House: such topics as County Cricket, Napoleon's character, haunted
houses, and even how to make stick-jaw toffee.
"I think I'll have a toffee party next term," said Miss Castle as she
rose to go; "and you shall come and be kitchen-maid."
"May I be taster-in-chief as well, please?"
"Ah, I don't know about that. There will be so much competition for
the office, I shall have to hold an examination, I expect, and charge
an entrance fee."
She bent and kissed Sally as she spoke, and stood looking down at her
for a minute, before she went.
"You will try to make friends here next term, won't you, child? It's
the great thing that comes out of school life, I always think."
"But I have friends here," said the girl; "one at least and she is
splendid."
After Miss Castle had gone she pulled out a pencil and block from
under her pillow, and went on with the long letter she had been
writing to Trina Morrison ever since her eye had been well enough to
let her look continuously at the paper.
She intended to post this as soon as she had left Seascape House; not
before--since she was afraid of drawing attention to any connection
between herself and the elder girl which might involve the latter in
her disgrace. To some nine or ten pages written earlier in the week
she now added five or six more in praise of Miss Castle, and, more
doubtfully, of Miss Cockran.
Peter had not admired Old Cocaine. She said she was stuffy and
inhuman, like a mummy in the British Museum, that had dried up years
ago, and ought to be kept on a shelf.
"But you see she is human, after all," wrote Sally, as she told about
the Yorkshire terrier and the adoption of Autolycus.
In the end, the letter was so long that Sally had to ask Matron for a
large envelope, pretending that she wanted it to hold part of a story
that she was writing; and when she had got this, she addressed it to
Trina at her uncle's house, with "Please Forward" in the corner.
It was very nearly holiday time now, and all who had had measles
before, and seemed in no danger of getting it again, were sent home
early, along with the convalescents.
Seascape House became quieter and quieter, save for the barking of
Autolycus, who nearly wore himself out chasing sea-gulls, or hunting
wildly for rabbits, amongst the furze bushes along the top of the
cliff. He had to be washed twice a week by the indignant Jakes, who
pretended that he would like to put a rope round his neck, attached
to a big boulder, and sink him in the sea.
"He won't be allowed to do it, will he?" said Sally anxiously to Miss
Cockran, when she went to say good-bye, just before starting for home.
"Certainly not! Autolycus is the school watch-dog. I am going to
trust him to see no one comes in or out after dark."
Was there a twinkle in the grey eyes? Sally was not sure, and felt
uncomfortable under their scrutiny.
"Good-bye," she said gruffly. "And ... and I'm sorry, you know,
about it all----"
"That's all right. We start fresh next term, child-- Don't think of
what's behind you, but of what's in front. And for goodness' sake,
don't go and play tennis on that foot of yours, or do anything
foolish for the next six weeks."
She shook hands briskly, and Sally hobbled out to the taxi in which
Matron was taking her to the station. Her first term at Seascape
House was over.
CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH
WILL SHE COME?
"Sally has improved in many ways--and I don't think, Cecilia, you are
being quite fair to her when you complain she is so troublesome."
Mrs. Brendan spoke plaintively. Like many another mother, she wished
her daughters agreed better, but did not know how to make them do so.
During the term, Cecilia had been sweet-tempered and apparently
happy; now, since Sally's return, she was continually ruffled and
even snappy--so that the atmosphere of the house had become quite
tense.
"There is nothing much to choose between Sally and the boys," went on
their mother. "They all expect to do exactly what they like, in the
holidays," and she sighed for the selfishness of youth.
"Oh, the boys!" broke in Cecilia impatiently; "that's quite
different."
She did not explain, perhaps she did not realise, that the difference
lay in her own attitude towards them. She had long ago ceased to try
to control her brothers, but Sally's case was another matter.
Cecilia felt she should behave at home like a junior at school in the
presence of a senior, and if Seascape House could not teach her this
elementary piece of manners in the course of a term it had certainly
failed in its task.
"I expect the school is not what it used to be when I was there," she
continued, jumping from the subject of the boys to what was chiefly
occupying her mind, and heedless of the fact that schools, like
newspapers, never are what they used to be.
"Why, in my time, no kid of Sally's age would think of cheeking an
elder girl, or of speaking to her in the way she does to me."
"You continually find fault with her, Cecilia."
"It would be continuous, if I were to point out even half her sins.
