Читать книгу The Girls of Old Grange School - Mabel Winifred Knowles - Страница 5

Table of Contents

“The—Ghost!” gasped the Woollies; but even with that conviction strong upon them, they rose to the occasion with true heroism.

Down the steep slope they dashed, followed closely by the rest of the Pioneers, who, as they ran, realized more and more fully that ghosts don’t topple boulders over or scream out in terror and pain. There had been no second scream, and it was Yvette who passed the pale-faced Woollies and reached the spot where the boulder had fallen slantwise.

“Oh!” she cried, as she crept through the tangle of undergrowth. “What has happened? Help, girls, help! It’s a boy ... and a hole ... he’s been ... exploring and ... and it is Donald Arnloch.”

Sybilla was close on her comrade’s heels; for the moment the passage formed by the half-fallen boulders was blocked. Wendy had time to gasp a question to the trembling Woollies.

“Donald Arnloch? Who is he?”

Mona answered in a whisper.

“Sir Alan’s son. They live at Glenview—between this and the village. The Old Grange—all the estate—belonged to Sir Alan. He-they—well, people say they hate Miss Caddock for having bought their old home. Probably nonsense! Sir Alan ought to have left the neighbourhood—so lots of folk say!—it’s all gossip. He simply worships the whole place. Donald is the only child. His brother is dead. How awful if ... I say, Yvette, what has happened? Shall we fetch a doctor?”

Yvette’s answer came very sharply. “Yes. Don’t jabber. Run—hard. Let some one in the village know. There’s a wedge of stone fastening him down. He’s fainted.”

Wendy looked round. The Woollies had already scampered off. Farther up, on a ledge or plateau of higher ground, was the dark pool into which the dreary cascade was falling. If the boy had fainted he would need water. Without worrying Sybilla or Yvette with questions, she slipped away, filling her straw hat with the cool, clear water and returning as quickly as she had come. Sybilla was just crawling back. Her face brightened at sight of Wendy’s burden.

“Bravo!” she applauded. “Yvette wants it too. She—she’s nearly fainting through lifting the rock off Donald’s leg. It nipped her hand. She knew it must; she has a pluck.”

Wendy followed this time, nearly exclaiming aloud at the strange sight which met her eyes. Yvette leaned back, white as one of the Glen ghosts, against a boulder, nursing her injured hand. A handsome boy of about fifteen, an ugly cut across his chin and one leg bare and roughly bandaged by handkerchiefs, was slowly trying to struggle to a sitting posture. The mysterious space within the circle of stones had evidently been lately dug up, and beside the pile of turf and stones was an open trap-door, rusty and with patches of soil still adhering to it, beyond which gaped a black hole. A spade and fork had been tossed to one side and a boy’s grey cap beside them.

Donald Arnloch was very slowly taking in what had happened. His head must be aching violently, and he smiled gratefully to Wendy when she offered him some water. Then he looked from Yvette to Sybilla. Of course it was plain that he wanted to understand what had happened! And Sybilla at once answered the mute appeal.

“You’d been digging in the middle of the Wizard’s seat and—I suppose you touched some spring which flung up a trap-door and sent a boulder crashing. You got pinned down. We belong to Old Grange School and heard you cry out. Yvette—my chum—pushed the wedge which pinned you down and would have slipped and smashed your leg. There was no time for anyone to reach and help her. Now she feels a bit faint. The Woollies have gone for a doctor.”

The boy listened, a faint colour creeping to his cheeks. When Sybilla had ended, he managed to reach out and grasp Yvette’s cold little hand. “You saved me from being a cripple,” said he huskily. “I wish I could thank you.”

There was suppressed passion in his tones which might have been interpreted, “I wish I hadn’t got to thank you!”

But Yvette managed a smile. “It’s all right,” she replied. “I’m better. Don’t worry. We do understand. If—if Old Grange had belonged—to me, I’d have felt the same as you and your father.”

It was such unexpectedly plain speaking that Donald almost forgot his pain as he reddened to the eyes.

