotous. To their credit they all accomplished their
shortened evening preparation with exemplary quiet and diligence, but
once released, and speeding over the warren to the headland, they
allowed their overwrought spirits to find relief. They danced ragtimes,
sang, halloed, and cooeed, and generally worked off steam, so that by
the time they reached the beacon they had calmed down sufficiently to
satisfy Miss Birks's standard of holiday behaviour, and not make an
exhibition of themselves before visitors.

Already people were beginning to arrive both by land and sea. Miss Birks
brought a select party who had motored from Kergoff, and at least half a
dozen boats were beached upon the little cove. Ronnie was already on the
scene in charge of Miss Herbert, immensely proud of being allowed to sit
up beyond his usual bedtime, and running here, there, and everywhere in
the exuberance of his supreme satisfaction.

The girls had fixed a stake into the rocks close by, from which a Union
Jack floated to give the key-note of the proceedings, and had prepared
buttonholes of daisies, the Empire flower, to present to all the guests.
They had twisted daisy-chains round their own hats, and even decorated
their flagstaff with a long garland, so they felt that they had done
everything possible to manifest their loyalty to King George. Mrs.
Trevellyan's head gardener had brought the large can of paraffin, and
filling a greenhouse syringe from it, began carefully to spray the wood,
especially in the places where it was most important for the fire to
catch. The company then drew back, and formed a circle at a safe and
respectful distance. A thin train of gunpowder was laid down, and under
the gardener's careful superintendence Ronnie was allowed the immense
privilege of applying a taper to the end. The light flared up, and wound
like a fiery snake to the beacon, where, catching a piece of gorse
soaked with paraffin, it started the whole pile into a glorious blaze.
Up and up soared the flames, roaring and crackling, and making as much
ado as if the Spanish armada had been sighted again and it were warning
the neighbourhood to arms. The girls could not help starting three
cheers, the guests joined lustily, and Ronnie, almost beside himself
with excitement, pranced about like a small high-priest officiating at
some heathen ceremonial rite.

Miss Birks had added a delightful feature to the celebration by
providing a picnic supper. It was of course impossible to hang kettles
on the beacon, but the large cauldron had been brought, and was soon at
work boiling water to make coffee and cocoa. The girls helped to unpack
hampers of cups and saucers, and to arrange baskets of cakes, and when
the bonfire had formed a sufficient deposit of hot ashes, rows of
potatoes were placed round it to cook, and to be eaten later. It was a
very merry supper, as they sat on the short grass of the headland, with
the beacon blazing on one hand, and on the other the western sky all
glorious with the copper afterglow of sunset. The new moon, like a good
omen, shone over the sea, and from far, far away came the distant chime
of bells, stealing almost like elfin music over the water. From the
beach below came the long-drawn, monotonous cry of a curlew.

"The fairies are calling!" whispered Gerda to Ronnie. "Listen! This is
just the time for their dancing--the new moon and the sunset. They'll be
whirling round and round and round in the creek over there."

"Really? Oh, Gerda! could we truly, truly see them?"

The little fellow's blue eyes were wide with eagerness. He sprang on his
friend's knee, and clutched her tightly round the neck.

"You promised you'd take me!" he breathed in her ear.

"Yes, if you're very quiet, and don't tell. Not a living soul must know
but you and me. If anyone else sees us the fairies will all just vanish
away. They can't bear mortals to know their secrets."

"But they'll let you and me?"

"Yes, you shall see the Queen of the Fairies, and she'll give you a
kiss."

"Oh, do let us go, quick!"

"In a moment. Remember, nobody must notice. Let us walk over there, and
pretend we're looking at the flag. Now, come gently round this rock.
Hush! We must steal away if we're to find fairies! I believe we're out
of sight now. Not a soul can see us. Give me your hand, darling, and
we'll run."

It was perhaps a few minutes after this that Miss Herbert, who had been
engaged in a pleasant conversation with the curate from Kergoff, missed
her small charge.

"Where's Ronnie?" she asked anxiously.

"I saw him just now," said Miss Harding. "He was with the girls as
usual. Gerda Thorwaldson had him in tow."

"If he's with Gerda he's all right," returned Miss Herbert, evidently
relieved. "She's always so very careful. No doubt they'll turn up
directly."

"I expect they're only fetching more potatoes from the hamper," said the
curate. "We'll soon hunt them up if they don't put in an appearance."

Deirdre, who was standing near, chanced to overhear these remarks, and,
jealous of Gerda's hold over Ronnie, turned in search of the missing
pair. They were not by the bonfire, it was certain, nor were they among
any of the groups of girls and guests who still sat finishing cups of
coffee, and laughing and chatting, Deirdre walked to where the hamper of
potatoes had been left, but her quest was still unrewarded. She returned
hastily, and calling her chum, drew her aside.

"Gerda and Ronnie have disappeared," she explained briefly. "I don't
like the look of it. Gerda has no right to monopolize him as she does. I
vote we go straight and find them, and bring them back."

The two girls set out at once, and as luck would have it, turned their
steps exactly in the direction where the truants had gone. They ran down
the steep hillside behind the flagstaff, till they reached a broad
terrace on the verge of the cliff overhanging the cove where the boats
were moored. Ronnie was so fond of boats that they thought he had
perhaps persuaded Gerda to take him to the beach to look at them.

Advancing as near to the edge as they dared, they peeped over on to the
sands. There was nobody to be seen, only the row of small craft lying on
the shingle, just as they had seen them an hour ago. The tide had risen
higher, and had begun to lap softly against them, but was not yet
sufficiently full to float them; moreover they were all secured with
stout cables. Stop! There was something different. Surely there had only
been six boats before, and now there was a seventh added to the
number--a seventh in whose shadow lurked the dark figure of a man.
Suddenly from the beach below rang out Ronnie's clear, rippling laugh,
followed by an instant warning "Sh! sh!" and immediately he and Gerda
stepped from the shadow of the cliff on to the shingle. They ran hand in
hand towards the seventh boat, and the boatman, without waiting a
moment, jumped them in, one after the other, pushed off, sprang into his
seat, and began to row rapidly away across the creek.

"Look! Look!" gasped Deirdre in an agony of horror. "It's the man in the
brown jersey!"

Of his identity they were certain. Even in the failing light they could
not be mistaken. And he was kidnapping Ronnie under the very eyes of his
friends--Ronnie, the "King of the Castle", the idol of the school, and
the one treasure of Mrs. Trevellyan's old age! Where were they taking
him? Was he to be held for ransom? Or kept in prison somewhere as a
hostage? Gerda, with her smooth, insinuating ways, had betrayed him, and
led him away to his fate.

"We must save him!" gasped Deirdre. "Save him before it is too late!
Quick, quick! Let us run down to the shore. We mustn't let them get out
of our sight."

The two girls tore frantically down the path which led to the sea in
such haste that they had not time to realize their own risk of slipping.
That Ronnie was being kidnapped was the one idea of paramount
importance. As they reached the belt of shingle the dinghy had already
crossed the creek, and was heading round the corner of the cliffs to the
west.

"What can we do?" moaned Dulcie, wringing her hands in an agony of
despair. "Shall we go and call Miss Birks, and get somebody to follow
them with a boat?"

"By the time we'd fetched anybody they'd be hopelessly out of sight, and
gone--goodness knows where. No! If Ronnie's to be saved, we must act at
once, and follow them ourselves. You can row, can't you?"

"Yes, I learnt last holidays at home on the river."

"So can I. Then come, let's choose the lightest boat we can find. We
mustn't waste a minute. We're both strong, and ought to be able to
manage."

After a hasty review they selected a small skiff as looking the most
likely to respond to amateur seamanship, and loosing the cable, which
had been secured round a rock, coiled it and placed it inside. The tide
had risen so fast that it did not require any very great effort to push
off the boat.

"Are you ready?" said Deirdre. "Don't mind getting your feet wet; it
can't be helped. Now, then! Heave, oh! She's off!"

With a simultaneous splash the two girls scrambled on board in the very
nick of time, and, taking their places, gingerly unshipped the oars.
They were neither of them skilled for their task, and both realized that
it was rather a wild and risky proceeding. For Ronnie's sake, however,
they would have ventured far more, so they mutually hid their feelings,
and pretended it was quite an everyday, easy kind of performance. If
they had not much experience, their zeal and their strong young arms
made the light little skiff fly like a sea-swallow, and they had soon
gained the headland round which the other boat had disappeared. Very
cautiously they proceeded, for fear of currents, but they managed
successfully to pilot their craft past a group of half-sunken rocks and
take her round the corner into the next bay. In front through the
gathering darkness they could just distinguish the object of their
pursuit making a landing upon the opposite shore. They could hear the
grating of the keel on the shingle and an excited exclamation from
Ronnie. They strained their eyes to watch what was happening. The man in
the jersey helped Gerda to land, then taking Ronnie on his back strode
rapidly away with him, Gerda walking close by his side. In another
moment they had disappeared behind a group of rocks.

If the girls rowed fast before, they now redoubled their efforts. Both
were flushed and panting, but they struggled valiantly on, and
succeeded in beaching their skiff within a few yards of the white
dinghy. They did not wait to cable her, but, anxious not to lose a
moment of valuable time, made off in quest of the fugitives. At the
other side of the group of rocks it was lighter, for they faced the
west, and caught the last departing glories of the sunset. On the sands,
bathed in the golden dying gleam of the afterglow, a lady was kneeling
and clasping little Ronnie tightly in her arms. Even from the distance
where they stood the chums could see how very fair and pretty she was.
Her hat had fallen on the beach, and her flaxen head was pressed closely
against the child's short curls.

"Why, she's actually kissing him!" exclaimed Dulcie.

The scene was so utterly unanticipated, and so entirely different from
what they had expected to find, that the two girls stood for a moment
almost at a loss. At that instant Gerda spied them, and turning to her
companions made some remark in a low tone. The lady immediately loosed
Ronnie and rose to her feet. Seeing their presence was discovered, the
chums judged it best to walk boldly forward. They had come to rescue
Ronnie, and it seemed high time to interfere.

"Miss Herbert's looking for you! You must go back with us at once," said
Dulcie, laying an appropriating hand on the child's shoulder and glaring
defiance at his kidnappers.

Gerda had blushed crimson. She looked egregiously caught. She glanced at
the faces of her fellow conspirators as if seeking advice. The man in
the brown jersey nodded.

"Yes--we'll go back at once," she stammered. "I--I was only trying to
give Ronnie some fun."

"Miss Herbert doesn't think it fun," said Dulcie grimly. "You'd no
business to take him away!"

The chums each seized the little boy by a hand and began to hurry him
along towards the boats.

"But where are the fairies? Gerda promised I should see the fairies!" he
objected.

"The fairies can't dance now, dear," replied Gerda sadly. "You remember
I said they could only come if nobody was watching."

In silence the whole party returned to the shingle bank. Deirdre and
Dulcie were too indignant for words, and Gerda seemed overwhelmed with
embarrassment. The fair-haired lady was crying quietly. Still, keeping a
tight hold on Ronnie, the chums approached their skiff. Then for the
first time the man in the brown jersey spoke.

"You'd better all come into my boat," he remarked briefly. "I'll fasten
yours on to the stern and tow her along."

The chums started with surprise. Instead of the local dialect of a
fisherman or, as they expected, the foreign accent of a German, he had
the cultured, refined tone of an English gentleman. For a moment they
hesitated. Did he mean to kidnap them as well as Ronnie? Perhaps he saw
the doubt in their eyes.

"You needn't be afraid. I'll take you straight back," he urged.

Glad to escape the risky task of rowing round the point and steering
clear of dangerous currents, the girls consented, though rather under
protest, and wondering at the novelty of the situation which had made
them, the pursuers, return in charge of the stranger whom they still
distrusted. They sat in the stern, with Ronnie between them, guarding
him like two faithful bulldogs. The lady stood upon the shore watching
them as the boat pushed off. There was a sad, wistful look in her eyes.
She did not attempt to say good-bye.

The chums felt considerably relieved when at last they arrived at the
cove again in safety. The man in the brown jersey helped them all to
land without a word; then he unloosed the skiff, beached her on the
shingle whence she had been taken, and rowed out alone into the bay.
Ronnie was growing sleepy; it took all Deirdre's and Dulcie's efforts to
help him up the steep cliffside. Gerda followed a short way behind. Miss
Herbert, who had really been uneasy about her charge, hailed their
arrival with relief.

"Here you are at last! Where have you been, Ronnie? To see fairies!
Gerda mustn't tell you such nonsense. Wake up! We must be going home at
once. It's after nine o'clock."

The bonfire had burnt low, and the girls were packing the cups into
baskets, ready to be carried to the Dower House.

"We ought to tell Miss Birks about this," whispered Dulcie, and Deirdre
agreed with her.