That foot of hers, she was told to rest--what care does she take of
it? Miss Cockran ordered her to avoid tennis, and all she says is,
'Well, I am doing that,' and then goes and rushes madly round at
'Bumble-Puppy' with Roger."
"She is very fond of Roger."
"She is even fonder of herself, little wretch! ... I suppose she had
a shocking report? We have never heard exactly what she did to twist
her ankle; but it was over some piece of mischief."
"It was not a very good report, I fear, except for her work--but Miss
Cockran says she has promised to do better next term, and that other
mistress she likes--Miss Castle--writes that her behaviour was good
in form."
Cecilia snorted. "It's my belief, from what she has let drop, that
she was very nearly expelled."
At this moment Roger appeared with rather an anxious expression on
his round and usually cheerful face.
"Sally has gone and jammed her foot again. She says it's nothing,
but even leaning on my arm, I could hardly get her into the drawing
room."
"I told you so," said Cecilia triumphantly, as Mrs. Brendan rose from
her chair and hastened to the house.
"And you are jolly glad she has done it, aren't you?" said Roger, in
an angry voice, as he turned to go. "You've changed into a nice sort
of cad since you stuck your hair up, Cissy."
He flew off, leaving Cecilia with the tears smarting in her
eyes--tears of self-pity at the way in which she was misunderstood.
"Mother has no idea how trying Sally can be," she told herself, and
perhaps Mrs. Brendan had not. What she realised was that Sally had
altered very considerably during the weeks she had been at school.
She was distinctly less cocksure and talkative--restless, in a
nervous, rather than an energetic sense--and with little of her old
careless joy in the mere fact of being alive.
It was as if she were on the defensive the whole time against
criticism she dreaded, whereas criticism before had made little or no
lasting impression.
In those days, her frequent "I don't care!" had rung true, while now,
it was obviously bravado.
"She is unhappy," said the mother to herself, but Sally was in no
mood to make confidences. She felt it would be impossible to tell
anyone, even Roger or Miss Castle, how Trina Morrison's silence had
hurt her. Surely she could have sent a line--even a mere note--to
say she was sorry about the sprained ankle, and that she was looking
forward to next term?
"Rotten luck!" said Roger sympathetically, as he caught sight of his
sister's expression. They were seated in the schoolroom, to whose
couch Sally had been banished, to rest the ankle, swollen again after
its new twist. For the moment, as their eyes met, she thought of
confiding in him what was really paining her.
He knew a little about Peter's adventures, and had condescended to be
quite thrilled over their daring; but when it came to the point, she
could not bring herself to do it. Roger could understand a damaged
foot, but the idea of a broken heart, as Sally conceived her own to
be at the moment, would seem to him mere "girl's gush."
"Yes--it is rotten," she said. "But, of course, I shouldn't have
played 'Bumble-Puppy.' I never meant to--only Cecilia went on at me
so about our hopping race on the lawn before breakfast, and then I
felt I must do something worse."
Roger nodded.
"Cissy is a grandmother, but you do rag her rather a lot, you know.
If I cheeked Bob like that he'd black my eye."
"Oh, shut up about Cissy, can't you?"
Sally was furious in a minute at the implied reproof, and Roger, with
a noble effort at keeping the peace, walked to the window with his
hands in his pockets and stared out in silence.
"What shall we do this afternoon, Sal?" he said, at last. "Look
here, I'll go to the village and get some grub, and we'll have a brew
of toffee on my Tommy cooker."
Sally shook her head.
"It's the Cartwrights' tennis party, and Cissy is driving the motor
over."
"Well, Bob and Fraser can go--I don't want to, a bit. There'll
probably be tons of grown-ups and nothing for us to do."
(Fraser was a school friend of the elder brother, stopping with the
Brendans for part of his holidays.)
Sally's heart warmed to Roger in a sudden glow of affection. He had
just bought a new tennis racquet, and she knew he was secretly
longing to use it.
Hadn't Fraser, who was nearly seventeen, and quite "hot stuff" in the
tennis line, said he had improved a lot lately?
"Nonsense!" she said sharply. "Of course you'll go. Why, I have all
the new library books--and writing of my own to do too. I am always
so thankful I can amuse myself."
"Honest Injun--do you mean it?"
Roger's expression was very doubtful. Condemned to half-an-hour of
his own society, he would have welcomed a little conversation, even
with the vicar, on cuneiform writing. On the other hand, he did want
to play tennis at the Cartwrights' very badly. They had three
courts, and, apart from the tennis, their teas were good, while the
people they collected were usually an amusing crowd. It was bad luck
for Sally not being able to go, of course, but if she didn't really
mind being left, he would enjoy it.
