had finished the muffins, toasted before the fire, and cream buns
from Parchester, they turned out the light, and collecting round the
hearth, started on ghost stories. Miss Castle began with several, in
order, as she said, to create the right atmosphere, and then Decima
Pillditch woke out of her sleepy silence, to describe an old man in
eighteenth-century dress, whom her father had once seen, walking
across a road, opposite their house, in the moonlight. Violet
Tremson followed with one about a Scotch castle, and at last only
Sally had made no contribution to the general store.
"It's your turn, kid," said Frisky, whose own tale had been very
short, but so involved that she was quite cross for the minute at the
number of explanations needed to make it even intelligible. "Perhaps
they'll believe you."
"I'm not sure that I know a real one," said Sally, hesitatingly.
"Then make it up," said Miss Castle, looking at her with some
curiosity in her eyes. "It will be quite different from ours, that
are all second-hand."
"Buck up," said Frisky; and Sally, spreading her hands to the fire,
began.
It was a tale of Parchester and Seascape Strand some twenty years
back, about a boy, undoubtedly the chimney sweep in Kingsley's "Water
Babies," who was wanted by the police for stealing bread. As the
author warmed to her task, the boy, in his hunger and loneliness,
became quite a pathetic figure, and it was evident his creator could
see him, dodging across the heath amongst the gorse-bushes, and
finally, as he learned that dogs as well as men were on his track,
making for the beach, in the hope of sighting a boat.
"He descended to the shore at Borley Chine and because there was no
boat, he went up into the caves and felt his way along the labyrinth
of passages, hunting for a refuge."
"Where did he land up?" demanded Frisky. "In old--I mean Miss
Cockran's study?" And she giggled.
"Shut up," said someone; and then--"Get on, Sally!"
"He didn't come up," said the girl, with a quick change in her tone.
"Have you read 'Marmion,' where the nun and her lover were walled up?
Well, it was like that--a lot of stones gave way, and the passage
behind him got choked--the police and their dogs couldn't get at
him--of course they didn't care to very much, for they'd have had to
pay for his feed in prison and the workhouse."
"You mean he died there?" said Miss Castle.
"Yes--he's still there, along with the ghost of Miss Cockran's dog,
that was lost down a rabbit burrow. And some nights (All Hallows
E'en, and Christmas, for instance) you can see the light of his
tallow candle that he had in a bottle, shining out through the
Portholes, across the sea. He hadn't the courage to chuck himself
down."
There was silence.
"How beastly!" said Frisky at last, in a subdued voice. "He may be
prancing under this room now."
"But he was never real," said Miss Castle, smiling. "So we can all
sleep happily in our beds without any terror. All the same, it was a
good story. Sally, you should work it up for the Magazine."
"Shall I put on the light again?" asked Violet Tremson; and the whole
party returned to playing cards until it was time to dress for supper.
Sally had enjoyed herself thoroughly. She was excited by her
story-telling, and the general friendliness, so that she believed the
wall of ice separating her from her companions was beginning to thaw.
At seven o'clock the party broke up abruptly, for Miss Rogers
appeared to tell Miss Castle that Miss Cockran had just had bad
news--her mother was ill, and she had to go home at once.
"Just think of Miss Cockran having a mother," murmured Frisky to
Sally. "Why, she must be nearly one hundred and one herself."
"Silly ass! She's not a bit old, really," said Doreen Priestly.
"And look here, Decima, hadn't we all better say 'thanks,' and clear
out quickly?"
They did so--except Sally--whom Miss Castle kept for a few minutes,
to ask her something about her work. When she left, all the others
had disappeared, save for a single figure whom she found studying the
notice-board, in the long passage. Sally came up with her, saw it
was Violet Tremson, and on impulse, as she recognised her, made up
her mind to apologise for her past rudeness.
"Violet, can I speak to you a minute?" she said hesitatingly.
"Yes--what is it?"
The voice chilled her, and it was with an effort she went on.
"I ... I want to say I'm sorry for all the times I've been hateful to
you."
There was a pause, but the elder girl's face did not soften. "What
has made you want to say it now--or rather, who? Miss Castle?" she
asked, still coldly.
"No--of course not--it's just, it suddenly came to me, and I felt I
must. I know I was an awful beast."
She would have gone on to excuse herself on the score of her
disappointment the evening Peter did not appear, but Violet had
already begun to move off.
"Don't bother to explain," she said, looking back. "I'm not worrying
over anything you said. The fact is, I'm really quite indifferent to
anything about you, because now I've got a good many friends here,
and they are enough for me."
