Produced by Suzanne Shell, Jacqueline Jeremy and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net A Patriotic Schoolgirl BLACKIE & SON LIMITED 50 Old Bailey, LONDON 17 Stanhope Street, GLASGOW BLACKIE & SON (INDIA) LIMITED Warwick House, Fort Street, BOMBAY BLACKIE & SON (CANADA) LIMITED 1118 Bay Street, TORONTO A Patriotic Schoolgirl BY ANGELA BRAZIL Author of "Schoolgirl Kitty" "The Luckiest Girl in the School" "Monitress Merle" &c. &c. _Illustrated by Balliol Salmon_ BLACKIE & SON LIMITED LONDON AND GLASGOW Contents CHAP. Page I. OFF TO BOARDING-SCHOOL 9 II. BRACKENFIELD COLLEGE 23 III. THE TALENTS TOURNAMENT 32 IV. EXEATS 45 V. AUTOGRAPHS 58 VI. TROUBLE 67 VII. DORMITORY NO. 9 79 VIII. A SENSATION 91 IX. ST. ETHELBERTA'S 98 X. THE RED CROSS HOSPITAL 106 XI. A STOLEN MEETING 119 XII. THE SCHOOL UNION 129 XIII. THE SPRING TERM 140 XIV. THE SECRET SOCIETY OF PATRIOTS 151 XV. THE EMPRESS 163 XVI. THE OBSERVATORY WINDOW 175 XVII. THE DANCE OF THE NATIONS 183 XVIII. ENCHANTED GROUND 195 XIX. A POTATO WALK 208 XX. PATRIOTIC GARDENING 222 XXI. THE ROLL OF HONOUR 231 XXII. THE MAGIC LANTERN 244 XXIII. ON LEAVE 255 XXIV. THE ROYAL GEORGE 264 XXV. CHARADES 276 Illustrations Facing Page "IF YOU WANT THE EUSTON EXPRESS, YOU'LL HAVE TO MAKE A RUN FOR IT" _Frontispiece_ THEY WERE HUDDLED TOGETHER, WATCHING HER WITH AWESTRUCK FACES 96 THEN SOMEHOW MARJORIE FOUND HERSELF BLURTING OUT THE ENTIRE STORY 168 SHE STARED AT IT IN CONSTERNATION 280 A Patriotic Schoolgirl CHAPTER I Off to Boarding-school "Dona, are you awake? Donakins! I say, old sport, do stir yourself and blink an eye! What a dormouse you are! D'you want shaking? Rouse up, you old bluebottle, can't you?" "I've been awake since five o'clock, and it's no use thumping me in the back," grunted an injured voice from the next bed. "It's too early yet to get up, and I wish you'd leave me alone." The huskiness and general chokiness of the tone were unmistakable. Marjorie leaned over and took a keen survey of that portion of her sister's face which was not buried in the pillow. "Oh! the atmosphere's damp, is it?" she remarked. "Dona, you're ostriching! For goodness' sake brace up, child, and turn off the water-works! I thought you'd more pluck. If you're going to arrive at Brackenfield with a red nose and your eyes all bunged up, I'll disown you, or lose you on the way. Crystal clear, I will! I'll not let you start in a new school nicknamed 'Niobe', so there! Have a caramel?" Dona sat up in bed, and arrested her tears sufficiently to accept the creature comfort offered her. As its consistency was decidedly of a stick-jaw nature, the mingled sucking and sobbing which followed produced a queer combination. "You sound like a seal at the Zoo," Marjorie assured her airily. "Cheer oh! I call it a stunt to be going to Brackenfield. I mean to have a top-hole time there, and no mistake!" "It's all very well for you!" sighed Dona dolefully. "You've been at a boarding-school before, and I haven't; and you are not shy, and you always get on with people. You know I'm a mum mouse, and I hate strangers. I shall just endure till the holidays come. It's no use telling me to brace up, for there's nothing to brace about." In the bedroom where the two girls lay talking every preparation had been made for a journey. Two new trunks, painted respectively with the initials "M. D. A." and "D. E. A.", stood side by side with the lids open, filled to the brim, except for sponge-bags and a few other items, which must be put in at the last. Weeks of concentrated thought and practical work on the part of Mother, two aunts, and a dressmaker had preceded the packing of those boxes, for the requirements of Brackenfield seemed numerous, and the list of essential garments resembled a trousseau. There were school skirts and blouses, gymnasium costumes, Sunday dresses, evening wear and party frocks, to say nothing of underclothes, and such details as gloves, shoes, ties, ribbons, and handkerchiefs, writing-cases, work-baskets, books, photos, and knick-knacks. Two hand-bags, each containing necessaries for the first night, stood by the trunks, and two umbrellas, with two hockey-sticks, were already strapped up with mackintoshes and winter coats. For both the girls this morning would make a new and very important chapter in the story of their lives. Marjorie had, indeed, already been at boarding-school, but it was a comparatively small establishment, not to be named in the same breath with a place so important as Brackenfield, and giving only a foretaste of those experiences which she expected to encounter in a wider circle. She had been tolerably popular at Hilton House, but she had made several mistakes which she was determined not to repeat, and meant to be careful as to the first impressions which she produced upon her new schoolfellows. Marjorie, at fifteen and a half, was a somewhat problematical character. In her childhood she had been aptly described as "a little madam", and it was owing to the very turbulent effect of her presence in the family that she had been packed off early to school, "to find her level among other girls, and leave a little peace at home", as Aunt Vera expressed it. "Finding one's level" is generally rather a stormy process; so, after four years of give-and-take at Hilton House, Marjorie was, on the whole, not at all sorry to leave, and transfer her energies to another sphere. She meant well, but she was always cock-sure that she was right, and though this line of action may serve with weaker characters, it is liable to cause friction when practised upon equals or elders whose views are also self-opinionated. As regards looks, Marjorie could score. Her clear-cut features, fresh complexion, and frank, grey eyes were decidedly prepossessing, and her pigtail had been the longest and thickest and glossiest in the whole crocodile of