Chapter THE TENTH: The Breach Widens (3)

"What is it?" said Violet.

Poppy's face cleared slightly. "Oh, I didn't know you were going to be here, Violet--it's these three kids I meant. Now listen, you three. I have got a 'single' at the end of the passage, and Miss Cockran has put me in charge of this room. She says she won't have any of the insub-sub-subordination there was last term, and if I have any trouble I am to report it at once--and I j-jolly well mean to--see?"

As she grew excited she began to stammer, but no one laughed--there was too much grim earnestness in her tone. "All right, Poppy--I didn't mean anything," muttered Frisky at last, in a weak voice; and she and Susy went back soberly behind their curtains. Violet Tremson had already disappeared. Sally was turning into her cubicle with a shrug when Poppy caught her by the shoulder.

"See here, kid--your precious friend has left, and I'll stand no cheek. You've not got a good name at headquarters, so you'd better be careful."

Sally met her glance without flinching. It was with a great effort of will that she prevented herself from smiling contemptuously as she would have liked to do.

"I haven't cheeked you yet, have I?" she asked quietly, and it was Poppy's eyes that fell before hers, as the prefect turned away.

"All the same, it will be difficult not to get into a row with her as monitress," Sally told herself, as she reflected complacently on the triumph of will that had kept her from giving Poppy a handle to abuse her.

How difficult it was going to be she had not yet realised.

CHAPTER THE EIGHTEENTH

THE BLOTTED ESSAY

Half the autumn term had gone, and Sally, though she did not mention it in her letters home, found that she disliked her life at Seascape House a great deal more than even when she had been a new girl. It was true that she had achieved her move into the Lower Fifth, where she sat, like an infant prodigy, among her elders; but the change was not to the throne of triumph which she had pictured in imagination.

Violet Tremson was head of the form, and kept her place by a narrow margin, above her friend, Doreen Priestly. It was only on occasions that Sally came third, more often she was fifth or sixth; and though at her age she should have been contented with this position, it did not satisfy her ambition to take the lead and dominate those around her.

What worried her most was that she could not understand her failure to achieve anything for which she worked. To her mother, she wrote that her new Form-mistress, "Old Cheeserings," disliked her; and though this was probably true--for Sally's manners were not endearing towards those whom she herself disliked--she knew in her heart that mutual lack of affection would make no difference in her marks.

The only other explanation was that Sally was still too young to achieve, with her usual ease and quickness of grasp, the standard of work in the Lower Fifth, and this she was not prepared to admit.

"Of course, it is difficult to play a lone hand," she wrote Roger, in a moment of expansion, when she longed for sympathy--even in her brother's almost illegible scrawl--and she added, "Still, you bet I hold some trumps, and will make the most tricks in the end."

She also put "Napoleon did," but crossed this out, for Napoleon had been beaten at Waterloo. He had trusted his friends--people like Bernadotte--and they had betrayed him.

Sally never meant to trust anyone at school again; but though she made no effort to win friends, she would have been glad of a group of admirers--however humble.

In the end, one admirer presented herself--a putty-faced girl, called Catherine Dowl, who had been in the Lower Fifth for years, and was almost as much disliked there as Sally herself--though no one quite knew why.

She had very curly hair, and queer, slanting eyes, that seemed to disappear when she talked, beneath her lazy eyelids; and when she laughed it was noiselessly, so that the only sign was the show of teeth and upper gums.

"The Cat," she was nicknamed, or "Puss Puss," but it was not an attractive member of that much-maligned race that she resembled. There was no Persian pride, or grace, in her, but rather the self-defensive cunning of a persecuted slum tabby.

Frisky Harrison, who had also been moved into the Lower Fifth at the same time as Sally, declared that "Puss Puss" cheated in arithmetic, at which she was very bad, and other members of the Form ostentatiously drew their books away, when she sat near them. She did not seem to resent this, nor was she put off at first when Sally refused to have anything to say to her.

"Your essay was much better than Violet's this week--Miss Cheeseman favours her," she said one day, in the middle of the morning interval. To which Sally, who had been thinking so herself only a minute before, responded:

"Rot!"

She knew suddenly, that it wasn't true.

"You ought to be head of the Form, for you are much more original," went on the girl, in her soft voice. "That's why they don't like you."

"I shall be head very soon," said Sally, flattered, in spite of herself, by a tribute to her powers that quite met her own views on the subject.

"I know--you are the horse for my money, and I have put all I possess on your winning--so mind you do."

The girl laughed noiselessly, and as she spoke seated herself quite close to Sally.

"Tell me what you think of Wordsworth," she said confidentially. "I was watching you yesterday and could see that you didn't agree with Cheeserings."

"It's no use disagreeing with her, is it?"

"No, I should think not--sheer waste of time."

The "Cat" bared her teeth and threw back her head, as though her companion had said something extraordinarily funny.

"But you didn't change your opinion, did you? I expect it is very rarely you change when you have made up your mind."

"Hardly ever," said Sally carelessly, and forgot that she was changing it at the minute. She no longer definitely disliked Catherine Dowl. That day she talked to her in class, between the lessons, and walked up and down the passages with her, indifferent to the contemptuous curiosity of the Juniors.

"They haven't any brains, of course," said the "Cat" tranquilly, when Olive Parker miawed and crowed at them from behind a pillar, and the other shrugged and agreed.

"I don't care a hang, if it amuses their small minds," she said.

"You wouldn't. Have you ever noticed how often really great people have been disliked at school?"