His eyes told his sister what was passing in his thoughts, and she
laughed as she said:
"No--I don't really mind a bit--in fact, your staying here would only
make my foot feel worse; so don't be an ass, but go, and when you
come back I'll want to know all about everybody."
"Rather--and I'll bring you an ice in my pocket."
He grinned cheerfully, and hurried off to change into his flannels.
Sally tried her best not to mind, as, her lunch over, she watched the
motor disappear down the drive, with Roger waving his racquet in
farewell from the dicky.
"After all, as Cecilia says, it's my own fault," she muttered with a
grimace, and read novels until she fell asleep, to dream that she was
riding Autolycus on a merry-go-round, with a clown pulling at her
foot to make her pay sixpence.
"But he's my own dog," she expostulated, and found it was tea-time,
and her mother was lighting up the kettle.
"So after I'd been to the bank," said Mrs. Brendan, who had evidently
been talking for some minutes, "I called on those new people--the
Meyers--and as they were out, and the vicarage was so close, I
dropped in there for a little chat."
"If I gave you sixpence for every time you went to the village
without dropping in at the vicarage, you wouldn't be very rich."
Mrs. Brendan laughed deprecatingly.
"I know you don't like Mrs. Musgrave, my dear, but her old age suits
mine, and we have always plenty to talk about. Who do you think is
arriving to-night to stop with her, by the way?"
"A black missionary," said Sally crossly.
"No," said Mrs. Brendan, "I don't think they have ever had a really
black man--there was one from Borneo who was very dark.... I
remember once, but----"
"Well, who was it, then--a yellow one?"
Sally knew she was being rude, but with an aching foot and head she
felt thoroughly bored, and out of sorts.
"No, of course not, dear, but that young cousin of hers--the girl at
Seascape House--Violet Tremson. I said I couldn't remember your
mentioning her name very much in your letters."
Sally laughed rather bitterly, and pushed her cup across the table.
"Violet Goody-goody," she said. "No thanks, she's not in my line.
Quite as dull as any missionary. She ought to suit the Musgraves."
"Sally!"
Mrs. Brendan's tone was so indignant that her daughter was driven to
say "Sorry." Then, with a shrug, she returned to her novel-reading,
and the silence was scarcely broken till the tennis party appeared.
Roger was in high spirits. His racquet had played splendidly, and he
and a girl called "Bouncer,"--he thought her right name was Barbara
Something-or-other--had got five games in a set against Fraser and
Miss Cartwright.
Sally listened wearily for a quarter of an hour to a detailed account
of each stroke, and then said she was going to bed.
"I'll give you an arm to your room," said Roger affably. And then,
"Oh, snakes! I nearly forgot. That girl--what's her name,--you told
me of, was there."
"What girl what's-her-name?"
"Peter--you know--Morrison, wasn't she? The Bouncer kid she came
with called her Trina, and it wasn't till we were nearly going I
twigged who she must be."
"What, Peter Morrison at the party? And you mean to say you didn't
speak to her?"
Sally's eyes were shining now with mingled anguish and excitement.
"Keep your hair on--that's just what I did. It took some nerve too,
for she was playing mostly with the grown-ups. Fraser had one set
with her, and was fearfully 'smit'; but he said she wasn't much use
at the game--more with her eyes, you know."
"Then he's an ass--for she's awfully good when she chooses."
"Perhaps she didn't choose. Anyhow, I'm only quoting what Fraser
said; but the point is that I nerved myself up, walked over to her,
and said--'I say---I think my sister's at school with you?' and she
drawled, 'Was she?"
"Yes--she would--she often drawls--she doesn't mean anything by it."
Roger laughed.
"You bet she does, sometimes. Awfully cheeky ass she made me
feel--then I said, 'Her name's Sally Brendan, and she's got red
hair.'"
"You didn't? How could you, Roger? And what did she say?"
"Goodness! do let me get it out. She laughed, then looked quite
friendly, and said--'Had red hair, you mean, or has it grown again
already?' Then we both laughed, and..."
"And didn't you ask her to come and see me, you cuckoo?"
"Course I did, though she's stopping with the Bouncer kid, whose
people we don't know--they live right over t'other side of Clinton.
