A Penniless Princess
Miss Todd, sitting at her desk in her study, with a row of the very
latest publications on the most modern theories of education in a
bookcase so near that she could stretch out her hand for any particular
one she wanted, rapidly reviewed some of her new experiments. First and
foremost came the plan of sandwiching seniors and juniors together in
their bedrooms. She hoped the influence of the elder girls would work
like leaven in the school, and that putting them with younger ones would
give them the chance of developing and exercising their motherly
instincts. She tapped her book with her pencil as she mentally ran over
the list of her seniors, and considered how--to the outside view of a
head mistress--each seemed to be progressing.
"It's difficult to foster just the spirit one wants in them--it depends
so largely on the girl," she decided.
And there she was right--the girl made all the difference. Hilary
Chapman had listened to her remarks on "the mother instinct", and had
walked straight into her dormitory, tow-rowed her young room-mates for
their untidiness, snapped at their excuses, and sent them downstairs
with a snubbing, returning to the bosom of the seniors ruffled, but with
a strong sense of having performed her obvious duty. Betty Blane, Erica
Peters, and Peggy Collins, comparing injured notes, viewed the matter
from a different angle.
"Calls herself a mother, does she? Jolly more like a step-mother, I
should say," objected Erica.
"Pretty grizzly to be boxed up with Hilary for a whole term," lamented
Betty.
"I'm _not going_ to be 'mothered' by her," proclaimed Peggy with energy.
"She's only two years older than I am, and yet from the airs she gives
herself you'd think she was Methuselah."
"You don't _look_ like her daughter," remarked Betty, who was
literal-minded to a fault.
Peggy made an eloquent grimace.
"I'm an undutiful one, at any rate," she laughed. "I'm afraid Hilary
will find me somewhat of a handful."
Up in the little ivy room, however, matters were going somewhat better.
Diana and Loveday, after a few minor differences, dovetailed both their
possessions and their dispositions so as to admit of the least possible
friction. It was fortunate for Diana, for she had a side to her
character that would have bristled into porcupine quills had she been
placed with Hilary. Loveday's particular temperament soothed her down.
"I'm falling in love with her," she admitted to Wendy. "I was taken
with her, of course, the moment I saw her, but I believe now I'm going
to have it badly. I think she's beautiful! If there were a Peach
Competition, she'd win at a canter."
Such a pandering to the "pomps and vanities" as a Beauty Show was
certainly not an item in the list of new experiments at Pendlemere, but
there was a general consensus of opinion that Loveday held the palm in
the matter of looks. She was a fair, slender girl, with delicate
features, a clear complexion, and a quantity of long flaxen hair. She
spoke prettily, but without affectation, and always gave an impression
of great refinement. The wistful look that sometimes shaded her blue
eyes was, on the whole, attractive.
"She's like a picture I once saw of Eve just turned out of Paradise,"
commented Diana, sitting with Wendy and Tattie in the window-seat on the
stairs.
"Not half a bad shot," said Wendy. "In fact, it just about hits the
mark. In a way, Loveday _is_ turned out of Paradise. That's to say, I
suppose, if her grandfather hadn't gambled, the Abbey would have
belonged to her."
"What Abbey?"
"Why, this, of course, stupid!"
"Do you mean to say Loveday's folks used to _own_ this place?"
"They did. Owned it for hundreds of years. They were an old Border
family, and mixed up with the rebellion of 1745, and all sorts of
interesting things. Loveday's grandfather was the regular old-fashioned
sporting kind of squire you read about in books. He gambled the whole
property away. I suppose it used to be a fine place in his day. I've
heard he kept eight hunters, and always had the house full of guests
while his money lasted. Then there was a grand smash up, and everything
had to be sold--house, horses, furniture, and all. He went abroad and
died of a broken heart--never smiled again, and all that sort of thing,
you know."
"How fearfully romantic!" gasped Diana. "Of course it was his own fault
for gambling, but still one feels sorry for him. Did Loveday live here
too when she was little?"
Wendy shook her head.
"I shouldn't think so. I believe it happened ever such a long time ago;
before she was born, even."
"Couldn't her father get it back?"
"I suppose not. Besides, he's dead too. Loveday is an orphan. She's
neither father nor mother."
"Where does she live, then, when she's at home?"
"With an uncle and aunt--her mother's relations. But she never talks
very much about them, so we fancy they're not particularly nice to her.
She has no brothers or sisters. I think she feels lonely, if you ask my
opinion, but she's too proud to say so."
"And Pendlemere ought to be hers! How romantic!" repeated Diana. "I
wanted to stay in a real old-fashioned mediaeval British house, and here
I'm plumped into a story as well. It's most exciting! What's going to
happen next? Is Loveday going to get it back? Will she marry the man who
owns it? Or will somebody leave her a fortune? Or will she find a lost
will? How do stories generally end?" continued Diana, casting her mind
over a range of light literature which she had skimmed and half
forgotten.