Late as it was when they got in, the two girls sought the Principal in
her study and poured out the whole of the story--their alarm on Ronnie's
behalf, their dread of the man in the brown jersey, and their suspicion
that Gerda was a German spy plotting against the country. Miss Birks
listened most attentively, putting in a question here and there.

"I don't think either England or Ronnie is in any immediate danger," she
said. "You may make your minds easy on that respect. I shall have a word
with Gerda presently. You have done right to tell me; but now you may
leave the whole matter safely in my hands, and need not worry yourselves
any more over it. On no account talk about it to anybody in the school,
and unless Gerda refers to it herself, do not mention the subject to
her."

"Trust Gerda not to speak of it," said Dulcie as they went upstairs.
"The Sphinx isn't likely to offer to unravel the mystery."

"It's a jig-saw puzzle I can't fit together," replied Deirdre. "It's all
in odd pieces. Why was that lady crying? And what have she and the man
in the brown jersey got to do with Ronnie?"




CHAPTER XV

The Old Windlass


By this time the reader will probably have gathered that Master Ronald
Trevellyan, though possessed of a very charming and winsome personality,
had a decidedly strong will of his own. On the whole he was fairly good,
but the lack of companions of his own age, and the fact that he was the
one darling of the household, made it almost an impossibility to prevent
him from becoming in some slight degree spoilt. Mrs. Trevellyan did her
best to enforce obedience, but though her word was law, Ronnie was not
always so ready to accept the authority of others, and occasionally
exhibited a burst of independence. This was particularly noticeable with
his governess. Miss Herbert was inclined to be easy-going and was not
sufficiently firm with him, and the young scamp, finding he could get
his own way, took advantage of her failing and sometimes defied her with
impunity. The little fellow's simple lessons were over in the morning,
and in the afternoon he either played in the garden or was taken for a
walk. To him it was a great occasion if he chanced to meet the pupils
from the Dower House. He counted them all as friends, and though he had
his particular favourites among them, he was quite ready to be the
general pet of the school. On the day but one after the bonfire, when on
his way to the beach escorted by Miss Herbert, he encountered the twenty
girls walking with Miss Harding towards the headland.

"Hallo, Ronnie boy! Where are you off to? We're all going to drill on
the green and do ambulance practice. Won't Miss Herbert let you come and
watch us?"

"Not to-day, thanks, I'm busy. I've got to go fishing," returned the
"King of the Castle", proudly displaying a small shrimping net.
"Auntie's going to have what I catch fried for breakfast to-morrow."

"Hope she won't starve!"

"Hadn't you better run after a rabbit and catch it for her?"

"Or shoot a cock sparrow?"

"Come with us to drill and we'll make you a colonel of the regiment."

"Or we'll practise ambulance work, and bind up your leg and carry you
home on a coat."

"You've no idea what fun it would be."

But Ronnie stuck to his guns. He had come out with the intention of
fishing, and not even the attractions of drill and ambulance could tempt
him from trying his new shrimping net.

"We shall expect a pilchard apiece," declared his friends, as they gave
up trying to cajole him and went on their way.

"You won't get any; they're all for Auntie!" he shouted. "Yes, they
are, even if I catch shoals, and shoals, and shoals!"

The girls laughed, talked about him for a moment or two, and then
dismissed him from their minds. They were full of their practice for the
afternoon. It was only this term that drill and ambulance had been taken
up at the school, so they were still in the first heat of their
enthusiasm. On this occasion, too, Miss Barlow, a lady staying in the
neighbourhood, who had been largely connected with the Girl Guide
movement in Australia, had promised to come and inspect them and give
them some of the results of her Colonial experience. A strip of green
sward not far from the scene of the beacon fire made an excellent parade
ground, and here they drew up in line to await the arrival of their
honorary colonel, who was following with Miss Birks. Miss Barlow proved
to be, like an old-fashioned children's book, "a combination of
amusement and instruction". She had extremely jolly, pleasant manners
and a fund of lively remarks, making everybody laugh heartily as she
went her round of inspection.

"I'm glad you know the difference between left and right," she said.
"I'm told that country recruits for the army find such a difficulty in
distinguishing between the two that their sergeant is sometimes obliged
to make them tie a band of hay round one leg and a band of straw round
the other. Then instead of calling out 'left--right--left--right' he
says 'hay--straw--hay--straw' until they have grown accustomed to
march."

"Do you find Colonial girls much quicker than English?" asked Jessie
Macpherson.

"They are more resourceful, and very bright in suggesting fresh ideas,
but they are not so willing to submit to discipline. They are more ready
to copy a corps of roughriders than a Roman cohort. No doubt it is owing
to the way they are brought up. Very few of them spend their early life
in the charge of nurses and governesses. From babyhood they are taught
to take care of themselves, to be prepared for emergencies, and to throw
up whatever they may have in hand and go to the assistance of a
neighbour who needs them. It is a training that makes them helpful and
energetic, but perhaps a little too independent to accord entirely with
the standards we keep at home. Our girls are more sheltered and guarded,
and it is only natural that they should have a different style from
those who must hold their own. I wish I could have introduced you to
some of my bright young Australian friends. I think you would find the
same charm about them that I do."

Miss Barlow had many hints to give them on the subject of camp cookery.
She showed the girls the quickest and most practical way to build a
fire, and the right situation to choose for it as regards shelter.

"I wish we could have stayed here for a whole day and prepared our own
dinner," she said. "It is wonderful how much can be done with a
three-legged iron pot and some gorse to burn under it. We would have
made a most delicious stew. I should have liked to teach you to build a
camp oven, but we should need a spade for that. One has to dig a hole
nearly a yard deep and wide, line it with stones, light a fire in it,
then pop one's iron pot on to the mass of hot ashes, and cover the whole
with a roof of sticks and sods. I have often baked bread this way out in
the bush. Then you ought to know how to wrap up your food in cases of
green leaves and wet clay, to be cooked in the ashes round an ordinary
camp fire; and how to mix flour and water cakes when there is no yeast
to be had for bread."

"If only we could come and camp out with you here for a week!" sighed
the girls. "It would be ripping fun!"

"Yes, if the weather were fine; but our English weather is apt to play
unkind tricks. My brother is a doctor, and medical officer to a Boys'
Brigade. At Whitsuntide he went with them to camp. It was delightful for
the first three days, then in the night a perfect blizzard arose and the
rain fell in torrents. The wind got under his tent and tore up some of
the pegs, then half the canvas came flapping down, a wet mass, over his
bed. A tightly-stretched tent will keep out the weather, but if it gets
loose and rests against anything inside, the rain will soak through, and
you can imagine the miserable condition. In preparing breakfast, &c.,
all the boys got wretchedly wet, and to try to prevent their taking cold
my brother dosed them all with camphor. As there were eighty in camp,
you can understand it took a long time to measure out the orthodox ten
drops on to each separate lump of sugar. I am afraid the last patient
had full opportunity of catching the cold before he took the cure."

"I expect the ancient Britons did camp cookery when they lived here,"
suggested Irene Jordan.

"No doubt they did. There are traces that a most early and primitive
people, far older than the Celts whom Julius Cæsar wrote about, must
have lived on this headland. We are sitting on the very remains of their
little circular huts. Look! you can trace the outlines of the ancient
stone walls. Here a small community must have lived, and hunted and
fished, and fetched limpets and periwinkles from the beach to eat as
dessert. Probably the reindeer or the Irish elk still came to feed on
the mossy grass, and there would be a grand pursuit with bows and
flint-tipped arrows. It must have been a great event to kill an elk. The
whole primitive village would feast for days afterwards, toasting the
flesh on little spits of wood. Then the women would prepare the skin and
stitch it with bone needles into warm garments, and the horns would be
used as picks or other implements, so that nothing was wasted. Their
camp cookery would have to be even more simple than ours, for they had
not yet discovered the use of metals, so could not have a three-legged
cauldron. They boiled their water in a very curious manner, by dropping
red-hot stones into it. It must have taken a long time and given rather
a funny flavour to the joints, but no doubt they tasted delicious to
Neolithic appetites."

"I'd like to restore a few of the huts, and come and live in them for a
few days, and pretend we were primitive folk," said Deirdre.

"Mrs. Trevellyan has often talked of excavating them," remarked Miss
Birks. "I hope she will do so. It is quite possible that some very
interesting relics of the Stone Age might be turned up. It would
probably fix the period when they were inhabited."

"How long ago would that be?" asked one of the girls.

"Most likely about two thousand years or more."

The conversation at this point was interrupted, for in the distance
appeared Miss Herbert, running, beckoning and calling to them all at
once. In considerable alarm they went to meet her.

"Where's Ronnie?" she gasped. "I've lost him! Oh, has anybody seen him?
Is he here with you?"

"He's certainly not here," said Miss Birks. "We've not seen him since we
met you an hour or more ago. When did you miss him, and where?"

"On the beach," sobbed Miss Herbert hysterically. "He was playing with
his little shrimping net. I sat down to read my book, and I kept looking
to see that he was all right, and then suddenly he had disappeared. I
thought he must have trotted back round the point, so I followed, but I
couldn't find him. I hoped he'd come up here to you. It's very naughty
of him to run away."

"We must find him at once," said Miss Birks gravely. "Girls, you had
better go in parties of three, each in a different direction. Miss
Barlow and I will go with Miss Herbert. We won't give up the search
until he is found."

"Did he go round the other corner of the cove?" asked Gerda.

"He couldn't. The waves were dashing quite high against the rocks. I'm
sure he would never venture," declared the distracted governess.

"He's such a plucky little chap, he would venture anything."

"Oh, surely not! He couldn't! He couldn't have gone there! He may have
run home!"

"Better not waste any more time, but go and see what's become of him,"
suggested Miss Birks rather dryly. She had always thought Miss Herbert
too easy-going where Ronnie was concerned.

The bands of searchers set off in eight different directions, shouting,
hallooing, cuckooing, and making every kind of call likely to attract
the child's attention. Some took the beach and some the cliffs, while
others ran to the Castle to see if he had returned to the garden. There
had never been such a hue and cry on the headland. That Ronnie should be
lost was an unparalleled disaster, and considering the many accidents
which might possibly have happened to him, each of his friends searched
with a deadly fear in her heart. Gerda, her once rosy face white as
chalk, had flown along the cliffs with Deirdre and Dulcie, shouting his
name again and again.

"He may have gone round the west corner, though Miss Herbert says he
couldn't," she panted. "Let us get on to the cliff above, where we can
look down. Oh, Ronnie! Ronnie! Cuckoo! Where are you? Cooee!"

As Gerda gave the last long-drawn-out call she stopped suddenly and
motioned the others to silence. From the shore below there came a faint
but quite unmistakable response. Creeping to the verge of the
overhanging precipice Gerda peeped down. There, at a distance of forty
feet beneath, stood Ronnie, a pathetic little figure, turning up a small
frightened face and quavering a shrill "Cooee!" His position was one of
imminent danger. The point round which he had scrambled half an hour
before was now covered with great dashing waves that hurled their spray
high into the air, and the narrow strip of shingle upon which he stood
was rapidly growing smaller and smaller as the tide advanced. On either
hand escape was impossible; behind him roared the sea, and in front
towered the steep unscalable face of the cliff.

"Gerda! Gerda!" he wailed piteously.

Gerda turned to her companions almost like an animal at bay. Her lips
were white as her cheeks, her eyes blazed. "We must save him!" she
choked.

"The life-boat! Let us fetch the life-boat!" cried Deirdre. "You stay
here and I'll run to Pontperran. Some of the others will go with me;
Annie Pridwell is a fast runner. Cooee! Cooee! Ronnie is found!"

Deirdre was very swift of foot and darted off like a hare, shouting her
message to the nearest band of searchers. In an incredibly short space
of time the news had spread, and all were hurrying towards the cliff.
The ill tidings reached Mrs. Trevellyan at the Castle, and, sick with
anxiety, she hastened to the spot, first sending one of her men to urge
speed in launching the life-boat. The tide was sweeping in fast, and
nearer and nearer crept the cruel, hungry waves, as if thirsting to
snatch the little figure huddled at the foot of the cliff. Ronnie was
too worn out and too frightened to call now; he lay watching the
advancing water with terror-stricken blue eyes, still grasping the
shrimping net that had led him to this disaster.

Could the life-boat possibly arrive in time? That was the question which
each spectator asked dumbly, not daring to voice it in words. Nearer and
ever nearer swept the waves. Where there had been yards of shingle there
were only feet; soon it was a matter of inches. There was not a sign of
any boat to be seen. A sea-crow below flapped its wings like an omen of
death.

"Tom and Smith have gone to fetch ropes," breathed Miss Birks, and her
voice broke the strain of almost intolerable silence.

"There's not time to wait for them."

"Can we do nothing?"

"Oh, is there no way to save him?"

