Читать книгу The Girls of Old Grange School - Mabel Winifred Knowles - Страница 4

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“I don’t feel quite honest,” confessed Wendy.

She and Sybilla had found the mossiest corner of the long bank which ran along the school wood. I ought to try and describe that wood—but I can’t, so all I shall say is that it was the loveliest of dingles with woody slopes shelving down towards a busy streamlet. A long bank and quite a severe-looking stone wall enclosed the property, and from where Wendy and Sybilla sat could be seen the playing-fields, a sunken wall, romantic gardens, and the lovely Old Grange.

No wonder the girls were sure theirs was the ideal school, and indeed I’ve not had time yet to tell half of its charms.

Sybilla slowly uncurled herself. She was known equally well by her chums as “Sleepy” or “Dormouse.” She was far too sleepy just now to care whether or no Wendy were a burglar in disguise who might be crying, “Your money or your life!”

“What’s the matter?” she yawned.

“Plato,” quoth Wendy briskly, and fell to rubbing her nose.

Sybilla grew puzzled.

“Is it a crib?” she asked. “But we don’t do Plato. He is done, I suppose, like Euclid and Cicero.”

Wendy roared. She had seated herself down quite cosily in her niche at school, though in her heart of hearts she did wish Yvette and her new friends would explain the “ropes” rather more clearly.

“He’s not a book,” she declared, “it’s my mongoose. He’s ever so tame. But—when I asked Miss Caddock if I might send for him I didn’t explain he was a mongoose. I just said could I write for Plato, who would get rid of every rat in a week. She said ‘Yes,’ but I don’t fancy she knew what she was saying.”

“I don’t even know what a mongoose is like,” said Sybilla, “but I think you’d be happier if you explained to the Head first. She would like it. Of course you know what I mean.”

Wendy jumped up. “I do,” she sighed, “that’s why I’m fussing. I meant to go and see Lena—as the Woollies call her—as soon as I had sent off my wire to tell Warrent to send Plato. Now it’s—er—rather too late in the day to explain, as I expect Plato is at the station.”

Sybilla considered. She liked this new girl immensely. In fact, these two seemed far more likely to chum than Yvette and Wendy. Since that first day Yvette had seen very little of her protégée excepting at bedtime. Yvette had such a number of irons in the fire! She was keen on sports, keener on lessons, and keenest of all on the affairs of her beloved Pioneers. Just at this beginning of term, however, she had too much other work to do to be able to hold the usual Pioneer meetings, and so Sybilla, the new captain, had taken Wendy under her wing.

“Supposing we go down to the station then first,” she suggested, “and fetch Plato. It’s cruel to keep any animal on the line longer than can be helped! Then we’ll bring him straight up and show him to the Head. She can decide what is to be done.”

Wendy beamed. “You are a dear,” she said. “I wish——” She did not conclude her sentence, but Sybilla shrewdly guessed she had nearly expressed the wish that Yvette was as kindly a chum.

The girls of Old Grange were allowed to go out walking together, but not alone. Juniors were obliged to take Seniors with them.

It was quite a two-mile walk to the little wayside station over the moors, but neither Sybilla nor Wendy minded that. It was so pleasant amongst the fir-trees, and Wendy loved walking along the bank of the shallow stream which dashed noisily down to the river.

“We are going to picnic in the Wizard’s Glen this afternoon,” said Sybilla contentedly; “it’s the jolliest place, but Yvette will tell you the story of the Wizard when we are there. It’s most thrilling. Look out, Wendy; let’s hide behind these rocks till those girls get past. I don’t mind Gia so much, but we shall get Joan Pinson coming along if she sees you. I won’t be a cat, but you can guess pretty well that Joan will stick to you as fast as glue till those French sweets are finished.”

Wendy laughed ruefully as she crept after her comrade.

Poor Wendy! she was so generous and impulsive, loving to lavish gifts of all kinds. And she had brought down that monster box of dainty bon-bons in all the innocence of her heart to share with her special chums. But the eagle eye of Miss Prinkton had espied them and Wendy had been told to share the forbidden luxuries with all present. Joan had been enthusiastic over the most delicious sweets she had ever tasted and had haunted Wendy ever since, not only hinting but asking boldly for just one more.

And Wendy did not like Joan. She was quite decided on that score. The worst of it being that Joan seemed equally decided that Wendy was to be her friend!

Gia Leston-Green was a stout, commonplace girl of fifteen who wore her drab hair bobbed and was obliged to use spectacles. Wendy had not seen much of her, though Gia’s small sister, Betty, amused her greatly. Gia herself was amusing, without intending to be so. Her people had become very wealthy during the war; before then they had been small tradespeople, and Gia was always on tenterhooks lest her schoolfellows should discover the fact. She was always most particular that both parts of the new double name should be used, and loved to boast that they lived at Leston Court in Surrey, where—ahem!—they belonged to the county.

