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For the Sake of the School
* * * * *
BLACKIE & SON LIMITED
16/18 William IV Street, Charing Cross, LONDON, W.C.2
17 Stanhope Street, GLASGOW
BLACKIE & SON (INDIA) LIMITED
103/5 Fort Street, BOMBAY
BLACKIE & SON (CANADA) LIMITED
TORONTO
[Illustration: "I felt I must speak to you"
_Page_ 234
_Frontispiece_]
* * * * *
FOR THE SAKE OF THE SCHOOL
by
Angela Brazil
Author of "The School on the Loch"
"The School at the Turrets", &c.
With Frontispiece
Blackie & Son Limited
London and Glasgow
Printed in Great Britain by Blackie & Son, Ltd., Glasgow
TO THE
SCHOOLGIRL READERS
WHO HAVE SENT ME
SUCH NICE LETTERS
Contents
CHAP. Page
I. THE WOODLANDS 11
II. A FRIEND FROM THE BUSH 24
III. ROUND THE CAMP-FIRE 36
IV. A BLACKBERRY FORAY 51
V. ON SUFFERANCE 66
VI. QUITS 76
VII. THE CUCKOO'S PROGRESS 87
VIII. THE "STUNT" 104
IX. A JANUARY PICNIC 117
X. TRESPASSERS BEWARE! 130
XI. RONA RECEIVES NEWS 142
XII. SENTRY DUTY 156
XIII. UNDER CANVAS 170
XIV. SUSANNAH MAUDE 183
XV. A POINT OF HONOUR 194
XVI. AMATEUR CONJURING 208
XVII. A STORM-CLOUD 221
XVIII. LIGHT 233
XIX. A SURPRISE 249
FOR THE SAKE OF THE SCHOOL
CHAPTER I
The Woodlands
"Are they never going to turn up?"
"It's almost four now!"
"They'll be left till the six-thirty!"
"Oh, don't alarm yourself! The valley train always waits for the
express."
"It's coming in now!"
"Oh, good, so it is!"
"Late by twenty minutes exactly!"
"Stand back there!" yelled a porter, setting down a box with a slam, and
motioning the excited, fluttering group of girls to a position of
greater safety than the extreme edge of the platform. "Llangarmon
Junction! Change for Glanafon and Graigwen!"
Snorting and puffing, as if in agitated apology for the tardiness of its
arrival, the train came steaming into the station, the drag of its
brakes adding yet another item of noise to the prevailing babel.
Intending passengers clutched bags and baskets; fathers of families gave
a last eye to the luggage; mothers grasped children firmly by the hand;
a distracted youth, seeking vainly for his portmanteau, upset a stack of
bicycles with a crash; while above all the din and turmoil rose the
strident, rasping voice of a book-stall boy, crying his selection of
papers with ear-splitting zeal.
From the windows of the in-coming express waved seventeen agitated
pocket-handkerchiefs, and the signal was answered by a counter-display
of cambric from the twenty girls hustled back by an inspector in the
direction of the weighing-machine.
"There's Helen!"
"And Ruth, surely!"
"Oh! where's Marjorie?"
"There! Can't you see her, with Doris?"
"That's Mamie, waving to me!"
"What's become of Kathleen?"
One moment more, and the neat school hats of the new-comers had swelled
the group of similar school hats already collected on the platform;
ecstatic greetings were exchanged, urgent questions asked and hasty
answers given, and items of choice information poured forth with the
utmost volubility of which the English tongue is capable. Urged by brief
directions from a mistress in charge, the chattering crew surged towards
a siding, and made for a particular corridor carriage marked "Reserved".
Here handbags, umbrellas, wraps, and lunch-baskets were hastily stowed
away in the racks, and, Miss Moseley having assured herself that not a
single lamb of her flock was left behind, the grinning porter slammed
the doors, the green flag waved, and the local train, long overdue,
started with a jerk for the Craigwen Valley.
Past the grey old castle that looked seawards over the estuary, past the
little white town of Llangarmon, with its ancient walls and fortified
gates, past the quay where the fishing smacks were lying idly at anchor
and a pleasure-steamer was unloading its human cargo, past the long
stretch of sandy common, where the white tents of the Territorials
evoked an outcry of interest, then up alongside the broad tidal river
towards where the mountains, faint and misty, rose shouldering one
another till they merged into the white nebulous region of the
cloud-flecked sky. Those lucky ones who had secured window seats on the
river side of the carriage were loud in their acclamations of
satisfaction as familiar objects in the landscape came into sight.