Then Gerda stood up, with a sudden light shining in her clear eyes.

"Yes, yes!" she cried. "There's the old windlass! I'm going down to him
by that!"

Years ago there had been a small find of china clay on the headland. It
had been lowered in buckets over the side of the cliff to be taken away
by boat, and the remains of the apparatus, a derelict, rickety affair,
stood within a few yards of the place where the watchers were gathered.
A rusty bucket was still attached to the frayed, weather-worn rope
twisted round the roller. To descend by so frail a support was indeed a
risk so great that only the most desperate necessity could justify it. A
general murmur of horror arose from those assembled.

"It's the one chance--I'm going to try it," repeated Gerda. "You can
lower me gently by the handle. I'm going to save him--or die with him."

She began rapidly to unwind the windlass so as to allow the bucket to
reach the edge of the cliff. Realizing that she was in grim earnest, the
others offered no further objection, and came eagerly to her assistance.
She had seized the rope and was about to step into the bucket when a
strong hand put her aside. The stranger in the brown jersey had silently
joined himself to the group.

"This is my place," he said firmly. "I am going down the cliff. Hold
hard, there! Pay out the rope gently and don't let me go with a run or
I'm done for. Easy! Easy! Give me more rope when I call."

So quickly did he substitute himself for Gerda that he was over the edge
of the cliff almost before anyone had realized what was taking place.
The onlookers held their breath as they watched the perilous descent.
The bucket swayed from side to side and bumped against the rock, but
holding on to the rope with one hand the man managed with the other to
keep himself from injury. Down--down--down he swung, till, clear of the
cliff, he dangled, as it seemed, in mid-air.

"Now, rope! More rope!" he called. "Quicker!"

The windlass creaked on the rusty axle, there was a rush, a drop, then
a shout of triumph. The next moment he had snatched Ronnie in his arms.
Ringing cheers reached him from above, but the battle was only half won
after all. There was still no sign of the life-boat; a wave swept
already over his feet. The only road to safety lay up the cliffside.
Would the old weather-worn rope stand the double strain? There was no
time for questioning. Telling Ronnie to hold on tightly round his neck
he once more entered the bucket and gave the signal for the ascent. To
the anxious hearts of the watchers the next few minutes seemed an
eternity. Those at the windlass turned the handle slowly and steadily in
response to the shouts from below. If there had been danger before, the
peril now was trebled. With a child clinging round his neck it was far
more difficult for the stranger to keep clear of the rock. The old
worn-out machine creaked and groaned like one in mortal agony. Life or
death hung on the strength of a rusted piece of chain and a half-rotten
hempen rope. Up! Up! Up! Would the suspense never end? Only a few yards
now and the watchers were waiting to help. Once more the rickety axle
creaked and shivered, then the stranger's head and shoulders appeared
over the edge of the cliff, and eager hands grasped him and pulled him
gently forward on to firm ground. He had lost his hat in the descent,
and now the sunlight fell full on his clear-cut features and his fair,
closely-cropped hair.

"You--L'Estrange! You! You!" shrieked Mrs. Trevellyan wildly.

But for answer he placed Ronnie in her arms, and pushing his way through
the excited group ran off over the warren and was out of sight before
the lookers-on had recovered from their amazement. By the time the
life-boat had made its way round the coast from Pontperran harbour great
breakers were crashing against the face of the rock with a dull booming
and showers of foam, as if angry to have been cheated of their prey.

"No one could live for a moment in this cruel sea!" exclaimed Deirdre,
shuddering with horror as she thought how the fierce water would have
dashed and tossed and crushed the little helpless figure left to the
mercy of the waves.

"Ronnie will be doubly dear to us now," said Miss Birks, marshalling her
girls together and turning to leave the cliff.




CHAPTER XVI

Hare and Hounds


After the intense excitement of Ronnie's peril and subsequent rescue,
his friends at the Dower House found it a little difficult to settle
down into ordinary school routine. They could discuss no other topic,
and many were their speculations concerning the brown-jerseyed stranger
who had appeared in the very nick of time, and vanished afterwards
without waiting to be thanked. His identity had not been disclosed, and
when the girls spoke of him, Miss Birks, rather to their surprise,
dismissed the subject hurriedly.

"If he does not wish his brave deed to be acknowledged, we must respect
his silence," she said. "It is useless and futile to go further into the
matter."

Mrs. Trevellyan was for a few days prostrated from the effects of that
half-hour of suspense, but she had sufficiently recovered to attend
church on Sunday, and holding Ronnie's little hand tightly in hers,
knelt in the old Castle pew, with bent head and tears raining down her
cheeks, as the clergyman announced that a member of the congregation
desired to return special thanks for a very great mercy vouchsafed to
her during the past week. Others besides Mrs. Trevellyan joined with
heart-felt gratitude in that addition to the general thanksgiving, and
when afterwards the lines of the grand old hymn rang out--

    "O God, our help in ages past,
     Our hope for years to come",

there was not a girl in the Dower House pews who did not sing it with
real meaning in the words.

On the Monday, Mrs. Trevellyan, hoping to recover from her nervous
attack more easily if she were out of sight of the sea, went away for a
short visit to an inland watering-place, taking Ronnie and poor contrite
Miss Herbert, who could not forgive herself for having allowed her young
charge to run into danger. Appreciating the wisdom of the step, and
realizing that her own girls had been in a state of high tension, and
were suffering from the consequent reaction, Miss Birks granted the
school a whole holiday, and took votes on how the day should be spent.
Opinions seemed divided, so it was finally decided that Forms VI and VA
should go by train to Linsgarth, look over the ruins of the abbey, and
walk home by road; while VB, containing the younger and more wildly
energetic spirits, should enjoy the pleasures of a game at hare and
hounds.

It was years since a paper chase had been held at the school, and while
the elder girls affected to despise it, the younger ones had plumped
for it in a body. They felt they required something more stirring than
admiring ruins and marching along a high road.

"It may be very cultured, and good taste, and intellectual, and all the
rest of it, to poke round with Miss Birks among Norman arches and broken
choir-stalls, but it doesn't work off steam," confessed Evie Bennett.
"I'm longing for a good sporting run, and that's the fact!"

"Let the Sixth talk architectural jargon if they like; hard exercise for
me!" agreed Betty Scott.

It was arranged that all should start out at ten o'clock; Miss Birks
conducting the expedition to Linsgarth, and Miss Harding assuming
command of the paper chase, while Mademoiselle, who was a bad walker and
disliked country excursions, promised herself a delightful day of rest
and leisure in the garden. Miss Birks insisted that there must be three
"hares", all solemnly pledged to keep well together, and the remaining
six, who were to be "hounds", had orders not to outstrip Miss Harding to
the extent of getting hopelessly out of eyeshot and earshot. Fortunately
Miss Harding was energetic and enthusiastic, and promised not to be a
drag on the proceedings. She donned her shortest skirt and her coolest
jumper, and discarding a hat, appeared fully ready to play as hearty a
part in the game as any of her pupils.

Everybody, naturally, was anxious to act "hare", so it was decided that
the fairest plan was to draw lots for the coveted posts. The three
fortunate papers with the crosses fell to Deirdre, Gerda, and Annie
Pridwell.

"I'm not jealous, but I do envy you dreadfully," confessed Evie Bennett.
"Oh, I'm not grumbling! I'm ready to take my sporting luck, and someone
must draw the blanks. You'll make capital hares, because you're all good
runners and don't lose your breath quickly. But, I beseech you, don't go
too fast! Remember, the hounds are tied to Miss Harding's apron-string.
It's no fun if we can't catch a glimpse of you the whole run. And,
please, do a little backwards-and-forwards work, cross a brook, or
double round a wood--anything to make it more difficult to find the
scent. We don't want to be home in a couple of hours."

"Trust us to be as cunning as foxes," declared Annie Pridwell. "I'm an
old hand at the game. We play it in the holidays at home."

"I haven't Annie's experience, but I can run," said Deirdre.

"So you can, best of anyone in the school, and Gerda's no slacker, so I
think you'll do."

Each girl had a packet of sandwiches and a small folding drinking-cup,
so that they could take some refreshment when they felt hungry. Miss
Birks had arranged that a cold lunch should be laid in the dining-hall
at the Dower House at one o'clock, and left on the table indefinitely,
so as to be ready for the girls when they came in, whether early or
late, and those who returned first were to help themselves without
waiting for the others.

"We shall all feel far more at liberty with this plan," she said. "It
spoils everyone's pleasure to have to hurry home by a certain time. It
is much more enjoyable to think we have the day free to do as we like.
We can have tea together in the evening, and compare our experiences."

"We shall have seen something worth seeing," declared the senior girls.

"Ah, but you won't have had the ripping, glorious time that we mean to
have!" retorted the members of VB.

Punctually at ten o'clock the three hares were ready, each with a
satchel round her shoulder containing the scraps of torn paper that were
to provide the scent. They were to have ten minutes' start, after which
the hounds would follow in full cry. They had decided among themselves
what route to take, and, determined to give the hunt a run, they
selected the direction of Kergoff, and set off towards the old windmill,
where in the early spring they had surveyed the country to draw maps, as
a lesson in practical geography. There was a definite reason for their
choice, as the windmill could be approached by no less than three
separate paths, and by dodging from one to another of these they hoped
very successfully to puzzle their pursuers.

"We'll leave some scent by the gate of Perkins's farm," said the
experienced Annie; "then, of course, they'll think we've chosen the road
past the quarry. But we'll only go a little way up the lane, then climb
the wall, cross the fields, and get into the upper road, leave a scent
there, then track through the wood, and go past the old yew tree by the
path over the tor."

"There'll be a scent on each separate path," chuckled Deirdre. "They'll
be a good long time in finding out which to follow. We must be careful
not to let ourselves be seen when we're crossing the tor."

There was a delightful interest in baffling the hounds; it seemed to
hold almost the thrill of earlier and more romantic times.

"Can you imagine the moss-troopers are after you?" asked Deirdre; "or
that you've slain the Red King, or robbed an abbot in the greenwood, and
are fleeing for your life to take sanctuary in the nearest church?"

"No, I'm a smuggler," said Annie, "trying to outwit the coast-guardsmen,
and arrange to leave my kegs of brandy and packets of tea and yards of
French lace in some cunning hiding-place. What are you, Gerda?"

"An escaped prisoner from Dartmoor, running from his warders?" queried
Deirdre. "That would be sport!"

"There's a warrant out for your arrest, and you're dodging the officers
of the law," laughed Annie lightly.

But Gerda did not appear to accept the suggestions kindly, or in the
spirit of fun in which they were intended. To the girls' surprise she
blushed, just as she used to do when first she came to school, and
looked so clearly annoyed instead of amused that the joke fell flat. She
was never at any time talkative, but now, taking seeming offence at
these very innocent remarks, she drew into her innermost shell, and
refused to converse at all. Knowing her of old in this uncommunicative
mood, the others did not trouble further, but left her to her own
devices until she chose to come out of it. They had found by experience
that it was useless either to question her, laugh at her, or rally her
upon her silence; the more they pressed the subject the more obstinate
she would grow. It was no great hardship to miss her out of their talk;
they much preferred each other's company without an unwelcome third.

"Those that sulk for nothing may sulk, so far as I'm concerned,"
remarked Deirdre pointedly.

"I hate people not to be able to take the least scrap of a joke," said
Annie. "Why, Betty and Evie and I are teasing each other the whole time
in our bedroom."

"You three certainly know how to rag."

"Rather! We'd die of dullness if we didn't."

All the time they went the "hares" were carefully carrying out their
policy of puzzling those who followed. Backwards and forwards, across
small brooks, through woods and thickets, over field, farm-yard, and
common they laid the most bewildering of scents, more than enough to
satisfy the demands of Evie Bennett, and sufficient indeed to make her
declare it almost an impossibility to decide on the right track. All
this artful dodging, however, had necessitated scattering a large number
of the precious handfuls of paper, and by the time they arrived at the
old windmill they found to their consternation that the contents of the
three satchels were almost exhausted.

"What are we to do?" asked Annie tragically. "We can't go on and leave
no scents! Are we to sit here on the windmill steps, and let ourselves
be run to earth when we've only done half the round?"

It was a crisis indeed, and Deirdre could not see any way out of the
difficulty. She stood ruefully contemplating her empty bag, and looking
utterly baffled. It was Gerda, after all, who came to the rescue with a
valuable suggestion.

"We're close to that queer old house," she said. "Don't you remember how
we climbed in through the window, and found all those letters lying
about upstairs? They can't be wanted, or somebody would have taken them
away. Let's go and see if they're still there, and commandeer what we
like."

"Gerda, you're a genius!" shrieked Annie. "We'll go this second. Why,
it's the very thing we want!"