Hilton House. She was clever, if she chose to work, though apt to argue with her teachers; and keen at games, if she could win, but showed an unsporting tendency to lose her temper if the odds were against her. Such was Marjorie--crude, impetuous, and full of overflowing spirits, with many good qualities and certain disagreeable traits, eager to loose anchor and sail away from the harbour of home and the narrow waters of Hilton House into the big, untried sea of Brackenfield College. Two sisters surely never presented a greater contrast than the Anderson girls. Dona, at thirteen, was a shy, retiring, amiable little person, with an unashamed weakness for golliwogs and Teddy bears, specimens of which, in various sizes, decorated the mantelpiece of her bedroom. She was accustomed to give way, under plaintive protest, to Marjorie's masterful disposition, and, as a rule, played second fiddle with a good grace. She was not at all clever or imaginative, but very affectionate, and had been the pet of the family at home. She was a neat, pretty little thing, with big blue eyes and arched eyebrows and silky curls, exactly like a Sir Joshua Reynolds portrait, and she had a pathetic way of saying, "Oh, Marjorie!" when snubbed by her elder sister. According to Aunt Vera, if Marjorie needed to "find her level", Dona required to be "well shaken up". She was dreamy and unobservant, slow in her ways, and not much interested in any special subject. Marjorie's cherished ambitions were unknown to Dona, who liked to plod along in an easy fashion, without taking very much trouble. Her daily governess had found it difficult to rouse any enthusiasm in her for her work. She frankly hated lessons. It was a subject of congratulation to Mrs. Anderson that the two girls would not be in the same house at Brackenfield. She considered that Dona's character had no chance for development under the shadow of Marjorie's overbearing ways, and that among companions of her own age she might perhaps find a few congenial friends who would help her to realize that she had entered her teens, and would interest her in girlish matters. Poor Dona by no means shared her mother's satisfaction at the arrangements for her future. She would have preferred to be with Marjorie, and was appalled at the idea of being obliged to face a houseful of strangers. She met with little sympathy from her own family in this respect. "Do you all the good in the world, old sport!" preached Peter, an authority of eleven, with three years of preparatory-school experience behind him. "I felt a bit queer myself, you know, when I first went to The Grange, but one soon gets over that. You'll shake down." "I don't want to shake down," bleated Dona. "It's a shame I should have to go at all! You can't any of you understand how I feel. You're all beasts!" "They'll allow you a bucket to weep into for the first day or two, poor old Bunting!" said Larry consolingly. "It won't be so much kindness on their part as a desire to save the carpets--salt water takes the colour out of things so. But I fancy they'll limit you to a week's wailing, and if you don't turn off the tap after that, they'll send for a doctor, who'll prescribe Turkey rhubarb and senna mixed with quinine. It's a stock school prescription for shirking; harmless, you know, but particularly nasty; you'd have the taste in your mouth for days. Oh, cheer up, for goodness' sake! Look here: if I'm really sent to the camp at Denley, I'll come and look you up, and take you out to tea somewhere. How would that suit your ladyship?" "Would you really? Will you promise?" "Honest Injun, I will!" "Then I don't mind quite so much as I did, though I still hate the thought of school," conceded Dona. The Andersons generally described themselves as "a large and rambling family, guaranteed sound, and quiet in harness, but capable of taking fences if required". Nora, the eldest, had been married a year ago, Bevis was in the Navy, Leonard was serving "somewhere in France"; Larry, who had just left school, had been called up, and was going into training, and after Marjorie and Dona followed Peter, Cyril, and Joan. Marjorie and Dona always declared that if they could have been consulted in the matter of precedence, they would not have chosen to arrive in the exact centre of a big family. Nora, as eldest, and Joan, as youngest, occupied definite and recognized positions, but middle girls rarely receive as much attention. Dona, indeed, had claimed a certain share of petting, but Marjorie considered herself badly treated by the Fates. "I wish I were the only one!" she assured the others. "Think how I'd be appreciated then!" "We'll swop you with pleasure, madam, if you wish," returned Larry ironically. "I should suggest an advertisement such as this: 'Wanted situation as only daughter in eligible family, eight brothers and sisters given in exchange. A month's approval.' No! Better not put that in, or they'd send you packing back at the end of the first week." "Brothers are beasts!" pouted Marjorie, throwing a cushion at Larry to express her indignation. "What I'd like would be for Mother to take me away for a year, or let me study Art, or Music, or something, just with her. Mamie Page's mother went with her to Paris, and they'd a gorgeous time. That's my ambition." "And mine's just to be allowed to stop at home," added Dona plaintively. Neither Marjorie's nor Dona's wishes, however, were considered at head-quarters. The powers that be had decided that they were to be educated at Brackenfield College, their boxes were ready packed, and their train was to leave at nine o'clock by railway time. Mother saw them off at the station. "I wish I could have taken you," she said rather anxiously. "But I think you'll manage the journey all right. You're both together, and Marjorie's a big girl now, and used to travelling. You've