Sally had not, and was glad to have it pointed out. She would remember Shelley.

In the meantime, she was quite prepared to neglect the names of all those who had been both popular and illustrious.

"Anyhow, it doesn't matter, does it?" she said grandly, "I mean being unpopular. Success so often is envied just because it is the thing that counts most."

The next week Violet Tremson was only third, and Sally second, in Form marks. Violet remembered giving in her arithmetic paper, but it had not reached Miss Skalding, the mathematical mistress, while her essay was so covered in blots as to be perfectly unintelligible.

"I can't understand it," said Miss Cheeseman. "It is not like you to be so untidy."

"I ... I didn't make those blots," said Violet slowly. Her eyes were astonished. "I ... I'm sure I didn't," she added.

"Who else could have made them without your seeing them?" asked Miss Cheeseman in an annoyed tone. She had an unfortunately querulous manner; and everyone looked round at everyone else, except Violet, who was turning the pages of her essay with rather a high colour in her cheeks.

Sally wondered if it could be Frisky Harrison; she was often careless with ink, and had a leaky fountain pen which her neighbours dreaded; but her expression was one of obvious innocence. Then the girl looked beyond her, and caught for a moment a rather peculiar gleam in Catherine Dowl's slanting eyes. It was triumph--there was no doubt of it.

So the Cat had done it--Sally knew in a flash--and also that it had not been done for love of her, but in hatred of Violet Tremson.

Putting her evidence rapidly together she could find none direct, but everything pointed to this decision. Peter had once told her, as an illustration of Violet's missionary spirit, that Violet had caught "Puss Puss" cheating and had forgiven her, on promise of amendment.

"Much use to forgive a slimy beast like that," Peter had said. "She should have reported her to a prefect, and got her expelled. She is such a second-rate cad."

In her revulsion of feeling against Trina Morrison, Sally had pushed this judgment into the back of her mind, when accepting the Cat's homage.

"Cheating is silly," she had told herself, and argued that it was therefore impossible; but now, remembering the cunning in Catherine Dowl's eyes, she realised that it was not impossible. What was unlikely, was that the Cat would ever forgive those who found her out.

With a feeling of rising discomfort, she stood in front of the notice-board on Monday morning, and saw her name second, with Violet Tremson's third.

"Congratulations," whispered Catherine Dowl, appearing as usual at her elbow. "Now there is only one more rung for you to climb in this Form."

"Shut up," said Sally fiercely, forgetting wisdom in her indignation. "Violet ought to be first or second, and you know that quite well."

"Ought she?" The Cat raised her eyebrows. "I didn't know. Well, she isn't there, is she?" And she laughed noiselessly.

"I wish she was," said Sally. "I loathe winning anything by underhand means."

"Ah!" said the Cat quickly, and she suddenly raised her usually soft voice.

"Then did you make the blots on the essay?"

"No, I didn't--but you know who did, quite well."

"On the contrary--I quite believed it was Violet who must have done it, as Miss Cheeseman said, until you accused yourself."

Sally glared; but the Cat's slanting eyes merely blinked, without any expression at all in them, as they met hers.

By this time a large part of the Form had gathered round and were sniggering happily at the quarrel.

"Quite amusing when thieves fall out," said Doreen Priestly. "Do come here, Violet. I have never heard anything like it before. The Cocky-doodle says she threw ink on your essay to get above you on the Form List."

"I didn't," said Sally furiously, "I said I hated being above her, just because someone had played a dirty trick."

"Well, who was the someone if it wasn't you?"

Sally looked round the ring of hostile faces; she saw that the Cat had slipped away, and was already seated at her desk, with her head bent over a book.

"I didn't do it," she said sullenly.

"Then who did?" demanded Doreen. "You know something about it--you and your precious friend--or why did you bring up the subject at all?"

The hostile glances shifted for a moment to Catherine Dowl, who looked up tranquilly and then laughed.

"Does Sally accuse me?" she asked. "Then I suppose she has a proof--or else she is in one of her tempers. I am too old to do anything so childishly spiteful--besides, why should I? I'm sure I don't care who is head of the Form, for I know it will never be me."

At this there was a slight titter. Catherine, however much she may have cheated, remained steadily at the bottom of the Lower Fifth. The hostile glances left her, and focused themselves once more on Sally.

"Why don't you own up, kid?" said Doreen contemptuously.

"Because I didn't do it, you fool."

Sally's face was white with passion, and her anger seemed to communicate itself to the rest of the Form. There were shouts of--"You did," "You must have," "Sneak!" "Own up!" when suddenly Violet Tremson, who had been seated unconcernedly at her desk, leaped to her feet and pushing her way through the group called out sharply:

"Shut up, everyone, and listen--it's my essay you are talking about, isn't it? Well, I spilt the ink myself."

There was prolonged silence, till Frisky Harrison said, in an injured voice:

"You told Cheeserings you didn't."

"It's possible to make mistakes, isn't it--even over an essay?"

At this rejoinder there was a roar of laughter--Frisky's mistakes were many, especially in English composition--and most of the girls returned to their desks satisfied, or at least indifferent; but Doreen Priestly remained by the notice-board, looking doubtfully from Violet to Sally.

"A funny sort of mistake, isn't it?" she said quietly. "I believe you are shielding the kid, after all."

"I didn't do it, I tell you," said Sally fiercely. "You may think me a cad, but I'm not that sort."

"Sally didn't do it--I'm not shielding her," said Violet. "Do drop the whole thing--can't you? It's my essay."

