A Tangled Story
MEG rushed to the lecture hall just in time to enter unobtrusively among
a crowd of other girls, and to take her seat for afternoon call-over
without attracting special notice from mistresses or monitresses. She
congratulated herself on having been promoted to Mr. Cobb's painting
class. The fact of her change of costume would be quite lost upon him,
though Miss Harris, the ordinary drawing mistress, might possibly have
recognized Gipsy's dress. One or two of her Form mates stared at her
curiously, but the greater number were too much preoccupied with
answering "present" to their names, and filing away to their various
classes, to pay any particular attention to her. The girls at the
painting lesson, with the exception of Fiona Campbell, were all Seniors.
If they realized any difference in Meg's appearance, there was no
opportunity either for them to make comments or for her to give
explanations. I am afraid the study in oil colours of carnations, upon
which she was engaged, did not make much progress that afternoon, for
her thoughts were entirely about Gipsy, wondering how far she had got
upon her travels, and whether Miss Poppleton had yet discovered her
absence.
Directly the four o'clock bell rang and the class was released, Meg,
leaving the other girls leisurely putting away their tubes of paints and
cleaning their palettes, scrambled her possessions together anyhow, and
bolted from the room before she could be questioned. Going boldly to the
boarders' cupboard in the hall, she purloined Gipsy's hat, and, without
waiting even to tell her story to Hetty and Dilys, departed from the
premises with all possible speed.
She had come to school that day on her bicycle, and fetching it hastily
from the shed where all the machines were stored, she rode away in the
direction of Greyfield. There was something slightly wrong with one of
her pedals, and her father had told her that morning that she had better
have it mended at once, so she intended to take the cycle to the depot
where it had been bought, and let it be thoroughly overhauled before she
returned home. The assistant at the shop promised to have the repairs
finished in about half an hour, and Meg therefore strolled into the
town, to wait with what patience she could muster. She walked up
Corporation Street and round by the Town Hall, peeped into the Parish
Church and the Free Library, then finding herself close to the railway
station, decided to go and buy a copy of _Home Chat_ or _Tit Bits_ at
the bookstall.
"Want a ticket, Miss?" asked a porter, as she passed the booking-office
near the entrance.
"No, thank you; I'm only going to get a paper," replied Meg, walking
briskly on.
She noticed that the man looked at her keenly, and said something to
another official. Immediately afterwards an inspector came on to the
platform, and eyed her with more than ordinary curiosity. She could
hear the telephone bell ringing hard, but it never struck her that these
occurrences had anything to do with herself. She walked to the
bookstall, and after spending some minutes looking at the various
magazines spread forth, bought a copy of _Tit Bits_, and strolled back
down the platform reading it as she went, and smiling over the jokes. At
the automatic sweet-machine she paused, put a penny in the slot, and had
just withdrawn her box of chocolates when, turning round, she found
herself face to face with a policeman.
"Very sorry, Miss," said the man civilly, "but I'm afraid you've got to
go along with me."
Meg was so surprised that she nearly dropped both _Tit Bits_ and the
chocolates.
"To go along with you!" she gasped. "Indeed I shan't do anything of the
sort."
"Better not make a scene, Miss," advised the policeman, with an
indulgent smile. "I'm sorry, but it's my duty to take you in charge."
"But what for? I've done nothing!" protested Meg in huge indignation.
"That's a little matter between your schoolmistress and yourself. It's
none of my business. My instructions are to take you straight to the
police station."
"But I tell you I won't be taken!"
"Better go quietly, Missy," said the station inspector, who had come
bustling up. "You don't want to attract a crowd, I'm sure, do you? No;
then let me put you in this cab, and drive you round to the police
station. It's only a couple of streets away. They'll explain everything
to you there."
There was sense in his remarks, for people on the platform were
beginning to stop and stare at Meg with an interest she deeply resented.
To enter the cab seemed the lesser evil, even if she must pay a visit to
the police station. The inspector handed her in politely, and entering
after, took the seat opposite, while the policeman mounted the box
beside the driver.
"They seem desperately afraid of my escaping! I wonder they don't
handcuff me!" thought Meg, waxing more and more angry at the indignity
of the proceeding. The little drive only occupied a few minutes, and
arrived at the police station, she was shown at once into the head
inspector's office.
"I should like to know what charge you have against me," demanded Meg,
determined to hold her own, and not to be frightened at her arrest.
"Withdrawing yourself from the hands of your lawful schoolmistress and
present guardian," replied the inspector pompously.
"But I was only on my way home!"
The official, however, was busy reading something from a notebook.
"'Surname Latimer, Christian name Gipsy. Height, 5 feet 1 inch. Eyes
brown, complexion dark, hair brown. Dressed in navy-blue alpaca frock
over white delaine blouse top, and probably wearing sailor hat with
blue-and-white striped band, and a pair of tennis shoes.' The whole
tallies exactly," he murmured, surveying Meg from head to foot, to see
that he had not omitted any of the items.