only to cross the platform at Rosebury to get the London train, and a teacher is to meet you at Euston. You'll know her by the Brackenfield badge, and be sure you don't speak to anyone else. Call out of the window for a porter when you reach Rosebury. You've plenty of time to change. Well, good-bye, chicks! Be good girls. Don't forget to send me that telegram from Euston. Write as soon as you can. Don't lean against the door of the carriage. You're just off now! Good-bye! Good-bye!" As the train steamed out of the station, Dona sank into her place with the air of a martyr starting for the stake, and mopped her eyes with her already damp pocket-handkerchief. Marjorie, case-hardened after many similar partings, settled herself in the next seat, and, pulling out an illustrated paper from her bag, began to read. The train was very full, and the girls had with difficulty found room. Soldiers on leave were returning to the front, and filled the corridor. Dona and Marjorie were crammed in between a stout woman, who nursed a basket containing a mewing kitten, and a wizened little man with an irritating cough. Opposite sat three Tommies, and an elderly lady with a long thin nose and prominent teeth, who entered into conversation with the soldiers, and proffered them much good advice, with an epitome of her ideas on the conduct of the war. The distance from Silverwood to Rosebury was only thirty miles, and the train was due to arrive at the junction with twenty-five minutes to spare for the London express. On all ordinary occasions it jogged along in a commonplace fashion, and turned up up to time. To-day, however, it behaved with unusual eccentricity, and, instead of passing the signals at Meriton, it slowed up and whistled, and finally stood still upon the bridge. "Must be something blocking the line," observed one of the Tommies, looking out of the window. "I do hope it's not an accident. The Company is so terribly understaffed at present, and the signal-men work far too long hours, and are ready to drop with fatigue at their posts," began the thin lady nervously. "I've always had a horror of railway accidents. I wish I'd taken an insurance ticket before I started. Can you see anything on the line, my good man? Is there any danger?" The Tommy drew in his head and smiled. It was a particularly good-looking head, with twinkling brown eyes, and a very humorous smile. "Not so long as the train is standing still," he replied. "I think they'll get us back to the front this time. We'll probably have to wait till something passes us. It's just a matter of patience." His words were justified, for in about ten minutes an express roared by, after which event their train once more started, and jogged along to Rosebury. "We're horribly late!" whispered Marjorie to Dona, consulting her watch. "I hope to goodness there'll be no more stops. It's running the thing very fine, I can tell you. I'm glad we've only to cross the platform. I'll get a porter as fast as I can." But, when they reached Rosebury, the stout woman and the basket with the kitten got in the way, and the elderly lady jammed up the door with her hold-all, so that, by the time Dona and Marjorie managed to get themselves and their belongings out of the carriage, the very few porters available had already been commandeered by other people. The girls ran to the van at the back of the train, where the guard was turning out the luggage. Their boxes were on the platform amid a pile of suit-cases, bags, and portmanteaux; their extreme newness made them easily recognizable, even without the conspicuous initials. "What are we to do?" cried Marjorie. "We'll miss the London train! I know we shall! Here, Dona, let's take them ourselves!" She seized one of the boxes by the handle, and tried to drag it along the platform, but its weight was prohibitive. After a couple of yards she stopped exhausted. "Better leave your luggage and let it follow you," said a voice at her elbow. "If you want the Euston express, you'll have to make a run for it." Marjorie turned round quickly. The speaker was the young Tommy who had leaned out of the carriage window when the line was blocked. His dark eyes were still twinkling. "The train's over there, and they're shutting the doors," he urged. "Here, I'll take this for you, if you like. Best hurry up!" He had his heavy kit-bag to carry, but he shouldered the girls' pile of wraps, umbrellas, and hockey-sticks, in addition to his own burden, and set off post-haste along the platform, while Marjorie and Dona, much encumbered with their bags and a few odd parcels, followed in his wake. It was a difficult progress, for everybody seemed to get into their way, and just as they neared the express the guard waved his green flag. "Stand back! Stand back!" shouted an official, as the girls made a last wild spurt, the whistle sounded, the guard jumped into the van, and, with a loud clanging of coupling-chains, the train started. They had missed it by exactly five seconds. "Hard luck!" said the Tommy, depositing the wraps upon the platform. "You'll have to wait two hours for the next. You'll get your luggage, at any rate. Oh, it's all right!" as Marjorie murmured thanks, "I'm only sorry you've missed it," and he hailed a companion and was gone. "It was awfully kind of him," commented Dona, still panting from her run. "Kind! He's a gentleman--there was no mistaking that!" replied Marjorie. The two girls had now to face the very unpleasant fact that they had missed the connection, and that the teacher who was to meet them at Euston would look for them in vain. They wondered whether she would wait for the next train, and, if she did not, how they were going to get across London to the Great Western railway station. Marjorie felt very doubtful as to whether her experience of travelling would be equal to the emergency. She