Miss Cheeseman came in at this minute, and the subject was dropped; but the scene that had just taken place had two results. First, that to Sally's burden of unpopularity was added a vague accusation of underhand dealing, and, secondly, that an end came to all friendship between herself and the Cat.

This was not Catherine Dowl's fault, as she was careful to point out that afternoon, when she tracked down Sally at last in a deserted corner of the playing fields.

"So it was Violet Tremson's own sin that found her out," she began gaily, as though there had been no words between them.

Sally clenched her hands. "Shut up--and leave me alone, can't you?"

"But why?--I'm sorry if I annoyed you this morning--but really, I have more cause to be annoyed with you, only I know you lost your temper."

"Shut up," said Sally again; and then, as the other raised her eyebrows, "Oh, you know quite well that I don't want ever to see you any more--do go."

"Why, may I ask?"

The Cat's eyes were more slanting than usual, and there was a gleam in their corners that reminded Sally of a vicious ferret, belonging to her brother Bob.

"Because ... because I may be unpopular, and hard up for friends, but I'm not in such want as to be forced to be friends with you."

"Oh--so that's it, is it?"

Catherine Dowl's lip was drawn up till her gum was partly bare.

"You precious little fool," she said, and her smile became a snarl. "You mean you accuse me of blotting that essay and destroying the arithmetic paper?"

"I know you did," said Sally. "I saw the way you looked in class and every minute I've thought it over since I've become more and more certain. Trina Morrison told me you cheated, and Frisky says you do, and I believe them both now, though I wouldn't before when I was trying to like you."

"Perhaps you'd care to report me for cheating then, and bring your proofs with you to the prefects' meeting--they are holding one this afternoon, in the Sixth."

The smooth voice had a snaky ring, and for the minute Sally was frightened. She had spoken impetuously, from the heat of her indignation, and had not thought of proofs--where were they? Just the gleam in the Cat's eyes, as Miss Cheeseman had spoken. It was a very vicious gleam now, and the snarl had changed back into a smile of triumph and malice.

"You'll do it ... of course ... and bring the proofs, eh?"

Sally suddenly forgot her fear. "Very well," she said contemptuously. "Come! I will go to the prefects, and ask them if we can have a trial by ordeal--like in history. I'll say you are a cheat before the whole school, and put my hand in the fire without shrieking to prove it. Will that satisfy you?"

Catherine Dowl's jaw had dropped. "What do you mean? ... I don't understand ... it's childish and silly--what you suggest."

"I prophesy you won't find it silly," said Sally grimly. "Just tell me this--If I accuse you of cheating before the whole school, and you deny it, and I put my hand in the fire, to show I believe what I say--do you think they'll believe you or me?"

The Cat was silent. There was no doubt, with her reputation, which the school would believe. When she spoke again, her voice had its usual flat note of indifference and the snarling smile had disappeared.

"I suppose you are joking--of course, you must be--and so was I. It would be stupid to drag in prefects about our private rows, and I am sure, if you don't want to be friends, I don't. I thought you looked lonely before--that was why I tried to chum up."

"Well, I like being lonely, thanks--so ... good afternoon."

Sally turned on her heel. "Ugh!" she said to herself, and again--"Ugh!" as she thought over her short friendship with the Cat, and ended with a fervent, "Thank Heaven, I never let her kiss me."

CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH

MISCHIEF

Sally had now no friends, and had lost her only admirer. She found her work in Form a struggle, and life in the dormitory a severe test of her self-control, for it seemed that Poppy Bristow was ever on the watch to catch her out in some misdeed and punish her.

One night the trouble arose because of beetles in her slippers. Anyone might have been forgiven for shrieking aloud at the discovery made with bare feet; but Sally got 300 lines, as well as having to endure a mocking chant from the next cubicle, as soon as the prefect's back was turned:

"Sally Cock-sure,
Sally Cock-roach,"

and then a faint crow.

There was no doubt who was the real culprit.

A few evenings later Poppy burst into the dormitory, purple with fury.

"My bed!" she said. "An apple-pie! ... Which of you has dared?"

There was a faint giggle from the irresponsible Frisky, and then complete silence.

"Which of you?" demanded Poppy again: and then, "Violet, I know it wasn't you?"

"No."

"Susy?"

"No, of course not."

They each answered "No" in turn, and Frisky whispered, "Perhaps you'll have to go round the school to find out," when the prefect said, in a nasty voice:

"Oh, no, I shan't, for the someone who is afraid to own up has left her gym. belt on my floor, and it has got a tape name. Sally Brendan, is this belt yours?"

"Yes--if it has my name on it."

"How d-dared you come into my room?"

"I didn't."

"You little l-liar!--Why, I have the proof here--complete evidence. You must have done it."

A storm of abuse followed, endured in silence, while Sally considered who the real offender could be, and at last wearily gave up the matter. Perhaps Olive Parker, at the instigation of Susy Cranstone, or it might be the Cat's way of getting even with her--one of her many enemies, at any rate.

"I didn't do it," she repeated, when she could get in a word. "But if you like to think I did--well, I can't help it."

"I know you did it, little brute! Why, I have the proof in my hands--this belt with your name on it. You can just go straight to bed, after supper, for the next fortnight."

This was not a punishment that Sally minded. With any luck, she could read in bed, and at any rate she would escape the loneliness of the evening play hour that she had grown to dread.

"All right," she said, and for the next eight days went upstairs quietly, straight from the dining-room, being apparently asleep when the rest of the dormitory appeared at their usual hour.

