Haversleigh
There never was such a glorious place as the Manor. Upon that point the
whole school perfectly agreed. The garden was as fascinating as the
house, and proved an absolute dream of delight, with its smooth
bowling-green, its winding paths, its charming little arbours overgrown
with creepers, its clipped yew hedges, and its unexpected flights of
steps. It might have been designed as a kind of terrestrial paradise for
girls. The big lawns afforded space for so many tennis courts that there
was no need for the younger ones to hover about, waiting enviously until
their elders had finished before they could get a chance of a game; and
there was plenty of room left for croquet and clock golf. The shrubbery
and the plantation were ideal spots for hide-and-seek (almost too good,
Lindsay said, because it was so very difficult to find anybody); while
the various rustic seats scattered under the trees made sewing and
reading a luxury on hot days, when no one felt inclined for violent
exercise. A stone-flagged terrace ran the entire length of the front of
the Manor, proving an invaluable playground when the grass was too wet
for games in the garden; and a roomy summer-house stood near the
bowling-green, so big that it was capable of sheltering all the school
during a thunder shower.
Beyond the avenue, and at the farther side of the shrubbery, was a maze.
Marvellous little narrow, twisting paths, with high hedges of clipped
box, wound round and round in an utterly bewildering manner, most of
them either ending blindly or turning back to the original entrance, and
only one of the number leading to the arbour in the centre. For a long
time the girls amused themselves with trying to discover the proper
clue. Cicely, like Hansel, dropped pebbles to show which paths she had
already traced; Lindsay essayed to cut the Gordian knot by creeping
through the hedge; and it was only after many and repeated trials that
they were at last able to solve the puzzle.
In the midst of one of the lawns grew a grand old yew tree, the lower
branches of which were easy to climb. It was a favourite haunt of the
younger girls, each having her special seat, and here they might often
be seen perched like birds, and certainly chattering enough to suggest a
flock of magpies. A stalwart oak close by supported a swing that was far
more romantic than the swing in the playground at Winterburn Lodge,
because a strong push would send the happy occupant high up among the
green leaves, and give her a flying peep into a missel-thrush's nest on
the topmost bough, where four gaping yellow mouths were clamouring for
food. In a corner, down a flight of steps, there was a pond where grew
marsh marigolds, and irises, and forget-me-nots, and other water-loving
plants. A pair of ducks lived here in a wooden hutch, and would come
waddling up to be fed with bread, which the girls saved from breakfast
for them. Great was the delight of the whole school when one morning a
brood of seven small ducklings appeared on the water, each as yellow as
a canary, and seemingly quite at home already in its native element.
Then there was the rose garden, where every variety of the queen of
flowers seemed to flourish, from the delicate Marechal Niel to the
sweet, oldfashioned, striped York and Lancaster. Archways and pillars
were covered with climbers and ramblers, a little untrained, but hanging
down in such glorious profusion that one almost approved of the neglect.
Round this garden was a high hedge of clipped holly, so that it was
sheltered from every wind, and the roses bloomed as if in a greenhouse.
Nor must we forget the peacocks, which were as much a feature of the old
house as the twisted chimneys, or the stone balls on the porch. There
were six of them, and the gorgeous sheen of their feathers as they
spread their tails in the sunshine was a sight worth remembering. In
fact, as Miss Russell often remarked, they gave a finishing touch to the
whole scene, and made the Manor look more than ever like a medieval
picture.
The village of Haversleigh was only ten minutes' walk from the lodge
gates. It consisted of one long row of quaint black-and-white cottages,
with thatched roofs, and gardens so gay with flowers that they seemed to
be overflowing into the road, and pinks and pansies were coming up
between the cobblestones of the street. At the end stood the beautiful
ancient church, built in days when each artisan was a master of his
craft, and made his work a labour of love. Strangers often came from a
distance to admire the delicate tracery of the windows, the exquisite
carving of the pillars, and the splendid old oak choir stalls that had
formed part of a tenth-century abbey. At the west end hung a collection
of banners, won by Monica's ancestors in many a hard-fought battle, and,
all tattered and faded as they were, still bearing tribute to the
glories of the past. There were monuments, too, in memory of the
Courtenays: stone effigies of knights in armour, lying under carved
canopies emblazoned with their coats-of-arms; stiff ladies and gentlemen
of Tudor times, with starched ruffs and buckled shoes; and one lovely
marble figure, by a forgotten sculptor, of a young daughter of the house
who had perished during the Great Plague. The ruthless hands that had
chipped and spoiled many of the other monuments had spared this one, and
the beautiful, calm face seemed to be resting in tranquil sleep,
patiently waiting for the summons to arise to immortality.
