Wynch-on-the-Wold
Though the College only opened on Tuesday afternoon, the short remainder
of the week seemed enormously long to Ingred. Her form mates were the
same, but everything else was absolutely changed; she might have been at
a new school. She appreciated the convenient arrangements of the
handsome building: the lecture-hall, with its stained-glass window and
polished floor, the airy class-rooms, the studio with its facilities for
every kind of art work, the three music-rooms, the laboratory, the
gymnasium, and, last but not least, the hostel. Ingred had never before
been a boarder, and she had not expected to like the experience, but
there is a subtle charm in community life that infects everybody with
"the spirit of the hive," and in spite of herself she began to be
interested in the particular set of faces that met round the table for
meals. The greater part of the girls were in the middle and lower
school, but there were a few members of the Sixth, who sat next to Mrs.
Best, the matron, and Nurse Warner, and looked with superior eyes on the
crowd of intermediates and juniors. To have secured such congenial
room-mates was an asset for which she could not be sufficiently
thankful. Whatever troubles might await her downstairs, it was a
comfort to know that she had three allies ready to flock to her support.
She had not known any of them well in the past, but as they seemed
prepared to offer their friendship, she also was ready to act the part
of chum. By exchanging desks with Linda Slater, she managed to secure a
seat next to Verity in school, and entered into an arrangement with her
that they should supply the missing gaps in each other's notes, for Miss
Strong often lectured so rapidly that it was impossible to keep up with
her.
"I wish I knew shorthand," grumbled Ingred, comparing scribbles with
Verity as the girls tidied their hair for tea. "How anybody's expected
to get down all Miss Strong tells us, I can't imagine! It's impossible."
"I don't try," admitted Fil. "At least I do try--I put a bit here and
there, but I write so slowly, I'm only half-way through before she's
bounced on to something else, and I've missed the beginning of it. I
have to stop, too, sometimes, to think how to spell the words."
The others laughed, for Fil's spelling was proverbial in the form, and
was often of a purely phonetic character. Miss Strong had periodical
crusades to improve it, but generally gave them up as a bad job, and
recommended constant use of a dictionary instead.
"Though you can't go about the world with a dictionary perpetually under
your arm," she had remarked on the last occasion. "If you have to write
a letter in a hurry, and you begin 'Dear Maddam' and end 'Yours
trueley'--well! Please don't let anybody know you've been educated here,
that's all, or it will be a poor advertisement for the College!"
Ingred was not at all delighted to be still in Miss Strong's form. She
only moderately liked this mistress. Undoubtedly Miss Strong was a
clever teacher, but sarcasm was one of her favorite weapons of
discipline. Some of the girls did not mind it, indeed thought it rather
amusing, even when directed against themselves, and enjoyed it hugely
when someone else was the victim of the sally. Ingred, however, proud
and sensitive, writhed under the attacks of Miss Strong's sharp tongue,
and would often have preferred a punishment to a witticism. As a matter
of fact, the mistress rarely gave punishments, and was proud of her
ability to control her form without resorting to them. She was short in
stature, but made up in spirit for her lack of inches, and would fix her
dark eyes on offenders against discipline with the personal magnetism of
a circus trainer or a leopard-tamer. Schoolgirls are irreverent beings,
and though to her face her pupils showed her all respect, behind her
back they spoke of her familiarly as "The Bantam," in allusion to her
small size but plucky disposition, or sometimes, in reference to her
sarcastic powers, as "The Sark," which by general custom became "The
Snark." On the whole Miss Strong's pithy, racy, humorous style of
teaching made her a far greater favorite than mistresses of duller
caliber. She had a remarkable faculty for getting work out of the most
unwilling brains. Her form always made excellent progress, and she had a
reputation for obtaining record successes in examinations. To judge from
the first few days of term, she meant to keep up her standard of
efficiency. Miss Burd had mapped out a heavy time-table for
VA., and it was Miss Strong's business to see that the girls
got through it. Of course they grumbled. After the long weeks of the
summer holidays it was doubly difficult to apply their minds to lessons,
and set to work in the evenings to perform the enormous amount of
preparation demanded from them. To some the task was wellnigh
impossible, and poor Fil would send in very imperfect exercises, but
others, Ingred and Verity among the number, had ambitions, and boosted
up the record of the form.