hid her fears, however, from Dona, whose countenance was quite sufficiently woebegone already. "We'll get chocolates out of the automatic machine, and buy something to read at the bookstall," she suggested. "Two hours won't last for ever!" Dona cheered up a little at the sight of magazines, and picked out a periodical with a soldier upon the cover. Marjorie, whose taste in literature inclined to the sensational, reviewed the books, and chose one with a startling picture depicting a phantom in the act of disturbing a dinner-party. She was too agitated to read more than a few pages of it, but she thought it seemed interesting. The two hours were over at last, and the girls and their luggage were safely installed in the London train by a porter. It was a long journey to Euston. After their early start and the excitement at Rosebury both felt tired, and even Marjorie looked decidedly sober when they reached their destination. Each was wearing the brown-white-and-blue Brackenfield badge, which had been forwarded to them from the school, and by which the mistress was to identify them. As they left the carriage, they glanced anxiously at the coat of each lady who passed them on the platform, to descry a similar rosette. All in vain. Everybody was in a hurry, and nobody sported the Brackenfield colours. "We shall have to get a taxi and manage as best we can," sighed Marjorie. "I wish the porters weren't so stupid! I can't make them listen to me. The taxis will all be taken up if we're not quick! Oh, I say, there's that Tommy again! I wonder if he'd hail us one. I declare I'll ask him." "Hail you a taxi? With pleasure!" replied the young soldier, as Marjorie impulsively stopped him and urged her request. "Have you got your luggage this time?" "Yes, yes, it's all here, and we've found a porter, only he's so slow, and----" "Are you Marjorie and Dona Anderson?" interrupted a sharp voice. "I've been looking for you everywhere. Who is this you're speaking to? _You don't know?_ Then come along with me immediately. No, certainly not! I'll get a taxi myself. Where is your luggage?" The speaker was tall and fair, with light-grey eyes and pince-nez. She wore the unmistakable Brackenfield badge, so her words carried authority. She bustled the girls off in a tremendous hurry, and their good Samaritan of a soldier melted away amongst the crowd. "I've been waiting hours for you. How did you miss your train?" asked the mistress. "Why didn't you go and stand under the clock, as you were told in the Head Mistress's letter? And don't you know that you must _never_ address strangers?" "She's angry with you for speaking to the Tommy," whispered Dona to Marjorie, as the pair followed their new guardian. "I can't help it. He would have got us a taxi, and now they're all gone, and we must put up with a four-wheeler. I couldn't see any clock, and no wonder we missed her in such a crowd. I think she's hateful, and I'm not going to like her a scrap." "No more am I," returned Dona. CHAPTER II Brackenfield College Brackenfield College stood on the hills, about a mile from the seaside town of Whitecliffe. It had been built for a school, and was large and modern and entirely up-to-date. It had a gymnasium, a library, a studio, a chemical laboratory, a carpentering-shop, a kitchen for cooking-classes, a special block for music and practising-rooms, and a large assembly hall. Outside there were many acres of lawns and playing-fields, a large vegetable garden, and a little wood with a stream running through it. The girls lived in three hostels--for Seniors, Intermediates, and Juniors--known respectively as St. Githa's, St. Elgiva's, and St. Ethelberta's. They met in school and in the playgrounds, but, with a few exceptions, they were not allowed to visit each other's houses. Marjorie and Dona had been separated on their arrival, the former being entered at St. Elgiva's and the latter at St. Ethelberta's, and it was not until the afternoon of the day following that they had an opportunity of meeting and comparing notes. To both life had seemed a breathless and confusing whirl of classes, meals, and calisthenic exercises, with a continual ringing of bells and marching from one room to another. It was a comfort at last to have half an hour when they might be allowed to wander about and do as they pleased. "Let's scoot into that little wood," said Marjorie, seizing Dona by the arm. "It looks quiet, and we can sit down and talk. Well, how are you getting on? D'you like it so far?" Dona flung herself down under a larch tree and shook her head tragically. "I hate it! But then, you know, I never expected to like it. You should see my room-mates!" "You should just see mine!" "They can't be as bad as mine." "I'll guarantee they're worse. But go on and tell about yours." "There's Mona Kenworthy," sighed Dona. "She looked over all my clothes as I put them away in my drawers, and said they weren't as nice as hers, and that she'd never dream of wearing a camisole unless it was trimmed with real lace. She twists her hair in Hinde's wavers every night, and keeps a pot of complexion cream on her dressing-table. She always uses stephanotis scent that she gets from one special place in London, and it costs four and sixpence a bottle. She hates bacon for breakfast, and she has seventeen relations at the front. She's thin and brown, and her nose wiggles like a rabbit's when she talks." "I shouldn't mind her if she'd keep to her own cubicle," commented Marjorie. "Sylvia Page will overflow into mine, and I find her things dumped down on my bed. She's nicer than Irene Andrews, though; we had a squabble last night over the window. Betty Moore brought a whole box of chocolates with her, and she ate them in bed and never offered a single one to anybody else. We could hear her crunching for ages. I don't like Irene, but I agreed with