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CHAPTER II.

Brackenfield College

Brackenfield College stood on the hills, about a mile from the seaside town of Whitecliffe. It had been built for a school, and was large and modern and entirely up-to-date. It had a gymnasium, a library, a studio, a chemical laboratory, a carpentering-shop, a kitchen for cooking-classes, a special block for music and practising-rooms, and a large assembly hall. Outside there were many acres of lawns and playing-fields, a large vegetable garden, and a little wood with a stream running through it. The girls lived in three hostels—for Seniors, Intermediates, and Juniors—known respectively as St. Githa’s, St. Elgiva’s, and St. Ethelberta’s. They met in school and in the playgrounds, but, with a few exceptions, they were not allowed to visit each other’s houses.

Marjorie and Dona had been separated on their arrival, the former being entered at St. Elgiva’s and the latter at St. Ethelberta’s, and it was not until the afternoon of the day following that they had an opportunity of meeting and comparing notes. To both life had seemed a breathless and confusing whirl of classes, meals, and calisthenic exercises, with a continual ringing of bells and marching from one room to another. It was a comfort at last to have half an hour when they might be allowed to wander about and do as they pleased.

“Let’s scoot into that little wood,” said Marjorie, seizing Dona by the arm. “It looks quiet, and we can sit down and talk. Well, how are you getting on? D’you like it so far?”

Dona flung herself down under a larch tree and shook her head tragically.

“I hate it! But then, you know, I never expected to like it. You should see my room-mates!”

“You should just see mine!”

“They can’t be as bad as mine.”

“I’ll guarantee they’re worse. But go on and tell about yours.”

“There’s Mona Kenworthy,” sighed Dona. “She looked over all my clothes as I put them away in my drawers, and said they weren’t as nice as hers, and that she’d never dream of wearing a camisole unless it was trimmed with real lace. She twists her hair in Hinde’s wavers every night, and keeps a pot of complexion cream on her dressing-table. She always uses stephanotis scent that she gets from one special place in London, and it costs four and sixpence a bottle. She hates bacon for breakfast, and she has seventeen relations at the front. She’s thin and brown, and her nose wiggles like a rabbit’s when she talks.”

“I shouldn’t mind her if she’d keep to her own cubicle,” commented Marjorie. “Sylvia Page will overflow into mine, and I find her things dumped down on my bed. She’s nicer than Irene Andrews, though; we had a squabble last night over the window. Betty Moore brought a whole box of chocolates with her, and she ate them in bed and never offered a single one to anybody else. We could hear her crunching for ages. I don’t like Irene, but I agreed with her that Betty is mean!”

“Nellie Mason sleeps in the next cubicle to me,” continued Dona, bent on retailing her own woes. “She snores dreadfully, and it kept me awake, though she’s not so bad otherwise. Beatrice Elliot is detestable. She found that little Teddy bear I brought with me, and she sniggered and asked if I came from a kindergarten. I’ve calculated there are seventy-four days in this term. I don’t know how I’m going to live through them until the holidays.”

“Hallo!” said a cheerful voice. “Sitting weeping under the willows, are you? New girls always grouse. Miss Broadway’s sent me to hunt you up and do the honours of the premises. I’m Mollie Simpson. Come along with me and I’ll show you round.”

The speaker was a jolly-looking girl of about sixteen, with particularly merry blue eyes and a whimsical expression. Her dark curly hair was plaited and tied with broad ribbons.

“We’ve been round, thanks very much,” returned Marjorie to the new-comer.

“Oh, but that doesn’t count if you’ve only gone by yourselves! You wouldn’t notice the points. Every new girl has got to be personally conducted by an old one and told the traditions of the place. It’s a sort of initiation, you know. We’ve a regular freemasons’ code here of things you may do or mustn’t. Quick march! I’ve no time to waste. Tea is at four prompt.”

Thus urged, Marjorie and Dona got up, shook the pine needles from their dresses, and followed their cicerone, who seemed determined to perform her office of guide in as efficient a fashion as possible.

“This is the Quad,” she informed them. “That’s the Assembly Hall and the Head’s private house, and those are the three hostels. What’s it like in St. Githa’s? I can’t tell you, because I’ve never been there. It’s for Seniors, and no Intermediate or Junior may pop her impertinent nose inside, or so much as go and peep through the windows without getting into trouble. They’ve carpets on the stairs instead of linoleum, and they may make cocoa in their bedrooms and fill their own hot-water bags, and other privileges that aren’t allowed to us luckless individuals. They may come and see us, by special permission, but we mayn’t return the visits. By the by, you’d oblige me greatly if you’d tilt your chapeau a little farther forward. Like this, see!”

“Why?” questioned Marjorie, greatly astonished, as she made the required alteration to the angle of her hat.

“Because only Seniors may wear their sailors on the backs of their heads. It’s a strict point of school etiquette. You may jam on your hockey cap as you like, but not your sailor.”

“Are there any other rules?” asked Dona.

“Heaps. Intermediates mayn’t wear bracelets, and Juniors mayn’t wear lockets, they’re limited to brooches. I advise you to strip those trinkets off at once and stick them in your pockets. Don’t go in to tea with them on any account.”