"You're making a mistake. My name's Margaret Gordon, not Gipsy Latimer!
I live at The Gables, near Willowburn. My father is a solicitor in the
town. His office is at 15 Wells Street."
"We'll soon see about that. I think I must trouble you for your
pocket-handkerchief, Missy, please."
Considerably mystified, Meg felt in her pocket and handed over the
article in question. The inspector examined it closely, then shook his
head.
"It has 'G. Latimer' marked in the corner. That doesn't look much like
Margaret Gordon, does it?"
Meg was furious at her own stupidity. She and Gipsy had never thought of
exchanging the contents of their pockets.
"Look here! Send for my father!" she begged. "He'll soon tell you who I
am, and explain the whole matter."
"We don't need to send for anybody," returned the official. "Miss
Poppleton's quite enough for us. We've got her description of you, and
our instructions are to take you straight back to the school. You'll
find you've not gained much by running away."
There was only one consolation for Meg, the remembrance that her capture
would possibly enable Gipsy to escape in safety.
"They must have been looking out for her at the railway station," she
thought, "but they wouldn't recognize her in my dress. I'd like to know
what Poppie'll say when I turn up instead!"
There was undoubtedly a humorous side to the situation, and Meg laughed
as she pictured the discomfiture of the officials when they discovered
their mistake. It seemed of no further use to try to prove her identity
at present, so she allowed herself to be once more escorted to the cab
and driven off, this time in the direction of Briarcroft.
"I wonder what sort of a scrape I'm in for," she thought, as they drew
up at the front door, and the constable in charge solemnly marched her
into the house. Miss Poppleton came hurrying out of the library into the
hall, followed by Miss Edith.
"I am happy to be able to inform you, Madam, that our search has been
successful," said the policeman, standing at attention.
"What? Have you found her?" cried Miss Poppleton eagerly; then she
stopped as she recognized Meg. "Ah! So that's it, is it? I'm sorry to
say, constable, that you've brought the wrong girl!"
Meg had thought out her plan of action carefully during her drive in the
cab, and took advantage of the sensation that followed to rush at the
Principal with an air of aggrieved and injured innocence.
"Oh, Miss Poppleton! Isn't it a horrible mistake!" she exclaimed. "I
told them my name, and they wouldn't believe me! Oh! please, may I go
home immediately? My mother will be so dreadfully anxious at my being so
late!"
"Meg, do you know where Gipsy is?" interposed Miss Edith, catching her
by the arm.
"Indeed I don't; I haven't the least idea!" replied Meg truthfully.
"Please let me go home, and relieve Mother's mind!"
"Yes, go at once!" answered Miss Poppleton distractedly; and turning to
the rueful constable, she began to explain matters with much volubility.
Meg vanished like the wind, thankful that in the general excitement
nobody had remarked upon the fact that she was wearing Gipsy's dress.
She considered that she had come out of the affair uncommonly well, and
congratulated herself upon her presence of mind in the emergency. She
hurried home as fast as she could, anxious to tell the tale of Gipsy's
escape and her own adventure, and rather proud of her share in both. To
her surprise her mother took an utterly different view of the case from
her own.
"Gipsy run away!" cried Mrs. Gordon in great consternation. "And you
changed dresses with her so as to help her? Oh, Meg! what have you done!
You naughty, foolish, foolish girl! You little know the dangers you may
have thrown her into. We must do our utmost to find her and bring her
back this very evening. We should never forgive ourselves if any harm
came to her. I must telephone at once, and see if Father's still at the
office."
"But, Mummie darling, Gipsy doesn't want to be caught and brought back
to Poppie's tender mercies. She's going to ship as a stewardess, and go
to South Africa to look for her father. I think it's ripping!"
"You don't know what you're talking about, Meg. Gipsy is too young to
manage her own affairs without consulting her elders. I would have had
the poor child here, rather than that she should run away. Tell me
everything you can remember of her plans. I expect Father will start for
Liverpool at once in search of her."
"You won't tell Poppie, Motherkins?"
"I shall send a note to Miss Poppleton as soon as I have telephoned to
Father. We must leave no stone unturned to find Gipsy. Miss Poppleton
will be as alarmed and anxious as I am myself. She may be a little
stern, but she is a good, conscientious person in the main."
Mrs. Gordon's estimate of Miss Poppleton's character was a correct one.
The latter, though she had been severe and even hard with Gipsy, had
meant well by her, and had intended to take charge of her until she
found an opportunity of sending her, under careful protection, to her
relations in New Zealand. She was in a state of the utmost concern at
the girl's rash action in running away, and had lost no time in
summoning the aid of the police to track her and ensure her safety. If
Gipsy were the black sheep of the flock, she was at any rate the lost
sheep, to be sought for diligently, and rejoiced over when found.
