This ebook was created in honour of Distributed Proofreaders’ 25th
Anniversary.
[Illustration: THE INITIATION CEREMONY OF “THE SILVER SWORD.”]
THE LASS OF THE SILVER SWORD
BY
MARY CONSTANCE DU BOIS
Author of “Elinor Arden, Royalist,” etc.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
CHARLES M. RELYEA
NEW YORK
THE CENTURY CO.
Copyright, 1908, 1909, by
THE CENTURY CO.
_Published September, 1909_
Printed in U. S. A.
TO
GRACE WINIFRED
AND
CECILY JEAN
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A Girl with Ideals 3
II. At Home in the Orioles’ Nest 14
III. A Tornado 31
IV. Castle Afterglow 42
V. The Queen of the Silver Sword 59
VI. Camp Huairarwee 72
VII. How the Queen Saved a Halcyon’s Life 83
VIII. Douglas Gordon 91
IX. Jasper Brook 107
X. The Trail to the North Pole 116
XI. Mermaids 132
XII. A Damsel in Distress 143
XIII. Philanthropists 156
XIV. The Camp Baby 173
XV. A Midsummer Day’s Dream 188
XVI. The Battle Maid 201
XVII. Forest and Fire 214
XVIII. Cinderella 226
XIX. The Hemlock and the Hist-oh-Hist 245
XX. Conspirators 268
XXI. The Runaway 281
XXII. Up the Gothics 292
XXIII. Down the Slides 306
XXIV. Life or Death 321
XXV. The Vigil Ended 329
XXVI. A “Stoot Hert” and a “Stey Brae” 337
XXVII. A Coronation 357
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
The Initiation Ceremony of “The Silver Sword” _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
Camp Huairarwee 84
As If In Answer the “Hist” Shot Forward 262
Gazing With Admiration at the Silver Circlet 370
THE LASS OF THE
SILVER SWORD
THE LASS OF THE
SILVER SWORD
CHAPTER I.
A GIRL WITH IDEALS
“Rah! rah! rah!
Basket-ball!
Carol Armstrong!
Hazelhurst Hall!”
Jean Lennox improvised this yell on the spur of the moment, and leaning
over the gallery rail shouted it forth at the top of her voice, bringing
the eyes of players and spectators upon her fourteen-year-old self. The
basket-ball match was over; the senior team had beaten the junior by a
score of twenty to thirteen, and the winners had for one of their
forwards Carol Armstrong, the champion player of the school. The goals
that Carol had made that day! Why, just before the referee’s whistle had
announced the end of the game, standing so far to the side that her
friends had looked for failure, she had shot the ball high, high into
the air, and down it had come safely through the basket, raising the
score of the seniors to twenty, and bringing Carol another rousing
cheer. And now Jean, too, had distinguished herself.
“Good for you, Jeanie!” cried Cecily Brook, who sat on Jean’s left.
“Rah! rah! rah!
Basket-ball!
Carol Armstrong!
Hazelhurst Hall!”
All the girls in the gallery except the disappointed juniors took up the
yell with enthusiasm, for Carol was not only the champion of the school,
but also a prime favorite. The sequel to the basket-ball match should
have been an instantaneous dash from the gymnasium, but this chorus,
which they had never heard before, kept the teams a minute longer on the
field of battle.
“Did little Lennox start that?” called up Helen Westover, the senior
captain.
“Yes, she did!” answered Cecily.
“That’s fine, Jean!” cried the captain.
Carol Armstrong looked up at the blushing author of the rhyme. Carol was
a fine, handsome girl, just eighteen; tall and vigorous and graceful,
with an air about her of being all sparkle and life. Her cheeks were
brilliant from the hard exercise; her sunny, brown eyes were dancing.
She smiled at Jean and blew her a kiss with the tips of her fingers,
accompanied by a bow and flourish worthy of the melodrama. Jean blushed
hotter, but oh, the thrill of happiness! To be saluted by the leader of
Hazelhurst, with whom she had not exchanged ten words in all the months
that she had been at school!
Next to Cecily Brook was Carol’s chum, Eunice Stanley. She rose and,
leaning over Cecily, patted Jean on the shoulder. “You quiet little
puss,” said she, “you came out gloriously! Come down and let’s
congratulate the conquerors. Oh, quick! they’re going!”
Eunice ran down the gallery stairs with Jean after her, shot across the
gymnasium floor, and caught Carol Armstrong in the act of flight.
“Carol, I’m proud of you! You were perfectly splendid!” she exclaimed,
giving her friend an enthusiastic little hug.