It was after a most strenuous few days that Ingred came to the close of
the first week of the new term, and, taking her books and hand-bag,
started off to spend the week-end at home. She left the College with a
feeling of intense relief. She had dreaded the return there, and the
confession of her altered circumstances. It had not proved quite so
disagreeable an ordeal as she had anticipated, for, after the first
expressions of surprise, nobody had referred again to Rotherwood; yet
Ingred, on the look-out for slights, imagined that she was not treated
with as much consideration as formerly. Avis Marlowe and Jess Howard had
hardly spoken to her, and, though the omission was probably owing to
sheer lack of time or opportunity, she chose to set it down to a desire
to show her the cold shoulder.
"Now I have no parties to offer them, they don't care about me!" she
thought bitterly. "They'll hunt about till they find somebody else who's
likely to act entertainer."
Fortunately, as Ingred stepped out of the College on that first Friday
afternoon, the fresh breeze and the bright September sunshine blew away
the cobwebs, and sent her almost dancing down the street. She had a
naturally buoyant disposition, and her uppermost thought was: "I'm going
home! I'm going home! Hurrah!"
The journey was really quite a little business. She had to take a tram
to the Waterstoke terminus, then change on to a light electric railway
that ran along the roadside for seven miles to Wynch-on-the-Wold.
Grovebury, an old town that dated back to mediæval times, lay in a deep
hollow among a rampart of hills, so that, in whatever direction you left
it, you were obliged to climb. The scenery was very beautiful, for trees
edged the river, and clothed the slopes till they gave way to the gorse
and heather of the wild moorlands. Wynch-on-the-Wold was a hamlet which,
since the opening of the electric railway, was just beginning to turn
into a suburb of Grovebury. Close to the terminus neat villas had sprung
up like mushrooms; there were a few shops and a branch post office, and
a brass plate to the effect that Dr. Whittaker had consulting hours
twice a week. Tradesmen's carts drove out constantly, and the electric
railway did quite a little business in the conveyance of parcels.
Wynchcote, the house where the Saxons had retired to try their scheme of
retrenchment, lay at some little distance beyond the terminus, and might
be considered the outpost of the new suburb. It was a small, picturesque
modern bungalow; Mr. Saxon had built it as an architectural experiment,
intending it for a sort of model country cottage. The tenants who had
occupied it during the period of the war had just returned to Scotland,
so, as it was vacant, it had seemed a convenient place in which to
settle. It was near enough to Grovebury to allow him to attend his
office, and far enough away to cut them adrift from old associations.
After four and a half years of war work, Mrs. Saxon wanted a complete
rest from committees, crèches, canteens, and recreation huts, and would
be glad to urge the excuse of distance to those who appealed for her
help. Perhaps also she felt that in their straitened circumstances it
was wiser to live where they could not enter into social competition
with their former acquaintances.
"I just want to be quiet, to attend to my family, and to enjoy the moors
and our garden," she declared. "I believe I'm going to be very happy at
Wynchcote."
Though it was small, the bungalow was admirably planned, and had many
advantages. The view from its French window was one of the finest in the
district, and it faced a magnificent gorge, wild, rocky, and thickly
wooded, at the bottom of which wound the silver river that ran through
Grovebury. Civilization, in the shape of fields and hedges, stretched
out fingers as far as Wynchcote, and there stopped abruptly. Past the
bungalow lay the open wold with miles of heather, gorse, and bracken,
and a road edged with low, grassy fern-covered banks instead of walls.