her that Betty is mean!" "Nellie Mason sleeps in the next cubicle to me," continued Dona, bent on retailing her own woes. "She snores dreadfully, and it kept me awake, though she's not so bad otherwise. Beatrice Elliot is detestable. She found that little Teddy bear I brought with me, and she sniggered and asked if I came from a kindergarten. I've calculated there are seventy-four days in this term. I don't know how I'm going to live through them until the holidays." "Hallo!" said a cheerful voice. "Sitting weeping under the willows, are you? New girls always grouse. Miss Broadway's sent me to hunt you up and do the honours of the premises. I'm Mollie Simpson. Come along with me and I'll show you round." The speaker was a jolly-looking girl of about sixteen, with particularly merry blue eyes and a whimsical expression. Her dark curly hair was plaited and tied with broad ribbons. "We've been round, thanks very much," returned Marjorie to the new-comer. "Oh, but that doesn't count if you've only gone by yourselves! You wouldn't notice the points. Every new girl has got to be personally conducted by an old one and told the traditions of the place. It's a sort of initiation, you know. We've a regular freemasons' code here of things you may do or mustn't. Quick march! I've no time to waste. Tea is at four prompt." Thus urged, Marjorie and Dona got up, shook the pine needles from their dresses, and followed their cicerone, who seemed determined to perform her office of guide in as efficient a fashion as possible. "This is the Quad," she informed them. "That's the Assembly Hall and the Head's private house, and those are the three hostels. What's it like in St. Githa's? I can't tell you, because I've never been there. It's for Seniors, and no Intermediate or Junior may pop her impertinent nose inside, or so much as go and peep through the windows without getting into trouble. They've carpets on the stairs instead of linoleum, and they may make cocoa in their bedrooms and fill their own hot-water bags, and other privileges that aren't allowed to us luckless individuals. They may come and see us, by special permission, but we mayn't return the visits. By the by, you'd oblige me greatly if you'd tilt your chapeau a little farther forward. Like this, see!" "Why?" questioned Marjorie, greatly astonished, as she made the required alteration to the angle of her hat. "Because only Seniors may wear their sailors on the backs of their heads. It's a strict point of school etiquette. You may jam on your hockey cap as you like, but not your sailor." "Are there any other rules?" asked Dona. "Heaps. Intermediates mayn't wear bracelets, and Juniors mayn't wear lockets, they're limited to brooches. I advise you to strip those trinkets off at once and stick them in your pockets. Don't go in to tea with them on any account." "How silly!" objected Dona, unclasping her locket, with Father's photo in it, most unwillingly. "Now, look here, young 'un, let me give you a word of good advice at the beginning. Don't you go saying anything here is silly. The rules have been made by the Seniors, and Juniors have got to put up with them and keep civil tongues in their heads. If you want to get on you'll have to accommodate yourself to the ways of the place. Any girl who doesn't has a rough time, I warn you. For goodness' sake don't begin to blub!" "Don't be a cry-baby, Dona," said Marjorie impatiently. "She's not been to school before," she explained to Mollie, "so she's still feeling rather home-sick." Mollie nodded sympathetically. "I understand. She'll soon get over it. She's a decent kid. I'm going to like her. That's why I'm giving her all these tips, so that she won't make mistakes and begin wrong. She'll get on all right at St. Ethelberta's. Miss Jones is a stunt, as jinky as you like. Wish we had her at our house." "Who is the Head of St. Elgiva's?" "Miss Norton, worse luck for us!" "Not the tall fair one who met us in London yesterday?" "The same." "Oh, thunder! I shall never get on with her, I know." "The Acid Drop's a rather unsweetened morsel, certainly. You'll have to mind your p's and q's. She can be decent to those she likes, but she doesn't take to everybody." "She hasn't taken to me--I could see it in her eye at Euston." "Then I'm sorry for you. It isn't particularly pleasant to be in Norty's bad books. If you missed your train and kept her waiting she'll never forgive you. Look out for squalls!" "What's the Head like?" "Mrs. Morrison? Well, of course, she's nice, but we stand very much in awe of her. It's a terrible thing to be sent down to her study. We generally see her on the platform. We call her 'The Empress', because she's so like the pictures of the Empress Eugénie, and she's so dignified and above everybody else. Hallo, there's the first bell! We must scoot and wash our hands. If you're late for a meal you put a penny in the missionary box." Marjorie walked into the large dining-hall with Mollie Simpson. She felt she had made, if not yet a friend, at least an acquaintance, and in this wilderness of fresh faces it was a boon to be able to speak to somebody. She hoped Mollie would not desert her and sit among her own chums (the girls took any places they liked for tea); but no, her new comrade led the way to a table at the lower end of the hall, and, motioning her to pass first, took the next chair. Each table held about twenty girls, and a mistress sat at either end. Conversation went on, but in subdued tones, and any unduly lifted voices met with instant reproof. "I always try to sit in the middle, unless I can get near a mistress I like," volunteered Mollie. "That one with the ripply hair is Miss Duckworth. She's rather sweet, isn't she? We call her Ducky for short. The other's Miss Carter, the botany teacher. Oh, I say, here's the Acid Drop coming to the next table! I didn't