It was no great distance to the old house. Down the corkscrew road they
ran, through the small fir wood, and over the river by the stone
bridge. "Forster's Folly" looked if possible even more tumbledown and
dilapidated than when they had visited it in February. The spring gales
had blown down many more slates and made a gap in the roof; the creepers
in their summer luxuriance almost hid the broken windows; large patches
of stucco had fallen from the walls; a chimney-pot lay smashed on the
front walk; one of the props of the long veranda had been swept away by
the whirling stream, leaving the flooring in a dangerous condition; and
the crop of nettles and brambles in the garden had outgrown all bounds
and, smothering the original privet hedge, overflowed into the road.

"It's more spooky and Rat's Hall-y and Moated Grange-y than ever!"
declared Annie. "I could imagine there'd been a witches' carnival since
we were last here, or a dance of ghouls. Ugh! I'm all in a shiver at
having to go inside! Suppose we find the ghost after all?"

"I'll chance ghosts," said Deirdre. "I'd be a great deal more frightened
to find a tramp there!"

"Oh, surely even a tramp wouldn't spend a night in such a haunted den!
Still, it's so deserted, it might be a place for smugglers or coiners or
burglars. Oh, I don't think I dare go in after all! No, I daren't!"

Annie was half-serious, and looking inclined to turn tail.

[Illustration: GERDA DARTED UPON THE BATHFUL OF OLD LETTERS _Page 201_]

"Don't show the white feather now," said Gerda reproachfully. "Where are
we to get our paper from?"

"Come along, Annie, and don't be an idiot!" was Deirdre's
uncomplimentary rejoinder. "Why, you were the first to go in before!"

"My nerves were stronger last February," protested Annie. "I'll let one
of you take the lead this time."

It was quite a pilgrimage through the nettle-grown garden to reach the
window where they had made their entrance into the house. It was open,
just as they had left it, but long trails of clematis swept across, and
there was an empty bird's nest on the corner of the sill. It did not
appear as if anyone had disturbed its quiet for months. This time Gerda
led the way, with a confidence and assurance that rather surprised the
other two. Through the dilapidated dining-room, along the dim mouldy
hall and up the creaking stairs they tramped, trying by the noise they
made to dispel the ghostly feeling that clung to the deserted old place.
If coiners, smugglers, or burglars had visited the house, they had left
no trace of their presence. Everything on the story above was untouched,
though perhaps a trifle more dust-covered and cobwebby than before.
Gerda darted upon the bathful of old letters, and with eager fingers
anxiously began turning them hurriedly over.

"Haven't time to sort them out," declared Annie, snatching up a handful
and putting them into her bag. "I vote we take what we want, and tear
them up outside. Why are you looking at them so particularly, Gerda?"

"I thought some might have crests. Do let me see what you've taken!"
said Gerda beseechingly. "No, I don't want these!"

"Why, you've never looked inside the envelopes! How can you tell whether
they've crests?"

"Oh, never mind! It doesn't matter!" Gerda was on the floor, searching
among some opened and torn sheets that lay on the mouldering straw.

"Look here! We can't stay all day while you read old Forster's
correspondence! We've got enough! Come along!"

"One minute! Oh, do wait for me a second! I'll come! Yes, I'll come in
half a jiffy!"

"We'll go without you, then you'll soon trot after us," said Deirdre,
who had filled her satchel. She and Annie clattered downstairs again,
looked into the empty kitchen, and dared each other to peep into the
dark hall cupboard. They had hardly waited more than a minute in the
dining-room when Gerda joined them.

"Well, have you found the orthodox long-lost will?" mocked Annie.

"I've got enough scent to take us back to Pontperran, and that's what I
wanted," retorted Gerda, with a light in her eyes that seemed almost
more than the occasion justified.

No more time must be lost if they did not want to be run to earth by the
hounds, so returning to the windmill steps they tore up their fresh
supply of paper, taking bites of their sandwiches while they did so. A
loud "Cuckoo!" in the distance caused all three to start to their feet
in alarm, and leaving a trail behind the broken sail, they scrambled
over a fence, and dived down through a coppice which led to the stream.
They followed the bank for some distance before they judged it safe once
more to take to a foot-path, then doubling round the hill on which the
windmill stood, they tacked off in the direction of Kergoff.

The hounds reached the Dower House at five o'clock, exactly half an hour
after the hares, and over a combined luncheon-tea discussed the run, and
universally agreed that the day had been "ripping".

The Sixth and VA, rather puffed up with their archæological researches,
tried to be superior and instructive, and to give their juniors a digest
of what they had learnt at the abbey. But at this VB rebelled.

"You've had your fun, and we've had ours," said Annie. "Don't try and
cram architecture down our throats. I tell you frankly, I can't tell the
difference between a Norman arch and any other kind of one, and I don't
want to!"

"You utter ignoramus!"

"I'm a good hare, if I'm nothing else!" chuckled Annie. "We must have
led them a run of about fourteen miles!"

       *       *       *       *       *

"Deirdre, I want to ask you something," said Gerda that evening. "You
remember that crest you took before from Forster's Folly? Will you swop
it with me for some chocolates?"

"Why, I'll give it to you if you like," returned Deirdre, who was in an
amiable, after-tea frame of mind, and disposed towards generosity. "I'm
tired of crest collecting, and I've taken up stamps. Here it is! It's
been in my jewel-box since the day I got it. Are you going in for
crests?"

"They're my latest and absolutely dearest hobby," declared Gerda
emphatically.




CHAPTER XVII

A Discovery


After the delightful dissipation of a whole day's holiday, Miss Birks
demanded a period of solid work from her pupils, and deeming that she
had sufficiently satisfied their craving for excitement, took no notice
of either hints or headaches, but enforced preparation and practising
with, as Dulcie expressed it, "a total lack of all consideration".
Dulcie, never a remarkably hard worker at any season, was more than
usually prone to "slack" in summer, and it needed the combined energies
of Miss Birks, Miss Harding, and Mademoiselle to keep her up to the
mark. It was more than ever necessary to maintain the standard at
present, for examination week was drawing near, and this year several
extra prizes were offered for competition. Mrs. Trevellyan had promised
a beautiful edition of Tennyson's poems for the best paper on English
literature, the Vicar added a handsome volume of _Pictures from
Palestine_ for the most correct answers to Scripture History, and
Mademoiselle herself proffered a copy of _Lettres de mon Moulin_ for the
most spirited declamation of any piece of French poetry not less than
two hundred lines in length, the quality of the accent to be
particularly taken into account. These were in addition to the usual
annual rewards for mathematics, languages, English history, music,
drawing, and needlecraft, so that among so many various subjects each
girl might feel that she had at least some chance of winning success. At
the eleventh hour the Principal announced that a prize would be given
for general improvement.

"That's to make slackers like you buck up, Dulcie!" declared Annie
Pridwell.

"Really, I wish Miss Birks would offer a prize for pure English," said
Jessie Macpherson, who happened to overhear. "The slang you VB talk is
outrageous. Your whole conversation seems made up of 'ripping' and
'scrumptious' and 'spiffing' and other silly words that don't mean
anything. I tell you, slang's going out of fashion, even at public
schools, and you're behind the times."

"Don't be a prig, Jessie. What else can I call Dulcie except a slacker?
Am I to say she shows a languorous disinclination for close application,
and advise her to exert her mental activities? It would sound like a
'Catechism' from a Young Ladies' Seminary of a hundred years ago!"

"There is one comfort in having worked badly," admitted Dulcie. "If I
make a spurt now, I shall show more 'marked improvement' than if I'd
been jogging along steadily all the time."

"Ah, but the tortoise won the race while the hare slept!" retorted
Jessie.

In view of the forthcoming music examination, practising was performed
with double diligence, and from 6 a.m. to 8.30 p.m. the strains of
Schumann's "Arabesque", Tschaikowsky's "Chanson Triste", or
Rachmaninoff's "Prelude", the three test pieces, echoed pretty
constantly through the house, in varying degrees of proficiency.

"It's a good thing nobody belonging to the school has to do the
judging," said Emily Northwood, as she stood in the hall listening to
the conflicting sounds of three pianos. "Even Miss Birks must be so sick
of these particular pieces that she could hardly express a fair opinion
on them. Dr. Harvey James will come fresh to the fray."

The organist and choirmaster of the collegiate church at Wexminster,
being a doctor of music, was regarded as a very suitable examiner for
the occasion, and even if his standard proved high, all at least would
have the same chance, for he had not visited the school before, and
therefore could regard nobody with special favour. He was a new resident
in the district, and Miss Birks hoped next term to arrange for him to
come over weekly and give lessons to her more advanced pupils, who would
be likely to appreciate his musical knowledge and profit by his
teaching.

The thought of having to play before their prospective music master
spurred on most of the girls even more than the chance of the prize;
they dashed valiantly at difficult passages, counted diligently, and
loosened their muscles with five-finger exercises, each anxious to be
placed in the rank of those sufficiently advanced to be transferred to
his tuition. The drawing students also, though they could not practise
specially for their own prize, were busy finishing copies and sketches
for a small exhibition of work done during the school year, which was to
be held in one of the classrooms during examination week, and criticized
by Mr. Leonard Pearce, an artist who had consented to set and judge the
competition. Miss Harding was urging increased attention to mathematics,
Miss Birks was giving extra coaching in history and English literature,
Mademoiselle was hacking away at languages till her pupils almost wished
that French and German were as dead as ancient Egyptian and Assyrian, so
it was a very busy little world at the Dower House, so busy that really
nobody had time to think of anything else. The Principal, anxious to
keep her flock in good health, insisted upon the recreation hours being
devoted to definite exercise, and either games or organized walks under
the supervision of a mistress were compulsory.

For the present there was no strolling about the warren in "threesomes",
there were no visits to the headland, or rambles on the beach. The girls
grumbled a little at this lack of their accustomed freedom, complained
that set walks reminded them of a penitentiary, and declared that to be
obliged to play cricket took all the fun out of it. They thrived on the
system, however, and were able to manage the increased brain work
demanded from them without incurring the penalty of headaches,
backaches, or loss of appetite. A few certainly pleaded minor ailments
as an excuse for shirking, but Miss Birks's long experience had taught
her to distinguish readily between real illness and shamming, and she
dismissed the would-be invalids each with a dose of such a nauseous
compound as entirely to discourage them from seeking further sympathy.
Her bottle, a harmless mixture of Turkey rhubarb and carbonate of
magnesia, might have been a magic elixir for the relief of all diseases,
for with the same marvellous rapidity it cured Francie's palpitations,
Irene's dyspepsia, and Elyned's attacks of faintness.

"Nasty, filthy stuff!" declared the indignant sufferers, who, with a
remembrance of Miss Birks's treatment of the measles patients, had
fondly expected to be coddled and cosseted, regaled on soda-water and
lemonade, and forbidden to overexert themselves.

"Serve you right!" chuckled their friends. "It's your own faults, for
you couldn't expect Miss Birks to believe in your whines when you look
in such absolutely rude health, and compass your meals so creditably.
Why didn't you refuse all solid food?"

"Oh no, thank you!"

"And declare cocoa made you shudder?"

"That's beyond a joke."

"If anybody looks ill in this house," continued Annie, "it's
Mademoiselle. She's pale and thin, if you like, and eats next to
nothing, but she doesn't make any fuss about it."

Noticeably Mademoiselle's increased work and anxiety on behalf of her
pupils' success had a bad effect on her health. She looked worn and
overdone, and there were dark circles round her tired eyes. Though she
did not complain, she confessed to being troubled with sleeplessness.
Night after night she lay awake till daybreak, and was sometimes only
dropping into a doze when the getting-up bell clanged in the passage.
"_Nuits blanches_ may be all very well in music, but they are not
pleasant when one experiences them," she confided to Miss Harding. "When
I stay waiting for sleep, I hear many curious sounds. Yes--such as one
does not hear during the daylight."

"A house is always full of creaks and groans if one stays awake at
night," returned Miss Harding. "You mustn't mind them."

"During the day I smile at them," continued Mademoiselle, "but if I keep
vigil I am nervous. Yes, to-night I shall be very nervous, for Miss
Birks will be away. I like not that she be away."

It was very seldom that the Principal gave herself a holiday during the
term, but for once she was going to London to attend an important
educational meeting, and would spend the night in town. She started by
an early train, leaving her small kingdom in perfect order, and
confident that for so short a space of time nothing could possibly go
wrong. Certainly nothing ought to have gone wrong; her arrangements were
excellent, and Miss Harding was thoroughly capable of acting deputy
during her absence. Yet there is an old proverb that "while the cat's
away the mice will play", and the mere fact that she was not on the spot
made a difference in the school. The girls did not give any trouble, but
there was a feeling of relaxed discipline in the air.

