Autographs
The Brackenfielders, like most other girls, were given to fads. The
collecting mania, in a variety of forms, raged hot and strong. There
were the Natural History enthusiasts, who went in select parties,
personally conducted by a mistress, to the shore at low tide, to grub
blissfully among the rocks for corallines and zoophytes and spider crabs
and madrepores and anemones, to be placed carefully in jam jars and
brought back to the school aquarium. "The Gnats", as the members of the
Natural History Society were named, sometimes pursued their
investigations with more zeal than discretion, and they generally
returned from their rambles with skirts much the worse for green slime
and sea water, and boots coated with sand and mud, but brimming over
with the importance of their "finds", and confounding non-members by the
ease with which they rapped out long scientific names. Those who had
caught butterflies and moths during the summer spent some of their
leisure now in relaxing and setting them, and pinning them into cases.
It was considered etiquette to offer the best specimens to the school
museum, but the girls also made private collections, and vied with one
another in the possession of rare varieties.
The Photographic Society enjoyed a run of great popularity. There was an
excellent dark room, with every facility for developing and washing, and
this term the members had subscribed for an enlarging apparatus, with
which they hoped to do great things. As well as these recognized school
pursuits, the girls had all kinds of minor waves of fashion in the way
of hobbies. Sometimes they liked trifling things, such as scraps,
transfers, coloured beads, pictures taken from book catalogues or
illustrated periodicals, newspaper cuttings or attractive
advertisements, or they would soar to the more serious collecting of
stamps, crests, badges, and picture post cards. In Marjorie's dormitory
the taste was for celebrities. Sylvia Page, who was musical, adorned her
cubicle with charming photogravures of the great composers. Irene
Andrews, whose ambition was to "come out" if there was anybody left to
dance with after the war, pinned up the portraits of Society beauties;
Betty Moore, of sporting tendencies, kept the illustrations of prize
dogs and their owners, from _The Queen_ and other ladies' papers.
Marjorie, not to be outdone by the others, covered her fourth share of
the wall with "heroes". Whenever she saw that some member of His
Majesty's forces had been awarded the V.C., she would cut out his
portrait and add it to her gallery of honour. She wrote to her mother
and her sister Nora to help her in this hobby, with the consequence that
every letter which arrived for her contained enclosures. Her room-mates
were on the whole good-natured, and in return for some contributions she
had given to their collections they also wrote home for any V.C.
portraits which could be procured. As the girls were putting away their
clean clothes on "laundry return" day, Irene fumbled in her pocket and
drew out a letter, from which she produced some cuttings. She handed
them to Marjorie.
"Mother sent me five to-day," she said. "I hope you haven't got them
already. Two are rather nice and clear, because they're out of _The
Onlooker_, and are printed on better paper than most. The others are
just ordinary."
"All's fish that comes to my net," replied Marjorie. "I think they're
topping. No, I haven't got any of these. Thanks most awfully!"
"Don't mench! I'll try to beg some more. They've always heaps of papers
and magazines at home, and Mother looks through them to find my
pictures. No, you're not taking the 'heroes' away from me. I like them,
but I don't want to collect them. My cube won't hold everything."
Marjorie sat down on her bed and turned over the new additions to her
gallery. Three of them were the usual rather blurred newspaper prints,
but, as Irene had said, two were on superior paper and very clear. One
of these represented an officer with a moustache, the other was a
private and clean shaven. Marjorie looked at them at first rather
casually, then examined the latter with interest. She had seen that face
before--the shape of the forehead, the twinkling dark eyes, and the
humorous smile all seemed familiar. Instantly there rose to her memory a
vision of the crowded railway carriage from Silverwood, of the run along
the platform at Rosebury, and of the search for a taxi at Euston.
"I verily believe it's that nice Tommy who helped us!" she gasped to
herself.
She looked at the inscription underneath, which set forth that Private
H. T. Preston, West Yorks Regiment, had been awarded the V.C. for pluck
in removing a "fired" Stokes shell.
"Why, that's the same regiment that Leonard is in! How frightfully
interesting!" she thought. "So his name is Preston. I wonder what H. T.
stands for--Harry, or Herbert, or Hugh, or Horace? He was most
unmistakably a gentleman. He's going to have the best place among my
heroes. If the picture were only smaller, I'd wear it in a locket. I
wonder whether I could get it reduced if I joined the Photographic
Society? I believe I'll give in my name on the chance. I must show it to
Dona. She'll be thrilled."
The portrait of Private H. T. Preston was accordingly placed in a bijou
frame, and hung up on the wall by the side of Marjorie's bed, in select
company with Kitchener, Sir Douglas Haig, the Prince of Wales, and His
Majesty the King. She looked at it every morning when she woke up. The
whimsical brown eyes had quite a friendly expression.
"Where is he fighting now--and shall I ever meet him again?" she
wondered. "I'm glad, at least, that I have his picture."
Marjorie lived for news of the war. She devoured the sheets of
closely-written foreign paper sent home by Father, Bevis, and Leonard.
She followed all the experiences they described, and tried to imagine
them in their dug-outs, on the march, sleeping in rat-ridden barns, or
cruising the Channel to sweep mines. When she awoke in the night and
heard the rain falling, she would picture the wet trenches, and she
often looked at the calm still moon, and thought how it shone alike on
peaceful white cliffs and on stained battle-fields in Flanders. The
aeroplanes that guarded the coast were a source of immense interest at
Brackenfield. The girls would look up to see them whizzing overhead.