bargain to have her so near." Marjorie turned to look, and in so doing her sleeve most unfortunately caught the edge of her cup, with the result that a stream of tea emptied itself over the clean table-cloth. Miss Norton, who was just passing to her place, noticed the accident and murmured: "How careless!" then paused, as if remembering something, and said: "Marjorie Anderson, you are to report yourself in my study at 4.30." Very subdued and crestfallen Marjorie handed her cup to be refilled. Miss Duckworth made no remark, but the girls in her vicinity glared at the mess on the cloth. Mollie pulled an expressive face. "Now you're in for it!" she remarked. "The Acid Drop's going to treat you to some jaw-wag. What have you been doing?" "Spilling my tea, I suppose," grunted Marjorie. "That's not Norty's business, for it didn't happen at her table. You wouldn't have to report yourself for that. It must be something else." "Then I'm sure I don't know." Marjorie's tone was defiant. "And you don't care? Oh, that's all very well! Wait till you've had five minutes with the Acid Drop, and you'll sing a different song." Although Marjorie might affect nonchalance before her schoolfellows, her heart thumped in a very unpleasant fashion as she tapped at the door of Miss Norton's study. The teacher sat at a bureau writing, she looked up and readjusted her pince-nez as her pupil entered. "Marjorie Anderson," she began, "I inspected your cubicle this afternoon and found this book inside one of your drawers. Are you aware that you have broken one of the strictest rules of the school? You may borrow books from the library, but you are not allowed to have any private books at all in your possession with the exception of a Bible and a Prayer Book." Miss Norton held in her hand the sensational novel which Marjorie had bought while waiting for the train at Rosebury. The girl jumped guiltily at the sight of it. She had only read a few pages of it and had completely forgotten its existence. She remembered now that among the rules sent by the Head Mistress, and read to her by her mother, the bringing back of fiction to school had been strictly prohibited. As she had no excuse to offer she merely looked uncomfortable and said nothing. Miss Norton eyed her keenly. "You will find the rules at Brackenfield are intended to be kept," she remarked. "As this is a first offence I'll allow it to pass, but girls have been expelled from this school for bringing in unsuitable literature. You had better be careful, Marjorie Anderson!" CHAPTER III The Talents Tournament By the time Marjorie had been a fortnight at Brackenfield she had already caught the atmosphere of the place, and considered herself a well-established member of the community. In the brief space of two weeks she had learnt many things; first and foremost, that Hilton House had been a mere kindergarten in comparison with the big busy world in which she now moved, and that all her standards required readjusting. Instead of being an elder pupil, with a considerable voice in the arrangement of affairs, she was now only an Intermediate, under the absolute authority of Seniors, a unit in a large army of girls, and, except from her own point of view, of no very great importance. If she wished to make any reputation for herself her claims must rest upon whether or not she could prove herself an asset to the school, either by obtaining a high place in her form, or winning distinction in the playing-fields, or among the various guilds and societies. Marjorie was decidedly ambitious. She felt that she would like to gain honours and to have her name recorded in the school magazine. Dazzling dreams danced before her of tennis or cricket colours, of solos in concerts, or leading parts in dramatic recitals, of heading examination lists, and--who knew?--of a possible prefectship some time in the far future. Meanwhile, if she wished to attain to any of these desirable objects, Work, with a capital W, must be her motto. She had been placed in IVa, and, though most of the subjects were within her powers, it needed all the concentration of which she was capable to keep even a moderate position in the weekly lists. Miss Duckworth, her form mistress, had no tolerance for slackers. She was a breezy, cheery, interesting personality, an inspiring teacher, and excellent at games, taking a prominent part in all matches or tournaments "Mistresses versus Pupils". Miss Duckworth was immensely popular amongst her girls. It was the fashion to admire her. "I think the shape of her nose is just perfect!" declared Francie Sheppard. "And I like that Rossetti mouth, although some people might say it's too big. I wish I had auburn hair!" "I wonder if it ripples naturally, or if she does it up in wavers?" speculated Elsie Bartlett. "It must be ever so long when it's down. Annie Turner saw her once in her dressing-gown, and said that her hair reached to her knees." "But Annie always exaggerates," put in Sylvia Page. "You may take half a yard off Annie's statements any day." "I think Duckie's a sport!" agreed Laura Norris. The girls were lounging in various attitudes of comfort round the fire in their sitting-room at St. Elgiva's, in that blissful interval between preparation and supper, when nothing very intellectual was expected from them, and they might amuse themselves as they wished. Irene, squatting on the rug, was armed with the tongs, and kept poking down the miniature volcanoes that arose in the coal; Elsie luxuriated in the rocking-chair all to herself; while Francie and Sylvia--a tight fit--shared the big basket-chair. In a corner three chums were coaching each other in the speeches for a play, and a group collected round the piano were trying the chorus of a new popular song. "Go it, Patricia!" called Irene to the girl who was playing the accompaniment. "You did that no