Joan, with her habit of fastening upon her richer schoolfellows, was chatting gaily to Gia as they came through the pine-wood. The girls hidden behind the rock cuddled close whilst Sybilla heard Wendy give a low gasp of dismay at hearing her own name.

“Wendy Darlake?” Gia was questioning in her affected way. “Well, I’ve hardly spoken to her. Her people are very new rich, I believe. I can imagine her with a great gaudy home in the London suburbs, and parents who murder the King’s English. Dreadful! Thank goodness we live far afield in the Midlands. Leston Court.” Joan was yawning. Once allow Gia to get on to the subject of Leston Court and she would be bored to death.

“Wendy’s all right,” she said, “at least her sweets are! She’s a little owl herself, getting in with that cranky Yvette and those ridiculous Carnock girls. Sybilla is another I can’t stand. She thinks she’s clever—and witty. I hate those funny folk who never are funny. I did mean to make a chum of Wendy and rescue her from the clutches of the crew, but she’s not worth it. Personally, I don’t call her a lady or——”

“Ow!” gasped Gia guiltily, for there stood Wendy on the path, the picture of flaming indignation, with her red curls awry and her cheeks scarlet. “How you made me jump! I believe you’ve been listening. It’s very mean,” and she began to snivel.

But Wendy was looking at Joan. “I didn’t ask you to call me a lady, Joan,” said she, “and I haven’t asked you to call me your friend. I’m not likely to do so! I hate sneaks who bite when people’s backs are turned. It’s different with Gia, because she never has asked me to be her friend, so she can leave me to my suburbs and stick to her Leston Court. Good-bye.”

“Listeners never hear good of themselves,” tittered Gia, trying to brazen it out, but Joan had crimsoned to the eyes. She did not attempt to answer, but walked on, her arms swinging, her head bent. Sybilla looked after the retreating figures with a comical grimace of disgust.

“I don’t like that girl—and that’s a fact,” she murmured. “She’s mean. Perhaps I’m mean to say so, but she is the sort to be spiteful if she’s snubbed. Don’t forget that, Wendy. She is one young cat. Now come along and rescue Plato from durance vile.”

They did not have their walk in vain. In fact, both the solitary porter and station-master were examining the hamper, through which the mongoose’s bright eyes could be seen peering.

David Gregory, the station-master, did not disguise his curiosity.

“It’s a strange animal, Misses,” he said; “it’s mongoose they call it on the label, but, hechs! it’s me nain sel has never heard of such.”

“If you can help uncord the basket,” laughed Wendy, “I’ll get him out. Poor old Plato! Are you squeaking ‘how d’you do’? Yes, I’ve got a knife. You needn’t be afraid. He’s ever so gentle.”

In spite of this assurance, Gregory and the porter Allan kept at a respectful distance whilst Plato was being freed from prison.

Sybilla was delighted when at last her companion lifted the long, furry creature from its resting-place.

“It’s a darling,” she laughed, “and what a cute little face. Plato, Plato, make friends? Are you going to eat rats? Oh, wise Plato! And do you like being stroked and cuddled?”

She was making friends quickly. From the shelter of his mistress’s arms the mongoose sniffed his inquirer, peering and craning about and finally climbing up over Wendy’s shoulder to inspect the station-master, who beat a hasty retreat.

Having explained the nature of a mongoose—the terror of any and every rat—the girls left the station, laughing. It did seem amusing those two big men should be afraid of that little animal just because they had never seen one like it before!

“We shall have to bustle,” said Sybilla, looking at her watch. “I hope the Woollies won’t forget to pack the picnic basket. Cookie’s brother is bringing in some plums. That’s the best of the first part of term: one has more money. Is Plato bothering you, Wendy, or can we run?”

They did run, quite a long way, then Wendy slackened.

“Why do you call Mona and Ailsie the ‘Woollies’?” she asked.

Sybilla chuckled.

“Can’t you guess? No one can! They don’t look nearly as woolly or dormousy as I do! But it’s after the polar bears they so adore talking of. Their father sent them several yarns about the bears up in the Arctic, and the chums are never tired of describing them. So they are the ‘Woollies.’ Oh, bother! what bad luck! There’s the Head going off with Mrs. Wigton, the minister’s wife. What shall we do with Plato till she comes back? We can’t take him into the kitchen or the maids will have a panic.”

