The Highway Woman
Easter came as a blessed pause in the rush and turmoil of school life.
The round of work at Kingfield High had seemed even more arduous to
Lesbia in the Sixth than it had been in VA. The form was supposed to be
grinding for the Matric, and though only its brightest specimens,
Regina, Carrie, and Kathleen, and two wobbly candidates, Aldora and
Cissie, were to be offered up as victims to the educational sacrifice,
it meant that everybody, clever, mediocre, or dull, had to toil through
the same textbooks and write identical exercises. Miss Pratt, who had
gone up with the Sixth from VA, considerably to Lesbia's sorrow,
constituted herself a kind of intellectual razor to sharpen the wits of
the form, and had scant mercy on those who fell short of her standard.
Lesbia sometimes, squashed flat by a sarcasm, felt she was
metaphorically placed on a stool with a dunce's cap on her head. She
tried to keep pace with the matriculation candidates, but her swimming
brains often got confused, and, as she was a venturesome guesser, she
was occasionally guilty of coming out with "howlers".
Everybody seemed to welcome this particular Easter, even "the blessed
Damozel", who, despite her poetic appearance, was the form's champion
worker. The hard grind had perhaps accentuated her resemblance to
Rossetti's heroine, for a slight paleness etherealized her, the
intellectual concentration made her great grey eyes shine as the chief
feature in her face, and her hair, which fortunately never seemed to
darken, was still "yellow like ripe corn". Regina was really growing
very pretty, and though she had not yet dropped her jerky angular
manner, she was much less gauche than she had been a year ago, and
promised to develop into an interesting personality.
"She's the sort of girl who may possibly do _anything_ after she leaves
school," commented Calla one day, when the girls were discussing absent
members.
"Yes. With those brains it's just what she takes it into her head to
concentrate on," agreed Laura. "She _might_ make a hit on the stage."
"No, no! Not with those queer manners."
"But don't you see she's always posing? It's the very effort to be
something outside herself that makes her so odd and peculiar. She's
feeling after an ideal, and if she ever strikes it she'll be a huge
success."
"If in the meantime she doesn't marry a curate," put in Kathleen.
"A curate, child?"
"Yes; Regina's exactly the sort of girl who would!"
"_I_ prophesy she'll go to college, take a tremendous good
degree--wrangler or double first or something of that sort--and be head
of a high school."
"No, she won't. I know it seems her ordinary course, but she's not an
ordinary girl. She'll wangle something different and unusual. She ought
to marry a member of Parliament, not a curate--though I believe if she
did she'd soon make him a bishop--I could just imagine her, very
handsomely dressed, at a Mansion House ball, dancing with a foreign
ambassador. Cave! Here she comes--with the air of a princess. Who's she
copying at present I wonder?"
The little group dispersed, giggling, as Regina entered the room and
seeking out Lesbia drew her chum away. She was fond of private and
confidential chats, but this one had a special point to it. The Websters
were going to spend Easter at their country cottage, and invited Lesbia
to go with them.
"You were such a sport at Dolmadoc last summer. We all say we want you
to come again," insisted Regina.
Lesbia, with a dutiful demur about deferring to Mrs. Patterson,
jumped--nay clutched--at such a gorgeous chance. She had been in much
alarm lest she should be sent to Tunbury again to take charge of Terry
for the Easter holidays, or packed off to spend them with Aunt Newton,
who wrote periodical letters suggesting that her great-niece might leave
school and take the place of the depressed companion who had at last
plucked up courage and gone to a more congenial post. Dolmadoc, with its
fresh mountain breezes and glorious views, seemed the very spot to blow
away school cobwebs and to lay up a store of fresh energy for the coming
term. Every corner of it would be like an old friend.
So the Wednesday before Good Friday found Lesbia with the Webster family
in a crowded train bound for North Wales, jammed tightly between two
tourists, with her feet on a portmanteau and Una seated on her knee, but
smiling through all discomforts as she caught the first glimpse of the
grey hills from the carriage window.
Dolmadoc, in the early spring, was a different landscape from what it
had been in its summer dress, and she had to make its acquaintance
afresh. Very little foliage was yet out, but the bare woods held lovely
tints of amber and purple and gold in their naked branches, and the moss
carpet was greener than ever. Here and there primroses spangled the
banks, and bushes of blackthorn--perhaps the most delicate and beautiful
of all blossom--raised white stars against the flecked blue of the sky.