end! St. Elgiva's ought to have a chance for the sight-reading competition. Trot out that song to-morrow night by all means. It'll take the house by storm!" "What's going to happen to-morrow night?" enquired Marjorie, who, having changed her dress for supper, now came into the room and joined the circle by the fire. "A very important event, my good child," vouchsafed Francie Sheppard--"an event upon which you might almost say all the rest of the school year hangs. We call it the Talents Tournament." "The what?" "I wish you wouldn't ask so many questions. I was just going to explain, if you'll give me time. The whole school meets in the Assembly Hall, and anybody who feels she can do anything may give us a specimen of her talents, and if she passes muster she's allowed to join one of the societies--the Dramatic, or the Part Singing, or the Orchestra, or the French Conversational; or she may exhibit specimens if she wants to enter the Natural History or Scientific, or show some of her drawings if she's artistic." "What are you going to do?" "I? Nothing at all. I hate showing off!" "I've no 'parlour tricks' either," yawned Laura. "I shall help to form the audience and do the clapping; that's the rôle I'm best at." "Old Mollie'll put you up to tips if you're yearning to go on the platform," suggested Elsie. "She's A 1 at recitations, reels them off no end, I can tell you. You needn't hang your head, Mollums, like a modest violet; it's a solid fact. You're the ornament of St. Elgiva's when it comes to saying pieces. Have you got anything fresh, by the way, for to-morrow night?" "Well, I did learn something new during the holidays," confessed Mollie. "I hope you'll like it--it's rather funny. I hear there's to be a new society this term. Meg Hutchinson was telling me about it." "Oh, I know, the 'Charades'!" interrupted Francie; "and a jolly good idea too. It isn't everybody who has time to swat at learning parts for the Dramatic. Besides, some girls can do rehearsed acting well, and are no good at impromptu things, and vice versa. They want sorting out." "I don't understand," said Marjorie. "Oh, bother you! You're always wanting explanations. Well, of course you know we have a Dramatic Society that gets up quite elaborate plays; the members spend ages practising their speeches and studying their attitudes before the looking-glass, and they have gorgeous costumes made for them, and scenery and all the rest of it--a really first-rate business. Some of the prefects thought that it was rather too formal an affair, and suggested another society for impromptu acting. Nothing is to be prepared beforehand. Mrs. Morrison is to give a word for a charade, and the members are allowed two minutes to talk it over, and must act it right away with any costumes they can fling on out of the 'property box'. They'll be arranged in teams, and may each have five minutes for a performance. I expect it will be a scream." "Are you fond of acting, Marjorie?" asked Mollie. "I just love it!" "Then put down your name for the Charades Tournament. We haven't got a great number of volunteers from St. Elgiva's yet. Most of the girls seem to funk it. Elsie, aren't you going to try?" Elsie shook her curls regretfully. "I'd like to, but I know every idea I have would desert me directly I faced an audience. I'm all right with a definite part that I've got into my head, but I can't make up as I go along, and it's no use asking me. I'd only bungle and stammer, and make an utter goose of myself, and spoil the whole thing. Hallo! There's the supper bell. Come along!" Marjorie followed the others in to supper with a feeling of exhilaration. She was immensely attracted by the idea of the Talents Tournament. So far, as a new girl, she had been little noticed, and had had no opportunity of showing what she could do. She had received a hint from Mollie, on her first day, that new girls who pushed themselves forward would probably be met with snubs, so she had not tried the piano in the sitting-room, or given any exhibition of her capabilities unasked. This, however, would be a legitimate occasion, and nobody could accuse her of trying to show off by merely entering her name in the Charades competition. "I wish Dona would play her violin and have a shy for the school Orchestra," she thought. "I'll speak to her if I can catch her after supper." It was difficult for the sisters to find any time for private talk, but by dodging about the passage Marjorie managed to waylay Dona before the latter disappeared into St. Ethelberta's, and propounded her suggestion. "Oh, I couldn't!" replied Dona in horror. "Go on the platform and play a piece? I'd die! Please don't ask me to do anything so dreadful. I don't want to join the Orchestra. Oh, well, yes--I'll go in for the drawing competition if you like, but I'm not keen. I don't care about all these societies; my lessons are quite bad enough. I've made friends with Ailsa Donald, and we have lovely times all to ourselves. We're making scrap albums for the hospital. Miss Jones has given us all her old Christmas cards. She's adorable! I say, I must go, or I shall be late for our call over. Ta-ta!" The "Talents Tournament" was really a very important event in the school year, for upon its results would depend the placing of the various competitors in certain coveted offices. It was esteemed a great privilege to be asked to join the Orchestra, and to be included in the committee of the "Dramatic" marked a girl's name with a lucky star. On the Saturday evening in question the whole school, in second-best party dresses, met in the big Assembly Hall. It was a conventional occasion, and they were received by Mrs. Morrison and the teachers, and responded with an elaborate politeness that was the cult of the College. For the space of three hours an extremely high-toned atmosphere prevailed, not