There was a poster at the school depicting hostile aircraft, and they
often gazed into the sky with an apprehension that one of the Hun
pattern might make its sudden appearance. Annie Turner came back after
the half-term holiday with the signatures of two Field-Marshals, a
General, a Member of Parliament, three authors, an inventor, and a
composer, and straightway set the fashion at St. Elgiva's for
autographs. Nearly every girl in the house sent to the Stores at
Whitecliffe for an album. At present, of course, specimens of caligraphy
could only be had from mistresses and prefects, except by those lucky
ones whose home people enclosed for them little slips of writing-paper
with signatures, which could be pasted into the books.
Nobody took up the hobby more hotly than Marjorie. Her album was bound
in blue morocco with gilt edges, and had coloured pages. The portion of
it reserved for Brackenfield was soon filled by the Empress, mistresses,
and prefects, who were long-suffering, though they must have grown very
weary of signing their names in such a large number of books. Outside
the school Marjorie so far had no luck. Her people did not seem to have
any very noteworthy acquaintances, or, at any rate, would not trouble
them for their autographs. She had thought it would be quite easy for
Father to secure the signatures of generals and diplomats, but in his
next letter he did not even refer to her request. Elaine secured for her
the name of the Commandant of the Red Cross Hospital, and of a lady who
sometimes wrote verses to be set to music, but these could not compete
with the treasures some other girls had to show. Marjorie began to get a
little downhearted about the new fad, and had serious thoughts of
utilizing the album as a book of quotations.
Then, one day, something happened. Sixteen girls were taken by Miss
Franklin for a parade walk into Whitecliffe, and Marjorie was chosen
among the number. Every week a small contingent, under charge of a
mistress, was allowed to go into the town to do some shopping. The
chance only fell once in a term to each individual, so it was a
cherished privilege.
They first visited the Stores, where a long halt was allowed in the
confectionery department for the purchase of sweets. The investment in
these was considerable, for each girl not only bought her own, but
executed commissions for numerous friends. There was a school limit of a
quarter of a pound per head, but Miss Franklin was not over strict, and
the rule was certainly exceeded. The book and magazine counter also
received a visit, and the stationery department, for there was at
present a fashion for fancy paper and envelopes, with sealing-wax or
picture wafers to match, and the toilet counter had its customers for
scent and cold cream and practical articles such as sponges and tooth
paste. There was a sensation when Enid Young was discovered
surreptitiously buying pink Papier Poudre, though she assured them that
it was not for herself, but for one of the Seniors, whose name she had
promised not to divulge, under pain of direst extremities. Poor Miss
Franklin had an agitating hour escorting her flock from one department
to another of the Stores and keeping them all as much as possible
together. She breathed a sigh of relief when they were once more in the
street, and walking two and two in a neat, well-conducted crocodile.
They marched down Sandy Walks to the Market Place, and turned along the
promenade to go back by the Cliff Road. In this autumn season there were
generally very few people along the sea front, but to-day quite a crowd
had collected on the sands. They were all standing gazing up into the
sky, where an aeroplane was flitting about like a big dragon-fly. Now
when a crowd exhibits agitation, bystanders naturally become curious as
to what is the cause of the excitement. Miss Franklin, though a teacher,
was human; moreover, she always suspected every aeroplane of being
German in its origin. She called a halt, therefore, and enquired from
one of the sky-gazers what was the matter.
"It's Captain Devereux, the great French airman," was the reply. "He's
just flown over from Paris, and he's been looping the loop. There! He's
going to do it again!"
Immensely thrilled, the girls stared cloudwards as the aeroplane, after
describing several circles, turned a neat somersault. They clapped as if
the performance had been specially given for their benefit.
"He's coming down!" "He's going to descend!" "He'll land on the beach!"
came in excited ejaculations from the crowd, as the aeroplane began
gently to drop in a slanting direction towards the sands. Like the wings
of some enormous bird the great planes whizzed by, and in another moment
the machine was resting on a firm piece of shingle close to the
promenade. Its near vicinity was quite too much for the girls; without
waiting for permission they broke ranks and rushed down the steps to
obtain a nearer view. Captain Devereux had alighted, and was now
standing bowing with elaborate French politeness to the various
strangers who addressed him, and answering their questions as to the
length of time it had taken him to fly from Paris. He looked so
courteous and good-tempered that a sudden idea flashed into Marjorie's
head, and, without waiting to ask leave from Miss Franklin, she rushed
up to the distinguished aviator and panted out impulsively:
"Oh, I do think it was splendid! Will you please give me your
autograph?"
The Frenchman smiled.
"With pleasure, Mademoiselle!" he replied gallantly, and, taking a
notebook and fountain pen from his pocket, he wrote in a neat foreign
hand:
"HENRI RAOUL DEVEREUX",
and handed the slip to the delighted Marjorie.
"Oh, write one for me, please!" "And for me!" exclaimed the other girls,
anxious to have their share if autographs were being given away. The
airman was good-natured, perhaps a little flattered at receiving so much
attention from a bevy of young ladies. He rapidly scribbled his
signature, tearing out sheet after sheet from his notebook. So excited
were the girls that they would take no notice of Miss Franklin, who
called them to order. It was not until the sixteenth damsel had received
her coveted scrap of paper that discipline was restored, and the
crocodile once more formed and marched off in the direction of
Brackenfield.
Miss Franklin's eyes were flashing, and her mouth was set. She did not
speak on the way back, but at the gate her indignation found words.
"I never was so ashamed in my life!" she burst forth. "I shall at once
report your unladylike conduct to Mrs. Morrison. You're a disgrace to
the school!"