The higher mountains were covered with snow, and the wind was keen and
fresh. It was not possible to sit about in the garden, as they had done
in August, but walks through the brisk air were a joy. They could tramp
twice as far without fatigue. It was delightful to ramble round to all
their old haunts, to revisit the waterfall, to climb to the top of
Pentrevis, to scramble through the thick fir wood on the hill, or--in
rubber boots--to go into the marshy meadows near the river. They had a
special errand here, for the little wild daffodils grew in quantities on
the low-lying fields and were greatly in request for Easter decorations.
The whole of the Webster family, armed with baskets, went on an
expedition to gather them. They passed, by permission, through a
farmer's yard, then made a bee-line across several meadows, climbing
fences and hurdles, till they reached a particular stretch where the
stream flowed into the river. This favoured triangle was yellow with the
daffodils, and although busy hands could pick and pick it seemed to make
little difference to the wealth of bloom spread around. Lesbia loved the
Lent lilies with their short trumpets and faint delicious fragrance, so
redolent of the country. She revelled in all the spring flowers at dear
Dolmadoc, the great crown imperial lilies, with the tears inside their
dropping heads, the blue primroses in the cottage garden, the white
violets under the wall, the purple aubretia coming out on the rockery,
and the clumps of yellow cowslips that bordered the pathway. They seemed
so much cleaner and fresher than the flowers in town gardens or parks,
she liked to lay them against her cheek, and would sometimes go down on
her knees just to be near them where they grew. Old half-forgotten fairy
tales would come flooding back in the company of the flowers, and all
her most pronounced Celtic instincts seemed to crowd to the top.
Lesbia had a chance of exercising her artistic faculties on Easter
Saturday. The Websters always helped to decorate the church, and this
year the vicar's daughter was away, so they had been asked to undertake
pulpit, font, and lectern. They appointed their visitor chief authority,
and worked under her directions. With so much beautiful material in the
way of flowers, Lesbia thoroughly enjoyed herself, and evolved a pretty
scheme of decoration. She outlined the pulpit with ivy and bunches of
wild daffodils, tying large branches of blackthorn and catkin-covered
hazel to the candle-brackets; the lectern had a background of green and
a great sheaf of crown imperial lilies, while the base of the font was a
garden of green moss, with primroses peeping through in little clumps.
Other members of the congregation had been busy putting flowers along
the window ledges and twisting garlands of ivy round some of the
pillars, till the church looked a fragrant mass of lovely blossom,
dressed fitly for its great festival of Easter day.
"I'll come and make a sketch of it next week," thought Lesbia; "that
little bit with the font and the open door and the view down the valley
would be simply a picture, especially if I put Una sitting on the step
with her lap full of primroses. I can feel just how it ought to look, if
I can only paint it. The light and shade is exactly right in the
afternoon. Oh dear! I wish I could spend my days in painting. I'd rather
dab away at a canvas than do anything else in the world!"
The Websters were long-suffering towards Lesbia in allowing her leisure
to sketch, and even in sitting as her models, but they rebelled against
the devotion of more than a due portion of her time to painting. They
were in the mood for walking, and nearly every day wanted to start off
with picnic baskets and to eat their lunch somewhere on the hills. It
was certainly better for Lesbia to take exercise than to sit sketching
in such weather. She groused, but submitted to the inevitable, and
enjoyed herself very much when once she had made the plunge and started
forth. The Stripling, who was taller than ever, still favoured practical
jokes, and was wont to wax argumentative if anybody disagreed with him.
He had many wordy tussles with Regina, and even did a little
brain-fencing with Lesbia. He liked to air some rather outrageous
opinion and stick to it, as if he were conducting the opposition in a
debating society. On one occasion Lesbia, halting by a cross-roads
sign-post upon the moors, remarked casually what a mercy it was there
were no highwaymen nowadays to pounce like hawks on unwary travellers.
Derrick instantly bristled to the defensive.