One night, however, the spirit of mischief entered into her.

As she came in at the door, she saw, on a chair beside it, Poppy's hockey stick, sweater and cap, as she had carelessly flung them down and forgotten them, in the course of a dispute with Frisky Harrison on the state of her cubicle. Sally was by no means the only person to get into trouble with the prefect.

No one was about: not even Matron, or one of the maids, as Sally tip-toed over, and peered into Frisky's cubicle. It was extraordinarily tidy for once, but when Sally had finished working her will in it, very little of this was left. The bed-clothes, for instance, were in the chest of drawers, whose proper contents lay in little heaps on the floor: the shoes stood in a row on the pillow: the washing-stand was upside down on the bed, and on it Sally piled the hockey stick, jumper, and cap that she had found by the door.

With a subdued giggle of joy at her handiwork she retired into her own cubicle and hurried into bed. Frisky was late coming up: she often barely avoided detection and this night slid into the dormitory like a shadow. The next instant came her shout of surprise and indignation.

"I say, who has done this? Sally Brendan, is it you?"

"Done what? Do go to bed, Frisky, and be quiet." This from Violet Tremson, in a sleepy voice.

"But I can't, you ass. There's every sort of thing on my bed, including my washstand."

"What?"

Susy was soon peering over her partition, and Violet standing in the doorway, staring. They talked so much and so loud that they were speedily joined by Poppy; and last of all came Sally, already repentant of her rashness, but determined to see the thing she had engineered through to its end, even if it meant expulsion.

"You little beast!--you were up here early, so, of course, it's your handiwork," said Poppy, turning and gripping her by the wrist.

"Why me? I've been asleep," said Sally, yawning. "Do let me go back to bed. I thought it was something interesting."

"Very interesting--for me," retorted the indignant Frisky. "When I've got to clear up the mess. It's like your cheek."

"Sally shall clear it, of course," said Poppy. "And to-morrow I report her to Miss Cockran."

"But what proof have you got that Sally did it?" said Violet Tremson, in a cool judicial voice.

"Well, she was up here early, wasn't she? She must have done it."

"Anyhow those aren't my things left behind in the cubicle, and I don't think they are Frisky's," said Sally, pointing to the cap, jumper, and hockey-stick, that lay on the upturned washstand. It was the opportunity for which she had been waiting, and the note of injury in her voice was full of meaning.

"No, of course they aren't mine," said Frisky, examining them, "They are sizes too big. Why, Poppy, they are yours--however did they get here?"

There were a few seconds' silence before the joke that had been played dawned. Then Violet Tremson's mouth began to twitch.

"I'm afraid," she said, "they walked in here of themselves, like Sally's belt into Poppy's room, the other night, or else----"

She stopped suggestively, and Susy, from her seat on the wooden partition, gave a convulsive cackle of joy.

"Or else what? Say what you mean--do," demanded Poppy, whose brain was working, as usual, at a snail's pace; she was obviously uneasy.

"I mean that in another case (of course, you didn't do it, Poppy, we all know that) the clothes would be proof--evidence that whoever they belonged to must have done it."

"Like the belt, the other night," murmured Frisky, her eyes on the floor, to hide their laughter; but Poppy could read it in her attitude, as in Violet Tremson's voice, and Susy's sudden noisy scramble down behind her partition. She had been badly scored, and they were glad, because, though Sally was unpopular, the average schoolgirl likes fair play, and they knew that of late she had not had it.

The prefect's face went a dull purple as she glared from one to the other (Sally had wisely slipped back into her cubicle), then she picked up her things, and said in a strained voice:

"If there's another hoax of this kind, I'll report the whole d-dormitory."

The door slammed behind her, and no one said a word, though Violet and Susy assisted Frisky to put her things straight. That night Sally was happy until she fell asleep, and so, apparently, were the other inmates of her dormitory, for every now and then she could hear them stifle their merriment in their pillows.

The next day she could feel a change in the atmosphere of her Form.

"Ripping score, that of yours last night!"

Sally was so surprised at being addressed in a pleasant tone by anyone, that she looked up speechless at Frisky Harrison, who stood by her desk, grinning. Frisky went on confidentially:

"Bet you that we won't have any more trouble with the 'Poppet' down our way, this term."

"No," said Sally cautiously. The instinct to boast, "Oh, just a little brain-wave on my part," had died away, almost as it was born, and she did not yet know what kind of amiable remark to make instead.

Rather awkwardly, she picked up a book from the floor, and her companion left her; but the incident was significant of the new attitude of her classmates. Friendly they could hardly be called, but she no longer felt a pariah like the Cat, and found herself lending and borrowing books, pencils and indiarubber without any of the cold-shouldering to which she had grown accustomed.

Violet Tremson alone continued to ignore her presence, never addressing her except when compelled, and then with eyes that looked beyond her, as though she were non-existent. Last term Sally would not have minded; now, she wished she had not been so rude and contemptuous in thrusting aside the other's advances.

True, Violet had not the same exciting personality as her once beloved Peter, but, on the other hand, living in Form with her, the younger girl realised that she was neither "dull as ditch water," nor "goody-goody." It may have been that with Trina's influence removed she was able to enter more into the kingdom of good-natured chaff and schoolgirl politics; but at any rate, there was no doubt that Violet had grown immensely in popularity.

This was partly due to her success in games during the autumn term.

Her cricket had been a very medium performance, but swift running and steady nerves put her amongst the best of the hockey players, and from the second eleven she was very quickly promoted to be a forward in the first.