Wendy disposed of each of the suggestions in turn.
"There isn't anybody to leave her a fortune; and what's the good of
finding a will when the place is sold? The present owner is a fat old
fellow of fifty, with a wife already, and, even if _she_ died, I
shouldn't think Loveday would want to marry him. He has three daughters
older than she is, and he's quite bald."
Diana looked baffled. Her romantic plan of restoring the fortunes of the
Seton family through matrimony certainly did not seem hopeful.
"I'm fearfully sorry for Loveday," confided Tattie. "I know something
about her, because some friends of ours live near her aunt. They say she
gets very much snubbed; her cousins make her feel it's not her own home.
She wants to go to college, but it's doubtful if she'll be able. Nesta
Erskine says Loveday is just _counting_ on a career. She wants to be
independent of her aunt."
"It must be horrible to be snubbed," commented Diana thoughtfully.
She had admired Loveday before, but now she looked at her room-mate with
new eyes. To Diana there was something fascinating about the idea of a
"penniless princess".
"Do your ancestors go right slap-bang back to the Conquest?" she asked
interestedly, while she was undressing that evening.
"Well, not quite so far as that," smiled Loveday, diligently brushing a
flaxen mane ripply with plaiting. "But I believe there were Setons in
the fourteenth century, long before they had the Abbey from Edward the
Sixth's commissioners. There are all sorts of stories and legends about
them, of course."
"What kind of stories? Do tell me! I'd just admire to hear. I'm crazy on
Border ballads and legends. Tell me, while I fix my hair."
"Well, there was little Sir Rowland. When he was only six years old his
father was killed in one of the battles of the Wars of the Roses. They
were Lancastrians, and the Yorkists seized his estate, and Rowland was
only saved from the fury of the conquering party by the devotion of his
nurse. She managed to hide him in a secret place in the tower till there
was an opportunity to escape, and then she got him away to her father's
house in the midst of a wild tract of forest. He lived there, disguised
as a forester, for years and years, and helped to cut wood and to hunt,
and only two or three people knew the secret of his birth. He used to go
errands sometimes to the great Hall of the neighbourhood, and there he
saw Lady Anne, the beautiful daughter of Lord Wharton, and fell
desperately in love with her. One day when she was out riding he was
able to save her from the attack of an infuriated stag, and I suppose
she was very grateful, and perhaps showed her feelings too plainly, for
her father shut her up in a turret-room, and ordered her to marry
somebody whom she didn't like at all. I don't know what would have
happened, but just then Henry VII came to the throne, and one of his
first acts was to restore Sir Rowland Seton to his possessions and
dignity. Lord Wharton must have thought him an eligible suitor then, for
he was allowed to marry the Lady Anne, and take her away to his castle.
Their tomb is in Dittington Church. He was killed at the Battle of
Flodden, and one of his sons with him.
"There's a romantic story, too, about Sir Roderick Seton, who lived at
the Abbey here in the days of Charles I. He had a stone seat made, and
put just by the front door. The first person who sat on it was a lovely
girl named Katherine, and he said to her: 'Katherine, you have sat on my
seat, so you must give me three kisses as toll'. Not very long after he
went away to London, leaving his brother William to look after the
estate. Then civil war broke out, and he joined the Royalist forces, and
followed the young King Charles into exile. After the Restoration he
journeyed north, and came on foot to his old home. It was years and
years since he had left there, and nobody had had any tidings about him,
or knew whether he was alive or dead. He found his brother William, who
was now married to Katherine, sitting with her and their two children on
the stone seat by the door. He asked them for a night's lodging, and,
though they did not know who he was, they took him in and treated him
kindly. Next morning he asked his hostess to accompany him to the door,
and, pointing to the stone seat, said:
"'It is many years since I had three kisses from the dame who first sat
on it.'
"She recognized him then, and ran joyously to call the rest of the
household. His brother at once wished to hand over the keys to him, but
he would not accept them. 'I am old and childless,' he said. 'All I ask
here is bed and board till you carry me to the churchyard.' He lived
with them for some years, and devoted himself to study. The people of
the neighbourhood venerated him as a sage, and after his death he was
supposed on very special occasions to appear and give the family warning
of future trouble. They say he was seen before the Battle of Culloden,
and several times during the Napoleonic wars; but of course I can't
vouch for that--it's only legend."
Diana, sitting up in bed with the curtains of her cubicle drawn aside to
listen, gave a long-drawn, breathless sigh.
"O-o-o-oh! How gorgeous to belong to a highfaluting family that's got
legends and ghosts. I'm just crazy to hear more. What about the house?