“Don’t,” he entreated. “You are only girls. I wish I—I could tell you all what sports I—think you. And I owe——”

“Never mind the owing,” said Sybilla briskly. “I believe I hear our chums coming. They’ll bring help. I—er—suppose you’d rather we didn’t explore—all this? But—er—if ever we see you again, will you explain about what you were looking for—and what you discovered?”

Donald hesitated. “I’m sure my father will ask you to Glenview to thank you,” he replied. “Do come if he does. You see, I can’t say how he’ll feel. He can’t bear Old Grange mentioned. But do come if you can. Then I’ll tell you. No, don’t touch the trap. There’d be an accident. No one will come near. I expect”—and for the first time he smiled—“they will all be afraid round here that I’ve let out the ghosts!”

“How thrilling!” whispered Sybilla. “We won’t touch, though I expect we shall peep. Ought we to shut the trap-door?”

But Donald shook his head. “There’s a catch and a trick about it,” he replied. “I’ll have to examine. You’d better leave it alone. Thanks awfully. You’ve been—splendid. You must come to Glenview if you’re asked. Then I’ll thank you.”

Yvette nodded. Donald was looking at her. “Yes,” she replied. “We’ll understand, anyway. Perhaps one day we’ll be friends. We’re only girls, but we love adventures. We came to the Glen to find one—and we got what we wanted.”

She had no time to say more, for a man was creeping through the “tunnel,” and Dr. McRandy’s voice was heard inquiring in would-be indignation what Donald meant by breaking himself up in such a place. Evidently the fat little ginger-haired doctor and Donald were old friends, and the former, after a few words of praise to the girls and a glance at Yvette’s wrist, which he told her to rub and bandage, paid all his attention to Donald, telling him he was lucky to have his father away at the time. “Or you’d be worrying the poor fellow crazy,” he scolded. “What in all the name o’ wisdom did ye want to dig up the de’il for? Steady, lad, no fainting. Thank you, young lady.”

And he beamed at Wendy, who had been busy tearing some clean handkerchiefs in strips and bringing more water.

It was quite an hour before the doctor and his helpers had finished attending to poor Donald and carrying him off home on the hurdle stretcher brought by four men who evidently were in a very great hurry to leave the haunted Glen!

Sybilla and the rest of the Pioneers stood watching the little procession out of sight.

“We shan’t be able to explore, now we have promised Donald about Michael’s seat,” said Yvette. “And I believe we’ve had adventures enough.”

“We’ve not,” retorted Ailsie. “Mona and I just peeped beneath the trap-door. There are steps leading down. It looks like a well. A regular ghost-hole. Isn’t it gorgeous? Perhaps Donald has let out a whole lot of ghosts into the Glen.”

“How blood-curdling!” chuckled Sybilla. “A real freezing adventure for you, Woollies. But you’ll have to wait till Donald is better, and even then Sir Alan may not allow him to speak to us. I believe he’s a regular crank. Now we must have tea. I’m dying for plums—and cake. Adventures are as thirsty as they are hungry. And if Yvette does not feel up to telling Wendy the story of the Glen, then I must. We simply could not have more ideal conditions for the tale: the falling twilight, ahem! the disturbed trap-door, the broken stone. If Michael’s ghost does haunt the place, he must be getting busy.”

“Tea first,” said Yvette firmly. “We need to build our courage to sticking point. Plums last, and tea cold, eh, chums?”

The others were ready to agree to anything. They knew Yvette would hate them to sing her praises, but they could not help looking on her as something of a heroine. Had she not saved Donald Arnloch from the fate of a cripple? In their hearts of hearts one and all of our Pioneers were hoping that meant winning a new chum for their band. He was a sport, they were sure—and what might not be hid in the centre of those mysterious stones?