“_I’m_ proud of Nancy,” said Carol. “Nan!” she called to the other
forward who was hurrying from the room, “we’ll have to challenge the St.
Audrey girls again! We’ll beat them all to pieces with _you_ on the
team!”
“With _you_, you mean!” Nancy Newcomb called back from the doorway.
All unnoticed, Jean stood behind Carol and lovingly squeezed the heavy
plait in which the champion had braided her curly chestnut hair for the
fray. Before she could have the satisfaction of winding around her
finger the tempting ringlet in which the plait ended, its owner broke
away.
The twelve players in their pretty jumpers and bloomers of navy-blue
rushed off to the dressing-rooms. The girls left behind in the gymnasium
rah-rah-rah’d for their Alma Mater; and then—for that first Saturday in
March was one of drizzle and sleet—they devoted the interval before
luncheon to indoor exercise. Jean brandished Indian clubs until her
muscles ached. Then she perched herself on the headless, tailless
“gymnasium horse” to rest, and absent-mindedly cuddled a club in her
arms.
Jean was tall for her age, and pale, and in her own judgment she was
homely, for she did not know what charm lay in her strong, yet delicate
face, with its constantly changing play of expression. Her eyes were
large, deep-set, and of a dark, clear blue; but the times came often
when their pupils dilated and they flashed warningly. Her forceful mouth
gave quick, responsive smiles; and when, as now, her hair-ribbons had
slipped from their moorings, the heavy locks, almost black, which fell
about her broad forehead, lent an attractively witch-like air to the
bright, earnest face.
At school, Jean was regarded in the light of an interesting curiosity;
she had among other things the distinction of having lived for two years
in Brazil. Her father’s business had called him to Rio Janeiro for a few
years, but her parents had decided that when their only child came to
fourteen she must be sent back to the United States to be educated. Poor
Jean! Shy and homesick, she had come to Miss Carlton’s boarding-school,
Hazelhurst Hall. She had stayed in her shell while the other newcomers
were choosing their best friends; and so most of the intimacies had been
formed while she was still left out in the cold. But if she had no bosom
friend, at least she had the luxury of an ideal to adore, and that ideal
was Carol Armstrong. Jean had fallen in love with her at first sight,
when, just arrived at the Hall, she had seen Carol laughing and talking
with her friends, her head against the window through which the sunlight
poured, her chestnut curls gleaming with red and gold. Alas! the course
of true love never did run smooth! Jean had not dared to confess her
admiration to any one but Cecily Brook, whom she had pledged to keep her
secret. Now and then she made offerings of candy and flowers
anonymously, leaving them on Carol’s desk, and so far all Carol’s
attempts to play detective had failed, and it looked as if her admirer
would remain forever unknown.
While Jean was still mounted on the horse, Carol came back to the
gymnasium, this time in her school dress, and was captured by a devoted
mob, who drew her to the piano and made her play for them to dance.
Couples were soon waltzing to spirited music, but awkward Jean found
dancing more work than play, and she sat still, no one claiming her for
a partner.
“Let’s go and poke up crazy Jane! It’s too silly for her to sit there
when she ought to be dancing!” said Frances Browne to her room-mate,
Adela Mears, when the girls had stopped to rest. Frances was a piquante
little brunette, small for her age, slight and nimble. Her bright, black
eyes, sparkling with mischief, and her elfin quickness had won her the
nicknames of “Brown Mouse” and “Frisky Mouse”; and Adela, with her
flaxen hair and small, pointed features, had been dubbed “White Mouse,”
and the room which they shared together “The Mouse Hole.”
“Jean, Jane, do wake up! It isn’t time to go to bed yet,” said Frances.
“Why don’t you come and dance?” asked Adela.
“I don’t care to,” replied Jean, frigidly. Between herself and Adela
there was no love lost.
The day before, as they sat side by side in the Latin class, Jean had
found that the translation she was writing was being stealthily copied
by the White Mouse, and her indignant start and look of scorn were still
rankling in Adela’s memory. “I know what you’re doing,” she said
teasingly. “You’re making up your novel.”
“Why, what do you mean?” Jean demanded, looking startled.
“Blanche, isn’t Jean writing a novel?” Adela turned to Blanche
Humphreys, Jean’s room-mate, who stood near.
“I shouldn’t wonder. She’s all the time scribbling in a blank-book, and
she won’t tell me what it’s about,” drawled Blanche. She was blonde, and
overplump, slow speaking, and slow moving.
“Well, I know it’s a novel, and that’s why she’s so moony all the time,”
said Adela.
“How did you find out about it?” asked Blanche.
“Don’t you wish you knew?” laughed Adela.