By this time the school as a whole, and not merely her own Form, had begun to take an interest in Violet Tremson. The Upper Fifth and Sixth showed a readiness to draw her into their select circles and ask her opinion, while school weathercocks, such as Mabel Gosson, hastened to worship the rising sun.

It was no surprise to anyone then, save perhaps to Violet herself, when her name appeared on the list of prefects posted up on the school notice-board towards the end of the term.

"That means we are done with 'the Poppet' for good in Dormitory A," said Frisky. "Oh, Violet, I am glad!" Susy clapped her hands, and declared Old Cocaine had more sense than she had given her credit for. Sally alone said nothing aloud. She was not going to "toady to the great," she told herself, in scorn of Mabel Gosson and her kind, but she was secretly thankful for the change.

It would be easy, she guessed, to live with Violet Tremson, who, whatever her private likes and dislikes, was even-tempered and scrupulously fair.

By this time Sally was looking forward eagerly to the holidays, when Uncle Frank had declared he and Aunt Antoinette might be in London and give her a week of theatres and other festivities. The hockey fever that reigned at Seascape House did not touch her, for the doctor still forbade her to play, and she did not care enough for anyone--not even for her Form--to be thrilled over the results of various matches. Her chief pleasure was taking Autolycus for walks, since Miss Cockran, in consideration of her not being able to share in games, and on a solemn promise that she would conduct herself so as not to disgrace the school, allowed her to go out alone with the dog, mainly on one of the back roads leading to a certain Tadiscombe Farm.

"It would be better if there were someone with you," she had said, but did not press the point when Sally, terrified that Catherine Dowl's name might be mentioned as a possible companion, since she also was not strong enough for games, hastily declared everyone was busy, she knew.

"I can trust you to be sensible, can I? And not get up to mischief?" said Miss Cockran, frowning slightly. "It's a very great concession from ordinary rules that you are asking me to make."

"I promise I'll be as good as if you or Miss Castle were with me, and I would just love it, please, if I may? I used to roam the country at home."

"Yes," said the Headmistress, rather grimly, "So I have been told. It is just that kind of roaming--playing practical jokes and breaking through hedges, trampling down corn, etc., that would bring disgrace on the school."

Sally flushed. "Well, I won't do anything of that kind--indeed I won't--I'll just mind Tolly."

Miss Cockran smiled, and her face cleared. "Very well," she said. "And if you try to teach him to 'mind' you, I believe you will have your work cut out. He pays no attention to anyone when he's after rabbits."

"He's a great sportsman," said the girl proudly; "I only wish I had my brother's ferrets here."

"I'm very glad you haven't, or the pair of you would be shortly on trial for poaching. Don't let him chase rabbits more than you can help. Remember, I have lost one dog that way, and this cliff here is a labyrinth of holes."

"Very well, Miss Cockran, and thank you so much."

Sally went off cheerfully, whistling to Tolly, whom she found in the garden. Once the school gates were passed, she was her old self, confident and care-free--and yet, at heart, she knew that she did not hate Seascape House as she pretended.

"If only it was just a little different," she told herself, and added with the natural candour and insight which had prevented her from becoming a hopeless prig, "I expect Roger would say it's I who ought to be different."

CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH

GAMES AND TOFFEE

One Saturday morning towards the end of November, Sally woke to a dripping world, on which the rain not merely descended in sheets, but was driven at intervals, in howling gusts, against the windows. Outside, the garden was already a series of ponds, and the sea heaved sullenly on the horizon, its grey monotony of waters only broken by the foam that seethed here and there amongst the rocks.

"Just our luck! No match, of course!" the hockey eleven was grumbling at breakfast, forgetful of all the holidays which had managed to be fine; and Sally, though she did not share their reasons for mourning, was none the less sad.

She had been planning a walk with Autolycus, and instead, she would have to spend the afternoon in a corner of the Fifth Form play-room, watching the rest of the class enjoy themselves. They had lately fixed up a ping-pong table, and were practising for a tournament; but no one had asked Sally or the Cat to join in the games.

When she entered her Form that morning, however, Sally's prospects changed, for she found on her desk an envelope addressed to herself, and inside, a card:

+---------------------------------------+
| MISS CASTLE. |
| At Home. |
| Don't R.S.V.P. 3.30. |
| but come. Games and Toffee. |
+---------------------------------------+

It was obvious that Miss Castle had done as she suggested in the sanatorium last term, and was giving a toffee party. It was just the day for it, and Sally, looking round, wondered who else would be there, and whether they would spoil the fun by being nasty to her if occasion arose.

"I'd much rather have been alone," she muttered, and then felt slightly more cheerful as she heard Frisky shout, "Oh, hurrah! How decent of her," and realised that she was also to be one of the guests. There had been little malice about Frisky of late; instead, a toleration that was on the borders of friendliness; a very pleasant change from the beginning of the term, when she had seemed to share in Susy's enmity, and abet her efforts at causing annoyance.

"I wonder if Violet Tremson will be there as well," was in Sally's thoughts; but Miss Cheeseman came into the room and there was no opportunity of finding out till the afternoon.

Sally arrived rather late (she felt strangely shy), and found the toffee-making already begun; but Miss Castle gave her the saucepan to stir, so she was soon seated on the hearth, comparatively happy, with something to do.

Frisky was acting taster--giving little screams as her fingers dived for sample pieces of boiling toffee which had just been dropped into a glass of cold water.

"Scrumptious!" she said. "It's just like glue." And when this description was received with laughter, she went on to try to say, "Sister Susie's sewing shirts for soldiers," with her mouth still half-full.