"There's Cwm Dinas. I wish they could float a big Union Jack on the
summit."
"It would be a landmark all right."
"Oh, the flag's up at Plas Cafn!"
"We'll have one at school this term?"
"Oh, I say! Move a scrap," pleaded Ulyth Stanton plaintively. "We only
get fields and woods on our side. I can't see anything at all for your
heads. You might move. What selfish pigs you are! Well, I don't care;
I'm going to talk."
"You have been talking already. You've never stopped, in fact," remarked
Beth Broadway, proffering a swiftly disappearing packet of pear drops
with a generosity born of the knowledge that all sweets would be
confiscated on arrival at The Woodlands.
"I know I have, but that was merely by the way. It wasn't anything very
particular, and I've got something I want to tell you--something
fearfully important. Absolutely super! D'you know, she's actually coming
to school. Isn't it great? She's to be my room-mate. I'm just wild to
see her. I hope her ship won't be stopped by storms."
"By the Muses, whom are you talking about?"
"'She' means the cat," sniggered Gertrude Oliver.
"Why! can't you guess? What stupids you are! It's Rona, of course--Rona
Mitchell from New Zealand."
"You're ragging!"
"It's a fact. It is indeed!"
The incredulity on the countenances of her companions having yielded to
an expression of interest, Ulyth continued her information with
increased zest, and a conscious though would-be nonchalant air of
importance.
"Her father wants her to go to school in England, so he decided to send
her to The Woodlands, so that she might be with me!"
"Do you mean that girl you were so very proud of corresponding with? I
forget how the whole business began," broke in Stephanie Radford.
"Don't you remember? It was through a magazine we take. The editor
arranged for readers of the magazine in England to exchange letters with
other readers overseas. He gave me Rona. We've been writing to each
other every month for two years."
"I had an Australian, but she wouldn't write regularly, so we dropped
it," volunteered Beth Broadway. "I believe Gertrude had somebody too."
"Yes, a girl in Canada. I never got farther than one short letter and a
picture post card, though. I do so loathe writing," sighed Gertrude.
"Ulyth's the only one who's kept the thing up."
"And do you mean to say this New Zealander's actually coming to our
school?" asked Stephanie.
"That's the joysome gist of my remarks! I can't tell you how I'm pining
and yearning to see her. She seems like a girl out of a story. To think
of it! Rona Mitchell at school with us!"
"Suppose you don't like her?"
"Oh, I'm certain I shall! She's written me the jolliest, loveliest,
funniest letters! I feel I know her already. We shall be the very best
of friends. Her father has a huge farm of I can't tell you how many
miles, and she has two horses of her own, and fords rivers when she's
out riding."
"When's she to arrive?"
"Probably to-morrow. She's travelling by the _King George_, and coming
up straight from London to school directly she lands. I hope she's got
to England safely. She must have left home ever such a long time ago.
How fearfully exciting for her to----"
But here Ulyth's reflections were brought to an abrupt close, for the
train was approaching Glanafon Ferry, and her comrades, busily
collecting their various handbags, would lend no further ear to her
remarks.
The little wayside station, erstwhile the quietest and sleepiest on the
line, was soon overflowing with girls and their belongings. Miss Moseley
flitted up and down the platform, marshalling her charges like a
faithful collie, the one porter did his slow best, and after a few
agitated returns to the compartments for forgotten articles, everything
was successfully collected, and the train went steaming away down the
valley in the direction of Craigwen. It seemed to take the last link of
civilization with it, and to leave only the pure, unsullied country
behind. The girls crossed the line and walked through the white station
gate with pleased anticipation writ large on their faces. It was the
cult at The Woodlands to idolize nature and the picturesque, and they
had reached a part of their journey which was a particular source of
pride to the school.