“I guess you were in our room without being invited,” suggested Blanche.
“Was that it?”
“‘Guess’ is not a proper substitute for ‘think,’” said Adela.
“You _were_ in the room, or you couldn’t have seen her book!” remarked
Blanche.
“It’s big enough to be seen a mile away,” said Adela. “When is it to be
published, Jean?”
“Adela Mears, what business did you have to sneak into my room and look
at my private book?” Jean demanded, the color rising in her pale cheeks.
“I haven’t touched your private book,” replied Adela.
“You were peeping through the keyhole, anyway!”
“No, I wasn’t!”
“You were hiding in the closet, then,” put in Blanche.
“Well, I had to,—to get away from Miss Sargent,” stammered Adela, who
had gone farther than she had meant in teasing. “She said I was to stay
in my room yesterday, just for nothing at all; but I wasn’t going to, so
I scooted upstairs to see _you_. But you weren’t there; and I heard Miss
Sargent in the hall and skipped into the closet. And then Miss Sargent
came in with Jean,—she was lecturing her about something or other,—and
as soon as she went out again Jean began raging around the room, and
said she hated everybody, and went on as if she was crazy, and I was so
scared I didn’t dare come out. And then she threw herself down on the
bed and cried and howled!”
“Oh, Adela, do keep still!” cried Frances.
Jean was staring at Adela, her blue eyes growing black. She despised
crying, but now and then homesickness combined with some trouble of the
day would bring the tears, and alone in her room she would break down,
and with the sobs would come wild raging against the fate which kept her
at school. Such a storm had swept over her yesterday, brought on by a
sharp reproof for carelessness from Miss Sargent, teacher of mathematics
and strict disciplinarian of the younger girls.
“And then she got up and began to write her novel,” Adela went on, and
broke off with a scream, while Frances shot clear across the room.
Suddenly transformed into a fury, Jean sprang from the horse and flung
her Indian club to the floor with a crash. Adela could not retreat fast
enough, and Jean caught her by the shoulders and gripped her like a
vise, saying in a voice quivering with anger: “You’re a hateful,
dishonorable girl, Adela Mears! It’s contemptible to spy on people!”
“Jean, please don’t assassinate Adela!” It was Carol Armstrong who
spoke. She had left the piano, and now she drew Jean merrily but
forcibly away from Adela and held her with a firm arm. “What _are_ you
quarreling about, children?” she asked. “Jean Lennox, what _is_ the
matter?”
But Jean, utterly humiliated, jerked herself free without replying, and
ran from the gymnasium. She fled across the campus to the main building
of the school, and up to her own room in West Wing. There she sat
brooding until Cecily Brook and Betty Randolph entered. Betty was a
round-faced, rosy-cheeked maiden, cheery and good-natured. Cecily was
fair, and dainty, and sweet. The girls called her “Saint Cecilia,” and
her fluff of sunny hair, “Saint Cecilia’s halo.”
“Jean,” said Cecily, taking her hand pettingly, “will you do Betty and
me a favor? We need you dreadfully. We’re trying to get up some kind of
an entertainment for my birthday next Saturday. We’ve thought of
charades and lots of things, but they’re all so stale, and we think
_you_ ought to be able to think up something new, because you write such
splendid compositions. You have more ideas than all the rest of us put
together. Won’t you help us, please?”
“You’re only saying that to make me feel better,” answered Jean,
gloomily.
“No, we’re not!” said Betty. “We really do need you, and you mustn’t
feel so badly. Adela and Frances didn’t mean any harm, and Adela’s
_really_ ashamed of herself now. Carol’s been giving her a regular
blowing up.”
Betty coaxed and purred, and Cecily soothed and comforted; and it was so
good and so new to feel herself claimed and needed that Jean’s troubled
look gave place to a bright, grateful smile.
“I’d love to help you, if I can,” said she. “I love to plan things. But
I’ll have to have a good long _think_, and then I’ll tell you if I’ve
thought of anything.”
They left Jean to take counsel with herself, and she walked round and
round her room till the bell rang, dreamed at table, and—luncheon
over—slipped away, no one knew where. Early in the afternoon she
presented herself at the door of the “Orioles’ Nest,” as Cecily and
Betty had named their room, because Betty had a brother at Princeton.
“The Tigers’ Den,” first thought of, seemed less appropriate to young
ladies than the “nest” of the orange-and-black oriole.
“I’ve thought of something, but I don’t know whether you’ll like it,”
she announced. “It isn’t just an entertainment, but it’s something that
maybe will last all our lives.” And thereupon a meeting was held in the
Orioles’ Nest.