The air blew freshly up here, and was far more bracing and healthy than
down in the hollow of Grovebury. The residents of the new suburb
affected seaside fashions, and went their moorland walks without hats
or gloves.
Ingred was joined in the tram-car by Hereward, who attended the King
George's School, and made the journey daily.
"Getting quite used to it now!" he assured his sister airily. "I
had a terrific run yesterday for the train, but I caught it! There's
another fellow in our form living up here, so we generally go
together--Scampton, that chap in the cricket cap standing by the door.
He's A1. He won't come near now, though, because he says he's terrified
of girls. He's going to give me a rabbit, and I shall make a hutch for
it out of one of those packing-cases. See, I've bought a piece of
wire-netting for the door. There's heaps of room at the bottom of the
garden. I believe I'll ask him to bring it over after tea."
"But the hutch isn't ready," objected Ingred.
"Oh, that won't matter! I can keep it in a packing-case for a day or
two."
When Ingred and Hereward reached home they found that tea had been set
out on the patch of grass under the apple trees, and Mother and Quenrede
were sitting sewing and waiting for them. It was one of those beautiful
September days when the air seems almost as warm as in August, and with
the clock still at summer time, the sun had not climbed very far down
the valley. The garden, where Mother and Quenrede had been working
busily all the afternoon, was gay with nasturtiums and asters, and
overhead hung a crop of the rosiest apples ever seen. Minx, the Persian
cat, wandered round, waving a stately tail and mewing plaintively for
her saucer of milk. Derry, the fox terrier, barked an enthusiastic
greeting.
"Come along, you poor starving wanderers!" said Mrs. Saxon. "The
kettle's boiling, and we'll make the tea in half a moment. Isn't it
glorious here? Queenie and I have been digging up potatoes, and we quite
enjoyed it. We felt exactly as if we were 'on the land.' How is your
cold, Hereward? Ingred, you look tired, child! Sit down and rest while
Queenie fetches the teapot."
Ingred sank into a garden-chair with much satisfaction. Wynchcote might
not be Rotherwood, but it looked an uncommonly pretty little place in
the September sunshine. To live there would be like a perpetual picnic.
Mother and Queenie looked so complacently smiling that it seemed
impossible to grouse, especially with newly-baked scones and rock-cakes
on the tea-table.
The men kind of the family had not yet returned home. Mr. Saxon and
Egbert rarely left their office before six, and Athelstane had that day
gone over to Birkshaw on the motor-bicycle, to arrange about the medical
course which he was to take at the University. There was plenty of news,
however, to be exchanged. Ingred had to give a full account of her
experiences at school and hostel, and to hear in return the various
achievements in the shape of home-carpentry, mending, making, and
altering which are always an essential part of settling into a new
establishment.
"I hardly feel I've been round the estate properly yet," she said, when
tea was over, and she sat leaning back lazily in her deck-chair, with
Minx purring upon her knee.
"Then come and lend me a hand with my rabbit-hutch," suggested Hereward.
"Put down that wretched pampered beast of a cat, for goodness sake! If
it gets at my new rabbit, I'll finish it! Yes, I will! I'll hang it or
drown it! Get along, you brute!"
Hereward's blood-thirsty remarks were ignored by Minx, who, finding
herself dropped from Ingred's lap, took a flying run up his back, and
settled herself on his shoulder, rubbing her head into his neck. He
scratched her under the chin, swung her gently down, and shook a
reproving finger at her.
"Don't try to come round me with your blarneyings, you siren!" he
declared. "Who was it ate my goldfinch? Yes, you may well look guilty!
Don't blink your eyes at me like that! I haven't forgiven you yet, and I
don't think I ever shall. Ingred, old sport, are you coming to help me,
or are you not? I want some one to hold the wire."
"All right, Uncle Podger, I'll come and 'podge' for you," laughed
Ingred. "Don't hammer my fingers, that's all I bargain for. Wait a
moment till I get my overall. Your joinering performances are apt to be
somewhat grubby and messy."