Any admirer of scenery would have been struck with the lovely and
romantic view which burst upon the eye as the travellers left the
platform at Glanafon and walked down the short, grassy road that led to
the ferry. To the south stretched the wide pool of the river, blue as
the heaven above where it caught the reflection of the September sky,
but dark and mysterious where it mirrored the thick woods that shaded
its banks. Near at hand towered the tall, heather-crowned crag of Cwm
Dinas, while the rugged peaks of Penllwyd and Penglaslyn frowned in
majesty of clouds beyond. The ferry itself was one of those delightful
survivals of mediævalism which linger here and there in a few fortunate
corners of our isles. A large flat-bottomed boat was slung on chains
which spanned the river, and could be worked slowly across the water by
means of a small windlass. Though it was perfectly possible, and often
even more convenient, to drive to the school direct from Llangarmon
Junction, so great was the popular feeling in favour of arrival by the
ferry that at the autumn and spring reunions the girls were allowed to
avail themselves of the branch railway and approach The Woodlands by way
of the river.
They now hurried on to the boat as if anticipating a pleasure-jaunt. The
capacities of the flat were designed to accommodate a flock of sheep or
a farm wagon and horses, so there was room and to spare even for
thirty-seven girls and their hand luggage. Evan Davis, the crusty old
ferryman, greeted them with his usual inarticulate grunt, a kind of "Oh,
here you are again, are you!" form of welcome which was more forceful
than gracious. He linked the protecting chains carefully across the end
of the boat, called out a remark in Welsh to his son, Griffith, and,
seizing the handle, began to work the windlass. Very slowly and
leisurely the flat swung out into the river. The tide was at the full
and the wide expanse of water seemed like a lake. The clanking chains
brought up bunches of seaweed and river grass which fell with an oozy
thud upon the deck. The mountain air, blowing straight from Penllwyd,
was tinged with ozone from the tide. The girls stood looking up the
reach of water towards the hills, and tasting the salt on their lips
with supreme gratification. It was not every school that assembled by
such a romantic means of conveyance as an ancient flat-bottomed
ferry-boat, and they rejoiced over their privileges.
"I'm glad the tide's full; it makes the crossing so much wider,"
murmured Helen Cooper, with an eye of admiration on the woods.
"Don't suppose Evan shares your enthusiasm," laughed Marjorie Earnshaw.
"He's paid the same, whatever the length of the journey."
"Old Grumps gets half a crown for his job, so he needn't grumble," put
in Doris Deane.
"Oh, trust him! He'd look sour at a pound note."
"What makes him so cross?"
"Oh, he's old and lame, I suppose, and has a crotchety temper."
"Here we are at last!"
The boat was grating on the shore. Griffith was unfastening the movable
end, and in another moment the girls were springing out gingerly, one by
one, on to the decidedly muddy stepping-stones that formed a rough
causeway to the bank. A cart was waiting to convey the handbags (all
boxes had been sent as "advance luggage" two days before), so,
disencumbered of their numerous possessions, the girls started to walk
the steep uphill mile that led to The Woodlands.
Miss Bowes and Miss Teddington, the partners who owned the school, had
been exceptionally fortunate in their choice of a house. If, as runs the
modern theory, beautiful surroundings in our early youth are of the
utmost importance in training our perceptions and aiding the growth of
our higher selves, then surely nowhere in the British Isles could a more
suitable setting have been found for a home of education. The long
terrace commanded a view of the whole of the Craigwen Valley, an expanse
of about sixteen miles. The river, like a silver ribbon, wound through
woods and marshland till it widened into a broad tidal estuary as it
neared the sea. The mountains, which rose tier after tier from the level
green meadows, had their lower slopes thickly clothed with pines and
larches; but where they towered above the level of a thousand feet the
forest growth gave way to gorse and bracken, and their jagged summits,
bare of all vegetation save a few clumps of coarse grass, showed a
splintered, weather-worn outline against the sky. Penllwyd, Penglaslyn,
and Glyder Garmon, those lofty peaks like three strong Welsh giants,
seemed to guard the entrance to the enchanted valley, and to keep it a
place apart, a last fortress of nature, a sanctuary for birds and
flowers, a paradise of green shade and leaping waters, and a
breathing-space for body and soul.
The house, named "The Woodlands" by Miss Bowes in place of its older but
rather unpronounceable name of Llwyngwrydd (the green grove), took both
its Welsh and English appellations from a beautiful glade, planted with
oaks, which formed the southern boundary of the property. Through this
park-like dell flowed a mountain stream, tumbling in little white
cascades between the big boulders that formed its bed, and pouring in
quite a waterfall over a ledge of rock into a wide pool. Its steady
rippling murmur never stopped, and could be heard day and night through
the ever-open windows, gentle and subdued in dry weather, but rising to
a roar when rain in the hills brought the flood down in a turbulent
torrent.
