A Harum-Scarum Schoolgirl (21 page)

The fence did not look too easy to scale. It was of solid oak pales set upright, and was about six feet in height. Its straight surface did not offer any foothold. For some distance they wandered along, rather discouraged, but at last an overhanging tree seemed to promise hope. Lenox lifted up Diana till she could catch hold of a branch, then, with considerable boosting and scrambling, she swung herself over. Lenox dropped after her directly, and the adventurous pair stood within the park.

So far, so good. They were certainly trespassing, but they considered that their errand justified the deed. Lenox had brought his hand camera, and hoped to get a snap-shot of the old place to take back to America to show his father. He had ascertained that no picture post cards of it were obtainable in the village. They could see the twisted chimneys rising over the top of a thick grove of trees and shrubs, so they turned their steps in that direction. Over some grassy park-like land they tramped, where rabbits were still scuttling about, and a few tame deer were grazing; then through a thicket of trees and under a belt of ornamental shrubs. All at once, as they scrambled from the shade of some rhododendrons, they caught their first view of the Manor. It was a glorious old mansion, built partly in half-timber and partly in grey stone, with an embattled tower for entrance, and a stone bridge crossing the moat that encircled the walls. The morning sun shone direct on its mullioned, diamond-paned windows, its twisted chimney stalks, ivy-clad walls, and smooth, green stretch of water. Nothing could have been more charming for a photograph, and, to make the picture absolutely perfect, a pair of stately swans came sailing along the moat. Lenox pulled his camera from its case, ventured forth from the cover of the bushes, and began to focus. Diana followed closely at his elbow. They were brimful of excitement. Here they were actually facing the "ancestral home" of the Clifford family.

"Don't you wish you lived here?" sighed Diana.

"Rather! But no such luck!"

"If the old lady has no children perhaps you'll turn out to be the heir," said Diana wistfully.

"She has nephews," said Lenox, dashing her hopes. "Besides, we must be a very far-off branch of the family tree. It's a hundred years since we settled in America. Now don't nudge me. I've just got the thing focused--swans and all."

Lenox pressed the button, and turned the film on to No. 2, then looked about him.

"I'm going to take the whole half-dozen," he announced. "Let's move on and get a different view."

There was not a soul to be seen. With the exception of the swans, the inhabitants of the Manor did not seem to be early risers. Lenox and Diana grew bolder, and ventured nearer. By degrees they got right to the edge of the moat. The view here was beautiful, for it took in the bridge and the embattled tower, with the coat of arms over the doorway. It was exactly what they wanted to carry home to America. Lenox snapped it with huge satisfaction, including the swans, which luckily swam into the scene at the psychological moment.

"I'd give worlds to be able to go inside and explore," said Diana. "I wish I could make myself invisible. D'you think we dare just toddle across the bridge, and perhaps peep in through a window? There's nobody watching. O-o-o-oh!"

She might well exclaim, for, in direct contradiction to her words, the door at that moment opened, and an elderly lady made her appearance. She walked slowly with the aid of a cane, but it was evident that she had seen the intruders on her property, and was coming to tackle them. Swift and hasty flight seemed the only way out of the difficulty.

"Quick, Lenox! Run!" gasped Diana.

She turned, as she spoke, to make a dash for the cover of the shrubs, but in her hurry and agitation she tripped on her dangling shoe lace, missed her footing, slipped, tumbled down the bank, and fell backwards with a splash into the moat.

It was not very deep, and Lenox hauled her out in a minute. There she stood upon the bank a dripping object, her nice dress all coated with duckweed and green slime. Her hat was floating away in the direction of the swans. The lady had crossed the bridge, and with the help of her cane walked painfully down the bank. Lenox and Diana felt like a pair of naughty school children caught stealing apples. The situation was most ignominious. Their faces would have made a study for a comic artist, especially Diana's, with smears of duckweed on her cheeks, and her moist hair hanging over her shoulders. They wondered what Mrs. Elliot was going to say to them.

She came slowly up, blinking her eyes rather nervously, looked Diana over from dripping head to muddy shoes, then made the obvious comment:

"You're very wet!"

"Ye-e-es!" shivered Diana, with chattering teeth.

"You'd better come indoors and have your clothes dried."