"I don't know," he began aggressively. "I think there's a great deal to
be said for highwaymen. It was a sporting way of getting a living. And
it made travelling far more interesting than it is now. There was some
fun in riding with your pistol cocked. Besides, it brought out people's
courage. We're a soft lot nowadays when it isn't wartime. A man was a
man in the eighteenth century. He knew how to take care of himself. I
think some of those famous highwaymen were very fine fellows. They'd the
spirit of the age in them. People's blood is as dull as ditch-water in
the twentieth century."
"Oh, indeed. I wonder how you'd like a highwayman darting suddenly down
upon you, Mr. Derrick, and saying 'Hands up'?"
"I'd be equal to him if he did, no fear," replied the Stripling grimly.
Lesbia did not trouble to pursue the argument, for the very good reason
that she was suddenly possessed with an idea, such an excellent and
brilliant idea that she chuckled softly to herself over it. She kept it
dark from Derrick, but confided it to Regina at the first opportunity.
Her chum's explosions made the Stripling prick up his ears.
"What are you two after?" he asked, with suspicion.
"Oh, nothing for small boys," choked Regina.
"You've always got some silly joke."
"Well, we're going to keep this one to ourselves at any rate."
"Little things please little minds!" scoffed the Stripling.
"Right-o! You won't get it out of us that way."
What Lesbia proposed was that she should dress up in a landgirl's
costume which she had seen in a cupboard at the cottage, take one of the
old pistols that hung in the hall, go into the lane that evening, and
lie in wait for Derrick, who would be cycling back from Cefn station
where he always went to buy an evening paper at the bookstall. The plan
seemed most feasible. The lane was narrow, it would be almost dark, and
she hoped to be able to pull him off his bicycle before he discovered
the joke.
They watched him start as usual for Cefn, then rushed upstairs to begin
the toilet. The land costume fitted Lesbia very well. She had always
longed to try it on, and danced about in it now to her own admiration
and Regina's. She put on an old cap of Derrick's, corked a moustache,
and borrowed the pistol. It was a "flint-lock", a most suitable weapon
for a highwayman, and made a beautiful spark when the trigger was
pulled. They calculated the time which Derrick generally took in going
to and from the station, then went into the lane and hid behind some
bushes. It was twilight, the sun had set, and stars were coming out in
the sky. Presently they heard the familiar sound of approaching cycle
wheels. A red lamp came glimmering towards them.
"Now," whispered Regina, pushing her chum forward.
Lesbia sprang from the bush, presented her pistol, snapped the trigger
with the best spark it had yet made, and seizing the machine by the
handles tipped its owner neatly off on to the grass.
"Hello! What's all this about?" cried an unfamiliar voice, in much
deeper tones than those of the Stripling. The pistol dropped from
Lesbia's outstretched hand. Oh horrors! It was not Derrick after all
whom she had assaulted, but a stranger. The unknown object of her
violence picked himself up before she had time to run away, and,
grasping his bicycle, peered through the darkness into the faces of the
two girls, for Regina had joined her chum.
"I've come to see Mr. Webster. Is he at home?"
A pair of very ashamed and crestfallen maidens apologized, and explained
their "rag". Lesbia scooted away to wash off her moustache and change
her attire while Regina led the visitor into the cottage. Much to their
dismay, he was invited to supper. He was trustworthy, however, and did
not betray them, though his eyes twinkled when Mrs. Webster performed
the introduction "Mr. Ford--Miss Ferrars". He sat next to Lesbia at the
supper table. He made no reference at all to highwaywomen, but looked
amused and friendly.
"I wonder if by any chance you happen to be a daughter of a Mr. Charles
Ferrars whom I used to know long ago?" he asked presently.
"Charles was my father's name," answered Lesbia in astonishment.
"Then it must be the same, for you're so like him. Used he to live at
Hanbury? So did I. We were partners together for a short while. Dear me!
That's ages ago now!"
"It's sixteen years since he died," said Lesbia gravely.
"So much as that. Time flies indeed. You must have been too young to
remember him I suppose. A handsome man, and a great favourite with
everybody! It makes me feel quite middle-aged to see his daughter almost
grown-up."
Lesbia had heard so little about her own father that it was interesting
to meet someone who had known and remembered him. She treasured the
brief incident on that account. It seemed a link with the dim far-away
past, when she too had had father and mother of her own to love her and
treasure her, instead of being an orphan with no home but the house of a
distant cousin, and nothing to look forward to in the future but earning
her own living in a way which she would probably find quite
uncongenial.