Anyhow, I said you were laid up, or you would have been at the party,
and that you'd like it no end, if she'd turn up."
"And what did she say?"
"Oh, usual stuff about being ever so sorry for you, and, of course,
she'd come if she could; but she had only a couple of nights more
before she went home, and the Bouncer lot were being hideously active
about planning dances and things."
"And didn't you pin her down for any day or time?"
"How could I, kid?--I jolly well did my best, but the Bouncer
youth--he's at Sandhurst--would keep telling her the car was ready,
and glancing at me as if I were a grasshopper he'd like to stamp on.
And Cecilia was shrieking at me across the drive, to buck me up--In
the end, your Peter friend said, 'Your sister's calling you, isn't
she?' so I had to toddle."
Sally clasped her hands together to hide that they were trembling.
"Of course she'll turn up some time," she said. "To-morrow I expect."
"Yes," said Roger, stoutly, "of course---bet your boots she will!"
But his tone lacked any real conviction.
CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH
DISILLUSIONMENT
Sally waited indoors all the next day, her eyes almost glued to the
schoolroom windows, from which she could watch the drive. Part of
the time she pretended she was interested in the motor bike which Bob
and Fraser had brought from the local shop, and were testing as a
possible purchase. Roger and the mechanic stood on the grass at the
edge of the gravel sweep, and gave their opinion at intervals; and
when it seemed important enough, Roger would shout comments to his
sister, using his hands as a megaphone.
"Some day we'll have one, Sally, and go touring," he said
enthusiastically, when he appeared at last, to get ready for lunch,
his hands black with oil.
"That thing down there is no earthly--not properly geared, and only a
two-stroke--but I have my eye on just the right sort of fellow--brand
new too, and quite cheap--just look here." And he produced a
well-thumbed paper out of his pocket.
Sally read the advertisement and studied the diagrams languidly. At
the minute she had no wish to ride a motor cycle and admitted as
much, when Roger at last took her to task for not listening to him.
"A Rolls Royce, or an ambulance car would be more in my line," she
said gloomily, to which her brother responded:
"Rotten luck, old girl, I know, but cheer up."
"Why should I?" demanded his sister, sulkily; and Roger, looking
awkward, scratched his head with an oily hand.
"Oh, I don't know, but grousing doesn't help things," he blurted out
at last, to the rage of Sally, who had believed herself rather heroic
in concealing her depression.
"Do get out, and leave me in peace," she said, and Roger went.
After tea they were reconciled, and played card games until Sally
decided that she was tired, and would have her supper in bed, as she
had done the night before. This time she said nothing about Trina
Morrison, when she wished her brother good-night, and he stood
fidgeting awkwardly in the doorway, before he at last volunteered:
"She--Peter, you know--said there were races to-day in the Clinton
direction. I expect she would have to go to them. Staying with
people like that she would have to do what they did, wouldn't she?"
"Yes," answered Sally, in a hard voice. And then again, as an
evident bar to further conversation, "Good-night."
"Most likely she'll come to-morrow. Anyhow, so long, kid," and Roger
vanished.
To-morrow came, and sped on its way, and there was no sign of Trina
Morrison. Sally's foot was better, but she looked so white and
depressed that Mrs. Brendan became quite anxious.
"I know she has something on her mind. I do wish she would confide
in me," she said to Cecilia, who sniffed rather indignantly.
"Well, Sally doesn't talk to me--only to Roger--and he is like a
hedgehog these days--it's no use asking him anything. Anyhow, let us
go for a family picnic this afternoon in the car, and insist on Sally
coming. Bob and Fraser can carry her downstairs, though she could
really manage quite well with her stick."
"I'll talk to her," said Mrs. Brendan, her face brightening; but
Sally refused even to consider the idea.
"I'm much happier here. I won't be done good to by Cecilia--I do
wish people would leave me alone."
"Much the best thing to do," growled Bob, who was not so sympathetic
to Sally these holidays as usual. "If we took Miss Whine-and-Pine,
she would probably turn the milk sour."
"Shut up," muttered Roger, and Mrs. Brendan told him not to be
unkind; but the situation by this time was past mending. Sally, when
pressed once more by her mother to go in order to please her, became
not only angry, but defiant.
"I shan't stir from the house, and I wish you'd all clear out and
leave me," she said. "It's simply sickening the way one can never
get away from one's family."
"Sally!" Mrs. Brendan was really hurt, but could win no apology.
Her daughter's shoulder remained turned to her, while there was sulky
silence.