“How silly!” objected Dona, unclasping her locket, with Father’s photo in it, most unwillingly.

“Now, look here, young ‘un, let me give you a word of good advice at the beginning. Don’t you go saying anything here is silly. The rules have been made by the Seniors, and Juniors have got to put up with them and keep civil tongues in their heads. If you want to get on you’ll have to accommodate yourself to the ways of the place. Any girl who doesn’t has a rough time, I warn you. For goodness’ sake don’t begin to blub!”

“Don’t be a cry-baby, Dona,” said Marjorie impatiently. “She’s not been to school before,” she explained to Mollie, “so she’s still feeling rather home-sick.”

Mollie nodded sympathetically.

“I understand. She’ll soon get over it. She’s a decent kid. I’m going to like her. That’s why I’m giving her all these tips, so that she won’t make mistakes and begin wrong. She’ll get on all right at St. Ethelberta’s. Miss Jones is a stunt, as jinky as you like. Wish we had her at our house.”

“Who is the Head of St. Elgiva’s?”

“Miss Norton, worse luck for us!”

“Not the tall fair one who met us in London yesterday?”

“The same.”

“Oh, thunder! I shall never get on with her, I know.”

“The Acid Drop’s a rather unsweetened morsel, certainly. You’ll have to mind your p’s and q’s. She can be decent to those she likes, but she doesn’t take to everybody.”

“She hasn’t taken to me—I could see it in her eye at Euston.”

“Then I’m sorry for you. It isn’t particularly pleasant to be in Norty’s bad books. If you missed your train and kept her waiting she’ll never forgive you. Look out for squalls!”

“What’s the Head like?”

“Mrs. Morrison? Well, of course, she’s nice, but we stand very much in awe of her. It’s a terrible thing to be sent down to her study. We generally see her on the platform. We call her ‘The Empress’, because she’s so like the pictures of the Empress Eugénie, and she’s so dignified and above everybody else. Hallo, there’s the first bell! We must scoot and wash our hands. If you’re late for a meal you put a penny in the missionary box.”

Marjorie walked into the large dining-hall with Mollie Simpson. She felt she had made, if not yet a friend, at least an acquaintance, and in this wilderness of fresh faces it was a boon to be able to speak to somebody. She hoped Mollie would not desert her and sit among her own chums (the girls took any places they liked for tea); but no, her new comrade led the way to a table at the lower end of the hall, and, motioning her to pass first, took the next chair. Each table held about twenty girls, and a mistress sat at either end. Conversation went on, but in subdued tones, and any unduly lifted voices met with instant reproof.

“I always try to sit in the middle, unless I can get near a mistress I like,” volunteered Mollie. “That one with the ripply hair is Miss Duckworth. She’s rather sweet, isn’t she? We call her Ducky for short. The other’s Miss Carter, the botany teacher. Oh, I say, here’s the Acid Drop coming to the next table! I didn’t bargain to have her so near.”

Marjorie turned to look, and in so doing her sleeve most unfortunately caught the edge of her cup, with the result that a stream of tea emptied itself over the clean table-cloth. Miss Norton, who was just passing to her place, noticed the accident and murmured: “How careless!” then paused, as if remembering something, and said:

“Marjorie Anderson, you are to report yourself in my study at 4.30.”

Very subdued and crestfallen Marjorie handed her cup to be refilled. Miss Duckworth made no remark, but the girls in her vicinity glared at the mess on the cloth. Mollie pulled an expressive face.

“Now you’re in for it!” she remarked. “The Acid Drop’s going to treat you to some jaw-wag. What have you been doing?”

“Spilling my tea, I suppose,” grunted Marjorie.

“That’s not Norty’s business, for it didn’t happen at her table. You wouldn’t have to report yourself for that. It must be something else.”

“Then I’m sure I don’t know.” Marjorie’s tone was defiant.

“And you don’t care? Oh, that’s all very well! Wait till you’ve had five minutes with the Acid Drop, and you’ll sing a different song.”

Although Marjorie might affect nonchalance before her schoolfellows, her heart thumped in a very unpleasant fashion as she tapped at the door of Miss Norton’s study. The teacher sat at a bureau writing, she looked up and readjusted her pince-nez as her pupil entered.

“Marjorie Anderson,” she began, “I inspected your cubicle this afternoon and found this book inside one of your drawers. Are you aware that you have broken one of the strictest rules of the school? You may borrow books from the library, but you are not allowed to have any private books at all in your possession with the exception of a Bible and a Prayer Book.”

Miss Norton held in her hand the sensational novel which Marjorie had bought while waiting for the train at Rosebury. The girl jumped guiltily at the sight of it. She had only read a few pages of it and had completely forgotten its existence. She remembered now that among the rules sent by the Head Mistress, and read to her by her mother, the bringing back of fiction to school had been strictly prohibited. As she had no excuse to offer she merely looked uncomfortable and said nothing. Miss Norton eyed her keenly.

“You will find the rules at Brackenfield are intended to be kept,” she remarked. “As this is a first offence I’ll allow it to pass, but girls have been expelled from this school for bringing in unsuitable literature. You had better be careful, Marjorie Anderson!”