The relief of receiving such a charitable reception, instead of the stern rebuke they felt they deserved, was intense. Lenox suddenly burst into a flood of gentlemanly apologies. He explained rapidly that his name was Clifford, that he had seen his father's coat of arms in the church, and had been tempted to trespass in order to secure some photographs of the house that was probably the old home of their family. Mrs. Elliot listened till he had finished.

"I'd have given you permission if you had asked," she replied calmly. "Now it's time that your sister--cousin, is she?--took off those wet clothes, or she'll catch cold."

Diana marvelled at Mrs. Elliot's goodness. She was taken indoors, and lent some garments while her own were dried. The household was an earlier one than they had supposed, and in answer to the mistress's bell came servants who were too well trained to express surprise in their faces at the sight of a dripping visitor. An elderly maid showed Diana to a bedroom, rubbed her hair for her with a towel, helped her into a pink silk kimono dressing-gown, and brought her a cup of hot tea. These precautions against cold having been taken, Mrs. Elliot most kindly volunteered to show the young people over the house. It was a funny little procession: the elderly lady with her cane; Lenox, in his khaki, still blurting out apologies; and Diana trailing the pink kimono, which was much too long, and shuffling in bronze-beaded shoes that were two sizes too large. The glories of the old Manor left them gasping: the big banqueting hall with its armour and tapestries, the panelled oak boudoir, the library with its family portraits, the wide staircase, the drawing-room with its cabinets and priceless china, the state bedroom with the carved four-post bed where Queen Anne had slept, the courtyard and dove-cote where pigeons were strutting and preening their feathers, and the little chapel with its coats of arms in the stained glass, and chained Bible. Through a window they could see the garden, with clipped yew hedges and smooth lawn, and a peacock spreading its gorgeous tail to the morning sun.

"If your great-grandfather went to America a hundred years ago you are probably descended from either Guy, Charles, or Humphrey Clifford," said Mrs. Elliot, showing Lenox a family genealogical tree that hung in the hall.

"I know my great-grandfather's name was Humphrey," answered Lenox, "and the dates would seem to correspond."

Diana's clothes were dried at last, and brushed. Even her hat, by the aid of a fishing-rod, had been recovered from the moat. Though rather crushed and spoilt they were quite wearable. She felt herself again when she had put them on. Mrs. Elliot sent a servant to conduct the young people to the lodge, and order the gate to be unlocked for their exit. She received their renewed apologies and thanks in the same calm manner in which she had greeted them.

"I hope the photos will come out well," were her last words, as she stood at the door watching them walk across the bridge.

When Lenox and Diana returned to the inn, and burst upon the rest of the party, who were having breakfast, their extraordinary story was at first scarcely believed.

"Bunkum, my boy!" said Giles, shaking his head.

But the two witnesses gave such a circumstantial account of their adventure that incredulity turned to amazement, and then amusement.

"You cheeky young cubs!" declared Mr. Hewlitt. "I think Mrs. Elliot was far too good to you."

"You got more than you deserved; but I'm grateful to her for drying you, Diana," commented Mrs. Hewlitt.

"I wish we'd been with you," said Giles. "You've had all the luck."

As the car was now repaired, the party once more packed up their baggage, and set forth for the short remainder of their tour. Lenox's leave was nearly over; Giles would be due in London next week; and Mr. Hewlitt's business in Paris was not yet concluded. After another day's enjoyment they parted at Cheltenham, and sent the girls back to school by train.

"We shan't forget you, dear," said Mrs. Hewlitt to Loveday, as she saw them off. "You must come and see us again some time--perhaps in America. Take care of my little Diana for me--won't you?"

"I will--I will, indeed! Oh, I don't know how to thank you! It's been just the absolute time of my life!" said Loveday, leaning out of the carriage window as she waved good-bye.

The Green-eyed Monster

With the summer term came a period of great outdoor activity at Pendlemere. Miss Chadwick, Miss Carr, and Miss Ormrod were tremendously busy on the land, and gave the school a thorough initiation into the principles of gardening. The girls studied birds, noted what insects they ate, and how useful they were in a garden; they learned the life-histories of certain insects, and the causes of some plant diseases; they organized an amateur weather bureau, and kept charts of the progress of their crops. Everybody agreed that the new regime was much more interesting than that of the old days when the gardening had all been done for them, and they had only lounged about the lawn and played tennis. Each flower seemed twice as beautiful when they had helped to grow it, and the vegetables of their own cultivation were voted prize-winners.