“And he must have his bread and milk,” said Wendy decidedly; “he’s starved, and, if we don’t consider his feelings, he will be eating his way through the basket! I’ll take him down into the garden room for the time being. Will you forage for his dinner, Syb? By that time Miss Caddock may be back.”

The garden room was quite deserted, the girls were all making the most of a whole holiday, and several who lived within motoring distance had gone home. Wendy sat in the depths of a deck chair talking to her pet, who, however, basely deserted her when Sybilla appeared in haste with the bread and milk.

“We shall have to bustle, Wendy,” said the latter. “Ellen is just going to ring the dinner-bell. Veal pies and salad! and blancmanges—a really holiday dinner. Lena is a pet like that. When we have a holiday it is one all through. There, Plato, eat, drink, and be thankful. The Woollies and Yvette have the picnic baskets ready in the lobby, so we simply switch off out of the dining-room, snatch hats, and bolt before we get a dozen other girls joining on.”

The harsh-toned bell was already beginning to clang its summons, and, seeing Plato settled in his “travelling carriage” with his dinner before him, the girls were quite content to close the lid and scamper off.

“He’ll sleep peacefully for hours,” said Wendy; “his manners are perfect, whatever two opinions there may be about his appearance. I wish I had time to show him to the others.” She was too interested, however, in veal pie and blancmange to think anything more of Plato for the present, and the Woollies were bubbling to tell of sundry small thrills over collecting tarts and plums for the picnic. There are always more tellers than listeners, and Wendy was quite ready to be excited over the Wizard’s Glen.

The Pioneers were so mysterious about it, declaring that the old legend could only be told in the Glen itself.

“We must give you the creeps,” giggled the Woollies. “When we came to school Yvette gave us them. And Michael Scott is a real wizard, he is in history.”

“Danger,” warned Yvette. “Joan is watching us, and I half believe Doreen Menleigh means to ask where we are going. I’ll go first. Woollies, close up behind. Never mind hats in the scamper as long as we grab the bags.”

“Joan’s been talking to Frou-Frou,” murmured Sybilla. “I believe she is going to propose some dull scheme for the afternoon. We’re lost if she does. Quick as lightning, chums.”

Yvette was already in the passage. Although she had insisted on giving up the captaincy of the Pioneers, she was always forgetting Sybilla was the one now to give orders, and good-natured “Sleepy” was the last one to rebel at this. As long as they had fun and were jolly together, Sybilla did not mind if she were the head or tail of the band.

And they escaped, though the Woollies were puffing with exhaustion before they reached the slope of the moor.

Wendy clasped her hands. “I forgot all about Plato,” she said; “do you think he will be safe?”

The others looked rather serious for a moment, but Yvette was an optimist.

“Rather,” said she. “None of the girls would be so mean as to hurt a dumb creature. Don’t worry over Plato. I’m only disturbed as to whether there will be spontaneous combustion with the lemonade bottles. Shall we picnic first and explore afterwards?”

“Picnic,” chorused the others.

Sybilla was lolling out her tongue to show her need of something wet, and the thought of that fizzing, bubbling lemonade certainly quickened the footsteps of all till they stood on the outskirts of that mysterious glen which Wendy became convinced from the first moment must be haunted.

Dark, dreary, with the twisted trunks and stems of several blasted trees, the very murmur of falling water sounded mournfully as they tumbled over grey rocks into a deep and shadowed pool. Merlin’s Glen was certainly no spot for laughter-loving lassies or gay-winged fairy-kins.

“Look at those great grey boulders,” said Yvette in a solemn whisper. “They are called Michael’s seat—you see they form a circle—and the great oak close by has been blasted by lightning. No one knows whether the whole circle is supposed to be the seat or whether there was once a still bigger rock in the centre which has disappeared. Isn’t it a silent place too? No birds will ever sing here and hardly any flowers will grow. I’m not awfully superstitious, but I must say I would hate to pass a night in Michael’s Glen.”

“We wouldn’t for £100,” chorused the Woollies, whilst Ailsie added: “I love adventures, real adventures like Dad’s, but nothing mixed up with ghosts.”

“Ghosts,” laughed Wendy, standing up, a breeze ruffling her red curls, whilst she set her arms akimbo in challenging fashion. “Who believes in ghosts? I don’t for one.” Then, before her startled companions could warn her against such daring, she sent a merry, mocking shout echoing down the Glen where no one ever spoke much above a whisper:

“Come out, Mr. Michael Scott, and let’s have a look at you,” she sang, and, as if in answer to that insulting challenge, a terrible cry, following a sullen thud, was heard, coming as it seemed from the direction of Michael’s famous seat, where one of the rocks had suddenly fallen slantwise with a dull and grinding crash.