Wendy was delighted that Yvette felt up to telling the Legend of the Glen. Though Sybilla was a perfect darling, she was not sure she would treat the subject seriously enough, and, even though Wendy’s impudent little nose did not suggest any sort of seriousness, it was not quite fair on its owner. Anyhow, even the restless Woollies were quiet enough when Yvette began her tale.

“It was hundreds of years ago when Michael Scott lived,” she said. “He didn’t live here, of course. Michael’s Tower is ever so celebrated, and I ought to remember where it is—only I forget! He was supposed to have made a contract with the devil and sold his soul in exchange for magic power. He is said to have done all sorts of impossible things and to have had the power of changing himself or anyone else into any sort of animal, bird, etc., he liked.

“He came to this part of Scotland on a visit, and when he was here he visited this Glen and fell in love with a beautiful girl called Elsie. She was the daughter of a minister and very good. She spent half her days in the Glen because she loved the birds and animals so much. Michael Scott changed himself into a stag and followed her about. She became very fond of the stag, but when he changed into a man she was terrified. Of course, he made love to her and she was rather fascinated, but, when she found out through some other lover that he was a wizard, she told him he must go away. He asked her to visit the Glen to say good-bye and he changed her into a flower, which he plucked to carry off. But Elsie’s true lover Andrew saw what happened and rushed out, holding up a cross and flinging holy water over the flower. Elsie was restored, but somehow she was killed. Michael escaped, but he killed Andrew first. Andrew and Elsie were buried in the kirkyard, but the Glen is still haunted by Elsie’s ghost and the sound of men fighting, whilst some people say Michael’s ghost too sometimes creeps round his ‘seat’ and whoever sees it has bad luck!”

Wendy shivered. “How horrid,” she said, “and just now the Glen looks as if it might be full of ghosts. I suppose—er—as it is Michael’s Glen we dare not speak ill of him! That was how it was about the robber who is buried in Montgomery churchyard. We all went there—to Wales, I mean—for a holiday, and we went to see the robber’s grave. He was hanged hundreds of years ago for sheep-stealing, but he vowed he was innocent and said, to prove it, no grass should ever grow on the cross cut over his grave, and if any planted grass seeds in the cross or spoke ill of him as he lay in his coffin they would come to a bad end. It all came true too, and the cross is there with grass growing right round.”

“I don’t like curses and wizardry,” declared Ailsie; “they give me creeps down my back, and now we’ve finished the picnic I believe we ought to go home. I—er—am sure Plato must have woken up by now.”

Although that gallant band of Pioneers would have scouted the very idea that they could be afraid, they contrived to keep very close together as they skirted the ridge of the Glen, only casting hasty and nervous glances in the direction of Michael’s seat.

Sybilla was the least superstitious—or the most daring—for she gave a gleeful giggle as she pointed towards the fallen rock.

“What a thrill it will be,” she murmured, “if actually we go exploring into the wicked depths of that hole with nice Donald Arnloch—for I am sure he is nice, even if he and his father are enemies of Old Grange School.”

“I don’t see why he should be our enemy,” retorted Wendy, as she rolled down a bank on to the heathery moors. “We didn’t rob him of Old Grange, and Yvette has saved his boy’s life—or at least his leg. It’s quite romantic, and I adore romance. How dark it is getting, and look at that queer tall figure stalking along! Is it a man or a woman?”

“It’s Jamie the shepherd,” said Yvette. “He’s ever so queer. Some people call him Daft Jamie and some just Black Jamie. He lives in a wee hut under a cliff. His boy Tam is rather nice, only none of the village boys will have anything to do with him because he is rough and wild. There’s a sweet little girl Joan, too, only about six years old, and she can’t talk properly—only croon. She’s lame as well, but ever so pretty. Jamie adores her. His wife is dead, and he is very bitter and fierce because of his troubles. I believe Joan could be cured, but it would cost a lot of money and take a lot of time. Here’s the school gate. I suppose if it’s past seven we shall get into hot water.”

Wendy caught the speaker’s hand. “Do come round to the garden room with me,” she begged, “to see if my ducky Plato is all right. I hope no one has disturbed him.”