The Manor pew, though large, could not accommodate the school. The girls
sat in the left aisle, and made quite an important addition to the
little congregation of villagers. They certainly helped to swell the
singing, and I think even the most thoughtless among them learned to
love that dear old church, and carried its remembrance into after years.
The Rectory marked the last boundary of the village, then the road
passed over a bridge straight into the open country. The scenery was
pretty without being grand. Picturesque farmhouses stood in the midst of
rich pastures, behind which rose wooded slopes leading to a higher peak,
called Pendle Tor, that stood out as a landmark for the district.
Naturally the girls were very anxious to explore the neighbourhood, and
delighted when Miss Russell allowed walks on half-holidays. The whole
school was not often sent out together, but each form would go in turn,
separately, with its own teacher--an arrangement that all much
preferred, as they could then ramble about in an informal manner,
instead of keeping to the prim file which was the general rule.
One Wednesday afternoon, at the end of May, it was the turn of the third
class, and its six members were standing by the gate, impatiently
awaiting the arrival of Miss Frazer, who, to do her justice, was not
often at fault in the matter of punctuality.
"I hope she isn't telling Miss Russell what bad marks I got this
morning," said Effie Hargreaves dismally. "She threatened last week to
report me if I had another cross for history, and I missed five times,
and four times in literature, and all my problems were wrong in
arithmetic too."
"I believe they're planning to hire another piano," said Beryl Austen,
"so that we can all get in the same amount of practising as we did at
Winterburn Lodge."
"Oh, what a shame! I'm sure half an hour a day is enough for anybody,"
came in a chorus from the others.
"Especially now, when we haven't a music master," added Cicely.
"That's the very reason," explained Beryl. "Miss Russell says she wants
us to keep up what we've learnt, so that we won't seem to have fallen
back when we begin with Mr. Nelson again."
"Don't talk of Mr. Nelson! We shan't see him for ages."
"You will, in September."
"Well, it's not September yet, it's only May, and in the meantime we're
learning from Miss Frazer. Here she is, by the by, hurrying down the
drive as fast as she can."
"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, girls," said the teacher, "but Miss
Russell has been giving me a commission to transact while we are out.
She wants us to go to Monkend, a farm about a mile and a half from
here."
"A new walk?" asked Beryl.
"Yes, we have never been there before, but I don't think we can miss the
way."
A perfectly fresh walk was a pleasant prospect. Everyone set off,
therefore, in the best of spirits. It was a beautiful afternoon, one of
those glorious days when summer seems to clasp hands with spring and
join the delights of both seasons. The newly unfolded leaves were still
a tender green, and the sycamores were covered with pendent blossoms, in
the golden pollen of which the bees revelled like drunkards. The larches
had opened all their tassels, and the young cones on the firs glowed
with such a pink hue that they resembled candles on a Christmas tree.
The hawthorns were almost over, but here and there a crab apple showed a
mass of pink bloom, or a guelder rose made a white patch in the hedge;
and all the stretches of grass by the roadsides were carpeted with
bluebells and starry stitchwort.
Miss Frazer was indulgent, and would wait for a few minutes while the
girls gathered handfuls of flowers, or climbed up to the top of a bank
to admire the view. She was as interested as they were in the finding of
a robin's nest; and quite as excited when a hawk swooped suddenly into a
bush, and flew away with a young thrush in its claws. The cuckoos were
calling persistently from the woods, the larks were singing up in the
air above, and all the hedgerows seemed to teem with busy bird life.
Their way soon left the high road, and, striking across a field, led
them through a copse where there was an interesting pond, swarming with
tadpoles. The girls would have lingered here, trying to catch the funny,
wriggling, little black objects, but Miss Frazer's patience gave way at
last, and she hurried them on, declaring that if they were not quick
they would never get to the farm and back before tea-time.
Monkend was a quaint old house, built in the midst of cherry orchards.
Its timbered walls were grey and weather-stained, and its tiled roof
yellowed with lichens. By the side of the open barn door the cows were
standing lowing to be milked, and the dairymaid, a rosy-faced young
woman in a blue apron, was coming from the kitchen, singing as she swung
her bright pails. She stopped in astonishment at the unwonted sight of
visitors to the farm, and ran to call her mistress to the scene.
"You may wait for me here, girls, while I do my business with Mrs.
Brand," said Miss Frazer; "or if you like you may walk back to the
stile, and I will overtake you in the wood."