Sally looked round her and saw Violet Tremson on the sofa, with Doreen Priestly, and the fat good-natured girl--Decima Pillditch--who had been head of her dormitory during her first term, and was now a prefect, in the Sixth. There was no one there below the Lower Fifth, and Sally could not help thinking how furiously jealous Susy Cranstone would be when she heard of the party afterwards from Frisky.

Susy was in the Remove now--Miss Castle's own Form--but even with this advantage she had not, according to her own version, made much headway in capturing her divinity's affections.

"She hates me--I know she does--and I just do everything I can to please her and make her notice me," Susy had moaned the other evening, flinging herself on her bed. "I think I shall just go out and drown myself."

Frisky, to whom this confidence had been made, but loud enough for either Violet or Sally to overhear, had hardly been conciliatory.

"Don't expect she exactly hates you--just bored stiff with you," she suggested. "Why don't you be a little more cheerful with her?"

"I can't! I just tremble all over when she comes near. I really will drown myself soon, if she's so cold to me."

"In which case, she'd only forget you thankfully, wouldn't she?" Violet Tremson had said. And then, "Why are you such a sentimental ninny, Susy?"

Susy had been deeply offended, and after saying, "I wasn't talking to you, Violet," had relapsed into tears. Sally supposed there would be more tears that evening, for Frisky was not likely to keep silence about the toffee-party, especially if she had enjoyed herself.

The toffee cooked and put to cool, she and Sally, as the two youngest, washed up; and then the party, all formality and ice broken by the sweet-making, settled down to games. At first they were of the intellectual order, "Geography game," "Telegrams," and finally a strenuous "Alphabet List," in which, taking a certain letter, everyone present had to fill in examples that began with it opposite such items as, "a king," "a novel," "a character in Shakespeare," "a vegetable," "the first line of a song," etc.

One of the letters chosen was "A," and Frisky at once distinguished herself by putting down "'aricot" as a vegetable, while Sally made a great score with "Autolycus" as "a character in Shakespeare."

It was just the kind of game in which Sally's memory and instinct for amassing information scored, and, after Miss Castle, she came in a good second.

"Well done, Sally!" said her hostess with a smile, and there was a murmur of quite friendly agreement that made the object of their approbation blush.

Pleased at her triumph, she was also self-conscious, with a horrible feeling that her companions were secretly calling her prig.

"I've played it a good lot at home," she murmured, while Frisky, turning on her stool before the fire, said:

"Of course it's a great game, and all that, but isn't it jolly like a general knowledge paper?"

"Much too like--for near the end of term--I quite agree," said Miss Castle, with a twinkle in her eye. "For the rest of the evening we'll be frivolous. What shall we play?"

They played every kind of silly card game; and after tea, when they had finished the muffins, toasted before the fire, and cream buns from Parchester, they turned out the light, and collecting round the hearth, started on ghost stories. Miss Castle began with several, in order, as she said, to create the right atmosphere, and then Decima Pillditch woke out of her sleepy silence, to describe an old man in eighteenth-century dress, whom her father had once seen, walking across a road, opposite their house, in the moonlight. Violet Tremson followed with one about a Scotch castle, and at last only Sally had made no contribution to the general store.

"It's your turn, kid," said Frisky, whose own tale had been very short, but so involved that she was quite cross for the minute at the number of explanations needed to make it even intelligible. "Perhaps they'll believe you."

"I'm not sure that I know a real one," said Sally, hesitatingly.

"Then make it up," said Miss Castle, looking at her with some curiosity in her eyes. "It will be quite different from ours, that are all second-hand."

"Buck up," said Frisky; and Sally, spreading her hands to the fire, began.

It was a tale of Parchester and Seascape Strand some twenty years back, about a boy, undoubtedly the chimney sweep in Kingsley's "Water Babies," who was wanted by the police for stealing bread. As the author warmed to her task, the boy, in his hunger and loneliness, became quite a pathetic figure, and it was evident his creator could see him, dodging across the heath amongst the gorse-bushes, and finally, as he learned that dogs as well as men were on his track, making for the beach, in the hope of sighting a boat.

"He descended to the shore at Borley Chine and because there was no boat, he went up into the caves and felt his way along the labyrinth of passages, hunting for a refuge."

"Where did he land up?" demanded Frisky. "In old--I mean Miss Cockran's study?" And she giggled.

"Shut up," said someone; and then--"Get on, Sally!"

"He didn't come up," said the girl, with a quick change in her tone. "Have you read 'Marmion,' where the nun and her lover were walled up? Well, it was like that--a lot of stones gave way, and the passage behind him got choked--the police and their dogs couldn't get at him--of course they didn't care to very much, for they'd have had to pay for his feed in prison and the workhouse."

"You mean he died there?" said Miss Castle.

"Yes--he's still there, along with the ghost of Miss Cockran's dog, that was lost down a rabbit burrow. And some nights (All Hallows E'en, and Christmas, for instance) you can see the light of his tallow candle that he had in a bottle, shining out through the Portholes, across the sea. He hadn't the courage to chuck himself down."

There was silence.

"How beastly!" said Frisky at last, in a subdued voice. "He may be prancing under this room now."

"But he was never real," said Miss Castle, smiling. "So we can all sleep happily in our beds without any terror. All the same, it was a good story. Sally, you should work it up for the Magazine."

"Shall I put on the light again?" asked Violet Tremson; and the whole party returned to playing cards until it was time to dress for supper.