Yvette hesitated. Though she was supposed to be Wendy’s friend, she still felt resentment against this new girl who expected to buy her friendship without any choice on her—Yvette’s—part.

“I must go up to Miss Simmins,” she replied, “about my wrist. We always have to report. I dare say one of the others will go with you.”

“I will,” replied Sybilla quickly. She had seen Wendy’s hot flush and look of disappointment and knew that Yvette had quite unnecessarily raised another few inches of that foolish barrier of which the foundations had been laid by the coming of Wendy and the claim Yvette’s father had made on his daughter to help repay his debt to Wendy’s parents by her friendship to their child.

Yvette herself went off slowly towards the matron’s room. She had spoken in haste, repented at leisure, but been too proud to cancel what she had said and run off to the rescue of Plato.

The question was—did Plato need rescuing?

Miss Prinkton was answering that. She met Sybilla and Wendy in the passage, her pale face quite rosy with indignation.

“Girls,” she exclaimed, “which of you has brought that horrible animal to the school? I am speaking of the creature found by Gia in the garden room. Mademoiselle heard Gia cry out and went to see what was the matter. I do not know quite what happened, but Mademoiselle has been really ill with a nervous attack. We have had to send for a doctor. As to the animal, it has escaped into the garden, where the men are searching for it to kill it. It is abominable for anyone to have dared——”

But here Wendy interrupted with a cry of dismay.

“Kill Plato? Oh no, Miss Prinkton. No one could be so cruel! Why, I sent for him on purpose! The darling. I—I——”

And Wendy, bursting into tears and quite heedless of Miss Prinkton’s exhortations, went racing down the passage, leaving Sybilla to explain that Plato was the most gentle mongoose, who only threatened rats and not the ankles or legs of distinguished French ladies—or English ones either!

Quite a crowd of girls had collected along the terrace, watching the two gardeners and boy, who, armed with thick sticks, were groping and beating about the shrubbery. It was just light enough to be able to see moving objects, and the girls kept giving little squeals of excitement as they imagined the men had discovered their quarry.

From the garden room Wendy could hear Mademoiselle’s sobs and cries, gradually growing fainter, whilst Gia was talking excitedly in the passage about the “awful brute” which must have been sent as a practical joke to some one.

“ ’Ware there,” sang out one of the gardeners. “Quick, mate. Give it a crack over the head. Yah!”

Down the path rushed Wendy. She, too, had seen the long, furry body of poor Plato, as the frightened animal dashed out from under a low-growing laurel with the garden boy in close pursuit.

Oh, just in time! J-just in time. As Wendy clutched at her pet, lifting it safely up against her shoulder, young Tom’s stick came down with a thwack on her foot, bringing a cry of pain to her lips in spite of herself.

What a commotion there was all round! The men shouting, Tom explaining, the Woollies scolding—for they were here at Wendy’s heels now—whilst the other girls, venturing down the path, began to ask questions.

“What is the animal?” demanded one.

“Is it a sort of long rabbit?” asked another.

“Won’t it bite?” cried a third.

“Why did you scream, Wendy?” echoed a fourth.

“That’s Miss Prinkton calling,” sighed the Woollies. “Is your foot better, Wendy? What a day of excitements! Oh, girls, w-what duffers you are! Don’t you know a mongoose when you see it?”

It was Ailsie who demanded the last! As a matter of fact she herself would never have recognized Plato under any sort of classification!

“One might have guessed it was some flare of Wendy’s,” said some one’s voice from the cluster of girls; but it was too dark to see the owner of those sneering tones.

“Slip off and see Lena at once before Prunes and Prisms gets her ear,” whispered Sybilla to Wendy, who, at the moment, was thinking of nothing and caring for nothing but her pet.

And Wendy was only too glad of the suggestion and the chance of escaping from her schoolfellows before reaching the house.

She was afraid—and very much afraid—she would lose her temper if those others were to say nasty things about her darling Plato!