Through lessons, play, or dreams this sound of many waters was ever
present; it gave an atmosphere to the school which, if passed unnoticed
through extreme familiarity, would have been instantly missed if it
could have stopped. To the girls this stream was a kind of guardian
deity, with the glade for its sacred grove. They loved every rock and
stone and cataract, almost every patch of brown moss upon its boulders.
Each morning of the summer term they bathed before breakfast in the pool
where a big oak-tree shaded the cataract. It was so close to the house
that they could run out in mackintoshes, and so retired that it
resembled a private swimming-bath. Here they enjoyed themselves like
water-nymphs, splashing in the shallows, plunging in the pool, swinging
from the boughs of the oak-tree, and scrambling over the lichened
boulders. It was a source of deep regret to the hardier spirits that
they were not allowed to take their morning dip in the stream all the
year round; but on that score mistresses were adamant, and with the
close of September the naiads perforce withdrew from their favourite
element till it was warmed again by the May sunshine.
The house itself had originally been an ancient Welsh dwelling of the
days of the Tudors, but had been largely added to in later times. The
straight front, with its rows of windows, classic doorway, and
stone-balustraded terrace, was certainly Georgian in type, and the
tower, an architectural eyesore, was plainly Victorian. The taste of the
early nineteenth century had not been faultless, and all the best part
of the building, from an artistic point of view, lay at the back. This
mainly consisted of kitchens and servants' quarters, but there still
remained a large hall, which was the chief glory of the establishment.
It was very lofty, for in common with other specimens of the period it
had no upper story, the roof being timbered like that of a church. The
walls were panelled with oak to a height of about eight feet, and above
that were decorated with elaborate designs in plaster relief,
representing lions, wild boars, stags, unicorns, and other heraldic
devices from the coat-of-arms of the original owner of the estate. A
narrow winding staircase led to a minstrels' gallery, from which was
suspended a wooden shield emblazoned with the Welsh dragon and the
national motto, "Cymru am byth" ("Wales for ever").
If the hall was the main picturesque asset of the building, it must be
admitted that the unromantic front portion was highly convenient, and
had been most readily adaptable for a school. The large light rooms of
the ground floor made excellent classrooms, and the upper story was so
lavishly provided with windows that it had been possible, by means of
wooden partitions, to turn the great bedrooms into rows of small
dormitories, each capable of accommodating two girls.
The bright airy house, the terrace with its glorious view of the valley,
the large old-fashioned garden, and, above all, the stream and the glade
made a very pleasant setting for the school life of the forty-eight
pupils at The Woodlands. The two principals worked together in perfect
harmony. Each had her own department. Miss Bowes, who was short, stout,
grey-haired, and motherly, looked after the housekeeping, the hygiene,
and the business side. She wrote letters to parents, kept the accounts,
interviewed tradespeople, superintended the mending, and was the final
referee in all matters pertaining to health and general conduct. "Dear
Old Rainbow", as the girls nicknamed her, was frankly popular, for she
was sympathetic and usually disposed to listen, in reason, to the
various plaints which were brought to the sanctum of her private
sitting-room. Her authority alone could excuse preparation, order
breakfast in bed, remit practising, dispense jujubes, allow special
festivities, and grant half-holidays. It was rumoured that she thought
of retiring and leaving the school to her partner, and such a report
always drew from parents the opinion that she would be greatly missed.
Miss Teddington, younger by many years, took a more active part in the
teaching, and superintended the games and outdoor sports. She was tall
and athletic, a good mathematician, and interested in archæology and
nature study. She led the walks and rambles, taught the Sixth Form, and
represented the more scholastic and modern element. Her enterprise
initiated all fresh undertakings, and her enthusiasm carried them
forward with success. "Hard-as-nails" the girls sometimes called her,
for she coddled nobody and expected the utmost from each one's capacity.
If she was rather uncompromising, however, she was just, and a strong
vein of humour toned down much of the severity of her remarks. To be
chided by a person whose eye is capable of twinkling takes part of the
sting from the reprimand, and the general verdict of the school was to
the effect that "Teddie was a keen old watch-dog, but her bark was worse
than her bite."
Of the other mistresses and girls we will say more anon. Having
introduced my readers to The Woodlands, it is time for the story to
begin.