Mrs. Brand insisted that Miss Frazer should come into the best parlour
to transact her errand, so, left alone, the girls began slowly to
retrace their steps towards the copse.
"I wonder how long she'll be," said Lindsay, who with Cicely had
lingered a little behind.
"I believe she has to pay a bill and order more butter and eggs and
things, so I don't expect we shall see her for five or ten minutes at
least," replied Cicely.
"Then there'll be just time to run round the farm. I want to peep inside
those barns, and see what is at the other side of those haystacks. It
looks interesting. Come along! The dairymaid is busy milking, and
won't see us, and I don't suppose it matters if she does. We'll soon run
after the others."
Feeling rather adventurous, the pair fled away down the yard, and dived
through an open doorway into the depths of a big barn. How fragrant it
smelled--such a delicious, sweet scent was in the air! Surely it must
come from that great heap of hay in the corner. The girls ran across,
and jumping on to the pile, were soon burying each other with armfuls
of the hay, and scooping out nests to sit in. It was dark inside the
barn--the beautiful brown gloom that one sees only in old castles or
churches, or ancient buildings, and is quite different from the black of
ordinary darkness. Through the open door came just one shaft of
sunshine, in which the specks of dust seemed to float and flutter like
living things. Overhead the great beams of the roof were lost in dim
obscurity; very old and rough they were, and covered with a mass of
cobwebs, among which Cicely declared she could see bats hanging head
downwards, with folded wings, though Lindsay said it was all her
imagination.
It was so nice sitting perched on the hay that neither was in a hurry to
move. I believe they quite forgot about the time, until at last they
heard Miss Frazer's voice in the distance bidding good-bye to Mrs.
Brand.
"We shall have to go," groaned Cicely. "What a nuisance! I could stay
here for hours."
"So could I," said Lindsay, getting up with a yawn, and brushing loose
stalks from her dress. "Let us jump down on the other side of the hay."
I do not know why it should have occurred to Lindsay to get off the
stack by the back instead of the front. If they had gone out of the barn
by the way they came, they could have overtaken Miss Frazer in a
moment, and the adventure which followed would never have happened at
all. As it was, fate decreed that Lindsay, in her flying leap through
the dusk, should knock her shins against something decidedly hard. She
stood rubbing them ruefully, and put out her hand to feel what had been
the cause of her bruises. It was a ladder, standing against the wall,
and through the gloom of the barn she could just distinguish its upper
end, which seemed to communicate with a doorway in the angle of the
roof. This looked attractive. She pointed it out at once to Cicely.
"Where does it lead, do you think?" asked the latter.
"To some granary above, I expect. I wonder what's up there! Shall we go
and explore?"
Without even waiting for an answer, Lindsay had begun to ascend, and as
she was six rungs up before Cicely ventured a half-hearted remonstrance,
she did not see fit to come down again.
"Oh! we shan't be a minute," she declared. "Miss Frazer will wait for us
in the wood, and we can run all the way from the farm."
Where Lindsay went Cicely always felt bound to follow; accordingly, she
clambered up the ladder behind her friend, and in due course both
arrived at the top. As Lindsay had supposed, they found a granary
half-filled with sacks of corn and a pile of loose barley. A door at
the farther end appeared to open on to a flight of steps leading
outside, while opposite was a small lattice window overlooking the
fields.
"There's really nothing to see," said Cicely. "It was hardly worth while
coming, after all."
"We might go out through that door, instead of climbing down the ladder
again," suggested Lindsay, beginning to walk round the sacks. "Why,
look! Somebody has left his lunch here."
On the top of the barley was a tin can, and also a red cotton
pocket-handkerchief, evidently containing slices of bread. From sheer
idle curiosity Lindsay seized them, and showed them laughingly to
Cicely.
"Will you have some afternoon tea?" she exclaimed in joke.
At that moment she was startled by a low growl behind her. From a corner
of the room sprang a collie dog that, unobserved by them, had been lying
among the sacks, and keeping a watch over its master's property.
Lindsay promptly replaced the tin and the handkerchief on the barley.
"Good dog! Poor fellow!" she said encouragingly, holding out her hand.
The dog, however, did not make the least response to her friendly
advances. It came a little nearer, growling again, and showing its
teeth in an ugly fashion.
"Come here, silly fellow! Does it think I want to steal something?" said
Lindsay.
"I expect it does," replied Cicely, in rather a shaky voice. "Don't try
to touch it! It'll certainly bite you."
Even Lindsay, fond of animals as she was, could not deny that the
gleaming eyes and snarling mouth looked the reverse of friendly.