Sally stopped quite still. Violet's voice was cold and even, but it
was not the snub she disliked so much as the sneer she felt
concealed. Violet had not put it in so many words, but what she
meant was surely:
"Why do you toady to me now? Just because I am popular, I suppose?"
Before she had walked the length of the passage very slowly, the
younger girl was sure of this, and her cheeks flamed. Fear of it had
been the only reason that prevented her from apologising during the
last three weeks, and now that she had nerved herself to do so, she
had been, not only scorned, but shamed.
She did not know that she exactly condemned Violet after the way she
herself had behaved in the past. Perhaps her apology, at the moment,
looked like toadying; but the bitterness of being suspected of it was
almost endurable.
In silence she went up to her room, and found that Frisky, in pure
friendliness of spirit, had arranged a booby-trap, of a wet sponge,
over her doorway.
As it descended, it shot a stream of water right down her neck, but
Sally scarcely noticed. Silently she picked it up, pulled her
curtain across the entrance, and sat down on her bed.
"No offence meant," called out Frisky, in a disappointed tone; she
had evidently expected a rise to her bait.
"All right--I don't mind--I wanted washing," responded Sally, making
a gallant effort to be amused; but her voice was so flat that Frisky
quickly turned her attention to Susy in the hope of better sport.
"My word! Toffee and cream buns and toast. Such a spread!" she said
tantalisingly, "and if my hair is untidy at supper, and I get lines
for it, I shall say it was all Miss Castle's fault."
"Why, she hasn't been stroking it, has she? I couldn't ever forgive
you."
"No! you sentimental ninny, as Violet calls you; but we've been
telling ghost stories, so now my back hair is going to stand
permanently on end."
"Oh! Did Miss Castle tell one?"
"Rather! Several. I say, Susy, did you know there was a ghost of a
little boy who was walled up and starved to death, inside Borley
Caves, haunting the cellar under this house?"
Susy gave a little shriek of affected alarm. "Oh, I shan't sleep at
night. How lovely and horrible! Did she tell you that?"
"No--it was Sally's yarn."
"Then I don't want to listen," said Susy, in a high-pitched voice,
evidently meant to carry. "It's sure to be rot, and Miss Castle
would never have asked the little beast--only she's such a toady."
Frisky laughed derisively.
"You wouldn't have gone if you'd got the chance, would you, my
darling? Oh no!"
At this point a quarrel threatened, and was only averted by Violet
Tremson's peremptory order that both parties to it should stop
talking at once.
Sally, who was still seated on the bed, remained there, with her
hands clenched, repeating to herself what Susy had said.
"Toady!"--there it was again--only, while she didn't mind it from
Susy, it was hateful from Violet.
She had almost persuaded herself by this time that Violet had really
used the word in criticising her.
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST
AUTOLYCUS GIVES TROUBLE
Very few at Seascape House, certainly amongst the girls, had been
aware of how much personality and influence Miss Cockran possessed,
until her ruling hand was removed. While Peter's tongue had dictated
her views to the general school public, it had been the fashion to
ridicule the Headmistress as a funny old maid, out of date in her
educational methods, and only to be obeyed because parents, having
paid her their fees, would expect their daughters to try to be
patient--at any rate, up to a point.
Not all the elder girls and prefects, by any means, had subscribed to
this view, and since Trina Morrison had departed they had more openly
maintained that, far from being a back number, the Headmistress of
Seascape House was a credit to her profession, and one of the
school's chief assets.
"Wonder when she will get back--it is rot her being away now," Sally
overheard a voice saying in the hall as she descended the stairs on
the fourth day of Miss Cockran's absence. The voice was querulous,
and to her surprise Sally saw that it was the usually good-tempered
Decima Pillditch who was thus ruffled.
"Perhaps her mother'll die soon," said someone else hopefully, and
then, at a shocked remonstrance from the group: "Well, of course, I
only meant Miss Cockran would be able to get back quicker."
"Cheeserings is the limit," went on Decima. "There's that shopping
party in Parchester, promised on Friday--approved by Miss Cockran and
everything--and now her Royal Highness tries to pretend it shouldn't
be done."
"Hush!" said another voice. "Here's one of the kids listening--take
care."
Sally hurried on her way, trying to pretend she had not been
eavesdropping, but really she had been held fascinated by the sudden
realisation that prefects are not always in sympathy with those in
authority. Decima Pillditch evidently disliked Miss Cheeseman, and
the younger girl, who cordially shared this feeling, was pleased.