At four o'clock, instead of going straight from their classroom to their
practising, Deirdre and Dulcie decided to indulge in the luxury of a run
round the grounds first. They walked briskly through the shrubbery, down
the steps, and along the terrace, till they came to the kitchen-garden.
Now this kitchen-garden was absolutely forbidden territory to the girls,
and they had never been inside it. To-day the gate, which was generally
locked, stood temptingly open. It seemed an opportunity too good to be
resisted. With one accord they threw rules to the winds, and decided to
explore.

A thick and high holly hedge effectually screened this corner of the
grounds from wind, and guarded it from intruders. It was a warm,
productive plot of land, and entirely provided the school with fruit
and vegetables. Deirdre and Dulcie did not trouble about the currants
and gooseberries, but kept straight down the path. They wished
particularly to investigate the far end. Here the garden abutted on the
cliffs, which sloped downward in a series of zigzag ridges.

The girls made their way gingerly over a freshly-prepared bed of young
cabbages to the borderland where rhubarb and horse-radish merged into
wormwood and ragwort. It was perfectly easy to slip over the edge and
begin to go down the first long shelving slab of rock. There was a drop
of about four feet on to the second shelf, which again sloped downwards
at a gentle level to a third. Here the cliff ended in a precipice, so
steep that even the most experienced climber could not descend without a
rope. Rather baffled, the two girls crept cautiously along the edge,
then Deirdre suddenly gave a whoop of delight, for she had spied a rough
flight of steps cut in the surface of the rock, and evidently leading to
the beach below. It was rather a cat's staircase to venture upon, but
they were possessed with a thirst for exploration, and were not easily
to be daunted. Deirdre went first, and shouted encouragement to her
chum, and Dulcie picked up heart to follow, so that in the course of a
few minutes they found themselves safely on the sands at the bottom.

"Whew! It's like climbing down the ladder of a lighthouse," exclaimed
Dulcie, subsiding on to a convenient stone. Her legs were shaking in a
most unaccountable fashion, and her breath coming and going far more
rapidly than was comfortable.

"It might have been worse," affirmed Deirdre, trying not to show that
her nerve had in any degree failed her, and surveying the scene with the
eye of a prospector.

They were in a small and very narrow cove, so hidden between cliffs
which jutted out overhead that it was practically invisible from above,
and certainly could not be seen from anywhere in the school grounds. It
was a pretty little creek, with a silvery slip of beach, and green
clumps of ferns growing high up in the interstices of the rocks; quite a
romantic spot, so beautiful and secluded that it might almost be the
haunt of a mermaiden or a water nixie. The ferns, which were flourishing
in unusual luxuriance, caught Deirdre's attention.

"I believe it's the sea-spleenwort," she remarked. "Don't you remember
we found some at Kergoff, and Miss Birks was so excited about it? I'm
sure she doesn't know all this is growing at the very bottom of her own
garden. I'll try and get a root."

To obtain a root was more easily said than done, however. Most of the
clumps of fern were in very inaccessible situations, and too deeply
embedded in the rock to be removed. Deirdre climbed from one to another
in vain, then noticing a particularly fine group of fronds on a
projecting shelf far above her head, commenced to scale the cliff. She
reached the shelf fairly easily, but instead of setting to work to try
to uproot the fern, she gave a long whistle of surprise.

"What's the matter?" asked Dulcie from below.

"Matter! Come up yourself and see! Oh, goody!"

Dulcie was still a little shaky, but spurred on by curiosity she got up
the cliff somehow, and added a "Hallo!" of amazement to her chum's
exclamations. Facing them was the entrance to a cave. At one time it had
evidently been carefully blocked up, but now the wooden boarding that
guarded it had been wrenched asunder, leaving a small opening just
sufficient to enter by. The girls peeped cautiously in, but beyond the
first few yards all was dark. This was indeed a discovery. The mouth of
the cave was so effectually hidden by the crags which surrounded it that
nobody would have suspected its existence who had not come across it by
accident. What secrets lay in its mysterious depths, who could say?
Thrilled with excitement, the girls turned to one another.

"If we could only explore it!" breathed Dulcie.

"We're going to!" returned Deirdre firmly. "I shall run back this
instant to the house for a candle. You wait here."

Deirdre's impatience made short work of the cat's staircase. She
scrambled up the rocks like a squirrel, and was soon racing up the
kitchen-garden. To secure her bedroom candle and a box of matches was
the work of a few minutes. As she pelted impetuously downstairs again,
she nearly fell over Gerda, who had been doing preparation in the
schoolroom, and scattered the pile of books she was carrying.

"Do be careful," said the latter in remonstrance. "Where are you going
in such a hurry? And what do you want with your candle?"

"Never you mind! It's no business of yours!" retorted Deirdre, running
away without even an apology.

Gerda picked up her books and carried them upstairs, but instead of
continuing her preparation she went to the window. She was just in time
to catch a glimpse of Deirdre vanishing down the kitchen-garden. The
sight seemed to afford her food for thought. She stood for a moment or
two lost in indecision, then, evidently making up her mind, she set off
in pursuit of her school-fellow. Deirdre, meanwhile, returned to the
cove with speed and agility, and found Dulcie waiting where she had left
her.

"I had a horrible feeling that a monster might come out while you were
away!" she declared. "Do you think we dare go in?"

"Dare? Of course we dare! I'm not going to have fetched this candle for
nothing. Dulcie Wilcox, where's your pluck? Come along this minute, or
I'll not be chums with you again. Here, you may hold the matches."

Having lighted the candle, the two girls stepped through the breach in
the wooden barricade, and commenced their exploration. The passage, high
at first, soon lowered till it was little above their heads, and
narrowed to a width of barely three feet. The walls, which for the first
ten yards were worn as if by the action of the sea, became more jagged,
and had plainly been hewn out with the aid of a pick, the natural cavern
having been greatly extended. Here and there the floor was wet, and the
roof showed an oozy deposit as if some surface spring were forcing
itself through the strata of the rock. On and on the girls went for two
hundred yards or more, Deirdre going first and holding the candle well
in front of her, so as to see the way. It was delightfully exciting, yet
there was a thrill of horror about it, for who could tell what might be
lurking round the next corner? Dulcie's nerves were strung to such a
pitch that she was ready to scream at the least alarm. Not a sound,
however, broke the dead silence. The passage in its lonely calm might
have been the entrance to an Egyptian tomb.

"Does it lead anywhere?" whispered Dulcie. "Oh! hadn't we better turn
back? We've gone far enough."

"I'm going to the end, if it's in Australia!" replied Deirdre, and
having possession of the candle, she was in a position to dictate.

A few extra yards, however, concluded their journey, the passage being
once again blocked by a wooden barrier. This was more carefully
constructed than the one at the entrance, being made of well-planed
timber, and fitted with a door, which stood half-way open, and led into
a rough kind of chamber, rather resembling the crypt of a church. At the
far side of this there was a small closed door.

"Well, we've got into a queer place!" exclaimed Deirdre. "Must have been
a smuggler's cellar, I should say. No doubt they used to keep kegs and
kegs of brandy down here in the good old days. Look, the roof is vaulted
over there! Where does that door lead to?"

The little door in question had apparently been opened by force, to
judge from the broken lock and the marks of some sharp instrument on the
jambs. At present it was closed, but not fastened. What lay beyond? With
a feeling that they had arrived at the crowning-point of their
adventure, Deirdre opened it and peeped in. She found herself looking
down from an eminence of about four feet into a bedroom. The room was in
complete darkness, for the window was barred with heavy wooden shutters,
but by the aid of her candle she could see it was unoccupied. Giving the
light to Dulcie to hold, she cautiously descended, then aided her chum
to follow. The door through which they had stepped formed part of the
panelling over the mantelpiece, and when closed with its original spring
would no doubt have been indistinguishable from the rest of the
woodwork. The room, though neglected and in great disorder,
nevertheless bore traces of recent habitation. The bed, with its tumbled
blankets, had certainly been slept in. On the dressing-table, spread out
on a newspaper, were the remains of a meal. A small oil cooking-stove
held a kettle, and one or two little packets, probably containing tea
and sugar, lay about. On the floor, torn into small pieces, were the
shreds of a letter written in German. Dusty and untended as it was now,
the room must once have been pretty, and bore strong evidence of the
ownership of a little girl. On the walls hung framed colour prints of
Millais's "Cherry Ripe", "Little Mrs. Gamp", "Little Red Riding Hood",
and "Miss Muffet". In the corner stood a doll's house, a doll's cradle,
and a miniature chest of drawers. A chiffonier seemed to be a repository
for numerous treasures--a set of tiny alabaster cups and saucers, a
glass globe which when shaken reproduced a snowstorm inside, a
writing-desk, a walnut work-box, a small Japanese cabinet, and a whole
row of juvenile books. Deirdre took up some of the latter, blew the dust
off and examined them. They were volumes of _Little Folks_ and
_Chatterbox_ of many years ago. On the title-page of each was written:
"To darling Lillie from Father and Mother".

In greatest amazement the girls wandered round the room, looking first
at one thing, then at another. How old the dust was that mostly covered
them! Here and there it had been hastily swept away, to make a
clearance for cup and saucer or provisions, but in general the little
possessions were untouched. Even some New Year cards stood on the chest
of drawers, bearing greetings and good wishes for the coming season.

"I want to see better," said Deirdre. "This wretched candle only gives
half a light. I've never been in such a fascinating place. Help me,
Dulcie, and we'll try and unfasten the shutters."

The heavy iron bar was old and rusty. It must have been in its place for
many a long year. For some time the girls pushed and tugged in vain,
then with a mighty effort they dislodged it from its socket, and let it
clatter down. Deirdre slowly swung aside the shutter. After the faint
light of their one candle, the flood of sunshine which burst in
completely dazzled them. As soon as they could see, they peeped out
through the dingy panes of glass. To their immense surprise they found
they were looking into the Dower House garden. Then Deirdre suddenly
realized the truth.

"Dulcie! Dulcie!" she cried, "I verily believe we're in the barred
room!"

There seemed little doubt about the matter, when they came to consider
it. The position of the window corresponded exactly with the closed-up
one which had always faced them from the tennis-courts, and whose secret
they had so often discussed. The mystery, instead of becoming clearer,
seemed only to deepen. Why was one of the bedrooms in the Dower House
filled with a child's possessions and sealed with iron bars, yet
accessible from a cave on the beach, and evidently in present
occupation?

The daylight revealed its extraordinary condition with great clearness;
the dust, dirt, and cobwebs looked forlorn in the extreme. On a hook on
the door, which presumably led into the Dower House landing, hung a net
filled with hard wooden balls, and as the draught blew in from the
opening over the fireplace, these swayed about and knocked with a gentle
rapping against the panel.

"There's your ghost, Dulcie," said Deirdre. "That was the tap-tapping
you heard in the passage. It wasn't a spook after all, you see."

"You were just as scared as I was," protested Dulcie. "I think I'm
rather scared now. Let's go! Suppose whoever's been here making tea were
to come back? I believe I'd have hysterics."

There was something in Dulcie's suggestion. It had not before occurred
to Deirdre that it would be unpleasant if the owner of the kettle were
to return and demand an explanation of their presence.

"We must put the shutters back," she decreed.

This was easier said than done, but after considerable trouble they
managed to restore the room once more to its former state of darkness.
Their candle was burning rather low, but they hoped it would be
sufficient to light them to the mouth of the cave. With the aid of a
chair they climbed on to the mantelpiece, passed through the door in the
panelling to the vaulted chamber, and on into the subterranean passage.
They scurried along as fast as they could without stumbling, partly from
fear that the candle would go out, and partly in dread lest somebody
should be coming from the entrance, and meet them on the way. It was
with a feeling of intense relief that, bearing the last guttering scrap
of candle, they at length emerged into the daylight.

"Here we are, safe and sound, and met no bogy, thank goodness!" rejoiced
Dulcie.

"There's our bogy, waiting!" said Deirdre, pointing to a school hat
which suddenly made its appearance from below.

"Gerda, by all that's wonderful!" gasped Dulcie.

Yes, it was Gerda who had followed them, and who now watched them as
they came out of the cave. She was paler than usual, and there was a
queer set look about her mouth.

"So that was what you wanted the candle for. You might have told me,"
she remarked.

The two girls began an animated account of their strange adventure. They
were so full of it that at the moment it would have been impossible to
avoid talking about it. Gerda listened calmly, though she asked one or
two questions. She spoke with the constrained manner of one who is
putting a strong control on herself.

"So you found nothing to explain the mystery?" she queried.

"Nothing at all. Is it Lillie who's living there and doing her own
cooking?"

"And is she a girl or a spook?" added Dulcie.

"Spooks don't drink tea. She must be alive," said Deirdre. "I wonder if
Miss Birks knows about her?"

"I guess we'd better not divulge the secret!" chuckled Dulcie.
"What would Miss Birks say to us for trespassing in the
kitchen-garden?--particularly when she's away."