"Perhaps we'd better be going," she said, turning towards the door.
Directly she moved, the dog growled louder, and would have flown at her
if she had not instantly stopped.
"What are we to do?" she exclaimed, looking at Cicely with a terrified
face.
They were indeed in a most awkward and dangerous position. The dog,
deeming itself guardian of the granary, and doubtless considering the
two girls intruders for dishonest purposes, would let neither of them
beat a retreat. It stood looking vigilantly from one to the other,
snarling so fiercely if they stirred even an inch that they did not dare
to put its intentions to the test. Oh! why had they come? If they had
only gone back down the ladder before they had roused the dog, or if
Lindsay had not been inquisitive enough to peep inside the handkerchief,
they might have been across the yard and following Miss Frazer to the
wood. How were they ever to escape? Would they be obliged to remain
there until the dog's master returned?
"Perhaps Miss Frazer'll come to hunt for us," quavered Cicely, in a very
small voice, and with a timid eye on the collie lest it should spring.
Evidently it did not object to conversation, so long as they kept still,
for though it looked at her it did not growl. That was one comfort, at
any rate. The situation was terrible enough, but to endure it in silence
would have been ten times worse.
"I don't believe anybody knows where we are," said Lindsay. "I wonder if
the dairymaid noticed us go into the barn. They wouldn't dream of our
climbing the ladder. They'd look all round the stackyard, and perhaps
think we'd taken a short cut and gone home."
Would nobody ever arrive to release them? The minutes seemed long as
hours, and they felt as if their trembling knees could scarcely support
them. Cicely, from the place where she was standing, could fortunately
look through the window and command a view of the field below. Though
she gazed with as keen anxiety as Sister Anne in the story of Bluebeard,
she did not see anybody hurrying to their rescue. The dog apparently
grew a little tired, for it threw itself down on the floor, but without
relaxing any of its former vigilance.
"I believe it's going to stop here all night," groaned Cicely, almost in
tears.
The case was waxing desperate. So weary were the poor girls that they
were ready to drop with fatigue. Unless something happened, and that
speedily, there was bound to be a catastrophe. At the moment, however,
when Cicely felt that she simply could not endure any longer,
deliverance came. Through the little squares of the wooden lattice she
saw a figure strolling leisurely across the field. It was Monica
Courtenay, and she was walking in the direction of the farm. Cicely
shouted at the very pitch of her voice:
"Monica! Monica! Help! Oh, do come!"
Monica stopped in much astonishment, and looked round as if to ask who
was calling her by name; then, deciding that the screams came from the
direction of the granary, she hurried as fast as she could up the steps,
and opened the door. Her amazement was only equalled by her distress at
the girls' plight.
She did her best to call off the dog, but as that proved impossible she
ran to fetch the first person she could find. In less than a minute she
had returned with Mr. Brand, whose stout boot and stick soon sent the
collie yelping disconsolately into a corner, to realize that it had
exceeded its duties.
"He's a good watchdog, is Pincher," said the farmer, "but he's been a
bit too clever to-day. You silly hound! You ought to know better than to
set on two young wenches. You may well slink off! You'd better keep out
of reach of my stick, I can tell you!"
Lindsay and Cicely were much upset and shaken by their terrifying
experience. They never forgot how kindly and considerately Monica
behaved. She did not tell them it was their own fault, and that it
served them right for prying into places where they had no business (as
Mildred Roper or any of the other monitresses would certainly have
done); she only sympathized in her gentle way, and offered to escort
them to the Manor by a short cut, so that they should not be so very
late after all.
"It was a lucky thing I happened to be taking a walk this way," she
said. "It might have been hours before any of the farm people went into
the granary. I wouldn't keep such a savage dog if it were mine."
As Lindsay supposed, Miss Frazer was not aware that she had left two of
her pupils behind at Monkend, and imagined that the missing pair must
have walked home in front of the others. Their absence had only just
been discovered when they arrived to explain the cause. The teacher was
hardly so tender with them as Monica, and they received more scolding
than sympathy.
"Though it wasn't such a very dreadful crime to go into the barn," said
Lindsay afterwards to her companion in misfortune. "Miss Frazer needn't
say we are the two who are always in mischief, because it might have
happened just as easily to any of the others. I saw Beryl and Effie peep
into the cowhouse as they passed, though they didn't climb up a ladder.
Wasn't Monica nice? I believe the old farmer would have been cross with
us if she hadn't been there. He evidently knows her very well. So do all
the people in the village. She seems to know each man, woman, and child
there, and to be a favourite with everybody."