"Come away, Mother," said Bob. "There ought to be a limit to what
even you'll stand from Sally," and he drew her out of the room after
firing the parting shot at his sister, that "tons of people had their
legs cut off in the War and never made the fuss she did over a
twisted ankle."
"It isn't only her ankle, ass," said Roger--and would have remained
behind to give some comfort but for Sally's expression. There were
times when she was best left alone, and this was evidently one of
them.
Getting on his bicycle, he rode to the village, and in the sweet-shop
where he was buying chocolate almonds, Sally's favourite delicacy at
the minute, he encountered Mrs. Musgrave.
"They aren't all for me," he muttered, scenting criticism in her
glance at the large bag. "They're for Sally--she's laid up, you
know."
"H'm ... invalid diet, I suppose?"
The twinkle in her eye contradicted her grim manner: for Mrs.
Musgrave liked boys, and discovered a belated sense of humour when
talking to them.
Roger got very red, as he answered gruffly, "It's nothing wrong with
her inside--no disease, I mean. Just she has twisted her ankle
again."
"Oh, poor Sally!" Mrs. Musgrave no longer bore her a grudge now that
she had been sent to school on her advice: and then she called out,
"Come here, Violet--this is Sally Brendan's brother Roger. I expect
she has mentioned him to you."
"I don't think she has, but I'm glad to see him."
The introduction to Violet Tremson was made, and Roger, after the
first blush, proffered his bag of almonds, and became quite
confidential as they walked to the door munching. "Sally's off
colour a lot, you know," he said unhappily. "I can't tell what's
wrong--some school row--and she doesn't seem to have hit it off
there--I mean--not to have many friends, exactly...."
"No, not very many."
The tone was non-committal, but the smile that accompanied it
friendly and encouraging.
Mrs. Musgrave was deep in conversation with a parishioner about a
choral practice, and Roger, after a quick glance at her over his
shoulder, went on:
"Sally's a decent kid. She talks an awful lot--but any amount she
doesn't mean--and underneath she's as sporting as anything."
"I know," said Violet Tremson.
Roger beamed. "I thought you would when I saw you. Perhaps you'll
be looking in on her? We've got a family picnic this afternoon, and
she can't come--at least, she doesn't want to. Her foot is giving
her awful pain, and besides----"
He stopped, hesitating whether he should mention Trina Morrison, but
decided not to do so. For one thing, he could only remember her as
Peter, and felt it would be cheek for him to refer to anyone so grown
up, by a nickname. Violet Tremson was also hesitating.
"You know, I don't think Sally would want to see me."
"Oh, what rot! It would cheer her up."
At this moment Mrs. Musgrave turned in their direction, and he said
hastily, "Have another almond choc., do." As Violet Tremson helped
herself, she murmured:
"Don't say anything to Sally about meeting me, will you?"
"Right oh!"
He looked rather surprised, and stared after her and Mrs. Musgrave as
they went down the street. Girls were queer creatures and he didn't
understand them--not even Sally. At any rate, he liked this one
better than Peter-what-was-her-name, in spite of her fine clothes and
scent, and if Peter didn't turn up--(he was ready to bet his boots
she wouldn't)--this Violet might do instead.
After all, they both belonged to Seascape House, and could talk its
"shop" to Sally--which was probably what she wanted.
His face grew smiling, as he pedalled slowly home on his bicycle,
considering the matter, and priding himself on his tact.
Sally was astonished when the afternoon came, and he did not offer to
stop with her. He was never very keen on family picnics, and she
made certain that he would insist on keeping her company, if merely
to annoy Cecilia. On the whole, she was relieved when she heard he
was going, and Mrs. Brendan as well.
"Thank Heaven, I shall have the house to myself," she said, loud
enough for Bob to hear, to which he responded amiably:
"The absent household won't miss you, my good kid."
She did not sit up on her couch to watch the motor disappear down the
drive, but settled herself amongst her cushions instead, to write a
poem, which bore a strong resemblance to one of Henley's that she had
just been reading, about "an unconquerable soul." It was not even a
good imitation, she was honest enough to admit when she read it
through at tea-time, and tearing it in half she lay face downwards on
her cushions and surrendered to self-pity.
Miss Castle had said friendship was what really counted at school,
and here was a friendship wrecked--the only thing which had mattered
to her life.
"Miss Sally--there's a young lady wants to speak to you--shall I show
her up?"