Aren't there any dungeons or built-up skeletons or secret hiding-places?
There _ought_ to be, in a real first-class mediaeval place like this."
Loveday was plaiting her flaxen hair into two long braids; she paused
with the ribbon in her hand.
"I don't know--as you say, there ought to be. I've often
wondered--especially since----" She hesitated.
"Since what?" urged Diana, scenting the beginning of a mystery.
"Since something that happened once."
"When? Oh, _do_ tell me!"
"I've never told anybody."
Diana hopped out of bed, and flung two lace-frilled arms round her
room-mate, clinging to her with the tenacity of a young octopus.
"Oh, Loveday! Ducky! Tell me! I shan't let you go till you promise.
Please! please!" she entreated.
"If you strangle me I can't tell anything. Get back into bed, Diana! I
don't know whether it was really important, but it may have been. It
happened when I was quite a little girl. I had a slight attack of
measles, and of course I was kept in bed. Mother was nursing me, and one
afternoon she went out to do some shopping and left me to have a nap. I
wasn't sleepy in the least, and it was horribly dull staying there all
by myself. I remembered a book I wanted to read which was in the
dining-room bookcase, so I did a most dreadfully naughty thing: I jumped
up, put on my dressing-gown and bedroom slippers, and ran downstairs to
fetch _At the Back of the North Wind_. I opened the dining-room door and
marched in, and then I got a surprise, for seated in a chair by the fire
was a stranger. He looked as much surprised as I was.
"'Hallo!' he said. 'We go to bed early in this part of the world, don't
we? Or are we only getting up?'
"I walked to the fire and warmed my hands, and looked at him calmly. I
was a funny child in those days.
"'It's neither,' I answered. 'I've got measles.'
"'Then please don't give them to me,' he laughed. 'I assure you I don't
want them. Look here! I called to see your father, or, failing your
father, your mother. They're both out, and I've been waiting half an
hour for either of them to come in. I can't stay any longer. Will you
give them a message from me? Say I've been over at Pendlemere Abbey, and
that I've made a most interesting discovery there. If they care to
communicate with me, I'll tell them about it. Here's my card with my
address. Now I must bolt to keep an appointment. You'll remember the
message?'
[Illustration: "O-O-O-OH! HOW GORGEOUS TO BELONG TO A HIGH-FALUTING
FAMILY THAT'S GOT LEGENDS AND GHOSTS!"]
"He flung his card on the table, went out of the room, and I heard the
hall door bang after him. I stood for a moment thinking. If I gave this
message, Mother would know that I had been out of bed and downstairs,
and I should be sure to get a tremendous scolding. I was a naughty
little girl in those days; I took the card, flung it on the fire, seized
_At the Back of the North Wind_ from the bookcase, and tore upstairs
again. Of course I caught cold, and had rather a serious relapse which
puzzled everybody. No one except myself knew the reason, and I took good
care not to tell. Only six months afterwards I lost both my father and
mother, and went to live with my aunt at Liverpool. What became of the
stranger I don't know. I didn't even remember his name."
"You weren't living at the Abbey then?"
"No, no! We never lived at the Abbey. It was sold before I was born. I
believe at that time it was empty, and a caretaker used to allow
tourists to look through it. I suppose that gentleman was a tourist."
"What had he found?"
"That's a question I've asked myself a hundred times. Was it a sliding
panel or a secret door? Or was he simply some antiquarian crank who
wanted to prove that the Abbey was of Norman origin, or built on a Roman
foundation? How I wish I hadn't forgotten his name! When I heard that
Pendlemere had been turned into a school I begged my aunt to send me
here. For a long time she wouldn't, and I went to a day-school. Then two
years ago she and uncle decided to send me to a boarding-school, so
again I asked to come here, and after a great deal of urging they let
me. I hoped I might find out something. I'm always hunting about, but
I've never yet made the 'interesting discovery'."
"Where have you looked?" asked Diana, immensely thrilled.
"Oh, everywhere! I've tapped panels, and pushed bits of carving to see
if they'd move, but they're all absolutely firm and solid. I've had no
luck."
"I'll go exploring on my own."
"Well, if you do, don't tell the other girls. I hate to pose as a sort
of turned-out heiress, and have them pitying me. If they knew I was
hunting for hiding-places, I believe some of them would rag me
dreadfully. I should never hear the last of it. They'd always be
pretending they'd found something, just to tease me."
"And yet you ought to have been the heiress," mused Diana.
"It's no use talking about being an heiress when the place was sold
before I was born," returned Loveday rather bitterly. "I've told you
this, but I trust you not to go blabbing it all over the school. If
you're ready, I'll blow out the candle. Miss Hampson will be round in a
minute."