When she arrived in Form, she told Frisky, in an undertone, what she
had overheard, and Frisky nodded.
"Too much of the Cheesemonger, and we'd have a revolution," she said,
with gloomy joy, and went away to whisper her views to someone else.
No revolution occurred, but it must be confessed that the atmosphere
at Seascape House had suddenly become strained. Everywhere, from the
Sixth to the Juniors, there was an undercurrent of insubordination,
and though the prefects did their best to hold it back, they were
obviously half-hearted in their task--like an army employed by the
State that is secretly in sympathy with the rebels. Miss Cheeseman,
whatever her intention, was not a success as Deputy Head: she had too
little sense of humour, and too much conscience in small matters.
Insubordination, whether in the form of open defiance or some quite
insignificant piece of mischief, she treated with the same rigorous
repression, making martyrs of its perpetrators and grumblers of those
who listened to their wrongs.
When Frisky Harrison had been sent to bed in the silence dormitory
known as "Coventry" for jumping out from behind the gymnasium door to
boo at one of her friends, and Cathy Manners of the Upper Fifth
deprived of her privileges for eating sweets between classes, there
was a general feeling that no one was safe.
"Why doesn't she send the whole school to bed at once, on bread and
water?" said Decima, who was still ruffled, loud enough for some of
the Juniors to hear. And though Violet Tremson stopped her with a
quick: "Best take care, Pilladex," the warning was plainly given in
sympathy with the prefect, and not with Miss Cheeseman.
Sally, with a great effort at self-control, avoided any
conflict--accepting her Form Mistress's criticisms of her essay
without the usual argument in favour of her own views--though on this
occasion she would undoubtedly have found popular backing had she
done so. It was her terror that if she annoyed Miss Cheeseman the
latter would stop her usual walk with Autolycus, and with a beating
heart she slipped out of the house that afternoon and went round to
fetch him from the stables, where he usually had his dinner.
Fate was against her, for having found Autolycus and started towards
the drive, she met Miss Cheeseman walking towards her, with Jakes,
the gardener. Since it was impossible to vanish into space, Sally
smiled ingratiatingly, and tried to pass unnoticed; but with a
movement of her hand the Deputy Principal stopped her.
"Where are you going, child?"
"I'm just exercising Autolycus--Miss Cockran always lets me."
Miss Cheeseman frowned. She had been told a great deal lately of
what Miss Cockran did or did not approve, and even to her calm
temperament it was somewhat galling.
"Indeed," she said coldly, "and where are you going?"
"Along the road, and then up the lane towards Tadiscombe Farm."
Jakes, who had been listening, and never liked to be shut long out of
any conversation, now spat on his hands by way of introducing his
remarks, and said:
"It's wildish country up there."
"What do you mean?"
"There do be a lot of poaching along them gravel-pits that b'long to
Squire Pearson, and gypsy fellows, they say, about."
"I've never seen a gypsy, and I don't go in the gravel-pits," broke
in Sally indignantly, and made an effort to pass.
"Stop, Sally," said Miss Cheeseman, firmly; "I daresay there are no
gypsies, but I think it most undesirable that a child of your age
should wander about the lanes alone."
"But I shan't be alone, I've got Tolly--he'd bite anyone who attacked
me."
"Yes, Miss, and perhaps, it may be, anyone who didn't; skinned my
fingers, he did, the last time I was washing him--the little mongrel!"
"It must have been your fault then," said Sally rudely. She disliked
the gardener, who seemed to regard all school-girls as his natural
enemies.
"Be quiet, Sally, and don't speak in that tone. Understand, I will
not have you going out alone. Who is there that doesn't play games?
Let me see----"
"I don't know." Sally looked very sullen. Really, she remembered
the Cat quite well, and, to her annoyance, so did Miss Cheeseman. A
passing Junior was ordered to find Catherine Dowl at once. In the
meantime she began to talk about vegetables to the gardener, and
Sally, after she had vainly tried to protest against the suggested
companionship, was told to be silent and keep the whining Autolycus
from walking on the beds.
Presently Catherine appeared, and Miss Cheeseman told her briskly
that she and Sally Brendan might go for a walk as far as Tadiscombe
Farm, but that they were not on any account to enter the gravel-pit,
or wander from the road.
The Cat looked no more pleased with the suggestion than Sally had
done.
"Must I go? Quantities of prep.," she mumbled, and was told that the
right time for preparation was after tea. Next, it appeared, she had
a cold coming, and had meant to stay indoors.