"We should get into a jolly row!" agreed Deirdre.

"We shall all three get into one as it is if we don't go back quickly,"
observed Gerda.

Rather conscience-stricken, the chums obeyed her suggestion. They were
fortunate enough to slip from the kitchen-garden without being observed,
and hoped their escapade would not be discovered. After tea they hurried
to make up arrears of practising, but Gerda, evading the vigilance of
Mademoiselle, gave an excuse to Miss Harding and absented herself from
preparation. Stealing very cautiously from the house she dived through
the shrubbery and ran out on to the warren. Casting many a hasty glance
behind her to see if she were observed, she hurried along till she
reached the little point above St. Perran's well where a rough pile of
stones made a natural beacon, easily visible from the sea or from the
beach below. Taking her handkerchief from her pocket she tied it to a
stick, which she planted at the summit of the pile. Waving in the breeze
it was a conspicuous object. She watched it for a moment or two, then
walked back along the cliff with the drooping air of one who is almost
ready to collapse after meeting a great emergency.

"It was a near thing--a near thing!" she muttered to herself. "Suppose
they'd met? Oh, it's too horrible! It was too risky an experiment,
really! I hope my danger signal's plain enough. I must get up early
to-morrow and take it down before anyone from the school sees it. It'll
be difficult with those two in the room--but I'll manage it somehow.
Fortunately they're both sound sleepers!"




CHAPTER XVIII

An Alarm

That same evening an extraordinary thing happened. It was the custom for
glasses of milk, dishes of stewed fruit, and plates of bread and butter
to be placed on the table in the dining-hall about eight o'clock. This
was done as usual, but when the girls arrived for supper they found a
large proportion of the bread and butter had vanished. At first the
suspicion fell on Spot, the fox-terrier, but the cook pleaded an alibi
on his behalf, proving that he had been in the kitchen the whole time;
also, the rifled plates were in the middle of the table, so no dog could
have purloined their contents without knocking over glasses, or
disturbing spoons and forks.

"I'm afraid it's a two-legged dog," said Miss Harding gravely. "The
French window was open, and it would be easy for anyone to walk in and
help himself. I'm glad nothing more valuable was taken. I wish Miss
Birks were here! It's most unfortunate it should happen on the very
evening she's away."

The incident gave cause for serious apprehension. Miss Harding made a
most careful round of the house before bedtime, to see that all bolts
and shutters were well secured. Though she would not betray her alarm to
the girls, she was afraid that a burglary might be committed during the
night. Both she and Mademoiselle kept awake till dawn, listening for
suspicious footsteps on the gravel outside. All was as usual, however,
in the morning; there were no evidences of attempts to force locks or
windows, and no trace of the mysterious thief who had taken the bread
and butter. Mademoiselle reported indeed that she had again heard the
curious sounds which for some nights past had disturbed her. She had
risen and patrolled the house, and had come to the unmistakable
conclusion that they issued from the barred room. The closed chamber was
as much a riddle to teachers as to girls, so Miss Harding merely shook
her head, and recommended Mademoiselle to tell her experiences to Miss
Birks as soon as the Principal returned.

At five o'clock that afternoon Elyned Hughes came running downstairs
with a white, scared face. She solemnly averred that, when passing the
door of the mysterious room, she had heard extraordinary noises within.

"It was exactly like somebody moving about and frying sausages. I
smelled them too!" she declared.

The report was in part confirmed by several other girls, who pledged
their word that they heard stealthy movements when they listened at the
barred door.

"Are you absolutely certain, or is it only mice?" queried Gerda. "We've
so often fancied things."

"Mice don't clink cans, and strike matches, and clear their throats!"
retorted Rhoda.

"But you may have thought it sounded like that."

"I couldn't be mistaken."

"Somebody's there, beyond a doubt," said Agnes.

"Perhaps it's a ghost?" queried Elyned.

"It's nothing supernatural this time, I'll undertake to say--whatever
may have made the noises before."

"It ought to be enquired into," declared Doris. "Miss Birks ought to
insist on having the bars taken down, and seeing what's going on."

"Oh, no, no! It's best to leave things as they are."

Gerda was looking white and upset and spoke almost hysterically.

"Do you expect the ghost to bolt in amongst us the moment the door is
unlocked?" mocked Rhoda.

"No, of course, I'm not so silly! But it's often better to let well
alone."

"Mrs. Trevellyan is still away, so Miss Birks couldn't ask her to have
the bars taken down now," volunteered Betty Scott.

"So she is," exclaimed Gerda, with an air of relief.

"Ah! You're afraid of the ghost," repeated Rhoda. "I'm more inclined
towards the burglar theory. In the circumstances, I think Miss Birks
would be quite justified in making an investigation, even without Mrs.
Trevellyan's permission."

"I shouldn't wonder myself if Miss Birks called in the police," said
Betty Scott.

The girls were in a ferment of excitement over the affair. Deirdre and
Dulcie felt that in view of yesterday's discovery they had a strong clue
to the mystery. They hesitated as to whether they ought at once to tell
Miss Harding, but, as Miss Birks was expected home within an hour or
two, they decided it was better to wait till they could deliver their
news at head-quarters.

Gerda, during the whole day, had been very abstracted and peculiar in
her manner. She was nervous, starting at every sound, and seemed so
preoccupied with her own thoughts that she often took no notice when
spoken to.

"What's wrong with the Sphinx?" commented Deirdre. "She's absolutely
obsessed."

"Yes, I can't make her out. She's disturbed in her mind. That's easy
enough to see. There's something queer going on in this school. I hope
she's not mixed up in it."

"We'd decidedly better watch her. After all that's happened before, one
can't trust her in the least. Until Miss Birks is safely back in the
house I feel we oughtn't to let Gerda out of our sight. Who knows what
she may be going to do, or whom she's in league with?"

Coupled with the mysterious happenings of last night and to-day, Gerda's
palpable uneasiness gave strong grounds for suspicion. The chums watched
her like a couple of detectives. They were determined to warn Miss Birks
directly on her return. Meanwhile nothing their room-mate did must
escape their notice. They were to perform a duet at the musical
examination, therefore they had the extreme felicity of doing their
practising together. For the same half-hour Gerda was due at the
instrument in the next room. They waited to begin until they heard the
first bars of her "Arabesque". At the same moment came from the hall the
sounds of the bustle occasioned by Miss Birks's arrival home. Deirdre
and Dulcie looked at one another in much relief.

"She'll just be downstairs again by the time we've finished practising,
and then we'll go straight and tell her," they agreed.

I am afraid neither in the least gave her mind to the piano.
Mademoiselle, had she been near, would have been highly irate at the
wrong notes and other faults that marred the beauty of their mazurka.
Both girls were playing with an ear for the "Arabesque" on the other
side of the wall.

"She's stopped!" exclaimed Dulcie, pausing in the middle of a bar. "Now,
what's that for, I should like to know? I don't trust you, Miss Gerda
Thorwaldson."

But Deirdre was already at the window.

"Look! look!" she gasped. "Gerda's off somewhere!"

The window of the adjacent room was a French one, and the girls could
see their schoolfellow open it gently and steal cautiously out on to the
lawn. She glanced round to see if she were observed, then ran off in the
direction of the kitchen-garden. In a moment the chums had thrown up the
sash of their window and followed her. All their old suspicions of her
had revived in full force; they were certain she was in league with
somebody, and for no good purpose, and they were determined that at last
they would unmask her and expose her duplicity. They had spared her
before, but this time they intended to act, and act promptly too.

Gerda opened the gate of the kitchen-garden as confidently as if she
were not transgressing a rule, and rushed away between the strawberry
beds. Pilfering was evidently not her object, for she never even looked
at the fruit, but kept straight on towards the end where the
horse-radish grew. Keeping her well within sight, the chums went swiftly
but cautiously after. She stood for a moment on the piece of waste
ground that bounded the cliff, looked carefully round--her pursuers were
hidden behind a tree--then plunged down the side of the rock and out of
sight. Deirdre and Dulcie each drew a long breath. The conclusion was
certain. Without doubt she must be going to pay a visit to the cave
which communicated with the mysterious chamber. Whom did she expect to
find there?

"To me there's only one course open," declared Deirdre solemnly. "We
must go straight to Miss Birks and tell her this very instant."

The Principal, disturbed in the midst of changing her travelling
costume, listened with amazement to her insistent pupils' excited
account.

"This must be investigated immediately," she declared. "Dulcie, fetch a
candle and matches, and you must both accompany me to this cave. You say
Gerda has gone on there alone?"

Miss Birks took the affair gravely. She appeared very much concerned,
even alarmed. She hurried off at once with the girls to the
kitchen-garden.

They led the way down the narrow staircase cut in the cliff, and across
the beach and over the rocks. At the entrance to the cave they both
uttered a sharp exclamation, for Gerda stood there in an attitude of
hesitation, as if unable to make up her mind whether to enter or no. She
turned red, and white, and then red again to the tips of her ears when
she saw that she was discovered, but she offered no explanation of her
presence there. She did not even speak.

"Girls," said Miss Birks, "I think it is highly desirable and necessary
that we should follow this passage into the room which I am told is
beyond. Deirdre, you go first, with this candle, then Dulcie--Gerda,
give me your candle, and walk just in front of me."

Policing the three in the rear, the Principal gave nobody an opportunity
to escape. She had her own reasons for her conduct, which at present she
did not choose to explain. With a hand on Gerda's shoulder, she forced
that unwilling explorer along, and she urged an occasional caution on
Deirdre. They had reached the cavern, and now, opening the small inner
door, flashed their candles into the room. The result was startling.

On the bed reclined a figure, which, at sight of the light, sprang up
with the cry of a hare in a trap--a man, unkempt, ragged, and dirty,
bearing the impress of tramp written plainly upon his haggard, unshaven
countenance. He darted wildly forward, gazed up at the strangers
regarding him, then threw himself on a chair, and buried his face in his
hands.

Gerda gave a long sigh of supreme relief. It was evidently not at all
what she had expected to see.

"I'm done!" whimpered the tramp. "Send for the bobbies if you like. I'll
go quiet."

"You must first tell me what you are doing here," said Miss Birks,
stepping down into the room. "Then I can decide whether or no it is
necessary to call in the police. Who are you? And where do you come
from?"

"I knowed this passage when I was a boy," was the whining reply. "We
used to dare each other to go up it, but the door at the end was firm
shut. Then when I come back, down on my luck, and without a penny in my
pocket to pay for a lodging, I thought I'd at least spend a night there
under cover. I'd a bit of candle and a few matches, so I found my way
along easy, and there! if the door at the end wasn't broke open, and the
place waitin' all ready for me--bed, kettle, cooking-stove, frying-pan,
cup and saucer, and all the rest of it, just as if someone 'ad put 'em
there a purpose. I wasn't long in takin' possession, and I've lived here
five days, and done nobody no harm. I didn't take nothing from the house
either, except a bit of bread and butter last night when I felt
starving. T'other days I'd found a job on the quay, and was able to buy
myself victuals."

"Did you cook sausages?" quavered Dulcie, with intense interest.

"Aye, I'd earned a bit this morning to buy 'em with. Don't know who set
up a stove here, but it come in handy for me, all filled ready with oil,
too."

"But you know you've no right here," said Miss Birks severely.

"No, mum," reverting to his original whine. "I know that, but I'm a poor
man, and I've been unfortunate. I came back to my native place looking
for a bit of work. I've bin half over the world since I left it."

"If you're a Pontperran man, somebody ought to be able to vouch for you.
What's your name?"

"Abel Galsworthy."

Then Gerda sprang forward with intense, irrepressible excitement on her
face.

"Not Abel Galsworthy who was at one time under-gardener at the Castle?"
she queried eagerly.

"The same--at your service, miss."

"And you were dismissed for--for----"

"For borrowing a matter of a few pears, that made a little disagreement
betwixt me and the head gardener. I swore I'd try another line of life,
and I shipped as a fireman on board a steamer bound for America, and
worked my way over the continent to California. I didn't get on with the
Yankees, so I took a turn to Australia, but that didn't suit me no
better, and after I'd knocked about till I was tired of it, I come
home."

"Do you remember that when you were at the Castle you witnessed a paper
that the old Squire signed?"

"Aye, I remember it as if it was yesterday. Me and Jim Robinson, the
under-groom, was the witnesses, but Jim's been gone this many a year."

"Should you know your own handwriting again? Could you swear to it?"

"I'd take my Bible oath afore a judge and jury, if need be."

"Then--oh! thank Heaven I have pieced the broken link of my chain!"
cried Gerda. "Oh! can I really clear my father's name at last, and wipe
the stain from the honour of the Trevellyans?"

"What does she mean?" asked Dulcie. "I don't understand!"