To Miss Edith the affair was a sad blow. She was genuinely fond of
Gipsy, and had been greatly distressed by the events of the last few
days. Though she dutifully accepted her sister's opinion, and believed
Gipsy guilty, she nevertheless was ready to welcome back the prodigal
with open arms. She did not dare to break down before Miss Poppleton,
who disliked a public exhibition of feeling, so she retired to the linen
room to wipe her eyes in private. Having indulged in a little
surreptitious weeping she felt better, and decided to try to distract
her mind by tidying her cupboards. Now, though Miss Edith was on the
whole a good housekeeper, she had a poor memory, and was very apt to put
things away and forget all about them. As she rearranged her drawers and
shelves on this particular evening, she was dismayed to find several
articles for which she had searched in vain elsewhere.
"Why, here's the tea cloth that I thought had been lost in the wash!"
she exclaimed. "And Miss Lindsay's dressing jacket--she was afraid she
must have left it in London. Why! and here's a coat of Daisy
Scatcherd's. I remember quite plainly putting it by last autumn, when
she had such a terrible cold. I thought it was too thin for her to wear.
Why didn't the child ask me for it? She's as forgetful as I am. It's
just the thing for chilly evenings, to slip on when she's been playing
tennis."
Miss Edith gave the coat a good shake, and as she did so there fell from
the pocket an unopened letter. She picked it up and looked at the
address:
"MISS GIPSY LATIMER,
Briarcroft Hall,
Greyfield,
England."
She read it twice before she realized its significance. Then, trembling
violently, she sank on to a chair, and gave way to what very closely
resembled a fit Of hysteria.
"Fetch Miss Poppleton!" she cried to the alarmed servant who ran to the
linen room at the sound of her wails. "Oh, dear! To think it's all my
fault!"
Miss Poppleton hurried to the scene at once, and though at first her
sister's explanation was rather incoherent, she managed to grasp the
main facts of the case.
"It's Gipsy's missing letter, Dorothea! It must have come after all, you
see, only I can't imagine how it got into Daisy Scatcherd's pocket. I
don't remember looking in the pockets when I put the coat by. And it's
been there all this time! Look, the postmark is Cape Town, 3 November.
Oh, isn't it dreadful? And the poor, dear child has just run away!
Dorothea, whatever are we to do about it?" moaned Miss Edith, almost
beside herself with horror at her discovery.
"In the circumstances I consider I am perfectly justified in reading the
letter," replied Miss Poppleton, solemnly tearing open the envelope.
"Why, here's an enclosure for me inside it!"
The long-delayed missive was from Gipsy's father, and contained the very
information for which Miss Poppleton had waited more than six weary
months. Mr. Latimer informed her that he was on the point of starting
with a pioneering expedition to prospect for minerals in the almost
unexplored district at the sources of one of the tributaries of the
Zambesi. It might be several months before he would be in any civilized
place whence it would be possible for him to communicate with her again,
but during his absence he was glad to know that his little daughter was
left in good hands. For all expenses in connection with Gipsy's
education, dress, and pocket-money, he begged to refer her to his London
bankers, Messrs. Hall & Co. of Lombard Street, who had instructions to
settle the account as soon as submitted to them.
"I hope my girlie will behave well, and give no trouble," he wrote. "She
is generally ready to attach herself to anybody who is kind to her."
Miss Poppleton turned a dull crimson as she finished reading the letter,
and handed it to Miss Edith.
"I must question Daisy Scatcherd at once," she remarked peremptorily. "I
can't understand how the letter came to be in her pocket at all."
The luckless Daisy, subjected to a searching examination, could at first
render no account of how she came to be mixed up in the affair. Then
little by little a vague remembrance returned to her, and she began
dimly to recall the circumstances.
"It must have been on my birthday," she faltered. "I have a kind of
recollection that I stopped the postman in the drive, and he gave me
several letters. But indeed I never noticed one for Gipsy! If I even
looked at the name, I didn't take it in properly. I suppose I only saw
it wasn't for me, and stuffed it in my pocket while I opened my own
letters. Then I utterly forgot all about it."
"It must be a warning to you, Daisy, against carelessness--a warning to
last you the rest of your life," said Miss Poppleton, relieving her
feelings by improving the occasion. "Your thoughtless act has had the
most unfortunate consequences. It's no use crying now" (as Daisy
dissolved into tears). "You can't mend matters. But I hope you'll take
this to heart, and be more careful in future."
"If we could only find that poor, unfortunate child, Gipsy," sobbed Miss
Edith, when the weeping Daisy had taken her departure. "I always said
perhaps her father wasn't an adventurer after all. I think you were too
hard on her, Dorothea--too hard altogether!" Which, was the nearest
approach to insubordination that Miss Edith, in all her years of meek
subserviency to her sister, had ever yet dared to venture upon.