"It would be much better to take a brisk walk, than sit over the
playroom fire," said the Deputy Principal firmly; she disliked the
Cat as much as any of her companions, but had a secret theory that a
little more regular exercise would make her healthier in mind as well
as body.
"Now, no more excuses," she said at last. "If you have a cold,
Catherine, you can go to Matron as soon as you get in, and I will
tell her to give you a dose of cinnamon and another to-night."
Sally could almost have laughed at the Cat's expression, only she was
so cross herself.
"Come on--it's no use arguing," she said in an undertone, and
presently they set out.
"You'd better be back by 3.30," called Miss Cheeseman after them, but
they pretended not to hear, and went on sulkily down the drive. When
they reached the road Sally said:
"Look here, I didn't ask you to come, so it's not my fault--and you
didn't want to thrust in, so it's not your fault; and I don't see
that we need walk together. I'll go in front with Tolly, and you do
what you like."
The Cat nodded. She had been muttering all sorts of angry epithets
about Miss Cheeseman ever since they moved out of earshot.
"I wish you had set the dog on her," she said. "Then we'd be quit of
her for a bit. He looks as if he'd got sharp teeth," and she edged
away. She did not like animals.
"You wouldn't mind if he was shot for doing it, I suppose?" returned
Tolly's indignant mistress. (In her heart she had never quite parted
with the ownership.) "Besides, she's so tough, I expect he'd die in
the attempt."
Whistling to him, she set oft at a brisk pace, soon leaving her
companion far behind--and for a time thoroughly enjoyed herself--but
when they reached Tadiscombe Farm her troubles began. Autolycus, it
seemed, had not remained uninfluenced by the spirit of
insubordination at Seascape House. Pulled out by sheer force from
his favourite rabbit burrow, he barked indignantly at his mistress as
soon as he was released, and made straight for the pond where a
family of geese were disporting themselves.
There is safety in numbers, and the geese cackled so loudly, and made
such a flapping with their wings, that Autolycus, to avoid them,
hastily plunged through a hedge--but only to get into further
mischief. To judge from the sounds that now ensued, there was a
farmyard beyond the hedge, and by the time Sally, jumping a gate and
crossing a field, had arrived there, all was in confusion. Pigs ran
grunting, this way and that, hens flew cackling to the shelter of the
barn, the farmer's wife, trying to head off the intruder, had
stumbled and fallen, and now sat on some very dirty cobbles, clasping
an empty basin.
"I'm very sorry--very, very sorry," said Sally. "You see he's only a
puppy."
"He's a dratted nuisance," said the woman, "that's what he is. Made
me spill all these scraps I was taking to the hens, and I wouldn't be
surprised if he'd killed one of them. You call him off at once, or
I'll summons you."
Sally did not enjoy the next quarter of an hour--for it took her most
of that time to secure Autolycus, now thoroughly ashamed and
frightened--and the rest to pacify the farmer's wife, who, hunting
among the hen-coops, appeared with a dead fowl, and claimed it as a
victim of the raid.
"It looks more as if it hadn't had enough to eat," said Sally, who
noticed it was very thin. "Perhaps it really died of sickness," but
even her courage quailed before the storm this suggestion aroused.
Her remark had certainly been unfortunate, and it was not till she
produced 5_s._ 6_d._ from her pocket and presented it that she was
allowed to go, and then only with numerous threats of what would
happen if her dog was seen again within the farm precincts.
"Come on, Tolly, you brute, but I'm sure you never touched that
fowl," Sally said as she went, dragging him by her handkerchief
through his collar, and coming to the gate of the field, she saw
Catherine Dowl leaning against it watching.
There was a malicious smile in the corners of her eyes that roused
the younger girl's anger to white heat.
"Move, and let me pass, can't you?" she said roughly, and the Cat did
so, laughing in her silent way, with her lip drawn back to show her
gums.
They walked home as they had come, Sally stalking in front with the
now subdued Autolycus, and her companion plodding behind, with sunk
shoulders and face turned to the ground.
At the gates Sally paused. "Come on," she said. "We'd better arrive
together, or we may be tied hand and foot to one another for the rest
of the evening, by way of punishment."
The Cat sniggered. "Don't let that beast of yours bite the
gardener," she said. "He'd be sure to be shot then."
"What do you mean? He isn't going to be shot--he's quite a good dog,
only he's a puppy--and sometimes excitable."
Again the Cat sniggered, and Sally, stopping in the drive, said
fiercely, "What do you mean? Speak out."
"Oh, I meant nothing--just I've never seen him before, except in the
grounds, of course, until this afternoon ... he hasn't been exactly
good, has he--to-day?"