a word of slang offended the ear, and everybody behaved with the dignity and courtesy demanded by such a stately ceremony. Mrs. Morrison, in black silk and old lace, her white hair dressed high, was an imposing figure, and set a standard of cultured deportment that was copied by every girl in the room. The Brackenfielders prided themselves upon their manners, and, though they might relapse in the playground or dormitory, no Court etiquette could be stricter than their code for public occasions. The hall was quite _en fête_; it had been charmingly decorated by the Seniors with autumn leaves and bunches of chrysanthemums and Michaelmas daisies. A grand piano and pots of palms stood on the platform, and the best school banner ornamented the wall. It all looked so festive that Marjorie, who had been rather dreading the gathering, cheered up, and began to anticipate a pleasant evening. She shook hands composedly with the Empress, and ran the gauntlet of greetings with the other mistresses with equal credit, not an altogether easy ordeal under the watching eyes of her companions. This preliminary ceremony being finished, she thankfully slipped into a seat, and waited for the business part of the tournament to begin. The reception of the whole school lasted some time, and the Empress's hand must have ached. Her mental notes as to the quality of the handshakes she received would be publicly recorded next day from the platform, with special condemnation for the limp, fishy, or three-fingered variety on the one side, or the agonizing ring-squeezer on the other. Miss Thomas, one of the music mistresses, seated herself at the piano, and the proceedings opened with a violin-solo competition. Ten girls, in more or less acute stages of nervousness, each in turn played a one-page study, their points for which were carefully recorded by the judges, marks being given for tone, bowing, time, tune, and artistic rendering. As they retired to put away their instruments, their places were taken by vocal candidates. In order to shorten the programme, each was allowed to sing only one verse of a song, and their merits or faults were similarly recorded. Several of the Intermediates had entered for the competition. Rose Butler trilled forth a sentimental little ditty in a rather quavering mezzo; Annie Turner, whose compass was contralto, poured out a sea ballad--a trifle flat; Nora Cleary raised a storm of applause by a funny Irish song, and received marks for style, though her voice was poor in quality; and Elsie Bartlett scored for St. Elgiva's by reaching high B with the utmost clearness and ease. The Intermediates grinned at one another with satisfaction. Even Gladys Woodham, the acknowledged prima donna of St. Githa's, had never soared in public beyond A sharp. They felt that they had beaten the Seniors by half a tone. Piano solos were next on the list, limited to two pages, on account of the too speedy passage of time. Here again the St. Elgiva's girls expected a triumph, for Patricia Lennox was to play a waltz especially composed in her honour by a musical friend. It was called "Under the Stars", and bore a coloured picture of a dark-blue sky, water and trees, and a stone balustrade, and it bore printed upon it the magic words "Dedicated to Patricia", and underneath, written in a firm, manly hand, "With kindest remembrances from E. H.". The whole of Elgiva's had thrilled when allowed to view the copy exhibited by its owner with many becoming blushes, but with steadfast refusals to record tender particulars; and though Patricia's enemies were unkind enough to say that there was no evidence that the "Patricia" mentioned on the cover was identical with herself, or that the "E. H." stood for Edwin Herbert, the composer, it was felt that they merely objected out of envy, and would have been only too delighted to have such luck themselves. They all listened entranced as Patricia dashed off her piece. She had a showy execution, and it really sounded very well. The whole school knew about the dedication and the inscription; the Intermediates had taken care of that. As their champion descended from the platform, they felt that she had invested St. Elgiva's with an element of mystery and romance. But alas! one story is good until another is told, and St. Githa's had been reserving a trump card for the occasion. Winifrede Mason had herself composed a piece. She called it "The Brackenfield March", and had written it out in manuscript, and drawn a picture of the school in bold black-and-white upon a brown paper cover. It was quite a jolly, catchy tune, with plenty of swing and go about it, and the fact that it was undoubtedly her own production caused poor Patricia's waltz to pale before it. The clapping was tremendous. Every girl in school, with the exception of nine who had not studied the piano, was determined to copy the march and learn it for herself, and Winifrede was immediately besieged with applications for the loan of the manuscript. She bore her honours calmly. "Oh, it wasn't difficult! I just knocked it off, you know. I've heaps of tunes in my head; it's only a matter of getting them written down, really. When I've time I'll try to make up another. Oh, I don't know about publishing it--that can wait." To live in the same school with a girl who composed pieces was something! Everybody anticipated the publication of the march, and felt that the reputation of Brackenfield would be thoroughly established in the musical world. The next item on the programme was an interval for refreshments, during which time various exhibits of drawings and of scientific and natural history specimens were on view, and were judged according to merit by Miss Carter and Miss Hughlins. The second part of the
{'title': 'A Patriotic Schoolgirl by Angela Brazil', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}