"It's all a jig-saw puzzle to me!" said Deirdre. "What does Gerda know
about the Castle, and the old Squire, and a paper? And what has she to
do with the honour of the Trevellyans?"

"I guessed the riddle long ago," smiled Miss Birks, laying a friendly
hand on Gerda's arm. "The likeness to Ronnie was enough to tell me that
she was his sister."




CHAPTER XIX

A Torn Letter


In order to understand the events which were happening at the Dower
House we must go back for a period of some years in the history of the
family at the Castle. The late owner, Squire Trevellyan, having lost his
only child, had practically adopted his nephew L'Estrange Trevellyan as
his heir. He had indeed other nephews and nieces, but they were the
children of his sisters, and it seemed to him fitting that L'Estrange,
the only one who bore the family name of Trevellyan, should inherit his
Cornish estate. The young fellow was an immense favourite with his uncle
and aunt, they regarded him in the light of a son, the Castle was
considered his home, and they had even decided upon an alliance for him
with the daughter of a neighbouring baronet. But in this matter
L'Estrange had defied the wishes of the autocratic old squire, and,
making his own choice, had wedded a lady of less aristocratic birth. His
marriage caused a great coolness between himself and his uncle and aunt;
his bride was not asked to the Castle nor openly recognized, and he was
given to understand that he had seriously injured his chances of
succession to the estate. His cousins, who had long been jealous of his
prospects, were not slow to avail themselves of this opportunity, and
did all they could to make mischief and to widen the breach.

Matters went on thus for about ten years, during which time, though
Squire and Mrs. Trevellyan occasionally asked L'Estrange to the Castle,
they still refused to have anything to do with his wife, and did not see
either of his children. At the Squire's death there was great anxiety
among the relatives to know how he had disposed of his property. When
the will was read it was found that he had left the Castle and entire
estate to his wife, with power to bequeath it as she wished, and equal
money legacies to all his nephews and nieces; but at the end came a
codicil revoking the former part of the will, leaving only small
legacies to the other nephews and nieces, but a large sum to L'Estrange,
and bequeathing the Castle and property to him after Mrs. Trevellyan's
death. The relations, furiously angry to be thus cut out, disputed the
validity of the codicil. There were many points in its disfavour. The
lawyer who had drawn it up was dead, and of the two witnesses who had
signed their names to it one was missing and the other dead. There was
therefore not a solitary person left to vouch for it. The family decided
to go to law, and in the case which followed the handwriting experts
decided that the signature to the codicil was not genuine, giving it as
their opinion that it had been forged by L'Estrange Trevellyan.

The case against L'Estrange looked extremely black, for he had been
staying at the Castle at the time of his uncle's illness and death. In
view of the decision in the case a criminal charge of forgery was laid
against him, and a warrant issued for his arrest. Before it was out,
however, he had disappeared--no one knew whither.

To Mrs. Trevellyan the evidence seemed overwhelming, and in spite of her
great affection for her nephew, she believed him guilty. It had always
been her great wish that the Castle and estate should pass to one who
bore the name of Trevellyan, and at this dreadful crisis she offered to
adopt L'Estrange's little son, and to bring him up as heir to the
property. Her one condition was that she must have the child absolutely,
and that his father and mother should not attempt in any way to obtain
access to him. In his desperate circumstances L'Estrange had consented;
the boy was handed over to his great-aunt, and had been brought up at
the Castle without any remembrance of his own home and parents.

The affair had, of course, made a great stir in the neighbourhood, but
as L'Estrange had not remained in the country to face a prosecution, and
therefore no trial of the case had followed, opinions were divided as to
his guilt. In the course of five years the excitement had died down, and
though the story was well known at Pontperran it was regarded as the
Trevellyan family skeleton, and best buried in oblivion. Miss Birks had
tried to keep the matter from her pupils; they had a vague knowledge
that Ronnie's father was unsatisfactory, but they had been able to glean
no further details. In view, however, of the strange chain of events
which had just transpired, Miss Birks gave Deirdre and Dulcie, in
private, a hasty outline of the circumstances, telling them that Gerda
was in reality the daughter of Mr. L'Estrange Trevellyan, and that from
certain evidence which she had been able to collect she was confident of
disproving the charge which had been brought against her father.

Though the chums were thus briefly in possession of their school-mate's
secret, they felt there were many pieces in the puzzle which they could
not yet fit together. When they went to bed that night they begged Gerda
to give them a full and complete explanation. To their surprise she
immediately consented; indeed, instead of keeping her old habit of
reserve she seemed anxious to take them into her confidence and to pour
her whole story into their listening ears.

"If you're Ronnie's sister you can't be Gerda Thorwaldson," said Dulcie.
"I didn't know Ronnie had a sister. I thought he was an only child."

"There are just the two of us," replied Gerda. "I am nine years older
than he is, so I've always felt almost like a mother to him. Shall I
tell you everything? Quite from the beginning? Miss Harding will excuse
us for talking to-night. When our terrible trouble came upon us Ronnie
was only fifteen months old--such a darling! He could just walk and say
little words. I have his photo inside my work-box. You can imagine the
grief it was to part with him, our baby, who'd never been a day from us.
Mother was very brave--she realized that she had to decide between
Father and her boy, and of course she chose Father. We knew it was
entirely for Ronnie's good. Mrs. Trevellyan would bring him up in the
old family home as an English boy should be, and would make him her
heir; and we could only take him from one foreign place to another, and
give him nothing but poverty and a tarnished name. You know, of course,
that my father was accused of having forged a codicil to his uncle,
Squire Trevellyan's will. By a round of misfortune everything seemed to
combine in his disfavour. One witness to the codicil was dead, the other
was missing, and though advertisements were put in the papers offering a
reward for news of his whereabouts he could not be found. Mr. Forster,
the lawyer who had drawn up both the will and the codicil, was dead, so
there was no evidence on Father's side, and the case went heavily
against him.

"The codicil having been disproved, the public prosecutor stepped in and
issued a warrant to arrest my father on a charge of forgery. In the
circumstances, with no witnesses obtainable, it was not considered wise
for him to stand the doubtful chance of a trial, and acting on the
advice of his best friends, though very much against his own wishes, he
quietly left the country. For nearly five years he, Mother, and I have
lived together in various continental towns, constantly moving on, as we
feared the foreign police might recognize the description circulated at
the time of his escape and arrest him under an extradition warrant. For
safety we changed our name at almost every place. I cannot express the
wretched uncertainty and the misery of this hunted life, especially when
we knew the charge to be so utterly false. There would have been only
one worse evil--to see him wrongfully sentenced and sent to a convict
prison. The dread of that possible horror we endured from day to day.
Meantime Mother, though she would not confess it, fretted terribly at
Ronnie's loss. As year after year went by, and she pictured him growing
older, it became harder and harder for her to exist without hearing the
least word about him.

"'If I had even one poor little snapshot photo it would comfort me,' she
said once. 'It would show me my darling is well and happy and cared for
in his new home.'

"Then an idea came to me. Though I had never been at Pontperran in my
life I had often heard my father speak of the Dower House, and I knew it
was close to the Castle. I begged to be sent to school there, for I
thought I should find some opportunity of seeing Ronnie, and not only
taking a photo of him, but sending first-hand news about him to Mother.
I hoped also--but it seemed such a forlorn hope!--that if I were on the
spot I might pick up some information that might throw a light on the
case and help to clear my father's honour. There seemed little risk of
my being detected, for Mrs. Trevellyan had never seen me--Aunt Edith, I
ought to call her--and I meant to keep carefully out of her way.

"Mother jumped at my suggestion. I could see that the mere chance of
news of Ronnie put fresh life into her, and after some persuasion Father
agreed to let me go. I took the name of Gerda Thorwaldson, and the
letters to Miss Birks, arranging for me to be received as a pupil, were
written from Donnerfest, a little town in Germany. Mother brought me to
London, and put me safely into the train for Cornwall. Then she used the
opportunity of being in England to pay quiet visits to some of her own
relations whom she had not seen for many years.

"My father had a friend, a man who believed in his innocence, and did
his best to help him. This Mr. Carr took him a cruise on his yacht, and
came to Cornish waters, tacking about the coast from Avonporth to
Kergoff. By borrowing the yacht's dinghy, Father was able sometimes to
land near Portperran and meet me for a few minutes. Of course it was a
terribly risky thing to do, for he was liable to be arrested any moment
that he set his foot on English soil; but he longed so much to see me,
and, above all, to hear what I could tell of Ronnie. He was so anxious
to catch a glimpse of the little fellow for himself that he insisted
upon venturing farther on shore. He knew the secret of the barred room,
so, bringing with him an oil cooking-stove, a kettle, and a few other
things from the yacht, he took up his quarters there for a while.

"I was in an agony lest he should be discovered. I cannot tell you what
I suffered on this account. He did not stay the whole time at the cave;
indeed he lived mostly on the yacht, but kept spending occasional nights
in the secret room. I never knew whether he was there or not, and the
uncertainty made me wretched.

"During the last five years we had seemed continually to be standing on
the brink of a volcano, and I was always prepared to face the worst.

"I can scarcely express how deeply I realized the difference between
myself and all the other girls at school. I know you thought me reserved
and uncommunicative and stand-off and everything that is disagreeable,
but I simply dared not talk, for fear I might reveal something that
would betray my father. You with your happy homes, and nothing to
conceal, how can you understand what it is perpetually to guard a
dreadful secret? I could tell you nothing about my home, for we had no
home, we had only moved on from one lodging to another, and left no
address behind. I could see that you misjudged me, and were full of
suspicions, but I could not explain.

"You were annoyed with me for winning favour with Ronnie. You would not
have grudged me his affection if you had known how I had craved for him
all these years, and how hard, how very hard it was to be obliged to
treat him as if I were an entire stranger, instead of his own sister.
Then I was terribly afraid of meeting Mrs. Trevellyan, lest she should
recognize my likeness to my father and guess our secret. I avoided her
on every possible occasion, and on the whole I managed very successfully
to keep out of her way.

"But Mother was pining and yearning to see Ronnie. The little photos I
had sent, and my descriptions of him, added to the fact of her being in
England, so near to him, only made her long for him more bitterly than
before. It seemed so cruel that she--his own mother--must be so utterly
parted from him. I was determined that she should have at least the poor
satisfaction of seeing him, and I plotted and schemed to contrive a
meeting. I decided that on the night of the beacon fire I might manage
to carry Ronnie away for a few minutes, so as to give the opportunity we
wanted. I cajoled him with promises of fairies, and persuaded him quite
easily to go with me to find them. Father, who was as anxious and
excited as Mother, was waiting with a boat, but you know the rest, for
you followed us. Perhaps Mrs. Trevellyan suspected something--she must
have known shortly afterwards, for she recognized Father when he rescued
Ronnie on the cliff. I heard her call him by his name. Father used to be
her favourite nephew, indeed he was almost like a son to her, but she
had believed him guilty, and had told him never to show his face to her
again. Even before Squire Trevellyan's death there had already been an
estrangement between them because of his marriage. My mother was not
their choice, and on this account Mrs. Trevellyan objected to her, and
only once consented to meet her. Though Father sometimes went to the
Castle to visit his uncle and aunt, my mother and I were never invited
there, and Mrs. Trevellyan had not seen Ronnie until she adopted him.

"After the beacon fire I felt I had accomplished one part at least of my
mission at school. Mother had seen and kissed her boy, and she seemed a
little comforted and cheered in consequence. But the greater task which
I had set myself, that of clearing my father's name, was still
untouched. One possible clue there was which I thought I might follow
up. Do you remember how in February we went to Forster's Folly? I knew
that Mr. Forster had been the lawyer who drew up Squire Trevellyan's
will and the famous codicil. That was the reason why I was so anxious to
go into the house, and so excited when we found those letters lying
about upstairs. I would have stayed to look at them if I had dared. You
Deirdre, tore off a scrap of a letter with a crest on it, to take for
your collection. Now that crest was the boar's head of the Trevellyans,
which I knew very well, for it used to be on our own note-paper before
our trouble came. You had torn the piece from the rest of the letter,
but I could read--

    "'DEAR FORST ..
        "'Kindly c . . . . .'

And on turning the scrap over I found on the other side--

    "'wish to . . .
        "'extra codi . . . . . .'

"Could it be possible, I speculated, that this was a portion of an
original letter sent by Squire Trevellyan to Mr. Forster, asking him to
come to the house, as he wished to make an extra codicil to his will? If
that were really so, it would make a most important piece of evidence. I
begged you to give me the crest, but you would not part with it then,
and locked it up. I was most anxious to go to Forster's Folly again and
try to find the rest of the letter, but I never found an opportunity
until last week. It was too far to venture in our recreation time, and I
dare not be absent from school for hours without leave. I would have
told Mother and asked her to go, but there were two reasons against
this. We feared she might be known to the police, and that they would
watch her so as to obtain some clue to my father's whereabouts, so she
did not wish to venture into Cornwall while he was near the coast. When
she came to see Ronnie she went over first to France, and our friend
fetched her from there in the yacht, and took her back to St. Malo, so
that she need not be seen on the South-Western Railway.