"I don't believe he ever killed the chicken, if you mean that?"
"You paid some money for it, didn't you?"
Sally was silent for a minute, then she shrugged. "Of course, you'd
believe the worst of him you could--but at any rate it's none of your
business, so go and drink your cinnamon."
The Cat did not appear to notice the gibe; only when they were
parting at the front door she said, with a glance out of the corner
of her slanting eyes, "You'd better be careful. If a dog takes to
killing chickens, or sheep, I've always heard he can't be cured."
Sally did not trouble to reply. She had noticed the school clock
said 3.25, and was determined to take Autolycus for a further run in
the grounds before she went in to tidy for tea. It was a strenuous
occupation, for Tolly was so thrilled over the numberless rabbit
burrows along the cliff that he ran from one to the other, yapping
wildly, and covering himself with the sandy mud he kicked up in
clouds behind him. His mistress was quite thankful when she had
restored him to the stables, and after bestowing an affectionate kiss
on his black muzzle, she hastened into the house--her temper largely
recovered.
"Sally Brendan, Miss Cheeseman wants you." One of the prefects
caught her with this information as she was walking into her
class-room for preparation at 5.30.
With a muttered exclamation of annoyance, the younger girl went to
the Deputy Principal's study, and knocked.
"You wanted me?" she said briefly.
"Yes. Don't stand by the door as if you were waiting to run away,
but come here. I wanted to ask you what exactly happened at
Tadiscombe Farm, this afternoon."
"What happened?" said Sally, in apparent amazement--trying to collect
her wits. And then bitterly, "I suppose the Cat has been telling."
"If you mean Catherine Dowl, when she went to Matron for her
cinnamon, she said enough about the walk to make Matron think it
desirable that I should be informed."
"Cad!" said Sally, half under her breath, but sufficiently loud for
Miss Cheeseman to grasp its significance.
"Hush, Sally--and remember Catherine Dowl has not blamed you, nor do
I--for anything I have heard so far. I consider that dog far too
undisciplined to be allowed out alone with anyone so young as you."
"Miss Cockran doesn't think so."
"Miss Cockran is not here."
The Deputy Principal's voice, up to this time, had remained fairly
sympathetic; but now it became cold and detached. Bit by bit, she
gained the story of the afternoon's adventure, and finally gave her
verdict.
"Miss Cockran will, of course, decide as she wishes when she returns,
but in the meantime, I do not consider it safe for the dog to leave
the grounds at all, nor for you to take him for walks."
"But, Miss Cheeseman, he needs exercise--or----"
"That will do, Sally. Let there be no more argument. It is one of
your chief failings."
Sally went out and slammed the door. She was called back, and shut
it quietly; then stood making her most hideous grimace at it, only to
find Miss Castle's hand on her shoulder.
"Oh, Sally, what an infant you are in some ways!" she said, and
passed swiftly down the passage.
It was a galling comment--or would have been from anyone else--but
the girl suspected underlying sympathy with her mood, and the heat of
her anger cooled. After all, it was more the Cat than Miss Cheeseman
who had played a dirty game.
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SECOND
AUTOLYCUS IS LOST
"Tolly! Tolly! Where are you, Tolly? Come here--good dog!"
It was Thursday afternoon, and Sally, unable to find Autolycus in the
stables, was hunting for him up and down the gardens. Jakes, who was
digging, paused and rested his hands on his spade to watch her. On
his face was a wide grin.
"It ain't no use your calling of 'im, Miss," he drawled at last. "He
ain't here."
"Not here? What do you mean? Tell me quick."
Sally's eyes were so tragic that Jakes's grin vanished, and he shook
his head.
"It's what I said, Miss--he ain't here--must have runned away, and
without his dinner too. I've never knowed him miss his dinner afore
this."
"But you must know more about him than that. Tolly was so happy
here, and so miserable before. I know he wouldn't run away."
The problem thus presented was too much for Jakes, who stood and
scratched his head, in the intervals of shaking it.
"Dogs is queer kittle cattle," was all he volunteered. "But one
thing I know, and it's this 'ere--it ain't no bit of use calling 'im:
he'll come back when he wants to, and not afore."
He began to dig once more, and Sally fled towards the house,
questioning anyone who she thought might be able to help her.
"Came after the dust-bins last night--greedy little beast!--that's
all I know of 'im, for I drove him off, as Miss Cockran said to
me--'Don't you feed him now--not extra, beyond his ordinary
meals'--she says..."