There was quite a good garden at the back of the bungalow, with rows of
vegetables and gooseberry bushes and fruit-trees. At the end was a
wooden shed where the motor-bicycle was kept, and a small wired
enclosure originally made for hens.
"It's exactly the place for rabbits, when I get a hutch for them,"
explained Hereward, putting down his box of tools, and turning over the
packing-case with a professional eye. "Now a wooden frame covered with
wire, and a pair of hinges will just do the job. I can saw these pieces
to fit. Hold the wood steady, that's a mascot!"
The two were kneeling on the ground by the side of the packing-case,
much absorbed in the process of exact measurements, when suddenly there
was a rustling and a scrambling noise, and on the wall close to them
appeared a collie dog, growling, snarling, and showing its teeth. Ingred
sprang to her feet in alarm. Wynchcote was so retired that they had
scarcely realized that its garden adjoined the garden of another house.
The collie must have jumped up on to the dividing wall, and, being an
ill-tempered beast, did not use proper discrimination between neighbors
and tramps.
"Shoo! Get away!" urged Ingred, with rather shaking knees.
"Be off, you ill-mannered brute!" shouted Hereward.
The dog, however, appeared to think the wall was his own special
property, and that it was his business to drive them away from their own
garden. It continued to bark and snarl. Now, as Hereward wished to fix
the rabbit-hutch in exactly the spot over which the creature had mounted
guard, he was naturally much annoyed, and sought for some ready means of
dislodging it from its point of vantage. He did not relish the prospect
of being bitten, so did not want to engage it at close quarters, and no
pole or other weapon lay handy.
Looking hastily round, his eye fell upon the garden-syringe with which
Athelstane sometimes cleaned the motor-bicycle. It had been left, with a
bucket of water, outside the shed. He drew out the piston, filled the
syringe, then discharged its contents straight at the dog. But at that
most unlucky moment a quick change took place on the wall; the collie
retired in favor of his master, and the stream of water charged full
into the astonished countenance of a precise and elderly gentleman from
next door. For a few moments there was a ghastly silence, while he wiped
his face and recovered his dignity. Then he demanded in withering tones:
"May I ask what is the meaning of this?"
Ingred and Hereward, overwhelmed with confusion, stuttered out apologies
and explanations. The old gentleman listened with his busy gray eyebrows
knitted and his mouth pursed into a thin line.
"I shall immediately take steps to ensure that my dog has no further
opportunities of annoying you," he remarked stiffly, and took his
departure.
"Who is he?" whispered Ingred, as the footsteps on the other side of the
wall shuffled away.
"His name's Mr. Hardcastle. He's retired, and lives there with a
housekeeper. Great Scot! I've put my foot in it, haven't I? Who'd have
thought he was just going to pop his head up? Dad was going to ask him
to lend us his garden-roller, but it's no use now. I expect I've made an
enemy of him for life!"
"I hope he means to keep that savage dog fastened up," said Ingred.
"It's a horrid idea to think that it may, any time, pounce over the wall
at us. It's like having a wolf loose in the garden."
As a matter of fact, Mr. Hardcastle kept his word in a way that the
Saxons least anticipated. Instead of chaining the dog, he had a tall
wooden paling erected along the top of the wall, making an effectual
barrier between the two gardens. It was not a beautiful object, and it
cut off the sunshine from a whole long flower-bed; so, though it insured
privacy, it might be regarded as a doubtful benefit for the bungalow.
"It makes one feel so suburban," mourned Quenrede.
"We shan't be visible, at any rate, when we're digging potatoes,"
laughed Mrs. Saxon, "and that's a great point to me, for I'm past the
age that looks fascinating in an overall. If we've Suburbia on one side
of us, we've the open moor on the other, which is something to be
thankful for."
"Yes, until it's sold in building plots," sighed Quenrede, who was in a
fit of blues, and unwilling to count up her blessings.