"My second reason was that until I could be sure that the other part of
the letter really contained what I expected, it seemed cruel to raise
false hopes. If you had seen, as I have, the bitter, bitter tragedy of
my parents' lives, you would understand how I wanted to spare them a
disappointment. So I waited and waited, and at last my opportunity came.
Circumstances were kind, and when we had our whole day's holiday, I was
chosen as a hare. Oh, how rejoiced I was when you decided to go past the
windmill to Kergoff! I was determined to put in a visit somehow to the
old house, but it came so naturally when we needed more paper. To my
intense delight I found the other portion of the letter that I wanted,
and then you were kind and gave me the scrap with the crest. The two fit
exactly together. Look, I will show you! This is what they make when
joined--

        "'THE CASTLE,
            "'_Thursday_.

    "'DEAR FORSTER,

    "'Kindly come to-morrow morning about eleven, if you can make
    that convenient, as I want to consult you on a matter of some
    importance. Those Victoria Mine shares have gone up beyond my
    wildest dreams, and I'm thinking of selling out now, and
    clearing what I can. They'll make a difference to my estate, and
    to meet this I wish to add an extra codicil to my will.
    L'Estrange is here, so you will see him. I have not been well--a
    touch of the old heart trouble, I am afraid. I must ask Jones to
    arrange for me to consult a London specialist. If you cannot
    come to-morrow morning, please arrange Saturday.

        "'Sincerely yours,
            "'RICHARD TREVELLYAN.'

This is very strong evidence that Squire Trevellyan intended making the
codicil to his will. I am longing to show it to Father and Mother, but
they are both away cruising in the yacht. I don't know where they are
now; they promised to send me word when it was safe for me to write to
them.

"When we began to hear those strange noises in the barred room, and
yesterday you discovered the secret of its entrance, I was dreadfully
alarmed. I thought my father must have come back again in spite of my
warnings that the cave was unsafe. I felt so nervous and uneasy that at
last I decided to go and see for myself, and beg him not to stay.

"When I reached the entrance, however, I did not dare to go in alone, in
case it should be somebody else instead of my father who was there. I
reproached myself for my cowardice, but I was only just screwing my
courage to the point when you two arrived with Miss Birks. I need not
tell you how relieved I was when we did not find my father. You saw my
frantic excitement when it turned out that the tramp whom we discovered
was no other than Abel Galsworthy, the missing witness to the will? With
his oath and this precious, precious letter the evidence ought to be
complete. Oh, the rapture of the day when Father's name is cleared and
his honour restored, and he can live anywhere he likes, openly and
without fear. Now I have told you my whole story. I'm sure you'll see
why I was so queer and secretive, and so different from other girls."

"We understand and sympathize now," said Deirdre, "but you puzzled us
very much at the time."

"We thought you were a German spy," chuckled Dulcie. "We were going to
get great credit by finding out your wicked plot against England, and
informing the Government!"

"Had you anything to do with that man in the aeroplane? Why, I'd almost
forgotten him!" exclaimed Deirdre.

"I never even knew there was an aeroplane here," protested Gerda.

"You haven't told us your real name yet," urged Dulcie.

"Mary Gerda Trevellyan. Father and Mother have always called me Mamie,
but I like Gerda best, and when I came to school I begged to be 'Gerda
Thorwaldson', so that part at least of my name was genuine."

"Weren't you afraid that Mrs. Trevellyan might discover you through
that?"

"She had always heard me alluded to as Mamie. We thought she had
probably quite forgotten the 'Gerda'."

"There's one thing I still can't understand," said Dulcie. "We found out
the entrance to the barred room, but why was it ever barred? It seems so
extraordinary--right in the middle of a school."

"I can explain that too," returned Gerda. "Father has often told me the
story. Years and years ago Squire and Mrs. Trevellyan had one only
child, a little girl named Lillie. Father was very fond of this cousin,
and they were almost like brother and sister together. Then, when she
was ten years old, she died. At that time they were living at the Dower
House, because alterations were being made at the Castle. Her death was
very sudden--she was only ill a few hours. One day she was laughing and
playing about, and on the next she was dead. Her poor father and mother
were simply heart-broken. They took her toys, and all her little
treasures, and put them in her bedroom, which they left just as if she
were going to occupy it still. Then they locked up the door and barred
it, and declared that during their lifetime nobody should ever enter. It
was to be sacred to Lillie, and no one else must use it. My father, of
course, knew about it, and he also knew of the secret passage--an old
smuggler's way--that led into it from the cave. The door of this passage
had been carefully nailed up before Lillie used the room, but he had
heard that it opened over the fireplace. In his desperate need of a safe
shelter he remembered this place, came up the passage, then forced the
door and found his way into the room. He said it was surely no crime,
for 'little Cousin Lillie' had been fond of him, and always ready to
screen him in his boyish days, so he thought, if she could know, she
would be glad for him to use what had once been hers."

"I haven't asked half all yet," persisted Dulcie. "Do you remember when
first you came to school, we all tried our luck at St. Perran's well,
and you were the only one who did the right things, and whose stick
floated away? How did you manage it?"

Gerda smiled.

"Father had often told me about the well, and the exact way to perform
St. Perran's ceremony. He used to try it with Lillie when he was a
little boy. He said half the secret was to unstop the channel above the
spring. My wish was that I might clear his name, so you see it came
true, though at the time it seemed as unlikely as flying in an aeroplane
to America."

"You put a message in a bottle and threw it into the sea for your
father," said Deirdre. "You didn't know Dulcie and I fished it out?"

"Oh! Did you?" said Gerda reproachfully. "Then that was the letter he
never received?"

Gerda's discovery in Abel Galsworthy of the missing witness for whom
such long search had been made was certainly a very fortunate
circumstance for that worthy. Instead of being handed over to the
police, and prosecuted for trespassing and pilfering, he found himself
provided with new clothes, comfortably lodged in the village, and given
a promise of work when his important part in the law proceedings should
be over. At present he was the hero of the hour, for on his word alone
hung Mr. Trevellyan's honour. As the other witness and the lawyer were
both dead, his oath to his signature would be sufficient to prove the
genuineness of the codicil. There were, of course, elaborate legal
proceedings to be taken. Mr. Trevellyan appealed for a reversal of the
judgment in the former trial, and the case would have to wait its turn
before it could come before the court. As the warrant for his arrest was
still technically in force, he was obliged to continue living on the
yacht until his innocence had been officially recognized--a state of
affairs that greatly roused Gerda's indignation, though Miss Birks
preached patience.

"I wanted Father and Mother to come to the prize-giving," she lamented.

"These legal difficulties cannot be rolled away in a few days," said
Miss Birks. "Let us be thankful that we can count upon success later
on."

Now that Gerda no longer needed to hide a tragic secret, her whole
behaviour at the Dower House had altered, and her schoolfellows hardly
recognized in the merry, genial, sociable companion, which she now
proved, the silent recluse who had given her confidence to nobody. In
this fresh attitude she was highly popular; the romance of her story
appealed to the girls, and they were anxious to make up to her for
having misjudged her. Also they greatly appreciated her newly-discovered
capacity for fun and humour.

"Gerda never made one solitary joke before, and now she keeps us
laughing all day," said Betty Scott.

"How could she laugh when she was carrying that terrible burden all the
time?" commented Jessie Macpherson. "Poor child! No wonder she's
different now the shadow's removed from her life."

"We'll have ripping fun with her next term," anticipated Annie Pridwell.

Meanwhile very little of the old term was left. The dreaded examination
week arrived, bringing Dr. Harvey James to test those who were to
undergo the piano ordeal, and Mr. Leonard Pearce to criticize the
artistic efforts. In the other subjects there were written papers, which
were corrected and judged by the donors of the prizes. In spite of much
apprehension on the part of the girls, Dr. Harvey James made a good
impression, and did not turn out to be the strict martinet they
expected; indeed he commented so kindly and so helpfully on their
playing that they began to look forward to their lessons with him during
the forthcoming autumn.

The art class spent a delightful though anxious afternoon, sketching a
group of picturesque Eastern pots artistically grouped by Mr. Leonard
Pearce, who was kind and charitable in his criticisms of their little
exhibition of paintings hung in the big classroom. To their delight he
finished his visit by himself making a study of the pots, while they
stood round and watched his clever brush dabbing on the colour with
swift and skilful strokes.

"Miss Birks is going to have his sketch framed," said Deirdre
appreciatively, when he had gone.

"I wish he could teach us every week," declared the art enthusiasts.

"Ah! you see, he lives in London, and only comes to Cornwall sometimes
for a holiday. But Miss Birks has promised to get an artist next summer
to give us sketching lessons."

One advantage of the smallness of the school was that it was not a
lengthy matter to correct the examination papers of only twenty pupils.
That work was soon over, and the girls had not long to remain in
suspense before the lists were ready. The annual prize-giving was always
the occasion of a social gathering. Some of the girls' parents came
down for it, and friends in the neighbourhood were invited. If the
weather were favourable, it was generally held in the garden, and this
time, the sky being cloudless, all arrangements had been made on the
lawn, where the gardener had erected a temporary platform. It seemed a
great day to Gerda, as she came downstairs in her white dress, and
watched the company that was already beginning to arrive. If only her
father and mother could have been numbered among the guests her bliss
would have been complete. Ronnie, however, was running in and out like a
sunbeam, and her aunt had spoken to her, and had been kindness itself.

"We must all let bygones be bygones now, my dear, and rejoice together
at this happy ending of our troubles," said Mrs. Trevellyan. "I hope you
will soon come to know the Castle as well as Ronnie does, and feel
equally at home there."

Most of the prizes fell exactly as had been expected. Jessie Macpherson
won the lion's share in the Sixth, Hilda Marriott scored the record for
VA, and Barbara Marshall and Romola Harvey divided the honours of VB.
Deirdre got "highly commended" for both music and drawing, but Dulcie,
despite her valorous spurt at the finish, had no luck. She was only too
delighted, however, to find that the prize for which she had tried--that
for general improvement--had been awarded to Gerda.

"She deserves it if anyone does," she whispered to Deirdre. "I say,
dare we start three cheers for her?"

"We'll risk it," returned Deirdre, augmenting the applause by a vigorous
"Hip-hip-hip hooray!" which was at once taken up by the entire school.
Gerda, red as a rose, walked back from the platform, blushing now with
real bashfulness, instead of her old nervous apprehension. Ronnie was
waving his little hat and shouting the shrillest of cheers, and Mrs.
Trevellyan was clapping her best.

"Ave! Ave! winner of General Improvement!" exclaimed the members of VB,
as they welcomed her back to their particular bench. "Miss Birks
couldn't have given it better!"

Gerda's eyes filled with tears.

"I'm glad if you do find me improved," she said. "It's ever so nice of
you to be kind to me now. I was horrid before--and I knew it--but I
couldn't help it."

"We understand exactly," sympathized the girls.

       *       *       *       *       *

There is very little more of our story left to be told. Mr. Trevellyan
won his case, and successfully proved his innocence to the whole world.
Restored to good name and fortune, he has taken "Overdale", a pretty
house in the neighbourhood of Pontperran, which happened to be to let.
Gerda continues a pupil at the Dower House, though she is often able to
visit her own home. Ronnie, while he will see his aunt every day, is to
live with his parents, a fitting and also a very salutary arrangement,
for he is no longer a baby, and was growing too much for Mrs.
Trevellyan's and Miss Herbert's powers of management. The self-willed
little fellow respects his father's authority, and will run far less
risk of getting spoilt than when he was "King of the Castle".

"In a year or two the young rascal will be old enough for school," said
Mr. Trevellyan, "and in the meantime he must get to know his mother and
me."

Gerda is immensely delighted with her new home, and very proud to take
school friends there on half-holidays. Deirdre and Dulcie are frequent
visitors. Abel Galsworthy, a reformed character after his wanderings, is
gardener at Overdale, and likely to prove a most devoted servant; and as
for the torn letter, it is framed and glazed, and occupies the place of
honour on the wall over the chimney-piece in Gerda's bedroom.




Transcriber's Note:

Punctuation has been standardised. Hyphenation and spelling have been
retained as in the original publication, except as follows:

    Page 121
    through the field-glasses as he disappeard _changed to_
    through the field-glasses as he disappeared

    Page 184
    and fetched limpets and perwinkles _changed to_
    and fetched limpets and periwinkles

    Page209
    Irene's dyspepia, and Elyned's attacks of faintness _changed to_
    Irene's dyspepsia, and Elyned's attacks of faintness