Diana, in consideration of her great love for horses, was allowed to give some assistance in Baron's toilet, and even sometimes to drive him, a privilege (dependent on good behaviour) which made her supremely happy.

On the whole, though Miss Todd was undoubtedly rather strict, the girls decided that the school was jollier than in Mrs. Gifford's days. They did not forget their former Principal, who wrote to them sometimes from her new home and told them about her life in Burma, but they had accepted the changed conditions, and had grown to like them. The outdoor department seemed to bring a much wider current of life into Pendlemere. Miss Chadwick and her two assistants were thoroughly modern, and would discuss all sorts of up-to-date problems, so that the school kept in touch with the outside world instead of living in the narrow rut of its own little round of lessons and amusements. This term four elder students had come, principally to study gardening under Miss Chadwick. They were girls of eighteen and nineteen, who, instead of being placed among the school, took somewhat the position of the old-fashioned "parlour boarder" of sixty years ago, and were on terms of intimacy with the mistresses. Naturally they were the envy and admiration of those less fortunate beings who were still only ordinary pupils. They were good-natured to the schoolgirls, but held themselves a little aloof. Sometimes, in a rather superior manner, they would condescend to be friendly. Each had her own train of worshippers. The prettiest and most attractive of the four was Adeline Hoyle, a tall, fine-looking girl with dark eyes, a very fair skin, and thick coils of brown hair twisted into a classic knot. There was a calm dignity about her and a charm of manner that was exceedingly taking. It bowled over Diana's heart entirely. She took a sudden and most violent affection for Adeline. She would hang about to try to get a word with her, flush crimson at the slightest notice from her idol, and was ready to perform anything in the way of odd jobs. She even took up sewing--a much neglected part of her education--in order to embroider a handkerchief-case as a birthday offering. It is an exhilarating, but rather wearing process to be violently in love, especially when you are decidedly doubtful as to whether the loved object in the least appreciates your attentions. Adeline would accept Diana's sweets or flowers with a kind "Thank you", and then pat her on the shoulder and tell her to run away. She would sometimes allow her to link arms in the garden, but it was suffered with an air of amused tolerance. It was obvious that she very much preferred the society of Hilary, who was nearer her own age, and that she regarded intermediates as mere children. Diana, who was eccentric in her likes and dislikes, but very keen when she took a fancy to anybody, went through all the stages of longing, hope, elation, despair, and jealousy. When she saw Hilary received into supreme favour, the green-eyed monster swooped down and took possession of her. Loveday, who had watched the progress of the affair with some distress, offered what consolation she could in the sanctuary of the ivy room.

"Adeline's really very good to you," she comforted.

"Yes, but she doesn't care twopence," raged Diana. "I know she's nice and kind and all that, but she loves me with the love she'd give to a distressed negro or a starved cat. I want her to
want
me--and she doesn't one little bit! She just tolerates me sometimes, and that's all. What she can see in Hilary I can't imagine. I think Hilary's the most detestable girl in the school. I always have disliked her. I
hate
her now!"

"Some people say that hating anybody sends out 'thought-forms' like hideous daggers into the invisible world, and they do dreadful harm, and in the end they come back to their owners like curses. Can't you manage to send out some prettier thoughts?"

"No, Loveday Seton; I can't, and won't, and shan't!" said Diana emphatically, screwing up mouth and eyes into one of her ugliest faces. "I'm not going to pretend I like Hilary when I don't--that would be a fiblet and worse than red daggers. Yes, you can call me naughty if you like. I've got to the stage when I don't care."

Knowing by experience that Diana generally received suggestions in this way, but sometimes ruminated over her remarks afterwards, Loveday shelved the question of thought-forms and their possible ill effects, and petted her spoilt room-mate instead till she cajoled her into a better temper. The green-eyed monster still reigned, however, and Diana sat at tea-time flashing, if not red daggers, very obvious untoward glances, as she caught a smile of comprehension pass between Adeline and Hilary. Nobody had time to take much notice of her heroics.