Sally had enjoyed herself thoroughly. She was excited by her story-telling, and the general friendliness, so that she believed the wall of ice separating her from her companions was beginning to thaw. At seven o'clock the party broke up abruptly, for Miss Rogers appeared to tell Miss Castle that Miss Cockran had just had bad news--her mother was ill, and she had to go home at once.

"Just think of Miss Cockran having a mother," murmured Frisky to Sally. "Why, she must be nearly one hundred and one herself."

"Silly ass! She's not a bit old, really," said Doreen Priestly. "And look here, Decima, hadn't we all better say 'thanks,' and clear out quickly?"

They did so--except Sally--whom Miss Castle kept for a few minutes, to ask her something about her work. When she left, all the others had disappeared, save for a single figure whom she found studying the notice-board, in the long passage. Sally came up with her, saw it was Violet Tremson, and on impulse, as she recognised her, made up her mind to apologise for her past rudeness.

"Violet, can I speak to you a minute?" she said hesitatingly.

"Yes--what is it?"

The voice chilled her, and it was with an effort she went on.

"I ... I want to say I'm sorry for all the times I've been hateful to you."

There was a pause, but the elder girl's face did not soften. "What has made you want to say it now--or rather, who? Miss Castle?" she asked, still coldly.

"No--of course not--it's just, it suddenly came to me, and I felt I must. I know I was an awful beast."

She would have gone on to excuse herself on the score of her disappointment the evening Peter did not appear, but Violet had already begun to move off.

"Don't bother to explain," she said, looking back. "I'm not worrying over anything you said. The fact is, I'm really quite indifferent to anything about you, because now I've got a good many friends here, and they are enough for me."

Sally stopped quite still. Violet's voice was cold and even, but it was not the snub she disliked so much as the sneer she felt concealed. Violet had not put it in so many words, but what she meant was surely:

"Why do you toady to me now? Just because I am popular, I suppose?"

Before she had walked the length of the passage very slowly, the younger girl was sure of this, and her cheeks flamed. Fear of it had been the only reason that prevented her from apologising during the last three weeks, and now that she had nerved herself to do so, she had been, not only scorned, but shamed.

She did not know that she exactly condemned Violet after the way she herself had behaved in the past. Perhaps her apology, at the moment, looked like toadying; but the bitterness of being suspected of it was almost endurable.

In silence she went up to her room, and found that Frisky, in pure friendliness of spirit, had arranged a booby-trap, of a wet sponge, over her doorway.

As it descended, it shot a stream of water right down her neck, but Sally scarcely noticed. Silently she picked it up, pulled her curtain across the entrance, and sat down on her bed.

"No offence meant," called out Frisky, in a disappointed tone; she had evidently expected a rise to her bait.

"All right--I don't mind--I wanted washing," responded Sally, making a gallant effort to be amused; but her voice was so flat that Frisky quickly turned her attention to Susy in the hope of better sport.

"My word! Toffee and cream buns and toast. Such a spread!" she said tantalisingly, "and if my hair is untidy at supper, and I get lines for it, I shall say it was all Miss Castle's fault."

"Why, she hasn't been stroking it, has she? I couldn't ever forgive you."

"No! you sentimental ninny, as Violet calls you; but we've been telling ghost stories, so now my back hair is going to stand permanently on end."

"Oh! Did Miss Castle tell one?"

"Rather! Several. I say, Susy, did you know there was a ghost of a little boy who was walled up and starved to death, inside Borley Caves, haunting the cellar under this house?"

Susy gave a little shriek of affected alarm. "Oh, I shan't sleep at night. How lovely and horrible! Did she tell you that?"

"No--it was Sally's yarn."

"Then I don't want to listen," said Susy, in a high-pitched voice, evidently meant to carry. "It's sure to be rot, and Miss Castle would never have asked the little beast--only she's such a toady."

Frisky laughed derisively.

"You wouldn't have gone if you'd got the chance, would you, my darling? Oh no!"

At this point a quarrel threatened, and was only averted by Violet Tremson's peremptory order that both parties to it should stop talking at once.

Sally, who was still seated on the bed, remained there, with her hands clenched, repeating to herself what Susy had said.

"Toady!"--there it was again--only, while she didn't mind it from Susy, it was hateful from Violet.

She had almost persuaded herself by this time that Violet had really used the word in criticising her.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST

AUTOLYCUS GIVES TROUBLE

Very few at Seascape House, certainly amongst the girls, had been aware of how much personality and influence Miss Cockran possessed, until her ruling hand was removed. While Peter's tongue had dictated her views to the general school public, it had been the fashion to ridicule the Headmistress as a funny old maid, out of date in her educational methods, and only to be obeyed because parents, having paid her their fees, would expect their daughters to try to be patient--at any rate, up to a point.

Not all the elder girls and prefects, by any means, had subscribed to this view, and since Trina Morrison had departed they had more openly maintained that, far from being a back number, the Headmistress of Seascape House was a credit to her profession, and one of the school's chief assets.

"Wonder when she will get back--it is rot her being away now," Sally overheard a voice saying in the hall as she descended the stairs on the fourth day of Miss Cockran's absence. The voice was querulous, and to her surprise Sally saw that it was the usually good-tempered Decima Pillditch who was thus ruffled.

"Perhaps her mother'll die soon," said someone else hopefully, and then, at a shocked remonstrance from the group: "Well, of course, I only meant Miss Cockran would be able to get back quicker."

"Cheeserings is the limit," went on Decima. "There's that shopping party in Parchester, promised on Friday--approved by Miss Cockran and everything--and now her Royal Highness tries to pretend it shouldn't be done."

"Hush!" said another voice. "Here's one of the kids listening--take care."

Sally hurried on her way, trying to pretend she had not been eavesdropping, but really she had been held fascinated by the sudden realisation that prefects are not always in sympathy with those in authority. Decima Pillditch evidently disliked Miss Cheeseman, and the younger girl, who cordially shared this feeling, was pleased. When she arrived in Form, she told Frisky, in an undertone, what she had overheard, and Frisky nodded.

"Too much of the Cheesemonger, and we'd have a revolution," she said, with gloomy joy, and went away to whisper her views to someone else.

No revolution occurred, but it must be confessed that the atmosphere at Seascape House had suddenly become strained. Everywhere, from the Sixth to the Juniors, there was an undercurrent of insubordination, and though the prefects did their best to hold it back, they were obviously half-hearted in their task--like an army employed by the State that is secretly in sympathy with the rebels. Miss Cheeseman, whatever her intention, was not a success as Deputy Head: she had too little sense of humour, and too much conscience in small matters. Insubordination, whether in the form of open defiance or some quite insignificant piece of mischief, she treated with the same rigorous repression, making martyrs of its perpetrators and grumblers of those who listened to their wrongs.

When Frisky Harrison had been sent to bed in the silence dormitory known as "Coventry" for jumping out from behind the gymnasium door to boo at one of her friends, and Cathy Manners of the Upper Fifth deprived of her privileges for eating sweets between classes, there was a general feeling that no one was safe.

"Why doesn't she send the whole school to bed at once, on bread and water?" said Decima, who was still ruffled, loud enough for some of the Juniors to hear. And though Violet Tremson stopped her with a quick: "Best take care, Pilladex," the warning was plainly given in sympathy with the prefect, and not with Miss Cheeseman.

Sally, with a great effort at self-control, avoided any conflict--accepting her Form Mistress's criticisms of her essay without the usual argument in favour of her own views--though on this occasion she would undoubtedly have found popular backing had she done so. It was her terror that if she annoyed Miss Cheeseman the latter would stop her usual walk with Autolycus, and with a beating heart she slipped out of the house that afternoon and went round to fetch him from the stables, where he usually had his dinner.

Fate was against her, for having found Autolycus and started towards the drive, she met Miss Cheeseman walking towards her, with Jakes, the gardener. Since it was impossible to vanish into space, Sally smiled ingratiatingly, and tried to pass unnoticed; but with a movement of her hand the Deputy Principal stopped her.

"Where are you going, child?"

"I'm just exercising Autolycus--Miss Cockran always lets me."

Miss Cheeseman frowned. She had been told a great deal lately of what Miss Cockran did or did not approve, and even to her calm temperament it was somewhat galling.

"Indeed," she said coldly, "and where are you going?"

"Along the road, and then up the lane towards Tadiscombe Farm."

Jakes, who had been listening, and never liked to be shut long out of any conversation, now spat on his hands by way of introducing his remarks, and said:

"It's wildish country up there."

"What do you mean?"

"There do be a lot of poaching along them gravel-pits that b'long to Squire Pearson, and gypsy fellows, they say, about."

"I've never seen a gypsy, and I don't go in the gravel-pits," broke in Sally indignantly, and made an effort to pass.

"Stop, Sally," said Miss Cheeseman, firmly; "I daresay there are no gypsies, but I think it most undesirable that a child of your age should wander about the lanes alone."

"But I shan't be alone, I've got Tolly--he'd bite anyone who attacked me."

"Yes, Miss, and perhaps, it may be, anyone who didn't; skinned my fingers, he did, the last time I was washing him--the little mongrel!"

"It must have been your fault then," said Sally rudely. She disliked the gardener, who seemed to regard all school-girls as his natural enemies.

"Be quiet, Sally, and don't speak in that tone. Understand, I will not have you going out alone. Who is there that doesn't play games? Let me see----"

"I don't know." Sally looked very sullen. Really, she remembered the Cat quite well, and, to her annoyance, so did Miss Cheeseman. A passing Junior was ordered to find Catherine Dowl at once. In the meantime she began to talk about vegetables to the gardener, and Sally, after she had vainly tried to protest against the suggested companionship, was told to be silent and keep the whining Autolycus from walking on the beds.

Presently Catherine appeared, and Miss Cheeseman told her briskly that she and Sally Brendan might go for a walk as far as Tadiscombe Farm, but that they were not on any account to enter the gravel-pit, or wander from the road.

The Cat looked no more pleased with the suggestion than Sally had done.

"Must I go? Quantities of prep.," she mumbled, and was told that the right time for preparation was after tea. Next, it appeared, she had a cold coming, and had meant to stay indoors.

"It would be much better to take a brisk walk, than sit over the playroom fire," said the Deputy Principal firmly; she disliked the Cat as much as any of her companions, but had a secret theory that a little more regular exercise would make her healthier in mind as well as body.

"Now, no more excuses," she said at last. "If you have a cold, Catherine, you can go to Matron as soon as you get in, and I will tell her to give you a dose of cinnamon and another to-night."

Sally could almost have laughed at the Cat's expression, only she was so cross herself.

"Come on--it's no use arguing," she said in an undertone, and presently they set out.

"You'd better be back by 3.30," called Miss Cheeseman after them, but they pretended not to hear, and went on sulkily down the drive. When they reached the road Sally said: