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Etheldreda the Ready: A School Story

by Mrs. George de Horne Vaizey · English · Gutenberg #21118 · 372,685 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Etheldreda the Ready: A School Story

Author: Mrs. George de Horne Vaizey

Illustrator: Charles Horrell


        
Release date: April 17, 2007 [eBook #21118]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/21118

Credits: Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ETHELDREDA THE READY: A SCHOOL STORY ***




Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




Etheldreda the Ready
A School Story

By Mrs George de Horne Vaizey


ETHELDREDA THE READY
A SCHOOL STORY

BY MRS GEORGE DE HORNE VAIZEY



CHAPTER ONE.

The first part of the Christmas holidays had gone with a roar.  The
Saxon family in conclave agreed that never before had they had so good a
time.  Invitations poured in; amusement after amusement filled up
afternoon and evening; parents and friends alike seemed imbued with a
wholly admirable desire to make the season one gay whirl of enjoyment,
and then, suddenly, just after the beginning of the New Year, the
atmosphere became mysteriously clouded.

What was the matter?  Nobody knew.  One day the sky was blue and
serene--the next, the shadow was in possession.  Mr Saxon looked
suddenly old and bleached, and hid himself persistently in his study;
Mrs Saxon sat at the head of the table with the air of one braced to
perform a difficult task, listened vacantly to her children's prattle,
and smiled a twisted smile in response to their merry outbursts of
laughter.  Two days later Miss Bruce, the governess, was summoned
hastily to return from her holiday-making and take charge of the
household, while Mr and Mrs Saxon set forth to pay a mysterious visit
to their country house, which as a rule was left severely to the
caretaker's mercies until spring was well advanced.

What in the world could have induced two people who were obviously
worried and depressed to leave town and go down to that dull, deserted
house in the depth of the winter?  The Saxons discussed the subject with
their wonted vivacity, and from the many divergent points of view with
which they were accustomed to regard the world in general.

They were six in all, and as true Saxons in appearance as they were in
name, being large, fair, flaxen-haired creatures, of the type which is
unfortunately growing rarer year by year.

Rowena, tall and stately, had already reached the stage when womanhood
and girlhood meet, but her undeniable beauty was somewhat marred by an
air of self-consciousness, which was in truth more than half due to a
natural shyness and diffidence in adapting herself to new conditions.
Hereward, the Sandhurst cadet, and Gurth, the Eton stripling, were as
handsome a pair as one could wish to meet.  Etheldreda, with her flowing
golden locks, widely open grey eyes and alert, vivacious features, might
have sat as a type of a bonnie English schoolgirl, while the twins,
Harold and Maud, were plump, pleasant-looking creatures, devoted to each
other, who in holiday time could be turned into convenient fags for
their elders and betters.  Good old Harold could always be depended upon
to do his duty with resignation, if not cheerfulness, but Maud was one
of those constitutionally stupid people who are nevertheless gifted with
sudden flashes of sharpness apt to prove embarrassing to their
companions.  The Saxons, to use their own expressive parlance, were
always "a trifle wary" in dealing with Maud, for what that young lady
thought she promptly _said_, and said without reserve, choosing, as it
seemed, out of pure "cussedness" the very moment of all others when they
would have had her silent.

Discussions and guesses alike failed to suggest any reasonable
explanations of Mr and Mrs Saxon's mysterious behaviour, and Miss
Bruce steadily refused to be drawn, though there was a certain something
in her manner which convinced her charges that she was in the secret.

And then on the morning of the fifth day the blow fell, in the shape of
a short, decisive note ordering the young people to pack their
belongings and repair down to "The Meads" for the remainder of the
holidays.  The mandate was so firm and decisive that there was no hope
of escape.  The girls might cry and the boys might storm, but both
realised the uselessness of protest.  Assisted by Miss Bruce and Nannie,
once nurse and now schoolroom maid, the melancholy preparations were
made in time to allow the party to catch the three o'clock train from
Victoria.

To secure a carriage in which they could travel alone and be able to
talk as they pleased was the ambition of the four elders, and while Miss
Bruce was busily looking after the luggage, they took possession of a
corridor coupe, slammed the door, and blocked the window with determined
faces, though deep in each heart lurked the conviction that Miss Bruce's
morbidly acute conscience would feel it her duty to interfere.

"Nix for the Spider!" hissed Gurth, prising a hockey-stick against the
handle of the door the while he gazed with elaborate calm at a poster on
the station wall.  It was inevitable that a person named Bruce should be
given the nickname of "Spider" by young people who disdained correct
appellations as heartily as did the Saxons, and, indeed, the busy little
black figure darting to and fro on the platform might have been much
less aptly named.  She hustled the twins and Nannie into a carriage,
turned her head to look for her elder pupils, and, upon realising the
position, reared her head with the fighting gesture which they knew so
well.  For a moment, as she stood facing the coupe window, it seemed
absolutely certain that she would insist upon joining the party, and so
spoiling sport for the whole of the journey, but even as she looked her
expression altered, a flicker of something--what was it?--affection,
sympathy, pity passed over her face, she turned without a word, entered
the carriage wherein the twins were seated, and disappeared from sight.

The plot had succeeded, but their success had left the conspirators dumb
with wonder and surprise.

"I say! what's taken her all of a sudden?" ejaculated Gurth.  Hereward
whistled loudly, while Dreda, ever the prey of her emotions, began to
flush and quiver beneath the prickings of remorse.

"Oh, poor dear!  Oh, she _saw_!  She saw we didn't want her!  What
brutes we are!  Gurth, go!--go quickly, before the train starts, and
tell her to come in here at once!"

"Not I!  What a turncoat you are, Dreda!  Of course she saw!  We _meant_
her to see.  You were the worst of the lot, scowling as if she were an
ogre.  Don't be a little sneak!"

"Not a sneak!" protested Dreda, hotly.  "S'pose I did.  I can be sorry,
can't I?  She looked so--_sick_!  It made me feel mean."

"All right!  Go in to the other carriage, then, and suck up!  We don't
want her here, but there's room for you in there, if you like to change!
Say the word!  We are off in a minute!"

Etheldreda blushed, shuffled, and tossed her pigtail, but made not the
slightest attempt to move from her place, whereat her brothers and
sister chuckled with easy amusement.

  "Oh, Dreda, in our hours of ease,
  Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
  And variable as the shade
  By the light thingummy aspen made.
  When pain and anguish wring the brow,
  She nothing does, but makes a row."

The mutilated lines were the contributions of the two schoolboys, while
Rowena looked down her nose once more, and dismissed the subject in a
few scathing remarks.

"You might realise by this time that Dreda's sentiments have not the
smallest influence on her actions!  The Spider was evidently suffering
from a spasm of repentance.  Quite time, too!  She has made herself most
objectionable the last few days, sighing and groaning about the house,
and looking as if her heart were broken.  If _we_ can stand breaking our
engagements and giving up all the fun of the holidays, I don't see why
she need grumble.  But she is always like that--unsympathetic and
absorbed in herself.  It's a mystery to me, for what has she got to be
absorbed in?  To be old, and ugly, and poor, and to have no home or any
people that count--there can't possibly be any personal interest in
life!  Her only hope would be to live for others, and of that, poor
dear, she is incapable!"

Rowena folded her hands on her lap, turned her well-cut profile to the
window, and sighed in an elderly, forbearing fashion, at which the two
boys grinned broadly, while impetuous Dreda burst once more into speech.

"Rowena, I _hate_ you when you talk like that!  Don't be so self-
righteous and horrid!  It's not for you to criticise other people.  The
Spider is not a patch on you for selfishness, and if she has a poor time
of it, that's all the more reason why you should be charitable, and try
to cheer her up.  You'll be old yourself some day, and ugly too!  Fair
people always fade soonest.  I read that in the toilette column of a
magazine, so it's true, and I shouldn't wonder if you grew nut-crackery,
too.  Your nose is rather beaky even now.  You needn't be so proud!"

Rowena turned her head to look round the carriage with a gently tolerant
smile.

"Our dear Dreda teaches us a lesson in charity, does she not?" she
demanded blandly.  That was all the response she deigned to make, but it
was enough to reduce her sister to a crimson confusion, and to rouse
Gurth to impatient anger.

"Oh, leave off nagging, you two!" he cried loudly.  "If you don't drop
it, I'll be off into a smoker at the first stop.  Fight it out to-night
when you are alone, if you can't agree; but let us off when we are caged
up in the same pen.  Here!  Let's have a game of `Roadside cribbage.'
Bags I the left side!  Now then, Dreda, I choose you first.  Hereward
can take Rowena.  Buck up!  We have got to win this time."

Etheldreda shot a glance of gratitude from the grey eyes which were such
eloquent exponents of her thoughts.  To be so championed by Gurth was
worth far more than the temporary suffering inflicted by Rowena's sharp
tongue, and she set herself valiantly to be worthy of his choice.
"Roadside cribbage" was a game patronised for years by the Saxon family
on their railway journeys, and consisted merely in dividing forces,
staring steadily out of opposite windows, and scoring for the various
objects perceived, according to a quaint but well understood method.
Thus, a bridge over a river counted as five marks; a quarry, ten; a
windmill, twenty; a fire, fifty; a motor car, minus one; while the
ubiquitous bicycle was worth only three per dozen.  These, and other
objects too numerous to repeat, mounted but slowly towards the grand
total of a hundred, but there remained one--just one rare chance of
winning success at a stroke, for the competitor who had the luck to spy
a cat looking out of a window might cry, "Game!" on the instant, even if
he had not so far scored a single point.  It can easily be understood
that the best chances of spotting this valuable spectacle came as the
train slackened steam before entering a station.  Then, as one regarded
the backs of dreary tenement houses, it really seemed inevitable that
some household cat should wish to take the air, or to regard the world
from the vantage of dusty, unwashed sills!  Inevitable, yet with the
perversity of cat nature, it was extraordinary how seldom this all-to-
be-desired vision burst upon the view.  "It's not fair!"  Rowena cried.
"You have all the poor houses on your side, and poor houses have always
more cats than rich ones.  A cat for every floor.  We ought to change
sides between every station, like cricket!"

"Fudge!  You've got the open country.  Look out for pigs and quarries...
We've had no luck with cats for the last three journeys.  On the whole,
I think yours is the best side."

"Why didn't you choose it yourself, then?"

"Charity!" answered Gurth, shortly, with a twinkling glance at his
partner, who happened to be at the same time his favourite sister,
despite her many and obvious faults.  If he had been asked to describe
Dreda's character, he would have said in his easy schoolboy language
that she was a bit of a sham, perhaps, but then all girls were shams
more or less, and if you kept her off high falutin', she was a decent
sort, and always ready to do a fellow a good turn.

It was sad to note that even when speaking of his favourite sister,
Gurth should have felt it necessary to adopt this tone of patronage, but
even the stoutest champion of girls cannot but admit that the sense of
honour is in them less developed than in boys, and that in moments of
irritation they betray a petty spite, of which the more brutal male is
incapable.  Gurth was conscious that he had faults of his own, but he
regarded them leniently as being on an altogether different level from
those of his sisters.  He was a bit of a slacker, perhaps, but most
"men" were slackers, and yet pulled through all right by means of a
spurt at the end.  His chiefs called him obstinate, but a fellow had to
know his own mind if he were to get on in the world, and he jolly well
knew that he was right as often as not Masters were awful muffs.  On the
other hand, he hated gush like poison, and was invariably a hundred
times better than his word, whereas Dreda could hold forth as eloquently
as a parson, with the tears pouring down her cheeks, and her figure
trembling with emotion, and the next day forget the very cause of her
emotion!  The girl was like a fire of shavings, quickly lighted, quickly
extinguished, and probably the greatest punishment which she could have
sustained would have been compelled to carry on one of her many
philanthropic schemes to a deliberate conclusion.

They were all stored up in the family archives--the histories of Dreda's
charitable enterprises!  The factory girl to whom she was going to write
regularly every week, and whose address was lost in a fortnight--the
collecting cards beyond number, for which, in the first ardour of
possession, subscriptions were extorted from every member of the
household, and which were rescued from stray hiding-places at the last
possible moment and despatched with odd offerings of twopences and
threepences from "A Friend" scribbled in, to fill up the empty spaces.
Everyone understood that the "friend" was Dreda herself, and that she
might be expected to be correspondingly short in tuck money for some
time to come!  Never a society did Dreda hear of but she panted to
become a member on the spot, and never a society but received her
resignation, accompanied by a goodly sum in fines, before six months had
run their course.

Closeted with parent and teachers, the girl received numberless lectures
on the dangers of a thoughtless and unstable character, and was moved to
ardent vows of repentance; but, alone with Maud, her confidante and
admirer, she was wont to cast a kindly glamour of romance over her own
delinquencies.  "It's my heart," she would sigh pathetically.  "My heart
is so sensitive.  It's like an Aeolian harp, Maud, upon which every
passing breeze plays its melody.  I'm a creature of sensibility!"  And
she rolled her fine eyes to the ceiling, the while Maud snorted, being
afflicted with adenoids, and wrinkled her brows in the effort to put her
fingers on the weak spot in the argument, the which she felt, but had
difficulty in explaining.

"Your heart is hard enough at times!" she said at last.  "I suppose the
strings get so thin with being everlastingly twanged that they break,
and then the breeze can moan as much as it likes without waking a sound.
When you let that poor little puppy lie for two days without any food,
for instance--"

"You're a beast!" retorted Dreda with fervour.  "You don't understand.
No one does.  I'm misunderstood all round.  At any rate I'd rather reach
the hilltops sometimes than everlastingly crawl along in the mire, like
_some_ people I can mention.  It's better to have soared and fallen than
never to have soared at all!"

Dreda, like most of us, was tender towards her own failings, and
resented the criticism of her peers.  This afternoon she kept her eyes
glued upon the landscape, affecting to be ignorant of Gurth's sly hit,
and presently it was balm to her wounded spirit to be able to win the
game for herself and her partner, and with a squeal of triumph to point
to an upper window in a row of tenement houses, where two erect ears and
a pair of yellow eyes could be clearly discerned over the edge of a
wooden box filled with miniature fir trees of funereal aspect.

The game was over, and with it had disappeared all disposition to
quarrel.  Henceforward, to the end of the journey, the four young people
chatted amicably together, discussing various subjects of interest, but
invariably returning to the one absorbing question of the hour--what
could have happened to account for the hasty and mysterious summons to
the solitary home in the country at a time when all their interests and
pleasures were centred in town?



CHAPTER TWO.

Mr and Mrs Saxon welcomed their children on the threshold of their
country home, but a chill seemed to settle on the young people's spirits
as they entered the great square hall, which looked so colourless and
dreary.  As a rule, The Meads was inhabited during the summer months
alone, and the children were accustomed to see it alight with sunshine,
with doors and windows thrown wide open to show vistas of flower gardens
and soft green lawns.  In such weather, a house was apt to be regarded
merely as a place to sleep in, but now that it would be necessary to
spend a great part of the day indoors, it was regarded more critically,
and found far from attractive.

The Meads was one of those square, uncompromisingly ugly white houses
which are so often to be found in rural England, and which were built at
that architecturally unhappy period when old traditions had been cast
aside and the modern craze for art was as yet undeveloped.  There were
plenty of rooms in the house, lofty and spacious enough, but as to
outline just so many boxes, with four straight walls, and never a niche
or an alcove to break the severity of line.  The hall was another
square, and the staircase ascended straightly to the first landing,
where a monstrosity of a stained-glass window lighted the long corridors
beyond.

The furniture was of the same calibre as the house, for, The Meads
having been regarded more as a convenient dumping-ground for the
children in the summer holidays than as a formal residence, everything
that was shabby, injured, or out of date had been weeded from the
beautiful town mansion and drafted down to fill up the big square rooms.
Mr Saxon had a shooting-box in Scotland in which he was wont to spend
the autumn months, Mrs Saxon had a passion for travelling, and could
not understand the joy of spending every summer in the same house.  The
Meads was large, healthy, and convenient, so that while the children
were young it had filled a real need, but there was no denying that,
regarded as a winter residence, it bore a somewhat chilling aspect.
Gurth looked round the hall with eyes very wide open and nose screwed up
in eloquent disapproval.

"I say! don't it look different, just, without the sun?  Regular old
grim hole of a place, ain't it?  Like an institution, or a hospital, or
something of the kind--not a bit like home--"

"Oh, Gurth, don't," cried his mother quickly, while her forehead
corrugated with lines as of actual physical pain.  "Dear, you are cold
and tired after your journey.  Things always look dull when one is
tired.  Come into the library, all of you!  There's a glorious fire, and
you shall have tea at once."  She slid her hand into her eldest
daughter's arm, looking with fond admiration at the fair, delicately cut
profile.  "You have had a happy time in town this last week--since we
left?"

Rowena turned her tall head, and looked down upon her mother with the
air of a young goddess, offended, yet resolutely self-restrained.  Mrs
Saxon was a medium-sized woman, but she looked small beside the tall
slenderness of the young daughter who held herself so loftily erect.
"Mother!" cried Rowena, in a deep tone of remonstrance, "it's the
Vincents' dance to-morrow!  I was looking forward to it more than
anything else.  Lots of grown-up people are going--it would have been
almost like coming out.  I never thought you would have brought me away
from town the very day before _that_.  You knew how I should feel--"

"Darling, I'm sorry, more sorry than I can say, but it was necessary.
As things are, it is better that you should not go.  I'll explain--we
will explain.  You shall hear all about it later, but first we must have
tea.  I think we shall all feel better after tea."

Mrs Saxon looked from one to another of her children with the same
strained, unnatural smile which had greeted them a few minutes before,
and Gurth and Dreda, falling behind the rest, rolled expressive eyes and
whispered low forebodings.

"Something up!  I thought as much.  What can it be?"

"Don't know.  Something horrid, evidently.  In the holidays, too.  What
a sell!"

Miss Bruce had considerately disappeared, and the parents and children
were left alone in the big bare library, with its rows of fusty, out-of-
date books in early Victorian mahogany bookcases, its three long windows
draped in crimson red curtains, its Indian carpet worn by the tramp of
many feet.  A cheerful fire blazed in the grate, however, and the tea
equipage set out on the long table was sufficiently tempting to raise
the spirits of the travellers.  It was a real old-fashioned sit-down
tea, where one was not expected to balance a cup and plate on one's knee
and yet refrain from spilling tea or scattering crumbs on the carpet.
Girls and boys arranged themselves in their usual places with sighs of
relief and satisfaction, and, disdaining bread-and-butter, helped
themselves energetically to the richest cake on the table.  It was a
family custom with the Saxons to begin on cake and work steadily back to
bread and butter.  There had been some opposition to encounter from
conservative elders before this reversal of the ordinary programme had
been sanctioned, but the arguments advanced had been too strong to
resist.

"I can 'preciate things more when I'm hungry.  Cake's the best thing;
why need I stodge on bread and butter till I can't properly 'preciate
the cake?  Why can't I stodge on cake, and eat the bread when I don't
'preciate?  It doesn't matter about bread!"

So ran the thread of Harold's arguments, and it must be confessed that
there was reason therein.  To-day, as the young people satisfied their
first pangs of hunger on iced cake, the parents watching them exchanged
a piteous glance, for the proceeding seemed so sadly typical of the
secret that was about to be divulged!  Until this day, all that was
richest and best in life had been the everyday possession of these loved
and fortunate children--after to-day, the love would continue unchanged,
but the luxuries must come to an end.

The meal was unusually silent, both Mr and Mrs Saxon and the elder
boys and girls being too much oppressed by their own feelings to be able
to indulge in ordinary light conversation; only Harold and Maud remained
unconscious of the cloud in the atmosphere, and everyone was thankful
for their artless prattle, which filled up what would otherwise have
been a painful silence.  As for the twins, they were quite elated to
find so attentive an audience, for as a rule their attempts to enter the
conversation were severely nipped in the bud.  "That's enough, thank
you!"  Rowena would say in her most lofty manner.  "Shut up, you kids.
A fellow can't hear himself speak for your row!"  Gurth would call out
fiercely.  Even when Mrs Saxon was present she would shake her head
gently across the table, to enforce the oft-repeated axiom that in so
large a family the younger members must perforce learn to be quiet at
table.  Maud beamed with pleasure at being allowed to continue her
never-ending descriptions without a word of remonstrance.  She was a
fair, pretty, somewhat stupid child, gifted with an overflow of words,
which were, however, singularly incapable of conveying any definite
impression.  Observation she possessed in abundance, but her discursive
narratives were by no means improved by being weighted by a plethora of
useless detail.  One could listen to Maud's efforts to describe her own
doings for half an hour on end, and remain almost as much in the dark as
at the beginning!  On the present occasion she was full of excitement
about a wonderful conjurer whose tricks she had witnessed at a
children's party in town three nights before, and which she was anxious
to enumerate for the benefit of the family.

"...He was the most egg-strawdinary creature you ever saw.  He did the
most egg-strawdinary things.  I'll tell you what he did...  You know the
Westons' drawing-room?  You go upstairs--crimson carpets, and such wide
brass rods.  Then there's a statue holding up a lamp, and the first
door's the drawing-room.  All the doors were taken down to make more
room, and there were rows and rows of forms...  He was like a Frenchman
with a pointed moustache, but his clothes weren't very clean...  He
rolled up his sleeves, and there was a ring on his finger, and yards and
yards of ribbon came out of his thumb.  He had a little table in front
of him with bulgy legs.  It stands in the corner with silver on it.
Then he asked a boy in the front row for a watch...  Mr Weston said he
wouldn't have lent _his_, but he got it back all right.  It was egg-
strawdinary!  Meta Rawlins sat by me.  She had a pink sash.  She says
her father can do it a little bit, only of course not as well as this
one.  Then there was an egg.  If he had broken it, it _would_ have made
a mess on the carpet!  Meta said perhaps it was stone.  He talked all
the time, so funny and quick, and one of his front teeth was out.  He
asked if any boy or girl would go up to help him, and Brian Hackett
went.  He looked so silly.  He had to hold things in his hand, and when
he asked for them, they weren't there.  It was egg-strawdinary!  We had
supper in the dining-room, jellies and cream, and presents in the
trifle.  I saw the conjurer having his in the library.  I never saw
anything so egg-strawdinary in all my life!"

Gurth and Hereward exchanged expressive glances, Rowena frowned
impatience, Mrs Saxon smiled a faint amusement, and Maud continued to
prattle on, blissfully unconscious of the fact that no one troubled to
listen.

It was after everyone had been fed and refreshed that the explanation of
the mysterious summons from town was given, in response to an outspoken
question from Dreda, whose impetuous nature was ever impatient of
suspense.

"Mother, what has happened?  There must be something, or you would never
have left town and sent for us in such a hurry.  Can't you tell us now?
It's something horrid, of course!  And it's horrid waiting for horrid
things."

Dreda put both elbows on the table, in flagrant disregard of schoolroom
rules, and leant her charming, eager face in the cup of her hands.  She
might describe her state of mind as "horrid," but an appearance more
opposed to such a description it would be impossible to imagine.  Dreda
had been hungry, and her hunger was satisfied; she had been cold and
tired, now she was warmed and refreshed; she talked vaguely of horrible
things, but nothing approaching real fear had as yet entered her heart.
Grown-ups made such a fuss about trifles.  Probably it was something
quite silly and unimportant after all.

Mrs Saxon did not answer.  She looked down at her hands and twisted the
rings on her fingers, the while her husband took upon himself the burden
of explanation.

"Yes, Dreda, we wish to speak out plainly.  As far as possible we have
always taken our children into our confidence, and now we must all try
to strengthen each other, for a great change is before us.  It must
affect us all...  I have lost money--a great deal of money.  I am no
longer a rich man.  Your mother and I came down here to face the
situation quietly, and to think out our plans.  We wished to be by
ourselves for a few days before saying anything to you."

"Oh-h.  Is that it?  Poor father!  What a shame!"

"What a beastly fag!  How did it happen, Pater?"

"Poor old father!  Yes!  I _quite_ understand."

They spoke together with impetuous warmth, Gurth, Hereward, and
Etheldreda, but, in spite of their words, none of them understood in the
least.  Maud and Harold stared open-mouthed.  Only Rowena turned white,
and pressed her lips nervously together.

"Thank you, dears.  I knew you would sympathise, but our grief is on
your account more than on our own.  If you can bear the change bravely,
our worst fears will be allayed.  It will be a big change.  To begin
with, I have let the town house.  An offer came to take it furnished on
a lease, and I dared not refuse.  The Meads will now be our settled
home."

Silence...  One definite statement has more effect than a dozen vague
forebodings, and the young people sat stunned with dismay, while the
thoughts of each wandered away on a voyage of personal reflections.

"No town house!  No season!  Shut up here all the year round, just as I
was coming out, and expecting to have such a lovely time."

"Let the house!  Whew!  Things must be precious bad ...  Suppose, after
all, the Governor can't afford to send me to the army!"

"Here's a pretty go!  The house doesn't matter.  The country knocks town
into fits any day, but it will be a beastly fag if we have to cut things
down fine.  What about the horses?"

"Poor father.  Oh, dear, how awful mother looks!  Rowena is a brute to
look so cross.  P'raps the Spider will have to go, and I shall be
finished, and done with lessons.  Topping!"

"Bateson's father lost his money and he went to sea.  I wonder if they'd
let me!"

"I've got five pounds six in the bank.  I'll draw it out, and give it to
them to help.  That would last for mumfs and mumfs."

Mrs Saxon lifted her sad eyes and glanced wistfully round the table.
When she herself had first heard the news she had been stunned into
silence; she hardly expected words, but her mother's heart yearned for a
glance of sympathy and love.  The boys, as is the habit of boys, were
rendered awkward and uncomfortable by the atmosphere of emotion, and
stared stolidly at their plates.  Rowena sat like a frozen statue of
misery, Maud gaped blankly from one face to another; only Dreda was
ready and waiting with her sunny smile and her easy flow of sympathy.

"Darling!  Of course we'll be brave!  Don't worry about us.  Everyone
says money doesn't matter a bit.  You can be perfectly happy without
it...  Perfectly sickening for you and father, down here by yourselves
with all that worry.  You must have been bored!"

Bored!  The utter inadequacy of the word brought a smile to the parents'
eyes, but the kindly warmth of voice and manner was as balm to their
sore hearts.  What though Dreda's conduct belied her words time and
again, her impetuous kindliness of heart was for the moment infinitely
soothing, and a blessed contrast to Rowena's gloom.  Both parents smiled
lovingly upon her, and Dreda glowed with satisfaction.  Really, being
ruined was quite exciting and dramatic!

"Thank you, Dreda," said her father, gratefully.  "These have been very
sad days for us, as you say, and even yet we are feeling rather stunned
by the suddenness of this trouble, and have not been able to think out
definite plans for your future.  It was necessary to tell you the bare
fact, but you must be patient and forbear from questioning for a few
days.  We shall not keep you in suspense longer than is necessary."

Suspense!  Six pairs of ears pricked uneasily at the sound of that word;
six hearers seemed to hear in it the knell of a cherished hope.  Even
Dreda was awed into silence.  The "horrid things" were evidently not yet
finished.  What was going to happen next?



CHAPTER THREE.

In the schoolroom the young people flocked together, eager to discuss
the news apart from the restraint of their parents' presence.  Round the
great fireplace stood one of those delightful fenders whose top is
formed by a wide-cushioned seat.  Hereward pulled it forcibly back, with
a fine disregard of cinders, until it was sufficiently distant from the
blaze to be comfortable, when the six young people seated themselves and
prepared to talk in comfort.  They made a pretty picture as the leaping
flame lighted up their fair blond faces, but for the moment the general
expression was far from cheerful.  The twins were all eyes and gaping
mouths, devoured with curiosity to hear what their elders might have to
say with regard to the thrilling intelligence just given; the two
schoolboys looked cross and thundery, and it was difficult to say which
was the more exasperating to beholders--Rowena's angry frown or Dreda's
artificial smiles.

Gurth stamped a smoking cinder into the hearthrug, taking a malicious
pleasure in the scorch and smell which ensued.  He was never too
patient, and this afternoon he felt that he had reached the end of his
tether.

"Oh, chuck it, Rowena!" he cried savagely.  "What's the use of sitting
there looking like a tragedy queen?  A jolly example _you_ set, for the
eldest of a family.  You look as if the whole thing was got up on
purpose to annoy you, and nobody had a right to be pitied except your
precious self.  I don't see it a bit!  I think you come off best of all.
Your education is finished, so you're bound to be all right!"

"Education!" echoed Rowena, in the tone of ineffable scorn natural to a
young woman who for months past had been basking in the prospect of a
presentation at court.  "Education, indeed!  Who cares for education?
If it _is_ finished, what has it all been intended for, pray?  To
prepare me for a life which I am not to have!  Other girls have the best
time of their lives when they come out.  They are taken about to see
everything and do everything which they have longed for all the time
they have been shut up at school.  It's no wonder I feel bad at coming
home to find I have only escaped one prison for another.  To live here
all the year long!  What a prospect!  There isn't a decent neighbour
nearer than five miles.--If this could only have happened a year or two
later, after I had had a _little_ fun!"

"Rowena, how selfish!  You think only of yourself, and not a bit of
anyone else--father or mother, or the boys, or--or Me!" cried Dreda,
smiting herself on the breast with dramatic _empressement_ as she
uttered the last all-important word.  "It won't be a bit easier for me
when the time comes, but I do _hope_ and _believe_ that I shall bear it
bravely, and try to be an example to the rest.  It's our duty, you know,
as the eldest daughters of the house!"

"Oh, Dreda, _stop_ preaching!  It's too ridiculous.  _You_ to lecture
me!  For that matter, you need not wait until you are finished to set me
an example.  You can begin this very minute, for I don't believe for a
moment that father will be able to afford to send you to Madame Clerc's.
It's a frightfully expensive school, and he used to grumble at the way
my extras ran up, even before, when he was rich.  I expect you will have
to finish at home with the Spider, and then she will go, and you will
have to set to work to teach Maud!"

"I shan't!" shrieked Dreda, and flamed a sudden violent red.

"She shan't!" shrieked Maud, at one and the same moment, her fair,
placid face flushing to the same crimson hue.

They faced each other like two infuriated turkey cocks--heads erect,
feathers ruffled, bodies swaying to and fro with indignation.

"As if I should!"

"As if I'd let you!"

"Teach her!"

"Teach me!"

"The very idea!"

"I'm 'stonished you should talk such nonsense, Rowena!"

Rowena laughed softly.  It was the first time she had unbent since the
telling of the dread news.  She put her head on one side and stared at
Dreda's furious face with an "I told you so!" expression which that
young lady found infinitely exasperating.

"Our dear Dreda, as usual, finds preaching easier than practice.  You
see, my dear, when it comes to the point, you are not a bit more
resigned than I am myself.  It's worse for me to give up all the fun of
my first season than for you to stay at home instead of going to school;
the only difference is that I have sense enough to realise what is
before me, while you are so taken up with sentiment and--"

"Oh, shut up, girls!  Stop wrangling, for pity's sake!" cried Hereward,
impatiently.  "Things are bad enough as they are, without making them
worse.  If you are going to nag, we'll go downstairs and leave you to
yourselves.  It's such bad form to kick up a fuss; but girls are all
alike.  You wouldn't find a boy going on like that--"

Rowena turned upon him with wide, challenging eyes.

"Wouldn't I?  Are you so sure?  Suppose father were to tell you to-
morrow that you couldn't be a soldier, but must go into an office and
try to earn money for yourself...  Suppose he took you away from Eton,
Gurth, and sent you to a cheap school!  How would you like that?"

Silence...  The two lads sat staring into the fire with dogged faces.
They scorned to cry aloud, but the horror of the prospect had for a
moment a so paralysing effect that they could not reply.  Leave
Sandhurst in the middle of one's course, and become--a _clerk_!  Leave
Eton and the fellows, and go to one of those miserable, second-rate
shows which all good Etonians regarded with ineffable contempt!  Was it
possible to suffer such degradation and live?

Rowena was touched to compunction by the sight of the stricken faces,
for though at the moment the worst side of her character was in the
ascendant, she was by no means hard-hearted, and, moreover, Hereward was
her especial friend and companion.  She laughed again, and gave an
impatient shrug to her shoulders.

"Oh, don't be afraid ...  He never _will_!  Whatever happens, nothing
will be allowed to interfere with `the boys' and their careers!  We
shall all pinch and screw and live on twopence-halfpenny a week, so as
to be able to pay your bills.  It's always the same story.  Everything
is sacrificed for the sons."

"Quite right, too," maintained the eldest son, stoutly.  "How are you
going to keep up the honour of a family if you don't give the boys a
chance?  It doesn't matter a fig whether a girl is educated or not, so
long as she can read and write.  She'll marry, of course, and then she
has nothing to do but add up the bills."

At this truly masculine distinction, Rowena and Dreda tossed scornful
heads and rolled indignant eyes to the ceiling.

"I shall never marry!" announced the former, thinking ruefully of the
bare countryside, with never a house of consequence within a radius of
miles ...  "I am a suffragette.  I believe in the high, lofty mission of
women!" cried the second, who had been converted to the movement the day
before by the sight of some sketches in the _Daily Graphic_.  Only nine-
year-old Maud sniffed, and opined, "I shall marry a lord!  Then he'll
have lots of money, and I'll give it to father, and we'll live happily
ever after."

Poor Maud!  Her millennium was not to begin just yet, at least; for
Nannie, her immaculate but austere attendant, rapped at the door at that
moment, and summoned her nursling to be bathed and put to bed.  Maud was
every evening enraged afresh at being called at such a ridiculously
early hour, and to-night her annoyance was increased by the fact that
she was torn ruthlessly from the rare treat of a conference with her
elders, in which she had really been and truly on the level of a "grown-
up."  She fumed with anger, but presently consolation came with the idea
of a dramatic disclosure upstairs.  She waited until she and her
attendant were alone together in the bedroom, and then sprung the bolt
in her most impressive fashion.

"Nannie, we're ruined!"

"Indeed, miss.  Sorry to hear it, I'm sure," returned Nannie,
unperturbed.  It is safe to predict that any important family news will
be known as soon in the servants' hall as in the drawing-room, and
Nannie had the air of listening to a very stale piece of information.

Maud was distinctly disappointed, but nerved herself for fresh efforts.
"Yes.  Bankrup'!  There's nothing left.  I'm going to give up all my
savings.  What will you do, Nannie--leave?"

"I shall be pleased to stay on, miss, as long as your mother can afford
to give me my wages and a nursery maid."

"Oh, Nannie, how _mean_!  The Pharisees likewise do as much as that!  In
storybooks the nurses always stay on, whether they are ruined or not,
and give their money to help.  You _are_ mean!"

"No impertinence, please," said Nannie sharply.  She was just beginning
to comb out Maud's hair, and it was astonishing how many knots there
appeared to be that evening.  "I'm sorry I spoke," reflected poor Maud.



CHAPTER FOUR.

In the next week future plans were practically settled so far as the
young people were concerned.  Rowena had been right in her surmise about
the boys, for, like most fathers, Mr Saxon was prepared to retrench in
any and every direction rather than interfere with the education of his
sons.  It was a family tradition that the eldest son should go into the
army; therefore, at all costs, Hereward must continue that tradition.
The Saxons had for generations been Eton boys, therefore it was
impossible that Gurth could attend another school.  As to the girls--
well, Mr Saxon dearly loved his three daughters, and was proud of their
grace and beauty, but in effect he held much the same ideas with regard
to their education as those which Hereward had expounded to his sisters'
indignation.  He thought it quite unnecessary to spend large sums on
schooling for girls, and for his own part frankly preferred a woman who
had no pretensions to being a blue-stocking.

The boys received the intelligence with a complacent sense that all was
as it should be, and the one great anxiety being relieved, were disposed
to make light of minor privations.  What though the manner of living at
home must necessarily be less luxurious than of yore, holidays occupied,
after all, a small portion of the year, and in a few years' time they
would be launching out for themselves.  Hereward had an ambition to join
an Indian regiment.  Gurth was destined for the Civil Service.  The
Meads would be quite a good old place in which to spend an occasional
furlough.  But the girls!  The girls were by no means reconciled to
being sacrificed on the altar of masculine ambition.  When the programme
for their own future was announced by the nervously anxious mother,
Rowena, Etheldreda, and Maud were alike consumed with indignation and
dismay.  They could hardly believe the evidence of their own ears as
they listened to her words:

"Father thought I had better have a little talk with you, dear girls,
and explain to you what we have decided about your future.  It has been
a difficult question--very difficult, and we have had to face
alterations which we would thankfully have avoided, for in the end it
simply comes down to the bare question of what we can or cannot afford.
The boys' education is unfortunately very costly, and those expenses
cannot be reduced."

"Why?" demanded Dreda.  The crisp, sharp question cut like a lash across
Mrs Saxon's soft-toned explanation, and she started, and faced her
young daughter with a shrinking almost of dismay.  Perhaps in her heart
of hearts she, too, doubted the justice of the masculine mandate that
girls should invariably be sacrificed for boys, but she was too loyal to
admit any dissension when her husband had laid down his commands.

"Why, Dreda?" she repeated, gently.  "Because the boys have their way to
make in the world ...  If we have not much money to leave them, we must
at least give them every chance of success.  Their education will be
their capital."

"An officer in the army needs a large private allowance.  Father has
always said so.  Hereward will need to be helped all his life, instead
of being able to help the family as an eldest son should do ...  He
could go into business."

"Oh, Dreda dear!  You, who are so sympathetic and kind-hearted.  Think
of the terrible disappointment!  There always has been a soldier in the
family."

"The family has always been rich.  Of course I don't want him to be
disappointed.  I don't want _anyone_ to be disappointed," declared Dreda
with an emphasis which brought the colour into her mother's thin cheeks.
"I suppose I can go to Madame Clerc's at Easter, just the same?"

"I--I am afraid ...  Madame Clerc's is a very expensive school, darling.
I am afraid it is out of the question!  We will do all we can for you.
That is one of the principal things which we have had on our minds the
last week, and I trust--I believe we have made satisfactory
arrangements.  Miss Bruce does not feel able to give you finishing
lessons, but Mrs Webster, of Swithin, tells me that she is quite
satisfied with the school to which she has sent her three daughters.
The education is all that could be desired, and the fees much more
moderate than Madame Clerc's.  We should see more of you, too, darling,
for you would be able to come home for the exeats in the middle of the
term--"

"Mother!  What are you saying?  You can't possibly be in earnest.
Please, please don't frighten me!  It's a hateful school.  I have always
looked down upon it and detested it, and thanked goodness _I_ should
never have to go to it!"

Dreda's face was aflame with colour; her eyes had widened until they
looked about twice their natural size, in her voice there sounded a
quiver of so real a distress that the mother flushed painfully in
response.

"Dear! why be so prejudiced?  It may not be so fashionable a school as
Madame Clerc's, but it is admirable in every way, and you will meet
friends there whom you already know--the Websters..."

"Know them!  We don't!  We have met now and then, but we always
determine not to know them.  We christened them `The Currant Buns,' and
hated them from the first moment.  Round, white faces and little
curranty eyes!"

"Dreda!  Dreda!  What has appearance to do with it?  You confess
yourself that you are prejudiced, so you cannot possibly judge...  They
are said to be clever and industrious, and exceptionally well brought
up, but there will be other girls, plenty of other girls from whom to
choose friends."

"It is settled, then?  Really _settled_.  You have seen the mistress?"

"Yes, dear, it is settled.  You are to begin work at the beginning of
the term.  The Websters are delighted to think of having you as a
companion."

Dreda flung out her arms with a gesture of passionate despair, stood for
a moment confronting her mother with flashing eyes and quivering lips,
then suddenly wheeled round, and rushed headlong from the room.

Her first overwhelming impulse was to get out into the air.  The house
suffocated her, and besides, she was going to do something ... something
desperate ... and there was no scope indoors.  She thought of the lake,
lying dull and grey within its reedy bank, and saw a vision of herself
floating on the surface, with her unbound hair streaming round her face.
In the Academy a year before she had been much attracted by a picture
of the dead Elaine, and her own hair was exactly the same shade...  But
it was wicked to commit suicide, and, miserable though she was, life
held too many attractions to be lightly abandoned.  She would just run
away into the darkness and the silence, with her sore, sore heart--to
commune with nature, and face the future alone with her own soul!  Dreda
sobbed aloud at the pathos of the thought, and, racing down the passage,
threw open the side door leading into the garden.

A gust of wind blew into her face, a dash of cold sleety rain.  The sky
was inky black, so black that it was impossible to distinguish even the
outline of the trees: the air was soaking with moisture.  To one longing
for darkness and loneliness, the prospect should have been all that
could be desired; yet Dreda drew back shuddering, and shut the door with
a hasty hand.  It was wet.  She hated to get wet, yet she could not take
an umbrella.  When your heart was breaking, and you were face to face
with one of the tragic moments of life, to walk abroad sheltered by an
umbrella was too calm and commonplace a proceeding to be contemplated
for a moment!  Dreda decided that on the whole it would be better to do
her wrestling in her own room; but the noise of the opening and shutting
of the door had attracted attention, and as she slowly retraced her
steps the pantry door opened, and Martin the parlourmaid thrust her head
inquiringly outward.

Martin was a pleasant middle-aged woman, an old retainer in the family,
and the pantry at The Meads was quite a good-sized room, and a
comfortable one at that, boasting a fireplace in which blazed the
cheeriest of fires, for Martin was fond of comfort, and took a pride in
keeping her domain spick and span.  Her face brightened as she saw the
girl standing in the passage, for Dreda was a favourite with all the
servants.  Miss Rowena, they agreed, was "high;" but Miss Dreda was
"feelin'."

"Very feelin' was Miss Dreda!"  She was always sorry for you, and wanted
to help.  They bore her no grudge because the "wanting" frequently went
no farther than words.  She was but young.  Young things did forget.  It
was entered to her abiding credit that she was "feelin'."

This afternoon one glimpse at the flushed, excited face was sufficient
to show that the girl herself was in trouble, and Martin threw open the
door to show the hospitable glow of the fire.

"Miss Dreda!  Was that you standing by that door in the cold?  You'll be
catching cold; that's what you'll be doing!  I'm having a snack of cocoa
and buttered toast.  Come in and have a bite by the fire."

Dreda hesitated.  Buttered toast was incongruous--painfully incongruous;
for among the other desperate resolutions which had rushed through her
brain, a slow, determined starvation had held a foremost place.  She
would turn with a sick distaste from the pleasures of the table; would
eat only the plainest of viands, and of them barely enough to keep
herself in life.  She would grow thin and hollow-eyed, and her parents,
looking on, would repent their cruelty in sackcloth and ashes.  But--the
buttered toast smelt wonderfully good!

"I'll come in and warm myself, but--I'm not hungry," said Dreda,
hesitating.  But Martin did not appear to have heard.  As her young
mistress seated herself by the fire, a stool was quietly placed by her
side, and on the stool appeared, as if by magic, a plate of toast and a
cup of cocoa.

Dreda's hand stretched out involuntarily; she ate and drank, and
reflected that, after all, as her father had lost money so unexpectedly,
it was only reasonable to suppose that he would recover it in a manner
equally rapid.  She was sorry she had been cross.  She would never be
cross any more.  In the recovered days of prosperity it would be so
pleasant to remember how nobly she had borne herself in the hour of
trial!



CHAPTER FIVE.

Meantime in the schoolroom upstairs another blow had fallen, and Rowena
was quivering beneath the shock of discovering that in Miss Bruce's
absence it was she and not Etheldreda who was expected to carry on
Maud's education.

"I am sure you will be a conscientious teacher, dear; and I hope that
the regular occupation, and the consciousness that you are being of real
use will make life brighter for you.  Maud will promise to be an
industrious pupil, won't you, darling?"

Maud eyed Rowena's tragic countenance, and felt it wise to refrain from
rash protestations.  She was longing to rush after Dreda to declaim
against this last injustice, and as her mother continued to address
herself pointedly to Rowena, taking no more notice of her own important
presence, she slipped softly from the room.

The two who were left, felt, the one a throb of relief, the other a
chill of acute discomfort, at finding themselves alone.  The tie between
this mother and her eldest daughter was a very tender one, and in the
shock of the recent losses Mrs Saxon had unconsciously built much on
Rowena's sympathy and love.  Rowena would help.  Rowena would
sympathise; Rowena--herself a woman--would understand some things which
even the good husband could not grasp.  In the happy, easy days of
prosperity, Rowena could always be relied on to be loving, dutiful, and
considerate--it was a shock to discover that these good qualities had
not enough foundation to withstand the test of adversity.  Mrs Saxon
was not angry; only distressed and troubled afresh, and overwhelmingly
anxious to find the right way to her daughter's heart.

"Mother!" cried Rowena sharply.  "_How_ did father lose his money?  It
seems so strange that it should disappear all of a sudden like this.  We
have always had plenty until now.  Has he been speculating, or doing
something rash?"

The momentary pause before Mrs Saxon replied and the dignified lifting
of her gentle head were more eloquent than a spoken reproof.

"No, Rowena; there is no blame attaching to your father.  There has been
a great failure in America, which has affected many of his investments.
We cannot reproach ourselves for any want of care, and that being so, we
must look upon this change of circumstances as coming to us from God's
hands, and try to learn the lessons which it is intended to teach.  To
each of us, perhaps, our own task appears especially hard.  You,
darling, have looked forward to a time of pleasure and gaiety, and it is
difficult to give it up cheerfully, and face living quietly in the
country and helping in the house.  I understand; I've been a girl
myself, and I remember how I felt; but, darling, I am a woman now--
getting quite an old woman--and I have learnt my lessons.  There is more
real joy and contentment to be gained by simply doing one's duty than in
all the balls and receptions of a London season, Rowena!"

Rowena sat dumb, her eyes fixed on the tablecloth, her long dark lashes
resting on her cheeks.  Those were the sentiments you read in books, and
heard in sermons, but it was always grown-up people who voiced them;
grown-up people who, like mother, had had a good time in their own
youth, and were afterwards unreasonable enough to expect their children
to be resigned and middle-aged when they had just emerged from the
schoolroom.  Rowena thought of the prospect which had stretched
dazzlingly before her but a week before; of the gaiety and variety of
amusement which had made so fair a dream, and contrasted it with the
prospect of an uneventful domestic life at the Manor--teaching Maud!
She pressed her lips together, and sat silent, feeling her mother's eyes
on her face; dreading to meet their tenderly reproaching gaze.

"That sounds strange to you, dear, and perhaps a little hard, but all
the same it is _true_.  I do not minimise your disappointment, but for
the time being it is inevitable, and nothing remains but to face the
situation bravely.  As the eldest daughter of the house more depends
upon you than upon any of the rest, and your opportunities will be
endless.  You can be a great comfort to us, darling, or a great
additional care.  It all depends upon the spirit in which you start the
new life--upon whether you look in or out--put yourself first, or think
of others."

Mrs Saxon paused again, and within Rowena's still form two contending
forces fought for victory.  While one sullen spirit held her dumb, the
real self seemed to stand apart, reviewing her own conduct, and uttering
words of exhortation and appeal: "How hateful of you never to say a word
in reply!  Poor mother! her voice trembled...  It's hard on her, too.
If you could just put your arms round her neck and kiss her, and promise
to be good, it would comfort her ever so much.  And you'd be happier
yourself.  It only makes you more miserable to sulk, and be unkind.
Look up and smile, and promise to be nice."  So urged the inner voice,
but alas, the fleshy eyelids seemed heavy as lead, and the lips remained
stiff and unmoveable.  To all outward appearance there was no sign of
softening in the fixed face.

Mrs Saxon's heart sank heavily.  Rowena's lack of response to her
appeal was a bitter disappointment; but she realised that it was useless
to prolong the interview.  A few moments longer she waited, hoping
against hope for a word in reply, then stifling a sigh, she rose from
her seat.

"Well--I must go back to father.  Look after the fire, darling, if you
are going to stay here.  It is getting low, and you must not catch
cold."

She bent as she passed to kiss the unresponsive lips, and walked from
the room carrying a heavy heart in her breast.  "If she had only spoken!
If she had even looked up and smiled!"  Such was the wounded mother
cry; and all the time Rowena's heart was speeding unspoken messages
after her as she went.

"Mother!  I'm sorry.  You are so sweet, and I am a wretch!  I _will_
try!  I'll try my best!"

Alas! the ears of sense could not catch the message, and so the
opportunity passed, and left both hearts aching and oppressed.



CHAPTER SIX.

"What's `rejuiced'?" queried Maud, squeezing herself into the central
place on the big fender, as her brothers and sisters sat roasting
chestnuts by the schoolroom fire one wet afternoon a few days later, and
the question being received by a blank stare of bewilderment she
repeated the word with intensified emphasis.  "_Re-juiced_!  _We're_
rejuiced!  I heard Mary say so in the schoolroom.  She said to nurse
that she didn't know if the missis would be wanting to keep on two
housemaids now she was re-juiced!  Does it mean _poor_?"

"You have no business to listen to servants' conversation; but if you
do, pray spare us the repetition!" said Rowena in her most grown-up
manner.  Maud reflected that ever since mother had spoken of the new
arrangement about lessons, Ro had talked exactly like a governess, and
been just as snappy as snappy.  She bounced on her seat, and wagged her
head in the obstinate manner which she adopted upon provocation.

"I don't listen, but I have ears, and if people speak I am obliged to
hear.  Mary came into the room to dust.  Nurse was darning the
tablecloth.  It's all gone into holes where Gurth spilt the chemical
acid.  It's the one with the little shamrocks for a pattern.  So Nurse
said: `Drat those boys!' and licked the cotton with her tongue, and--"

Hereward and Gurth exchanged glances of resigned boredom, but Dreda
drummed her heels on the floor, and called aloud with startling
emphasis:

"Go on!  Go on!  Who wants to hear about tablecloth patterns, and
licking threads?  Keep to your point, if you have a point to stick to!
If Rowena's is going to give you lessons, she'd better begin by teaching
you not to be such a bore.  You go prosing on and on--"

"I don't.  I'm not.  Bore yourself!  'Twas most intrusting!" insisted
Maud, stolidly.  "They were sort of talking about us all, in a sort of
way as if I couldn't understand, and I understood all the time, and they
said we were rejuiced, and I asked you a simple question what it meant.
When you're perlite to other people, other people should be perlite to
you in return."

"All right, Maud, keep calm, keep calm!  You reduce a thing by taking
something from it.  We are reduced because something--a great deal--has
been taken away from our income, and what remains is not enough to go
round.  I expect the second housemaid will be sent packing, and you will
have to make the beds."

Maud squealed with dismay, then with a gleam of shrewdness nodded her
head, and prophesied sagely:

"It would be worse for you than me if I did!  I'd make them full of
crumples.  I'd get hold of the ends of the clothes, and _Hop_ them down
all together like Mary does when it's her Sunday out, and she's in a
hurry.  _Then_ you'd be in a rage when you got in and your toes stuck
out!"

"I'll make the beds!" announced Dreda, graciously.  "I think all girls
ought to learn to be domestic, and there's a real art in making beds.
I've often thought how much better I could do it than any servant we
have had.  It's the trained intellect, I suppose.  (I do _hate_ you,
Rowena, when you sneer like that!)  F'rinstance--I like my blankets just
up to my chin, and if I tell Mary ten times a day, it's always the
same--she doubles them down till you are all hunkley round the neck.
Then that leaves less to tuck in at the bottom, and if you have a
nightmare and kick, there you are with your feet sticking out in the
cold, and have to get up and tuck them in, when you want to sleep!  And
I can't endure creases.  I like the under sheet stretched as tight as
tight.  Everyone likes a bed made in a special way, and it _ought_ to be
done.  Think of the time one spends in bed!  A third of one's life.
It's a shame not to be comfortable.  I should be an expert in bed-
making.  I'd keep a book to remind me of everyone's special fancies--"

"And lose it the second day!  Play all the experiments you like, but
leave my room alone.  I want no expert.  The ordinary common or garden
housemaid is good enough for me," said Hereward, cruelly.

Dreda reflected sadly that a prophet was not a prophet in her own
country, but she was too much fired with the new idea to relinquish it
without a trial.  Besides, hidden in her heart lay the reviving thought:
"If I could prove that I could be of use in the house, perhaps they'd
let me stay!  I know quite enough lessons as it is!"

The first two nights after hearing of the changed arrangements for her
own education Dreda had cried herself to sleep, and had even succeeded--
with a little difficulty--in squeezing out a few tears as she dressed in
the morning, or what was the use of breaking your heart if no one were
the wiser, or pitied you for your pathetic looks?  By the third morning,
however, her facile nature had adapted itself to the inevitable.  She
was tired of being in the dumps, and reflected that with a little
diplomacy she would be able to "manage" the school governesses as
cleverly as she had done the Spider before them, while the Currant Buns
looked meek, poor-spirited creatures, who would like nothing better than
to be ruled.  "_I'll_ teach them!" prophesied Dreda darkly, and the word
was used in no educational sense.

The future was thus swallowed at a gulp; but all the same Dreda thought
it worth while to interview her mother on the subject of her domestic
ambitions, and was much disappointed to have her generous offer kindly
but firmly refused.

"There is no necessity, dear.  Thank you very much, all the same," Mrs
Saxon said, smilingly.  "We are no longer able to keep up two houses,
but we can afford all the help that is needed for one.  The two
housemaids can keep the bedrooms in order very easily in this fresh
clean air."

Etheldreda put her head on one side and lengthened her upper lip, after
a fashion she affected when she wished to be impressive.

"_Still_," she insisted, obstinately, "when a family is reduced in
circumstances I think it _most_ important that the girls should learn to
be domestic.  I have always understood that in reduced circumstances it
was necessary for the mistress to overlook _everything_, and how can you
learn to do that if you never begin?  It seems to me that one can never
begin too young, and if we _could_ do with only one housemaid, it is our
duty to do so."

Mrs Saxon laughed.  She always did laugh when Dreda waxed impressive,
which was one of that young woman's trials in life.

"Darling Dreda!" she cried, affectionately.  "You shall be as domestic
as ever you please--the more domestic the better; but there is a time
for everything, and this is your time for study.  You must wait until
your education is finished, before you take up home duties.  We are not
going to sacrifice your interests for the sake of a servant's wages.
Work hard, and do your best, dear.  One thing at a time, and that done
well--"

But Dreda refused to be convinced.

"_My_ theory," she announced, firmly, "my theory is that it is stupid to
waste time learning things which you will never need!  As we are
`rejuiced' (the expression had stuck, until the very pronunciation was
unconsciously reproduced), and I can't go to Madame Clerc's and be
finished properly, I should consider that it would be wiser to stop as I
am.  I am very well grounded.  We can't afford to go into society now,
so I shall probably marry a man in a humble position, and it's foolish
to educate me above my rank!"

"Oh, Dreda, Dreda!  Oh!  I haven't laughed for weeks.  You mustn't be
vexed with me for laughing, dear--it's _so_ refreshing!"  And Mrs Saxon
wiped her eyes and chuckled irresistibly, the while her young daughter
regarded her more in pity than in anger.

"I can't see what I have said that is so amusing.  I was speaking _most_
seriously.  I'm fifteen.  It's my own future that is at stake.  Really,
mother!"

"I'm sorry, dear, and I don't mean to be unsympathetic.  I know you are
in earnest, but for the next few years you must consent to be guided by
what father and I believe to be best.  Whatever may be before you, it is
necessary that you have a good education, so put your heart into your
work, and get on as quickly as possible."

Dreda sucked her upper lip in eloquent disgust.

"Parents are so _trying_!" she told herself, mentally.  "They never seem
to think it possible that you know better yourself.  I shall be quite
different with my daughters.  What a pity it is that you can never
manage to be your own mother!"



CHAPTER SEVEN.

During the next three weeks the Saxons settled slowly into the routine
of life as it would in future be spent at the Manor.  To begin with, the
house itself was greatly improved in appearance by the addition of extra
furniture and draperies sent down from the lavishly equipped house in
town.  The cold austerity of the entrance-hall was turned into something
positively approaching cheerfulness by the presence of crimson
portieres, a huge tapestry screen shutting off the staircase, and, best
of all, by a brass brazier which, piled high with blazing coals,
diffused both light and heat, and seemed to speak a cheery welcome to
each new-comer.  The Bechstein grand piano was not only a gain from a
musical point of view, but made a decided improvement in the sparsely
furnished drawing-room, while a few good pictures and ornaments gave a
homelike air which had hitherto been conspicuous by its absence.

Rowena regarded these improvements with the numb unconcern which a
prisoner might manifest over an unimportant alteration in his cell; but
Dreda, as usual, was afire with enthusiasm, and spent a radiantly happy
day playing the part of a charwoman, in apron and rolled-up sleeves.
She washed all the ornaments, exulting in the inky colour of the water
after the operation, and insisting that each member of the household
should ascend to regain the same.

"Isn't it beautifully dirty?" she cried in triumph.  "I scrubbed them
with the nail brush.  You should have seen the dust come out of the
chinks!  I simply dote upon seeing the water turn black.  It's no fun
washing things unless they are _really_ dirty!"

When the additions were viewed as a whole, however, Dreda was not so
content.  She even frowned with displeasure at sight of the luxury in
the hall.

"It's not consistent!" she pronounced, judicially.  "We are _rejuiced_,
and it doesn't look rejuiced!  People in the neighbourhood coming to
call will think we are richer instead of poorer.  You will have to
explain, mother.  It wouldn't be honest if you didn't."

Mrs Saxon's smile was a somewhat painful effort.

"I imagine there will be little need of explanation, Dreda.  News flies
fast in a country place, and our neighbours probably know our affairs as
well as we know them ourselves."

"And are gossiping about us behind our backs, and longing to call and
see how we bear it!" continued Rowena, with that new edge of bitterness
in her voice, which sounded so sadly in her mother's ears.  It needed a
hard struggle with herself before Mrs Saxon could command herself to
reply gently:

"Curiosity is natural, perhaps, but I don't think we need fear anything
unfriendly.  If there should be any exhibition of the sort, it's a
comfort to feel that I can depend upon my grown-up daughter to set an
example of dignity and self-restraint.  My nature is like Dreda's, so
much more impulsive, that you will be a great strength to me, dear."

Oh, that soft answer that turneth away wrath, how omnipotent it is!  The
sneer was wiped off Rowena's face as by a sponge, her blue eyes
glistened, and she stooped her tall young head to press an impetuous
kiss upon her mother's cheek.  For the rest of the day she was her old,
sweet loving self, and the mother was rewarded a thousandfold for the
effort which it had cost her to repress a hasty retort, and replace it
by a word of tenderness and appreciation.

At the end of a fortnight the three boys returned to school, placidly
resigned to a change of circumstances which left their own lives
untouched; and no sooner had they departed than the Spider in her turn
began to pack her boxes, in preparation for her own exit.  For the past
ten years she had been regarded as a member of the family, spending the
greater number of her holidays with her pupils, and being included in
all the household festivities and rejoicings.  It was inevitable that
her absence would cause a blank, and the young people experienced sundry
pangs of conscience as they recalled the want of appreciation with which
they had received their efforts on their behalf.  How they had teased
and lazed, and plotted and schemed, to escape the tasks which she had so
laboriously enforced!  How they had laughed behind her back, imitating
her little mannerisms, and exhorting each other after her invariable
formulae: "Impertinence, my love, is _not_ wit!"

"A young lady should be composed and dignified in demeanour."

"Concentration, my dear, concentration!  That is what you require."
Poor, dear, good Spider; her methods were somewhat behind the times; but
she was the kindest, most faithful of souls.  Everyone was thankful to
know that owing to the recent receipt of a legacy she was able to retire
comfortably from active work, and to look forward to a peaceful
contented home in the family of a beloved niece.  Neither was it a very
serious parting, since nothing was so certain as that so true a friend
must return again and again to the scene of her labours; to see Hereward
in his first uniform; to attend Rowena's marriage; Dreda's coming out;
and inspect the progress of her youngest pupils.  A few tears were shed
when the hour of parting actually arrived, but there was no bitterness
in them on either side, nor were they of any long duration.

And now for Etheldreda's turn!  When the morning dawned on which she was
to depart for school, she felt it fitting that her toilette should
express the melancholy of her mood.  Dreda had a great idea of fitness,
and a costume composed of an old shepherd plaid skirt, a grey flannel
blouse and a black tie seemed admirably symbolic of what she herself
described as "the mourning of her soul."  When it was donned, however,
the result was found to be so extremely unbecoming that resolution
wavered, and collapsed.  After all, the most important matter was to
impress her new companions, and there was no denying that that could be
done most effectively in blue--in just such a blue as was at that moment
hanging in the wardrobe ready for use.  With light-like speed Dreda shed
her dun-coloured garments on to the floor, and in a trice was arrayed in
her prettiest, most becoming costume.

This time the reflection was so pleasing that it was quite an effort to
pull down her chin, and drop her eyelids, with the air of melancholy
resignation which she was determined at all costs to preserve during
breakfast.  Mrs Saxon's face brightened at sight of the pretty blue
dress, but neither she nor any other member of the family mentioned the
fatal word "school."  Rather did each one try to give a cheerful turn to
the conversation, and to lead it towards a discussion of those topics in
which the heroine of the day was the most interested.  "Sops!" murmured
Dreda dramatically to herself.  "Sops!"  She struggled hard to restrain
her longing for a second helping of bacon; but her courage gave out at
the thought of the motor drive across the cold open country.

"I must strengthen myself with plenty of nourishment," she decided, as
she handed over her plate, and accepted the offer of a third cup of
coffee.  Like all pleasant things, however, the meal came to an end at
last, and then the great event of the day could no longer be ignored.
Maud caught the glance exchanged between her parents, and felt herself
freed from her promise of silence.

"_Now_!" she exclaimed, with a gusty sigh of relief.  "Now for the Buns!
_Now_ you'll see which knows most, them or you.  Them, I should think,
'cause they're clever, and you forget.  Miss Bruce said your head was
like a sieve.  Do you remember the day she said it?  She had on her jet
chain, and jingled with the beads.  You'll have to remember not to
forget, or you'll be the bottom of the class.  Fancy three Currant Buns
on top!"

She stopped short, with her characteristic throaty little laugh, and
Dreda glared at her with flashing eyes.  It was really extraordinary
that anyone so stupid as Maud should so often succeed in hitting upon
just the most aggravating thing to say under the circumstances.  Three
Currant Buns on top indeed!  Life would only be endurable if she herself
could seize the leading place, and hold it relentlessly to the end.  She
would not condescend to reply, and Maud was hurriedly nudged, and poked,
and "shoved" into silence by Rowena, who was in an unusually sympathetic
mood, realising how she herself would have felt had fate cast her own
scholastic lot with that of the Misses Webster.

"Never mind her," she whispered, consolingly, as she followed Dreda
upstairs to put on hat and jacket before her departure.  "It's not worth
while troubling yourself about Maud's remarks.  It's impossible to think
that any of those girls will get the better of _you_!  It's hateful, of
course; but perhaps it may not be quite so hateful as we think--"

"Oh, I don't mind.  I'm resigned!  One can only be as miserable as one
can.  Perhaps I'll have an accident some day, riding over those rough
roads, and then it will all be finished.  I don't mind how soon my life
is over!" declared Dreda, harpooning her hat viciously with a pin of
murderous length, ornamented at the head by a life-size imitation of a
tomato.  "But while I _do_ live, I tell you one thing, Rowena, I'll--
I'll _hold my own_!"

"I'm sure of that," assented Rowena, with conviction.  "Look here,
Dreda, would you like me to drive over with you as well as mother?  I
could, you know; and it might break the ice!"

"No, no!  Father wanted to come, but I begged not.  Everything is
arranged, and I don't want people looking on.  It will be a _hidjus_
ordeal!"

"Oh, my dear, come!  Don't exaggerate.  It's not so tragic as all that."

"Isn't it, then?  Don't be so grown-up and horrid!  How would _you_ like
it yourself, if anyone made the best of your having to teach Maud?"

That one trenchant question was sufficient to reduce Rowena to the
depths of silent despair, and the two sisters descended the staircase
with aspects equally lugubrious and mournful.

It was not a cheerful send-off, despite all the efforts of the family,
who stood shivering in the porch to wave farewells, and call out
encouraging prognostications so long as the motor remained in sight.
Dreda drew a big sigh of relief as they turned out of the drive, and
spun rapidly along the highway.  The necessity for keeping up a part was
over, and involuntarily she began softly whistling beneath her breath,
for in truth she was by no means so miserable as she had striven to
appear.

Novelty was the breath of Dreda's nostrils.  Any novelty to her was
better than none, and if the chance of returning to the house had at
that moment been vouchsafed, it is doubtful if she would have accepted
it at the cost of missing the excitements of the next few hours.

The car spun along strongly, so that the twenty miles' distance was
speedily covered, and before Etheldreda was half-way through her dreams
it had turned in at a gate, and there before her eyes lay Grey House, a
square, pretentious-looking building, with a door in the middle and a
stretch of three windows on either side.  There, also--oh! thrilling and
exciting moment--pressed against the panes of an upper window were a
number of round white discs, which must obviously be the faces of pupils
watching the advent of the new girl!

Dreda sat up, and throwing back her golden mane, tossed a laughing
remark to her mother--the first she had volunteered since leaving home,
and showed her white teeth in a determined smile.  If she were fated to
arrive at all, she would arrive as a conqueror who would be regarded
with envy and admiration.  Privately, she might consider herself a
martyr, but that was not a role in which she chose to appear before
other people.  She was smiling as she entered the drawing-room after her
mother, smiling as Miss Bretherton came forward to greet them, smiling
still, a forced, fixed smile, as she listened to the conversation
between the two ladies.

"Hope we shall be very happy together--"

("I shan't.  I don't like you a bit!  Scraggy, cross-looking thing!
Your nose looks as if it would cut!")

"...Dreda is fond of society.  She will enjoy working with other girls!"

("Shan't, then!  I shall hate it.  I should have enjoyed it in Paris.")

"...Beginnings always are a little difficult; but young people _soon_
adapt themselves!"

("It's easy to talk!")

After a few minutes passed in the exchange of these and similar
commonplaces, Mrs Saxon rose to depart.  On a previous visit she had
been shown over the house, and had seen the room where her daughter was
to sleep, and now her presence would only prolong the agony.  She cast a
look at her daughter, full of yearning mother love and sympathy; but
Dreda was smiling still, her grey eyes wide open, her very gums showing
in the unnatural stretching of her lips.  She submitted to be kissed,
but offered no caress in return, and turned with a nonchalant air to
examine the photographs on the mantelshelf, while Miss Bretherton
escorted her mother to the door.

They were all photographs of girls--old girls who had left school and
could afford to be amiable and forgiving.  One wore a cap and gown and
was evidently a crack pupil who had won honours at college; another held
a baby on her knee--she was pretty, and had married young; a third
supported her head on her hand and stared dreamily into space; another
posed against a screen.  Dreda stared at them with eyes that grew misty
and unseeing, as the motor puffed down the drive.  Now she was alone--
away from home for the first time in her life!  Miss Bretherton was
coming back--Miss Bretherton with the thin face and the sharply pointed
nose.

The door opened; the photographs looked mistier than ever; Miss
Bretherton's voice sounded from an immense distance, saying in cheery
tones:

"Now I am going to take you upstairs to see your room, Etheldreda.
Susan Webster and Nancy West will share it with you.  Susan you know
already--a delightful girl; and Nancy is equally charming.  Most of the
girls returned last night, but we have not yet settled into regular
work: it takes a little time to arrange the classes.  Are your boots
quite clean?  Better rub them once more on the mat!  Pupils are not
allowed to ascend the staircase in outdoor shoes."

She led the way forward, while Dreda followed, looking about with
curious eyes.  The carpet lasted only so long as the stair could be seen
from the hall beneath, and was then replaced by oil-cloth, worn to a
colourless drab by the tramp of many feet.  On the first storey a narrow
passage ran the whole length of the house, and innumerable doors seemed
to open on each side.  The murmur of voices could be heard from within,
as one passed these closed portals; but one of the number, labelled
Number 5, was not quite shut, and Dreda had a shrewd suspicion that it
opened an inch or two wide as she passed by.  Probably it gave entrance
to the room from which faces had stared out on the drive; probably the
same curious faces were peering forth through that crack at this very
moment.

The bedroom bore a bleak look, despite the fact that the furniture was
all in threes--three narrow beds, three washstands, three chests of
drawers--topped by miniature mirrors--and three small cane-seated
chairs.  Each of the three inmates had a portion of the room to herself,
and against the wall stood two folding screens, evidently designed to
insure privacy.  Dreda noted with dismay that the two ends of the room,
the one next the window and the one next the door, already bore signs of
occupation.  Her brow clouded, and instead of the usual polite remarks
of approval, out shot an impetuous question:

"Have I to take the middle?  I'd rather have an end!"

"Susan and Nancy have occupied the same beds for the last year.  All are
equally comfortable."

"There ought to be three screens.  I want two to shut myself in.
Suppose one of the others didn't want hers up!"

"Why suppose disagreeables, my dear?  It is a great mistake.  I feel
sure your companions will consider your comfort as thoughtfully as their
own.  Hang your jacket on the pegs; then you can come to your classroom,
to be introduced to your companions.  Take off your hat."

Dreda pulled a face in the mirror.  She felt cross and ill-used.  At
home she was accustomed to a big, beautiful room all to herself; she did
not at all enjoy the prospect of owning a third of this chill grey
dormitory.  She took off her hat--conscious that Miss Bretherton's eyes
were regarding the tomato-topped pin with silent disapproval--wriggled
out of her coat, and bestowed a series of pats and pulls to hair,
necktie, and blouse.  Being one of the happy people who feel cheered
rather than depressed by the sight of her own reflection in the glass,
she followed the head mistress downstairs without any of the
trepidations of nervousness which afflict most new girls, and was by no
means surprised when that lady made straight for the doorway of Number
5.

It opened, and six girls were discovered seated before a table, wearing
expressions of preternatural solemnity.  One of the number wore
spectacles; a second had a broad band of metal over her front teeth; a
third had red hair and a thick powdering of freckles; "The Currant Buns"
wore dresses of yellowy-brown tweed, which in Dreda's eyes made them
appear "bunnier" than ever.  So much was taken in by the first lightning
glance, as at the appearance of Miss Bretherton the girls leapt
mechanically to their feet and stood stolidly at attention.

"Girls, this is your new companion, Etheldreda Saxon.  She is to share
Number 20 with Susan and Nancy, and I expect will be in the fourth form.
You had better leave your books and have a little chat beside the fire,
until Miss Drake is ready.  You may tell her that I gave you
permission."

She left the room and shut the door behind her, and Dreda was left face
to face with her new companions.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

For a moment the six girls retained their former positions, staring with
blank, expressionless faces at the new comer.  Then Mary Webster, the
eldest of the "Currant Buns," advanced with outstretched hand, followed
by her two younger sisters.

"How do you do?"

"How do you do?"

"How do you do?"

"So glad to see you."

"So glad--"

"Very glad--"

The murmurs died into silence, while Dreda smiled a radiant
encouragement.

"Quite well, thank you.  But rather cold.  May we poke the fire?  My
feet--"

She tapped expressively on the floor, whereupon Mary Webster poked
discreetly at the fire and Susan, the youngest of the sisters, pushed a
chair into the cosiest corner.  The other three girls had come forward
by this time, and introduced themselves in due form.

"How do you do?  I'm Barbara Moore.  It's hateful to be a new girl!"

"How do you do?  I'm Norah Grey.  Sorry you're cold."

"How do you do?  I'm Nancy.  Tell me truthfully--_Do you snore_?"

Dreda laughed gaily.

"Sometimes--when I lie on my back.  I do it on purpose, because you
dream such thrilling dreams.  And I yell horribly when I come to the bad
bits."

"Something will have to be done!" said Nancy, darkly.  She was the girl
with the band over her front teeth.  It was ugly, but fascinating; one
felt constrained to look at it, and looking at it could not help
noticing how curved and red were the lips, how darkly lashed the long
grey eyes.  Nancy was evidently a person to be reckoned with.  She sat
herself down by the fire, stretched out her feet to the blaze, and
appeared to be lost in thought.  Dreda longed to talk to her, to inquire
what she meant by that mysterious "something," but the "Currant Buns"
were clustering round her, regarding her with anxiously proprietary airs
as if, having the honour of a personal acquaintance, it was their due to
receive the first attention.  Dreda felt quite like a celebrity, on the
point of being interviewed by a trio of reporters; but as usual she
preferred to play the part of questioner herself.

"Were you doing prep when I came in?  What classes are you taking to-
day?  I feel as if I've forgotten everything.  One always does in the
holidays, doesn't one?  Such a bore having to grind through it all
again.  Seems such a waste of time."

"Have you a bad memory?  Miss Drake, our English governess, is
especially clever at developing the powers of memory.  And holiday tasks
are so useful, too; don't you find them so?  It is impossible to forget,
if one has to study for an elaborate thesis."

"The--what?" questioned Dreda blankly.  "But whoever _does_ study in the
holidays?  I don't!  If you did, they wouldn't be holidays.  So stupid!
Holidays are for rest and fun.  Bad enough to have lessons for two-
thirds of the year.  One's brain must have _some_ rest!"

She ended on quite an indignant note, and her companions stared at her
with a mingling of admiration and dismay.  Such a vivid bit of colouring
had not been seen for many a long day in that neutral-tinted room.
Yellow hair, pink cheeks, red lips, blue dress--she was positively
dazzling to behold.  The two younger Miss Websters appeared absorbed in
admiration, but the eldest and cleverest-looking of the three pursed up
her lips with an air of disapproval and said primly:

"It depends upon one's _idea_ of rest, doesn't it?  Leisure may mean
only a time of amusement, but it's a rather poor conception of the word.
The ancient Greeks understood by it a time of _congenial_ work, as
distinguished from work which they were obliged to do.  Their necessary
work was undertaken in order that they might obtain a time of leisure,
but when it came, instead of wasting it in foolish and passing
amusement, they used it to strengthen their intellect and to store up
ennobling thoughts."

"How did they do that, pray?"  Dreda put the question with the air of
one launching a poser, but Mary Webster showed no signs of discomfiture.

"They used to meet together in little companies, and discuss the deepest
and most important topics of the day--"

"I expect they gossiped horribly!"

"And they watched the dramas--"

"I call that amusement!  I wouldn't mind doing that myself."

"But the Greek dramas were not light and vapid like modern plays.  They
dealt with serious subjects, and the audience often used to commit the
words to memory as a mental exercise."

Dreda yawned.

"Ah, well," she conceded indulgently, "it's a long while ago!  One
mustn't be hard on them, poor dears, for they knew no better.  I don't
approve of girls bothering their heads about ancient Greeks.  Boys have
to, for examinations, but if we want to grow up nice, domesticated women
it's better to learn modern things, and leave those old fusties alone.
They do one no good."

The girls stared at her in stunned surprise.  Agnes, the second Webster,
dropped her chin to an abnormal length; the youngest, Susan, bit
nervously at her lips; Mary cleared her throat and showed signs of
returning to the attack, but Dreda was already tired of the subject, and
made a diversion by leaping from her seat and approaching the table
where piles of blue-covered exercise books were neatly arranged at
intervals of about a yard apart.

"Let me look at your books, and see what you are doing!  I didn't bring
any books till I saw what you used.  I expect they will be the same.
All school books are.  I've got the ones Rowena used."  She broke off,
staring with dismay at the underlined questions which met her eye in one
of Agnes's neatly written books:

"_Characterise the work of Praxiteles, comparing it with that of
Phidias_."

"_Describe the Caryatids of the Erectheum_."

"_More_ Greeks!  How awful!  You seem saturated in Greece."  She threw
down the book impatiently and took up another.  "Write a short essay on
Chaucer (I know Chaucer!) and his times (When did he live?  Ages ago, I
know, for he couldn't spell), dwelling on (1) the state of society as
shown by the attitude of Wycliffe to the Pope, and the higher clergy;
(2) the peasants' revolt"--Dreda looked round with horrified eyes.
"_What_ a thing!  Do you often have essays like that?  Your governess
must be a man in disguise!"

"She is exceedingly clever and well read, and a most interesting and
original teacher."

"Humph!--I prefer the old school!  Our governess gives us essays on
Spring, and Happiness, and quotations from poetry.  They are far better,
for if you don't know anything, you can make it up.  You know the sort
of thing.  `One has often felt--' `Should we not all--' `At this season
of the year our hearts overflow--' I assure you I have often sat down
not knowing what on earth I was going to say, and have written _pages_!
That's far better for you than learning dull facts about people who were
dead and buried hundreds of years ago, because it exercises your
imagination and resource, and they are so useful for a woman.  Now, just
suppose you were married, and a lot of dull people were coming to
dinner--it would help you awfully if you'd been trained to make
conversation out of nothing!  And supposing you suddenly found that
there was nothing to eat, and you had to make a dinner out of scraps--
what would be most useful to you then, Greek history or a good,
resourceful brain?"

Mary and Agnes stared aghast, but the sound of a snigger came from the
fireplace where Susan stood meekly in the background, and a moment later
a ringing laugh drew all eyes to the doorway where stood a tall, bright-
haired girl, whose white teeth gleamed pleasantly through her parted
lips.

"Bravo!" she cried gaily.  "Bravo, my new pupil!  Very adroitly argued.
But suppose now that one of your dull diners happened to be an
enthusiast about Greece, and that its glories were the only subject on
which he was prepared to talk!  Suppose he spoke of the `Caryatids,' for
example, and you had no idea what the word meant--how would you keep up
your share of the conversation?"

"Quite easily.  I'd say--`Really!  How very interesting!  _Pray_ do go
on!'  Then he'd be charmed.  People always are charmed to go on
talking," declared Dreda smiling back with the utmost frankness into the
face of this bright, friendly stranger.

So this was the English governess of whose cleverness and
accomplishments she had heard so much!  She looked quite young--
ridiculously young; not many years older than Rowena herself.  Dreda had
expected to see an elderly, spectacled dame, thin and spare, with scant
locks dragged tightly back from her face.  In the dark depression of her
spirits she had thought it possible that she might even wear knitted
mittens, and have cotton wool in her ears.  Never for a moment had it
occurred to her that an accomplished finishing governess could be young
and pretty!

To judge from Miss Drake's expression she was experiencing very much the
same pleasure in the sight of her new pupil, for her eyes brightened
visibly as she looked Dreda up and down, down and up, with a keen,
intent scrutiny.  She laughed as she heard the girl's answer, and
replied easily:

"That's quite true, Etheldreda.  I am myself!  That's one of the reasons
which induced me to work--for unless one is contented to play the part
of hearer through life, it really is worth the trouble to store up a
little general knowledge, so that one may talk as interestingly as
possible.  Lessons may seem dull and unnecessary at the time, but they
_are_ useful afterwards!  Now, girls, take your places!  Etheldreda
shall sit here on my left, and I will read over the syllabus for this
term's study, and draw out a timetable.  As we come to each fresh
subject I will show you our books, Etheldreda, and we will see if they
are the same as those which you have been using, and how far you have
progressed.  I expect we shall be able to work along together, even if
there is a little space to be gulfed on either side."

"Please!" cried the new pupil earnestly, "don't call me Etheldreda.
Nobody ever does except when I'm in disgrace, and it's so long and
proper.  I'm always Dreda at home."

"Dreda, then!  It _is_ more get-at-able.  Well, now, Dreda, take a pen
and write down our syllabus in this book.  I like my pupils to have a
clear idea of the work ahead."

Dreda settled herself complacently to the task, but as she wrote her
face grew ever longer and longer.  What subjects were there which she
was supposed to study?  Political economy--she had not the vaguest idea
of what it meant!  Physiology--that was something horrid about one's
body, which ought properly to be left to nurses and doctors!  Zoology--
animals!  She knew everything that she wanted to know about animals
already; how to feed and tend them, and make them tame and friendly.
She could not love them half so much if she were obliged to worry
herself learning stupid names half a yard long, which no ordinary human
creature understood!  Latin--Algebra--Astronomy.  She glanced round the
table and beheld Mary and Agnes and Susan scribbling away with unruffled
composure.  No sign of alarm could be traced on their calm, bun-like
countenances, the longest words flowed from their pens as if such a
thing as difficulty in spelling did not exist.  Dreda looked for a
moment over Mary's shoulder, and beheld her writing a diphthong without
so much as turning a hair.

A chilly feeling crept up her spine; her heart seemed to stop beating,
then at the next moment thudded violently against her side.  She was not
going to be at the top of the class; she was to be at the bottom!
Instead of leading the van, and victoriously trailing the Currant Buns
in her wake, the Currant Buns would have to trail her; and a heavy,
unenlightened load she would be!  A stormy prospect lay ahead; straits
of difficulty; seas of depression; oceans of humiliation.  Pride, and
pride alone, prevented Dreda from laying down her head on the dingy
brown tablecloth and bursting into tears.  Alas, alas! for the happy,
easy days of History, Geography, and Arithmetic, with the old-fashioned
Spider.  Alas for the finishing joys of Madame Clerc's select academy,
where the young ladies were taken about to see the sights of Paris, with
no other restriction on their pleasure seeking but that on one and all
occasions they should amuse themselves in French!

It grew wearisome to make ever the same reply to Miss Drake's question.
"No, she had never studied that subject."

"No, she had never seen this book."  Mary stared unblushingly with her
little dark eyes.  Agnes dropped her chin until it looked twice its
natural length, Susan flicked over the pages of her exercises and
appeared absorbed in their contents.  Nancy smiled a furtive smile.

"No," cried Dreda desperately.  "No, I know nothing about it!  I--I have
been educated on quite different lines--I think I had better go on as I
have begun.  I don't want to keep back the whole class.  Let the others
go on as usual, and leave me out.  I can join _in_ for the ordinary
subjects."

"Nonsense, Dreda.  Nothing of the sort.  We take up each subject afresh
at the beginning of the term, and if you work hard you will be able to
manage quite well.  It is better to make a little push to keep in this
form than to go into a lower one with younger girls, and less
interesting work.  I am not unreasonable.  I shall not expect miracles;
do your best, and we'll help you on.  I think you had better have a
special coach to whom you can apply if you want help or explanation in
your preparation.  Now which of you girls would like to be Dreda's
coach, and spare her a little time when it is needed?"

There was a simultaneous rustle of assent, but two voices spoke first,
breaking the silence at identically the same moment.

"I!" cried Susan.

"Me!" cried Nancy.

Miss Drake smiled.  "Oh, Nancy, Nancy!" she cried gaily; "a nice person
_you_ would be to coach another!  Better give a little more attention to
your own grammar, my dear.  Very well, Susan, that is settled.  You
shall be Dreda's coach!"

Dreda and Susan looked at each other across the table in silence.  Susan
saw flushed cheeks and eyes suspiciously bright.  Dreda stared in
amazement, asking herself how it could be that anyone so much like the
two elder sisters could at the same time be so diametrically different.
Mary and Agnes were unusually plain, heavy-looking girls, but in Susan's
face there was at this moment, a light of sympathy which made it
strangely attractive.  She possessed the family features, the family
eyes, but Nature had evidently been prejudiced on her behalf and had
given with a more generous hand.  An extra shade of darkness on the
eyebrows, an extra dip to the nose, a tiny curl to the lips, a tilt of
the chin--these were trifles in themselves, but what an amazing
improvement when taken in bulk!  Dreda gazed and gazed, and as she did
so there came to her one of those delightful experiences which most of
us encounter once or twice as we go through life.  As she met this
strange girl's glance, a thrill of recognition ran through her veins; a
voice in her heart cried, "_My Friend_!" and she knew just as surely as
if she had been told _in_ words that at the same moment Susan's heart
had sounded the same glad welcome.

She said: "Thank you, Susan," in a voice unusually subdued, and bit her
lips to keep back the tears.



CHAPTER NINE.

At twelve o'clock work was laid aside and Miss Drake accompanied the
girls for an hour's constitutional.  She claimed Dreda for her companion
for the first part of the walk, for she had noticed the girl's
humiliation, and was anxious to have a few words with her in private.

"I am sorry that you should have had such a disagreeable cross-
questioning this morning, Dreda," she began brightly, "but I am sure you
will realise that it was necessary.  I was obliged to find out what you
had been doing before I could make plans for the future.  Now that is
over, and we can move ahead.  You will enjoy working with Susan.  She is
appreciative and thoughtful--a little slow in taking things in, perhaps,
but for the present that will be a good thing, as it will make it all
the easier for a quick girl like yourself to catch up to her in class
work."  Dreda glanced up sharply.

"I!  Quick!  How do you know?"

Miss Drake smiled mischievously.

"Oh, very easily--very easily, indeed!  I am accustomed to work among
girls, and when I get a new pupil I know at once under which category
she will fall.  When I saw you I said to myself--`Quick, ambitious,
versatile!'  I have no fear that you will fail to do anything to which
you persistently give your mind."

"Ah!" groaned Dreda tragically, "but that's just what I can never do.
For a little time--yes!  I'm a _wonder_ to work when I first get a
craze.  But--it passes!  I get--_bored_!  I've never stuck persistently
to one thing in my life.  The boys call me `Etheldreda the Ready,'
because I'm always bubbling over with enthusiasm at the beginning, and
willing to promise any mortal thing you like--and then,"--she snapped
her fingers in illustration--"Snap! the balloon bursts, and I collapse
into nothing.  It will be the same thing with lessons!"

Miss Drake held up her hand imperatively.

"Stop!" she cried clearly.  "Stop!  Never say that again, never _allow_
yourself to say it.  You know your failing in your own heart, and that
is enough!  Every time that you put it into words, and talk about it to
others, gives it added strength and power and makes it more difficult to
fight.  My dear girl, you are not a child--how feeble to take for
granted that you are going to continue in your old baby failings!  Take
for granted instead that you are going to live them down, and trample
them beneath your feet.  You'll have to fight for it, and to fight hard,
but it will do you more good than any lessons I can teach.  That's the
best education, isn't it, to achieve the mastery over ourselves?"

Now, if meek Miss Bruce had delivered herself of similar sentiments,
Dreda would have tilted her chin and wriggled contemptuously in her
chair, muttering concerning "preaching," and wishing to goodness that
the tiresome old thing would stop talking and get on with her work, but
Miss Drake wore such a young and gallant air, as she strode along the
country lane with her head thrown back, and her uplifted hand waving
aloft, that the girl's ardent nature took flame; she tilted her own
head, waved her own arm, and felt a tingling of martial zeal.  Yes, she
would work!  Yes, she would fight!  She would tread her enemies under
foot and emerge from the conflict victorious, untrammelled, a paragon of
virtues.  She turned a dazzling smile upon her companion and heaved an
ardent sigh.

"How beautifully you talk!  Our old governess was so different!  She did
not understand my nature.  I have wonderful ambitions, but I am so
sensitive that I can't work against difficulties.  I need constant
encouragement and appreciation.  A sensitive plant--"

"Oh, Dreda, please spare me that worn-out simile!  Not work against
difficulties, indeed!  What nonsense you talk!  It is not work at all
when everything is easy and smooth.  Don't deceive yourself, my dear--
you are going to find plenty of difficulties, and to find them quickly,
too.  This very afternoon they will begin, when you tackle the new
subjects and realise your own ignorance.  You won't enjoy being behind
your companions."

Dreda threw out her arms with a gesture of despair, but she made no
further protest.  Difficulties arising in the dim future she felt
herself able to face resolutely enough, but the thought that they might
begin that very afternoon dispelled her ardour.  She listened to Miss
Drake's further utterances with so quelled and dispirited an air that
that quick-sighted lady felt that enough had been said for the moment,
and calling her elder pupils to her side, set the two younger girls free
to walk together.

It was the moment for which both had been longing, but a mutual shyness
held them tongue-tied for the first hundred yards.  Naturally it was
Dreda who broke the silence.

"It was ripping of you to offer to coach me.  I don't believe in
learning all those things, but if I must, I must, and it would have been
difficult all alone.  I hope you don't mind."

"I want to," said Susan simply.  "I've always wanted to do something for
you, since the first time we met.  It was at a Christmas party at the
Rectory and you wore a black frock.  I never thought then that you would
come to school with us, but I wished you could be my friend.  When I've
made castles in the air they have always been about you, and something
we could do together.  I sat beside you at supper.  Do you remember?"

No!  Dreda had no recollection of the kind.  She and her brothers and
sisters had always cherished a secret contempt for the Webster sisters
and had sedulously avoided them on every occasion.  If Susan had been
seated on one side at supper, it followed as a matter of course that
Dreda herself had devoted her attention exclusively to whoever sat at
the other side.  She felt a faint pricking of conscience, and answered
tentatively: "It is so long ago.  I have a wretched memory.  I remember
we had lovely crackers at supper--but that's all.  How did you come to
notice me?"

"Because you were so pretty," Susan said.  "Your sister is pretty too,
very pretty, but she does not look so gay.  And your brothers--they are
such big, handsome boys.  You are all handsome, and big, and strong, and
have such romantic names.  You seemed far more like a family in a book
than real, live people.  The `Story-Book Saxons'--that was always our
name for you when we spoke of you between ourselves.  Do you think it is
nice?"

"Very nice, indeed.  `Story-Book Saxons!'  I must tell Rowena that."
Dreda preened her head complacently.  This simple admiration was most
refreshing after the humiliations of the morning.  "Perhaps we _are_
rather unusual," she allowed.  "Rowena is beautiful when she is in a
good temper, and the boys are always bringing home prizes, and being
captains in their sports.  Maud is stupid, but she has lovely hair, and
I, I'm not advanced in lessons--_your_ sort of lessons--but Miss Bruce
says I have a very original mind.  When I'm grown up I don't intend to
stodge along in the dull, humdrum fashion most women do.  I mean to Do
something.  To Be something.  To live for an Aim!"

Susan regarded her with serious eyes.

"What sort of aim?"

"Oh-h"--Dreda waved her arms with a sweeping movement--"I've not
decided.  There's plenty of time.  But I mean to have a Career, and make
my name known in the world."

"Don't you think," Susan asked tentatively, "that it is best to have a
definite aim and to prepare for it beforehand?"

"You talk as if you had an ambition yourself!"

"I have!" said Susan quietly.

"You mean to be celebrated like me?"

"I am going to be an author.  I hope I shall be celebrated.  I shall try
my best, but only time can show how I shall succeed."

"An author!"  Dreda repeated disapprovingly.  "_You_!  How very odd!  I
have thought of being an author myself, and we are so different.  I
believe I could make up a very good story if I'd time.  The only
difficult part would be writing it out.  Fancy perhaps fifty chapters!
You'd get sick of them before you were half through, and have writers'
cramp, and all sorts of horriblenesses.  We might collaborate, Susan!"

Susan smiled, but showed no sign of weakening.

"I don't think that would do.  We should never agree about what we
wanted to say, but it would be delightful to read our stories aloud to
each other, and discuss them together.  The first heroine I make shall
be exactly like you!"

"That's sweet of you.  Begin at once--do! and read each chapter as it's
done."

Susan's smile was somewhat wistful.  She looked in Dreda's face with
anxious eyes, as though waiting for a promise which must surely come,
but Dreda remained blankly unresponsive.  It never occurred to her for a
moment that it could be possible to make a heroine out of Susan Webster!



CHAPTER TEN.

West End School was conducted on lines differing somewhat both from
those of the modern public school and the old polite finishing seminary
for young ladies.  It accommodated in all about fifty pupils, and
although games and examinations formed important parts of the
curriculum, they were not regarded as being of such absorbing importance
as in many modern schools.  Miss Bretherton was a woman of lofty aims,
who was continually looking beyond her pupils' schooldays to the time
when they should be the women of Britain; the wives and mothers, and
sisters and friends of the men who were to carry on the work of our
great Empire, and who, humanly speaking, would do that work well or ill
according to the manner in which their womankind influenced their lives.
Miss Bretherton realised that the chief result of school study was not
the mere storing of information, but the training of the brain to
grapple with the great problems of life.  Lessons were only means to an
end.  Half of that which was learnt with such pains would be forgotten
before a dozen years had passed by; but the deeper lessons of industry,
patience, self-restraint, would remain as habits of daily life.
Formation of character--that was the one absorbing object which the Head
held in view, and which underlay every scheme and arrangement.  Miss
Bretherton's manner was so staid, her nature so reserved, that her
pupils were apt to credit her with being dull and easily deceived,
little guessing that those quiet eyes were as searchlights turned upon
their little foibles and vanities.  During Dreda's first week at school
her mood was pretty equally divided between enjoyment and misery.  She
loved the big, full, bustling house, the constant companionship of her
kind, the chats over the study fire, the games in the playground; in a
lesser degree she enjoyed the lessons also--those, at least, in which
she was fairly proficient--and found Miss Drake a most interesting and
inspiring teacher.  She loved the interest which she excited, the
flattering remarks of other girls, the quiet devotion of Susan; but she
hated the rules of "early to bed and early to rise"; found it a penance
to be obliged to practise scales, with icy fingers, for forty minutes
before breakfast; was fretted and humiliated by her ignorance on many
important subjects, and at the end of the long day often found herself
tired, disappointed, and--hungry!

There is no doubt that a school menu is a distinct trial to the girl
fresh from home.  The girl accustomed to mix cream in a cup of freshly
roasted, freshly ground coffee takes badly to the weak, groundy liquid
so often supplied in its place.  She grows tired to death of beef,
mutton, and resurrection pie, and is inclined to declare that if the
only way to become strong is to consume everlasting suet puddings, why,
then, as a choice of evils, she prefers to be weak!

"Is it always as bad as this?"  Dreda demanded plaintively of her room-
mates as they brushed their locks in company before retiring to bed on
the evening of her fifth day at West House.  "Do you _never_ have
anything nice and light, that doesn't taste of suet and oven?  Does it
get better as summer comes on?"

"Worse!" pronounced Nancy shortly.

Dreda had devoted five whole days to the study of Nancy's character, and
to this hour could not make up her mind whether she most liked or
detested her.  She was the oddest of girls: nothing seemed to excite
her, nothing to trouble, nothing to please.  Occasionally she would show
swift, kindly impulses, as when she had offered to become Dreda's coach;
but not a flicker of disappointment did she portray if such impulses
were repulsed, not a gleam of pleasure if they were accepted.  At other
times she seemed to take a perverse pleasure in making the worst of a
situation and playing the part of Job's comforter.

"Worse!" she sighed.  "Much worse!  Because it's warm weather, and your
fancy lightly turns to nicer things.  It's a bit of a cross to see
strawberries in the shop windows, and them come home to `Brother, where
art thou?'"

"What brother?"

"Raisins!" said Nancy, and sighed again.  "They lose each other in such
steppes of suet."

Conscientious Susan exclaimed in protest.

"Nancy!  Too bad.  There is always stewed rhubarb!"

But this was poor comfort, for Dreda disliked stewed rhubarb almost as
much as suet itself.  She pouted disconsolately for several moments,
then smiled with sudden inspiration.

"I'll get a doctor's order!"

"What for?"

"Plenty of fresh ripe fruit.  Vegetarian diet.  Fruit, and cream, and
eggs during the summer heat!"

"How will you manage to get it?"

"I'll have something...  I'll ask Rowena what's the best complaint:
headaches or dizziness, or feeling tired.  I'll tell mother it's the
heavy food, and mother'll tell him, and he'll write to Miss Bretherton.
I shall eat strawberries, and watch you search for `brothers.'"

Nancy stared solemnly with her long, dark eyes.

"There was a girl here who tried that before--Netta Bryce.  That very
same dodge."

"Well?"

"She wished she hadn't."

"Why?"

"Try, and you'll find out."

"Nancy, you _are_ horrid.  What happened to her?  Where is she now?"

"Dead!" croaked Nancy, and drew the screen around her bed.  After that
Dreda might question as much as she liked, but she knew well that never
a reply would Nancy vouchsafe.  It was really most tiresome!

She lay awake for a good ten minutes pondering over what _could_ have
happened to Netta Bryce, and if she had died soon, and under what
conditions.  Nancy was really the most aggravating of creatures!

Besides Miss Drake, commonly called "The Duck," there were two other
resident teachers at West Hill.  Mademoiselle--a tiny, pathetic-looking
little creature, warranted to fly into a temper in a shorter time, and
upon less provocation, than any other woman in the United Kingdom; and
Fraulein, a lumpish but amiable creature who gave lessons in German and
music.  Miss Bretherton herself took the whole school for the morning
Bible lesson, and had a disagreeable habit of descending upon the
different forms at unexpected moments, and taking the place of the
regular teacher.  Of course, the surprise visit invariably happened just
at the moment when the girls had "slacked," whereupon fright being added
to ignorance, they would make such a poor display that they themselves
were covered with confusion and their instructor with mortification.
Almost every day at dinner time two or three girls could be observed
with crimson cheeks and watery eyes gazing miserably at their plates,
when the beholders would nudge each other significantly, and exchange
glances of commiserating understanding.  "Our turn next!"

Two masters also visited the school.  Mr Broun, the professor of music,
was a small, shaggy-looking personage, with a bumpy brow and eyes set
extraordinarily far apart.  He was a born musician, and, as a
consequence, found it infinitely irritating to the nerves to be obliged
to teach young ladies who had not one note of music in their
composition, but whose parents considered an acquaintance with the
pianoforte to be a necessity of education.  When one of these
unfortunates went up for her lesson, shouts and groans of despair could
be heard outside the door of the music-room, accompanied by the sound of
heavy footsteps pacing helplessly to and fro, and at the end of the
half-hour the victim would emerge, red and tearful, or red and defiant,
as her nature was, to recount gruesome stories of brutality to her
companions.  "He rapped my ringers with his pencil.  I won't stand it.
I'm sixteen.  I'll write home and complain."  Sandwiched in among the
poor pupils were one or two who possessed real musical ability--Nancy,
for instance, whose supple fingers seemed to draw mysterious sweetness
and depths from the keys of the well-worn piano--and in these cases the
lesson would extend far beyond its legitimate length and would take upon
itself something of the nature of a recital, as Mr Broun himself took
possession of the piano stool, to illustrate the effect which he wished
produced.  Then the girls in adjoining rooms would find their attention
wandering from their books, and little groups "changing form" would
linger outside the door listening with bated breath.  Ah! if one could
only play like _that_!

Mr Minns, the mathematical master, was built on wires, and expected one
rapid explanation of the most complex rule to make it clear as crystal.
After twenty years spent in teaching, he _still_ professed to be
prostrated with horror at each fresh exhibition of feminine obtuseness,
and would groan, and writhe, and push his fingers through his hair,
until it stood up round his head like a halo.  He was Dreda's special
_bete noire_, for, like many girls who excel in literature and
composition, she detested the sight of a sum and had never grown beyond
the stage of counting on her fingers beneath the table.  If it had not
been for Susan's laboriously patient explanations, nothing could have
saved her from the most hopeless humiliation; but Susan had a gift of
apt and fitting words, and of inventing illustrations which showed
daylight through the thickest mist.

She rose early and worked late in order to have time to spare for her
duties as coach, and Dreda was lavish in gratitude.

"You really _are_ a saint!  What should I do without you?  Expire of
pure misery and despair.  As it is, I'm dying of overwork.  I've a buzzy
muzzy feeling in my brain which must mean something bad.  Softening, I
believe.  It _does_ come on from overstrain!"

Susan would smile, her quietly humorous smile, at these exaggerated
statements, refusing to feel any anxiety about the health of such a
blooming invalid.

Apart from arithmetic, however, Dreda made wonderful progress in her
studies.  Her native quickness of wits stood her in good stead; she
learnt easily, and seized nimbly on salient points, so that, though her
knowledge was superficial, she was always ready with an answer, and
could enlarge so cleverly on what she _did_ know, that the gaps of
ignorance remained unsuspected.  Susan, the prudent, shook her head over
this juggling with fate, and foretold confusion in the coming
examinations; but Dreda was content to sun herself in the present
atmosphere of approbation and leave the future to take care of itself.
Given a free hand by her parents, she had entered her name for every
examination on the school list, and hardly a day passed that she did not
propose a new scheme or exploit to her companions.

The time for these propositions was generally the cherished half-hour
after tea, when the fourth form girls gathered round the fire in the
study to chat over the doings and happenings of the day.  Then Dreda was
in her element, and every day, as it seemed, was filled with a fresh
ambition.

"When does your school magazine come out next?"

"Never!  Haven't got one to `come out.'"

"_Haven't got one_?  A school without a magazine!  How disgraceful!  I
should be ashamed to confess it.  Why haven't you?"

"Too much fag!"

Dreda gasped with horror.

"Why, even at home, where we are only six, we have an--an--" She paused,
anxiously searching for a word which should be sufficiently vague--"an
_annual_, with stories, and illustrations, and correspondence columns
just like real.  I was `Aunt Nelly' and answered the questions.  Such
sport! ...  `Yes, my dear, at fifteen you are certainly far too young to
be secretly engaged.  Confide the whole story to your dear mother.  A
mother is ever a young girl's wisest confidante.'--(Of course, no one
really asked me that.  I made it up.  You have to make up to fill the
page.) ...  `So sorry your complexion is spotty.  Rub it over with lemon
juice and oil.  Never mind if you _are_ ugly.  Be good, and you'll get a
sweet expression, and that is better than any beauty.' ...  Ha, ha!"
She tossed her golden mane with a derisive laugh.  "_Just_ like a real
mag.!  Then I put things in for the boys, of course--got them out of
cricket reports and encyclopaedias--it looks out well to have learned
bits here and there.  And you can give lovely hints!  It would be
awfully useful in a school, because you could say whatever you wanted
without being personal ...  `No! the old adage, "Finding is keeping"
does _not_ apply to your companions' indiarubbers and pencils.  It is
not considered honourable in good society to pare off initials inscribed
thereon for purposes of identification.'"  She chuckled happily.  "Don't
I do it well?  I really _have_ the knack! ...  I can't think why you
don't have one."

"How should we find the time?" queried Susan earnestly.  "First to
compose the things--and then write them out neatly would take hours and
hours."

"I would write them out.  It looks ever so much better if it's all in
one handwriting."

The girls exchanged glances.  Dreda certainly wrote a very legible hand,
but they were already beginning to feel a trifle dubious about her ready
promises.

"My dear, it would take _years_!  You would never get through.  Only
yesterday you were preparing us for softening of the brain from
overwork.  You really must curb this overflowing energy."  Nancy
narrowed her eyes in her most fascinating smile, in which still lurked a
spice of derision.  "Your welfare is very precious to us; we can't
afford to risk it for the sake of a magazine!"

Dreda flushed, and wriggled impatiently on her seat.  She never could
tell whether Nancy was in fun or in earnest.

"I am not proposing to take on more work.  It would be a distraction!"
she declared loftily.  "I love making up stories and poetry, and reading
what other people have written.  I'd get up early, and do it in play
hours.  It would be a labour of love.  Besides, it would cultivate our
style.  `The Duck' is literary herself.  I dare say she'd let it count
as composition!"

The girls brightened visibly at this suggestion.  It would be distinctly
more amusing to write for their own magazine than to cudgel their brains
to produce a sheet full of ideas on the abstruse subjects suggested by
Miss Drake.  They edged a little nearer the fire, straightened their
backs, and fell to discussion.

"Perhaps she might."

"We'll ask her."

"She might be editor."

"She could write a lovely story herself."

"Bertha could illustrate.  She draws the killingest pictures.  There was
one of the fifth dormitory at 6 a.m.  You saw all the girls asleep, and
their heads were killing.  Amy had a top-knot that had fallen on one
side, Phyllis a pigtail about two inches long, and as thin as a string.
You know her miserable little wisp of hair.  Mary was lying on her back
with her mouth wide open.  It was the image of her.  She's nearly as
good as Hilda Cowham.  We might call her `Hilda Cowman' as a _nom de
plume_.  Wouldn't it look professional?"

Dreda was a trifle annoyed that the position of editor had not been
offered to herself as the originator of the movement, and she likewise
cherished the belief that she was entitled to take a prominent place as
illustrator; but she consoled herself with the reflection that when the
magazine was really started her previous experience could not fail to be
useful.

"We'll have stories, and essays, and poetry, and competitions, and
advertisements at the end.  You have to pay for advertisements, and that
pays for stationery."

"What sort of advertisements?"

"Every sort.  Exchanging stamps and post cards, selling snapshots--
anything you like.  I should put: `Fifth form pupil will coach junior
for ten minutes daily in exchange for fagging: hot water, sewing on
buttons, darning, etcetera.'  I'm not used to mending.  It's the limit!
What shall we call it?"

"The magazine?  _The Grey House Monthly_--_Messenger_--_Herald_--
something of that kind.  We ought to bring in the name of the school."

"I don't see why.  I think it would be nicer without.  Less amateury.
The--_Casket_.  Wouldn't _Casket_ be good?  It implies that it is full
of treasures."

"_The Torch_!  That's nicer than _Casket_, and sounds more spirited.  We
could have a picture of a woman holding up a lamp, with the word
`Progress' written across the beams--like they do in the _Punch_
cartoons.  I think _Torch_ would be lovely."

"Why not _Comet_?" asked Nancy in her brief, quiet tones, narrowing the
double line of black eyelashes as she spoke so as to hide the expression
of her eyes.

There was a moment's pause, broken by Dreda's quick, suspicious
question:

"Why _Comet_?"

"Why not?"

"Do you mean because of the _tail_?"

"Comets _do_ have tails, don't they?  So do magazines!"

That was all very well, but the silence which followed the explanation
showed that suspicion still rankled.  Dreda arched her eyebrows at
Barbara, who shrugged in reply.  Susan wrinkled her brows, and Norah
pursed her lips.  What was Nancy really thinking inside that sleek,
well-shaped little head?  Comets appeared suddenly; remained to be a ten
days' talk and wonder, and then--mysteriously disappeared!
Instinctively Dreda stiffened her back, and registered an inward vow
that she would spare neither time nor pains to make the magazine a
permanent and shining light!



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

To the delight of Dreda, and the more subdued satisfaction of the other
pupils, a magazine received the sanction of the headmistress and Miss
Drake, provided that it did not aim at more than a quarterly appearance.

"It will waken you up!" said the latter, smiling whimsically at her
pupils.  "You are all rather apt to go to sleep at times, especially
when a little originality is desired; but remember that the magazine
receives official sanction as a means of education, not as a receptacle
for any rubbish you may choose to scribble.  We'll have stories, of
course; but I have suffered under stories in other amateur magazines,
and am determined to raise ours above the usual level.  Every girl who
wishes to write a story must draw out a synopsis of the plot and submit
it to me before she embarks on the task of writing it out.  I will then
refuse or accept it, and in the latter case will talk it over with the
author, giving her some hints as to arrangement, treatment of points,
which will, I hope, be of value to the story.  In fact, I should like to
have the entire synopsis of the magazine drawn up and brought to me a
month before publication.  So what a Tartar of an editor I am going to
be!  I have quite decided that if I am to get through the work at all, I
must have an understudy, a sub-editor, so to speak, who can keep the
contributors up to time, collect their suggestions, and submit them for
my criticism.  It will involve a good deal of steady, methodical work.
I wonder--"

"I'll do it, Miss Drake.  Let me.  I offered to be editor before."

The words leaped from Etheldreda's lips before Miss Drake's eyes had
wandered halfway round the class.  Mary's face wore its usual blank
stare, Barbara sniggled with obvious contempt, Nancy veiled her eyes
with her thick, dark lashes, Susan flushed suddenly a brilliant red.

Both Miss Drake and Dreda herself were arrested by the sight of those
flaming cheeks, for Susan was, as a rule, so calm and self-restrained
that any exhibition of excitement on her part was bound to attract
attention.  What was the matter?  Why did she look so anxious and eager?
What were the words which seemed trembling on her lips?  Dreda felt
complacently convinced that as her own friend and ally Susan was longing
to champion her cause.  Miss Drake smiled and asked encouragingly:

"Well, Susan, what is it?  What were you going to say?"

The red mounted higher and higher until it reached the roots of the
tightly brushed hair.  Susan's very ears seemed aflame, and her voice
had the husky note of repressed excitement.

"I--I was going to offer--I thought I could do the work for you, Miss
Drake."

Etheldreda's gasp of dismay was heard throughout the room.  Her cheeks
rivalled Susan's in their flame of indignation.  _Susan_ to play her
false, to endeavour to wrest a coveted place from a friend!  Susan an
enemy, a rival!  Dreda felt a vehement, overwhelming disgust for the
whole universe and its inhabitants, a shattering of faith in every
cherished ideal!  Never, no never again, could she bring herself to
believe in a human creature!

The two girls sat silent, awaiting the mistress's decree, and Miss Drake
looked slowly from one flushed face to the other, her usually smooth
forehead showing two deep horizontal lines.  It was her "thinking
look"--the look which she wore when she was trying to explain an
unusually difficult point in the day's lessons.  The girls watched her
anxiously, saw the lines clear away, and the light of decision drawn in
her eyes; wondered if it were in imagination only that at the same time
they caught the sound of a faint sigh of regret.

"Thank you, girls," she said slowly.  "It is sweet of you both to be so
ready to help.  I am ever so much obliged to you, Susan--but Dreda spoke
first.  I think I will decide to give the post to her."

Nobody heard any more than this, though Miss Drake continued talking for
several moments.  Dreda was thrilling from head to foot with triumphant
joy.  Susan's flush had deepened from crimson to an absolute magenta.
The other girls were torn between sympathy and amazement!  For once in
their lives they were unanimous in condemnation of the beloved Duck's
judgment, and could not imagine what she had been dreaming about to
choose Dreda Saxon for a post of responsibility, when that most reliable
of Susans could have been had for the asking.  No one made any remark,
however, and Dreda, glancing expectantly around, failed to meet any of
the congratulatory smiles which were surely her right on so auspicious
an occasion.  The girls were sitting stiff and straight in their seats,
staring at their desks in their most prim and wooden manner.  Susan was
the only one who ventured a struggling smile, and from her Dreda
contemptuously turned aside.  Hypocrisy was a failing for which she had
no tolerance!

It was with a visible effort that Miss Drake continued the discussion in
her usual bright, cheery manner.

"The term is already a month old.  I should like to have the synopsis of
the contents of the magazine by to-day fortnight--say the tenth of next
month.  We can then allow three weeks for composition and a week for
typing, and still have the magazine ready a week before the holidays.  I
have quite decided that everything must be typed: the effect, as a
whole, will be far better.  Faults in style and composition stand out
before us in print as they never do in our own familiar handwriting.
Moreover, I have other schemes working in my head."  She paused, smiling
mysteriously.  "I won't explain now, but later on, perhaps ...  Do your
best, girls!  Some of you have real talent.  Who knows, this little
venture may be the beginning of some great career.  How proud I should
be in time to come if I could say of a celebrated author: `She was my
pupil.  She wrote her first story or essay or poem for our school
magazine!'"

She paused, looking round the class.  Once more her gaze lingered on
Susan's downcast face, but there was no response in its immovable lines.
The other girls vouchsafed strained, uneasy smiles.  Only from Dreda's
ecstatic eyes there flashed back a joyful comprehension.  How beautiful
the girl looked!  Her vivid colouring, all pink, and white, and gold,
made an almost startling contrast to the duller tints of the other
girls.

It was impossible to resist the fascination of so fair a sight, yet
there was a touch of wistfulness in the teacher's smile.

The class dismissed, it was time to go upstairs to dress for supper, and
Dreda found herself alone in the bedroom with her two companions.  Nancy
peeled off her blouse, threw it upon the bed, and brushed out her heavy
locks in determined silence.  Susan approached Dreda with a tremulous
smile.

"Oh, Dreda--I'm glad!  I hope the magazine will be a success.  If I can
help you in any way do let me try."

But Dreda glared at her with sparkling eyes.

"You are _not_ glad!  You tried your very best to be editor yourself,
though you _knew_ how disappointed I should be.  I thought you were my
friend.  You are not.  You are an enemy, and not even an honest enemy at
that!  You need not trouble yourself about me any more, for lessons or
anything else.  I can get on quite well alone!"

Susan shrank, as if from a blow.

"Dreda, you are angry.  You don't understand.  It's no trouble.  I love
to help you."

"Much obliged.  I don't care for such help.  Please don't talk to me any
more.  I _am_ angry.  I have a right to be angry!"

Dreda pulled her screen with a jerk, cutting herself off from the corner
where Susan performed her toilet.  Seated on her bed, Nancy brushed at
her long, sleek hair, keeping it spread as a veil before her face.
Dreda waited in vain for a glance of sympathy, or understanding, but it
never came, even when Susan had crept softly from the room and the
constraint of her presence was removed.  Nancy finished brushing her
hair, and rose to her feet in the lightest, most unperturbed of
fashions:

"Got any pins you can spare?"

Nancy was celebrated for the number of pins which she used in her
toilet.  Things wouldn't fasten without them, she declared.  She was
fairly bristling with pins, so that her most ardent adorers moderated
their embraces, mindful of the scratches which had been their reward in
days of inexperience.  Dreda eagerly selected half a dozen of her most
cherished fancy-headed pins, and handed them across the bed.

"Of course.  As many as you like.  I say, Nance, I'm sorry to have made
a scene.  I _could not_ help it!"

"Oh, don't apologise.  I like a good row now and then.  Not for myself--
it's too much trouble--but it's amusing to listen to other people when
they get excited.  They give themselves away so delightfully."

Dreda flushed, and knitted her brows.

"I wasn't at all excited in this case.  I was angry--_righteously_
angry!  It's one's duty to protest against mean, underhand actions."

"Such as wanting the best positions for ourselves?"

"Certainly not.  That is only natural ambition--laudable ambition.  The
mean thing is to try to oust someone else--your own best friend, when
you know she could do it better than you!"

"Yes!" mused Nancy thoughtfully.  "That does sound mean ...  This sub-
editor post is going to be so difficult that it ought certainly to go to
the right person.  A careful, methodical, machine-like sort of creature,
who will never forget or let others forget.  The girls are slack enough
about regular work, and will be a hundred times worse about an extra,
and The Duck is a tartar about punctuality.  It's going to be a problem
to please them and `keep the peace.'  But you have had a magazine at
home, so you know all about it.  Susan has had no experience."

Nancy had seated herself on her bed once more, her hands clasped round
her knees, her lips slightly apart, showing a glimpse of the golden bar
round the front teeth; her long, Eastern-looking eyes met Dreda's
without a blink, yet for some mysterious reason Dreda felt her cheeks
flush and a jarring doubt awoke in her mind.  "A machine"--"never
forgetting--never late!"  Not even her youthful complaisance could apply
that description to herself.  The ghosts of past enterprises seemed to
rear reproachful heads, reminding her of their existence.  To each of
the number had been sworn eternal fidelity, yet how short had been their
lives!  The factory girl, for instance, who had received three long,
enthusiastic letters, and after the lapse of a year was still awaiting
the receipt of the fourth.  Poor Emma Larkins had been so appreciative
and grateful.  Dreda had been able to talk of nothing else for the first
week of the correspondence.  She had planned a lifelong friendship, and
in imagination had seen herself, aged and wealthy, acting the gracious
benefactress to a second generation.  _How_ had she happened to forget?
She had been busy, her father had taken her for a trip abroad, she had
joined a society for the study of French classics.  The time had flown
by until she had been ashamed to begin writing again.  No doubt another
correspondent had taken her place ...  "_Susan has no experience_."
True!  Yet if one wished to describe Susan's character, could one do it
more aptly than by using Nancy's own words?  "Careful, methodical,
machine-like as to accuracy!"  _What_ did Nancy mean?  Was she really
and truly in earnest, or did some hidden meaning lurk behind the
seemingly innocent words?  Dreda drew a long breath, and set her teeth
in the determination to set an example of diligence and punctuality to
all sub-editors beneath the sun, and by so doing to demonstrate in the
most practical of fashions her suitability for the post.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy--and Jill a dull girl also.
Miss Bretherton was a firm believer in this old adage, and loyally tried
to provide a due proportion of amusement for her pupils.  In the winter
terms bad weather often interfered with outdoor sports, but every
alternate Saturday evening a reception was held in the drawing-room
between the hours of seven and nine thirty, on which occasions thirty
pupils dressed for the fray with gleeful anticipation, and the thirty-
first with trembling foreboding, for it was she who was chosen to play
the part of hostess and take sole management and responsibility of the
entertainment.

All pupils in the fourth and fifth term were considered old enough to be
hostesses, so that no girl was called upon to play the part more than
twice a year; but when the great occasions arrived, ambition mingled
with nervousness, and the heroine of the hour, calling to mind the
errors and failings of her companions, determined to profit by them, and
achieve a brilliant success for herself.

The duties of the hostess were sufficiently onerous.  She was
responsible for the arrangement of flowers in the drawing-room, could
distribute chairs and sofas as she thought fit, and punctually at seven
o'clock must be on duty prepared to receive her guests and direct the
passing round of tea and coffee.  The first hour was dedicated to
conversation; for the second, some form of amusement must be designed
and arranged, and lastly, a sum of ten shillings had to be so expended
as to provide some form of light refreshment which should be consumed
before the company dispersed.

To take the last duty first, ten shillings divided into thirty portions
(the younger pupils were not allowed to stay up for "supper") did not
allow a very handsome sum per head!  Most hostesses came down and down
in their ambition until they reached the ignominious level of lemonade
and buns, but there had been occasional daring flights of fancy, as when
Nancy had provided thirty large sausage rolls, and the poor sufferers
whose digestions forbade playing with such dainties last thing at night
found no choice offered to them, and were obliged to retire to bed
hungry and wrathful.  An hour's amusement was also somewhat difficult to
arrange, as nothing short of an official decree would induce a music
pupil to perform in public, a singer to sing, or an elocutionist to give
a recital.  Paper games and competitions of a somewhat feeble nature
were the general refuge of the destitute, though each hostess started
out with the determination of hitting on something more amusing and
exciting.  No difficulty as to amusement or provision, however, could
compare for one moment with the ordeal of that first hour, that hour of
reception and conversation, the horrors of which each fresh hostess
seemed to find more onerous than the last.  To sail forward and shake
hands with Miss Bretherton in her best grey silk, to welcome her to her
own drawing-room, and engage in light conversation about the weather--
could one imagine a more paralysing ordeal?  Then no sooner was the Head
disposed of in one arm-chair, than in would come a party of your best
friends, all primed with mischievous determination to make you giggle,
and so reduce you to humiliation.  While one was elegantly shaking
hands, a second was furtively pulling hideous grimaces, a third was
pinching your arm, and a fourth treading on your toe.  Crimson-faced and
quivering, you would convey these last arrivals across the room and
introduce them to Miss Bretherton, for it was one of the tiresome rules
that no one guest was supposed to know another at the moment of entering
these social gatherings.  Thick and fast they came at last, and more and
more and more, all needing to be welcomed with appropriate words,
conducted to seats, introduced, provided with tea.  The poor hostess had
no time to think of herself, and her worst moments began when all her
guests had assembled, for then she must perforce watch for the moment
when conversation became forced and fitful and promptly move the pawns
about the board, introducing them to fresh pawns, lingering until
conversation was safely afloat!  The members of the staff never deigned
to help the poor struggling novice in the art of entertainment; it was
darkly suspected that they rather added to her difficulties by adopting
haughty, reserved airs which called for greater displays of generalship.
With what a sigh of relief was the striking of eight o'clock greeted by
the harassed mistress of the ceremonies!

Dreda Saxon's first experience as hostess arrived just about the middle
of the term, and, unlike her companions, she was greatly elated at the
prospect.  No fears disturbed her night's rest; she received the half-
sovereign for refreshments as gratefully as if _it_ had been a fortune,
and graciously "allowed" a few favoured friends to join the troupe of
"dramatic impersonators" who were to provide the hour's amusement.

Everyone wanted to be a dramatic impersonator.  It sounded much more
exciting than sitting primly looking on beneath the eyes of the teaching
staff; but Dreda had made a careful selection of Susan, Nancy, Barbara,
and two lanky, overgrown third form sisters, Molly and Florry Reece, and
sturdily refused to add to their number.  Norah West in especial was
much injured at being passed over, for she cherished a schoolgirl's
adoration for the quiet Susan, and until Dreda's appearance on the scene
had invariably been included in any scheme in which either she or Nancy
were interested.

"I always did everything with everybody.  I was always _in_ everything
until you came," she cried resentfully.

"Were you?  Dear me!  Then you should be glad of a rest," responded
naughty Dreda, when, needless to say, Norah waxed more indignant than
before.

"That Etheldreda Saxon is really getting insupportable," she announced
to her companions at dinner on Saturday morning.  "A new-comer and a
fourth form girl, and she tries to boss the school.  She's not a bit
good at her work either, except at things she can make up out of her own
head at a moment's notice.  What right has she to give herself airs?"
The companion shrugged her shoulders with disappointing indifference.

"I don't know.  What does it matter?  It pleases her, and it don't hurt
us.  She's good at hitting on new ideas anyhow, and that's a comfort.
Dramatic impersonations sounds a lot better than paper games.  I'm quite
looking forward to to-night."

Now Norah had had paper games on a recent occasion when she had played
the part of hostess, so she felt herself snubbed, and sulked for the
whole afternoon, disdaining to take any notice of the whispering and
laughing, the rushings to and fro, the wholesale confiscation of
"properties," indulged in by Dreda and her troupe.

When the evening arrived she put on her second best dress, and purposely
dallied until the very last moment before entering the drawing-room.
She wished and expected to annoy Dreda by slighting her hospitality, but
Dreda was too much absorbed in the excitement of the moment to remember
past differences, so that the reluctant Norah found herself greeted with
the most radiant of smiles, and was promptly escorted across the room
and introduced to Mademoiselle in characteristic fashion.

"Mademoiselle, may I introduce my friend Miss West?  Miss West is quite
a distinguished example of our _jeune fille_ sportive!  I am sure you
will like to know her.  Miss West--Mademoiselle Saudre."

Mademoiselle chuckled with delight, and subdued splutterings of
amusement sounded round the room while the _jeune fille_ sportive took
her seat with a very red face, miserably conscious that she was
handicapped with a new nickname which would remain with her for the rest
of her school life.

It was amusing to note the expression, half-approving, half-dismayed,
with which Miss Bretherton watched the self-possessed young hostess.
These evening At Homes had been instituted with the express design of
preparing the elder pupils to be of social use to their mothers on their
return home; to be able to make an introduction in due form, and to
overcome awkward self-consciousness.  It was a trifle disconcerting,
however, to behold so very full-fledged a bantling, to find oneself
treated with benevolent patronage, and to see the old rules set at
naught in favour of startling innovations.  Dreda had requisitioned two
of the maids to take charge of the tea-table, and ordered their
movements with the air of a commander-in-chief; she strolled about the
room--taking part in the conversations of the different groups, and,
when necessary, introducing new subjects with unblushing inconsequence.

As, for instance: "Yes; it has been terribly foggy.  Quite the worst
October on record.  Have you ever been in Switzerland?"

The startled hearers were dumb for some moments, and then one of the
number announced that she was going to Saint Moritz in January to take
part in the winter sports, whereupon everyone was full of interest and
curiosity, and Dreda swept onward to another bored-looking group, and
hurled another conversational arrow.

At last--far sooner than usual, as everyone allowed--the clock struck
eight, and immediately the two maids came forward, and, still under
Dreda's superintendence, moved all the seats to the far end of the room,
shutting off the portion by the door by means of three outstretched
screens.  The dramatic impersonations were about to begin!

A scene from English history formed the first item on the programme, and
the screens being duly removed, an imposing figure was discerned
strutting slowly to and fro, clad in a white bath gown on which a
selection of shining dish-covers had been fastened with a very fair
effect of armoury.  Behind this imposing personage paced two other
figures, cloaked and draped in would-be old-world fashion, who smirked
as they went, and, bowing and scraping, pointed mysteriously to a green
baize tablecloth stretched on the floor in mysteriously lumpy outline.
The haughty person in the dish-covers waved aside these confidences with
an air of impatience, then suddenly waxing wrathful, turned upon his
companions and issued dumb but imperious commands.  A chair was
produced, and the attendants stood by in evident discomfort the while
their seated master pointed his hand rebukingly towards the green patch
on the floor.  And then began a curious phenomenon, for the lumpy mass
beneath the green tablecloth suddenly awoke to movement; a rhythmical,
regular movement which swayed to and fro, up and down, creeping ever
nearer and nearer to the seated monarch.  When at length the edge of the
cloth actually touched his august feet, horror and consternation were
depicted on the faces of the attendants, while their master arose in
leisurely dignity, and delivered in pantomime what was evidently a most
instructive and admonitory address.

Hearty clapping and cries of "Canute!  Canute!" from the stalls greeted
the end of this performance, whereupon the green tablecloth was hastily
thrown aside and the "waves" appeared in the persons of Molly and
Florry, somewhat hot and red in the face as a result of their seclusion,
but satisfied that their efforts had produced quite the most striking
effect in the performance.

A bell rang.  The screens were hastily pushed forward, and Barbara's
fingers could be heard laboriously pounding out her latest "piece" on
the piano, the while audible preparations were taking place for item
number two.  Barbara was not musical by nature, and in addition to a
woodenness of touch, possessed a habit of playing the treble notes a
distinct beat in advance of the bass, peculiarly exasperating to her
instructress.  Poor Fraulein! her expression suggested an attack of
indigestion rather than an amused spectator of a dramatic entertainment!

Te-tum, te-tum, tum-tum!  The last uncertain chords quavered to an end,
the screens were again withdrawn, and the stage was discovered full of
characters, dressed with some ingenuity to represent the principal
personages in "Young Lochinvar."  In arranging the _dramatis persona_
some difficulty had arisen from the fact that none of the girls was
willing to represent the elderly bridegroom so unflatteringly described
as "a laggard in love and a dastard in war."  It was not an ingratiating
character, and Nancy and Barbara flatly refused to personate it.  Susan
could do it, she was the smallest, and would best look the part.  For
two minutes on end Susan stoutly refused to do anything of the kind, and
then placidly consented, being of a peace-at-any-price disposition,
which found it easier to submit than to preserve a determined
opposition.  She submitted, therefore, and reaped her reward in the
shape of a costume which was beyond doubt the most striking in the
group.  A Norfolk jacket, a shawl pleated to represent a kilt, and a
plaid thrown across her shoulders, were but insignificant details
compared to the delight of sporting a pair of whiskers manufactured out
of two long heads of pampas grass, so white, so silky, so bushy that
they had really to be seen to be appreciated!  The pampas grasses had
been Dreda's inspiration, and when she had tied them securely into
place, run several long black crayon marks from nose to chin, and popped
a pair of spectacles over the eyes, behold the demure Susan transformed
into so comical an imitation of an old man that the spectators rocked on
their seats with merriment.  There he stood, "plucking his bonnet and
plume," while Dreda simpered in a corner, and Nancy as Lochinvar
interviewed Barbara in the character of indignant father.  Both actors
had donned imitations of the Scottish costume, and the former made a
picturesque figure as he led forward his lady love.

  "One touch to her hand, and one word in her ears,
  And they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near."

The charger was represented by an ancient and battered hobby horse,
astride which the eloping lovers galloped violently across the stage, to
disappear from sight through the open doorway.  Confusion followed among
the spectators, who hurriedly supplied themselves with imaginary steeds
and galloped off in wild pursuit.

Again there was no difficulty in guessing the poem represented, but long
and continued applause testified to the delight of the audience, while a
special call was given to the wearer of the pampas whiskers.

After an interval of several minutes the screens were withdrawn for the
third impersonation, when an impromptu bed was beheld placed on the
extreme left of the stage.  Lying snugly snoozled into a pillow was a
fair head, at sight of which the audience laughed uproariously, for the
head belonged to Dreda Saxon; but her fair hair, parted in the middle
and plastered straightly down on either side, gave a ridiculously staid
and old-world effect to her pink and white face.  She snored gently,
unperturbed by the mocking laughter, and presently two stout dames
hurried into the room, and with a great show of agitation, roused the
damsel from her sleep.  Her arms were thrust into a blue dressing-gown,
her bare feet into bedroom slippers, and, thus attired, she was escorted
past a second screen into the presence of two grave and reverend
segniors, who fell on their knees and humbly kissed her outstretched
hand.  The ludicrous solemnity of Dreda's face beneath the plastered
bandeaux of hair brought down the house, and no one had the least
difficulty in recognising in the representation the youthful Queen
Victoria at the moment of her accession.

There was only enough time left for two more representations: Sir Walter
Raleigh spreading his cloak on the ground so that Queen Elizabeth could
escape the mud, and a spirited rendering of Horatius keeping the bridge,
in which last representation Nancy won much applause as the "great Lord
of Luna" clanking a four-fold shield in the shape of large-sized tea
trays.  The bridge was typified by a blackboard stretched between two
tables--and the manner in which Horatius made his final dive into a nest
of cushions was blood-curdling to behold.  In truth, the hour's
amusement passed like a flash, and when Dreda in ordinary dress re-
entered the drawing-room at the head of her troupe, she was everywhere
greeted with congratulations and applause.

"Supper" was another surprise, consisting, as it did, of fruit salad and
whipped-up cream.  The fortunates who were first in the field waxed
eloquent in appreciation, but, alas! the cream soon fell short, and the
last helpings of "salad" were so small as to be almost invisible.

"But some people are never satisfied," quoth Dreda scornfully.  "What if
the salad _did_ run short!  It was a feast of reason and a flow of soul.
I've no pity for a person whose mind can't soar above stewed prunes!"



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

The energy with which Etheldreda the Ready set about her work as sub-
editor threatened to ruin the magazine before its birth, for intending
contributors grew so tired of daily and sometimes hourly reminders that
by the end of a week weariness had developed into right-down crossness
and irritation.  "For goodness' sake leave me alone.  I'm sick of the
name of the old magazine!  If you worry me once more I won't do a
thing--so there!"  Such answers were more than a little disconcerting to
one who had worked herself up to a white heat of enthusiasm, and could
neither think, dream, nor speak of any other subject under the sun.  So
engrossed was Dreda in trying to keep other writers to the mark, that it
was not until ten day's of the allotted fourteen had passed by that she
set to work to think out her own contribution.  It was to be a story, of
course--not a stupid, amateury, namby-pamby story, such as you could
read in other school magazines, but something striking and original,
that would make everyone talk and wonder, and lie awake at night.  So
far so good; but when the time for writing it arrived it was
astonishingly difficult to hit upon a suitable idea!  Dreda chewed the
end of her pen, wrote "Synopsis of Plot" at the top of her paper in an
imposing round hand with the downstrokes elaborately inked, dotted
wandering designs here and there, and cudgelled her brains for
inspiration.  There must be a girl, of course--a girl heroine, blonde
and lovely, and an adventuress (brunette), and a hero.  But she did not
intend to write a love story--that was piffle.  Something _really_
thrilling and dangerous!  She mentally ran over a list of
misadventures--fire, flood, shipwreck.  She had read of them all dozens
of times over; and, mentioned in a synopsis, they would have quite an
ordinary effect.  It was after hours of anxious deliberation, during
which ordinary lessons went completely to the wall, that the brilliant
idea of an earthquake flashed upon Dreda's mind.  An earthquake story
might be as complicated as one pleased, for all the superfluous people
could be killed off at the crucial moment, while legal papers and wills
could disappear, so that one could not even be expected to unravel the
mystery!  She hovered uncertainly between three sensational titles--"A
Hopeless Quest," "For Ever Hidden," "In the Twinkling of an Eye!"--and
plunged boldly into the first sentence of the synopsis without having
the faintest idea how it should end:

"A lovely young girl, Leila (English, yellow hair, sixteen) lives on a
beautiful isle which had been a volcano hundreds of years before.  (This
will not be mentioned till the last, but mysterious remarks made about
rumblings, to prepare the mind.)  Dolores (Spanish), aged seventeen,
pretends to be her friend, but is really jealous.  They stay together at
a country house with a veranda, and exciting things happen.  Leila is
supposed to be an orphan, and Dolores patronises her because she is
poor.  An English officer comes to call, and staggers back at sight of
Leila.  (He is really her father.)  Dolores makes mischief, and
persuades him to leave her all his money.  They go to the lawyers, and
Leila goes out for a sail in a boat to cheer her spirits.  While she is
sailing, the volcano blows up and everyone is killed.  Leila is picked
up by a passing ship, and inherits the money."

Compared with this sensational programme, Susan's story promised to be
deplorably tame and uneventful, and Dreda curled her lip in scorn as she
read the neatly written lines:

"I want to write the story of a man who was naturally very nervous and
afraid, but who hid it so well that everyone believed him to be a hero.
I want to show that he really did become brave, because his friends
believed in him, and he tried to be worthy of their trust."

"Gracious!  How dull.  It sounds like a tract.  Susan is a dear; but
she's a currant bun when all is said and done, and she can't get away
from it.  They _are_ stodgers!" quoth Miss Dreda, with a shrug, as she
placed the paper beside her own in her desk.  Her anger against Susan
had died a rapid death, for the double reason that she herself found it
impossible to harbour resentment, and that Susan steadily refused to be
a second party to a quarrel.  Scornfully though her help had been
refused, she offered it afresh every evening, and after three days'
experience of struggle and defeat, Dreda was thankful to accept.

"But you _were_ mean about the editorship, all the same.  It wasn't like
you, Susan!" she declared severely, feeling it would be too great a
condescension to capitulate without protest.  "You are generally quite
sweet about helping other people.  I don't understand what you were
thinking about!"

Susan's quiet smile seemed to express agreement with this last
statement, but she made no protest and allowed herself to be kissed and
petted with a condescending "We'll say no more about it, will we, dear?
Now for this exercise--it's a perfect brute!"

It was only by dint of ceaseless entreaties and cajoleries that the sub-
editor succeeded in collecting a respectable number of entries for the
first number of the magazine before the appointed date, and if the
absolute truth had been known she was already feeling overweighted with
the cares of office.  It was a fag to be worried out of one's life, and
as a result to be disliked rather than praised.

"I shake in my shoes at the very sight of Dreda Saxon!" said Norah West
of the spectacles and freckles.  "There's no peace in life while she is
on the rampage.  This school has never been the same since she came.
She seems to have upset everything."

Nancy offered to contribute an article on "Characteristics of School
Celebrities--Literary and Sportive," and refused to be coaxed to a more
decorous subject.  "That, or nothing!" was her mandate, so down it went
on the synopsis, followed, by way of contrast, by Mary Webster's "Essay
on Ancient Greece," and the head girl's "Great Women of History."  Beryl
Turner, who had a passion for figure drawing, unjustified by skill,
submitted half a dozen sketches of an impossible young woman apparently
entirely devoid of joints, to explain which she proposed to write a
story, thus entirely reversing the usual process of illustration; and,
fired by a desire to show her own artistic superiority, Dreda hastily
embellished her own paper with two vignette paintings of her own
heroines.  Leila, with luxuriant locks of yellow, splashed with green,
and Dolores with inky hair and eyes of a rich gamboge.  On the afternoon
of the fourteenth day of the month Dreda spent her recreation hour in
arranging the collected sheets to the best advantage, and in fastening
them within the cover of an old exercise book.  She was aglow with self-
satisfaction at having accomplished her task in time, and intended to
lay special stress on the fact in her next letter home and so win from
the home circle that admiration and praise which her schoolfellows were
so slow to bestow.

On the whole, she was well pleased with the result of her labours, and
looked forward with a lively curiosity to Miss Drake's comments and
criticisms.  When the booklet was finished and a printed label pasted in
the middle of the black cover, she laid it carefully inside her desk and
went to rejoin her companions by the study fire.  They stopped talking
as she approached, and began to "rag" in true school fashion.

"Here comes our literary friend.  Quite worn out with the strain of her
intellectual efforts!  Sit down, my love, and calm your fevered brow!"
This from Barbara, while Norah cried scornfully:

"Look at her fingers--inked to the joints!  Anyone could tell she was a
budding author!"

"Did you tie the papers together with blue ribbon?  That's an absolute
necessity.  I have a piece I could give you."

"Thank you, Nancy.  I'll accept it with pleasure--for my hair.  The book
is finished and needs no trimmings.  It looks beautifully neat and
professional.  I can't show it to anyone until my--my colleague has seen
it and made her alterations; but as soon as it comes back--"

She nodded in condescending fashion, and the girls chuckled and
exchanged twinkling glances.

"`My colleague'!  That's good!"

"Good word, Dreda!  Bring that in in your story.  It has a fine effect."

"I'm thankful it is finished at last.  We shall be able to sleep in
peace to-night without being disturbed by your plunging and snortings.
I've always heard that geniuses were trying to live with, but they are
even worse by night than by day!"

"At what time are you going to present the Opus to your colleague?
After prep, to-morrow?  Then I beg to suggest that until it has been
reviewed and the verdict passed the subject shall be forbidden.  The
strain is _too_ great!"

Norah rolled her eyes, a performance rendered weirdly effective by the
presence of her large round glasses, and the other girls taking up the
clue, flopped in their seats, leant feebly against a neighbouring
shoulder, and fanned themselves faintly with their handkerchiefs.  As a
rule, Dreda was as quick to take offence as she was to forgive, but this
afternoon she manifested no signs of irritation.  "They laugh who win,"
and no one could deny that she had won this time--won all along the
line--in gaining consent to the establishment of a magazine, in
obtaining the post of sub-editor; lastly, and most striking of all, in
being ready up to time, despite the gloomy prophecies to the contrary.

For the next twenty-four hours she was her brightest, most charming
self, so radiant with happiness that she overflowed with sympathy and
kindness to all around.  She nursed little Vida Neale, the baby of the
school, on her knee, and recounted such fascinating stories that earache
was forgotten in squeals of delighted merriment.  She went up early to
dress for the evening and carried hot water to the cubicles of her four
best friends; she talked in the most amiable of fashions to poor, dull
Fraulein at supper; listened to remarks on the superiority of Germany
with a self-control bordering on the miraculous; and finally laid her
head down on the pillow of her bed with the feeling of being at peace
with all the world.

"Prosperity suits me," she told herself, snuggling cosily beneath the
clothes.  "It brings out the best points in my disposition.  I ought
never to be crossed!"

The next morning passed slowly.  Dreda did not distinguish herself at
lessons, and it was with a somewhat strained manner that Miss Drake
crossed the room to speak to her at the end of the preparation hour.
She had been obliged to find fault with her new pupil several times in
the course of the day's classes.  There was that in her manner which
showed that she feared lest yet another reprimand might be necessary.

"Dreda, have you remembered that to-day is the fifteenth of the month?"

"Yes, Miss Drake."

"Have you the synopsis of the school magazine ready to show me?"

"Yes, Miss Drake."

"Quite ready?"

"Yes, Miss Drake."

The Duck smiled her prettiest, most approving smile.

"Good girl!  I like punctuality.  Bring it up to me now, please, in my
sitting-room."

"Yes, Miss Drake."

Up the stairs ran Dreda, light of foot, bright of eye, heart beating
high with happiness, into the bare empty schoolroom, where the windows
stood open and the fire smouldered on the grate.  She switched on the
electric light, crossed the floor to her own desk, and threw open the
lid.  Stupid!  She had imagined that she had left the manuscript book on
top ...  How came she to be mistaken in so strong an impression?

...  She lifted a pile of exercise sheets, pushed the books aside, and
scattered miscellaneous possessions to right and to left.  Her eyes
distended as if about to fall from her head.  She sank back on a chair
and gazed stupidly before her.  The synopsis had disappeared!



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

The synopsis had disappeared!  Incredible though it seemed, it was but
too true.  For the first few minutes Dreda was too much stunned to move
from her seat, but presently with a painful effort after self-
possession, she arose, and began hastily lifting the contents of the
desk, and dropping them one by one on the floor.  In this way it seemed
impossible to overlook anything, but still no sign of the shining black
cover met her sight.  She scooped everything together with impatient
fingers, pushed them back into the desk, and ran breathlessly into the
study.

The girls were amusing themselves in various fashions after the fatigues
of "prep.," but one and all looked round with expressions of
astonishment at the violent opening of the door which heralded the
unexpected appearance of the sub-editor, white-cheeked, and tragic of
demeanour.

"What in the world's the matter?"

"The list!  The synopsis!  It's gone!  It was in my desk.  Miss Drake
sent me for it.  She is waiting for me now, and it's _gone_: I can't
find it.  Has anyone moved it?  Does anyone know where it's gone?"

The girls' faces lengthened; there was a moment's tense silence, then
everyone spoke at once.

"_Dreda_!  How dreadful!  Are you _sure_?  In your desk?  No one would
take it out of your desk!"

"Dreda!  You are _always_ mislaying your things.  You have put it
somewhere else.  _Think_!  Remember your keys!  You vowed you had put
them in your glove drawer, and they were found in the box with your best
hat."

"Have you been upstairs to look in your cubicle?"

Dreda stamped with impatience.

"Of course I haven't.  My cubicle, indeed!  As if I would keep a book
there!  It was in my desk, I tell you.  I left it there last night.  I
saw it with my own eyes this morning.  Oh! don't ask silly questions--
don't waste time.  She is waiting for me.  What am I to do?"

"Come!" cried Susan quickly, and sped upstairs towards the classroom,
while Dreda followed hard in her wake, leaving the other girls to
discuss the situation round the fire.  The universal impression was that
Dreda had stowed away the book in some hiding-place, and had promptly
forgotten all about it.  She was always doing it; never a day arrived
but she went about inquiring in melancholy accents if anyone had seen
her indiarubber, her penknife, her keys, her gloves.  She was always
leaving things about, and, upon suddenly discovering their presence,
popping them into impromptu hiding-places to save running upstairs--
behind a photograph, in an empty flower-pot, beneath a mat or cushion,
anywhere and everywhere, as circumstances prompted.  Nothing was certain
but that nine times out of ten she would forget the whole incident, and
would have no better clue to help her in her search after the missing
article than that she had put it "somewhere!"

"Poor old Dreda!" said Barbara sympathetically.  "Hard lines, when she
has worked so hard!  The Duck will be down upon her like a ton of
bricks.  She loathes untidiness.  Poor old Dreda--she'll get a rowing
instead of praise.  It's tragic when you think of that fine cover, and
all the beautiful black letters!"

"She's been an awful bore.  It will do her good to be taken down a bit."

"Poor Dreda all the same.  Things that do you good are so _very_
disagreeable.  I like her enthusiasm, when it doesn't interfere with me!
And she's a real good sort.  A bore at times, but a good little
meaner."

"It's no use meaning, if you don't perform, where The Duck is concerned.
I wouldn't be in her shoes."

Meanwhile Dreda had turned out the contents of her desk for a second
time, while Susan stood anxiously looking on.  When the last paper had
fluttered to the ground, the two girls faced one another in eloquent
silence.

"It isn't there," said Susan at last.  "There must be some mistake.
Think, dear!  Are you _quite_ sure that you put it here, and nowhere
else?  What did you do after you finished binding the papers?  Where did
you go?  Think of everything you did."

"But I did nothing!" cried Dreda miserably.  "I only dressed and went
down to supper.  I never took it out of this room at all--I'm certain,
positive--as certain as I'm alive!"

"But we could look.  It is worth while looking.  We must find it!"

But at this very moment the door of Miss Drake's room opened, and a
quick voice called out a summons.

"Dreda!  I am waiting.  Kindly come at once."

The colour ebbed still further from Dreda's cheeks, her eyes grew wide
and tragic, she extended her hands towards Susan, as if mutely appealing
for help, and felt them clasped with a strong protecting pressure.

"You must go, but I'll search.  I'm a good looker, you know.  Poor
darling!  It _is_ hard, but I'll help--I _will_ help."

Then Etheldreda the Ready threw her arms round her friend's neck and
cried brokenly:

"Susan, dear Susan, you are good, and I love you!  I was horrid about
the editorship...  You would have been far better than I.  This is my
punishment--I have brought it on my own head."

Her voice was so sweet, her eyes so liquid and loving, she drew herself
up and marched to her doom with so gallant an air, that her faithful
admirer thought instinctively of the martyrs of old.  She turned and ran
hurriedly upstairs.

Meantime Miss Drake sat looking towards the door with an impatient
frown.  The frown deepened at sight of Dreda's empty hands, and she
tapped on the table with the end of her pencil.  Dreda's heart sank
still further at the sound which Miss Drake's pupils had learnt to
associate with their blackest hours.

"You have kept me waiting for ten minutes, Dreda.  Where is your
manuscript?  I have no time to waste."

"I--I--can't--I can't find it, Miss Drake."

Miss Drake leant back in her chair and became in a moment a monument of
outraged dignity.  Looking at her, it was impossible to believe that one
had even ventured on the liberty of calling her by so familiar an
epithet as "The Duck."  She turned her long neck from side to side,
elevated her eyebrows, and cleared her throat in an ominous manner.

"I am afraid I don't understand.  You told me a few minutes ago that
everything was ready."

"So it was.  In my desk.  I left it there last night--I went to find it
just now, and--it's gone!  Disappeared.  I can't _think_ what has
happened.  It was bound like a book.  It looked beautiful.  It's not my
fault!"

"Nonsense, Etheldreda!" cried Miss Drake sharply.  "If you had put it in
your desk, it would be there still.  This is just another example of
your careless, unmethodical habits.  You have put the book in some
unlikely, out-of-the-way corner, and have forgotten all about it.  I
feared some _contretemps_ of the kind, and was much relieved when you
told me that all was ready.  I am very much disappointed and annoyed!"

"Miss Drake, it _was_ there!  I'm absolutely positive.  I never was
surer of anything in my life than that I left it there last night, and
saw it again this morning."

Miss Drake shrugged her shoulders expressively.

"Extravagant assertions do not prove anything, Etheldreda.  In a case of
this sort I judge by previous experience.  I have repeatedly warned you
about your careless habits, but apparently without success.  In this
case you had a responsibility to fulfil for others as well as yourself,
which should have made you doubly careful.  You had better continue your
search in the other rooms."

"It is no good, Miss Drake.  The book _was_ in the desk."

Dreda kept her place stolidly, and there was a settled conviction upon
her face which Miss Drake was quick to note.  She watched the girl in
silence for several moments, her brow knitted in thought, then suddenly
her expression softened and her voice regained its habitual kindly tone.

"If you put it there, my dear child, it must be there still.  Perhaps it
is!  I know your sketchy fashion of looking.  See!  I will come and help
you to look again.  Perhaps we shall find the book hidden away in a
corner where you have never thought of looking!"

Dreda thought ruefully of the scattering of her treasures which had
twice over left the desk bare and empty, but it seemed easier to allow
Miss Drake to see for herself than to protest any further; so she meekly
opened the door and followed the governess down the passage.  From above
could be heard the voices of the girls ascending to dress for the
evening; doors opened and shut, and echoes of suppressed laughter
floated to the ear.  Everybody, Dreda reflected darkly--everybody was
happy but herself!  She led the way to her desk and opened the lid,
revealing the confused mass of books and papers.  She was miserably
resigned to receiving yet another lecture on untidiness, but The Duck
smiled in a forbearing fashion, and said:

"You _have_ been making hay of your possessions!  No wonder you could
not find what you wanted.  Now what was this book like?  You said that
the papers were bound."

"A shiny black cover with a paper label on the back."

Miss Drake lifted up the loose papers with her pretty white hands, laid
them daintily on one side, and proceeded to examine the exercise books
one by one, while Dreda stood by in hopeless silence.  One might search
all day and all night, but it was impossible to find what was not there.
Her eyes looked listlessly on the map book, the arithmetic book, the
French exercise book; even the big untidy note book roused no flicker of
animation, though if it chanced to fall open it would reveal caricature
drawings of school authorities which must needs draw confusion upon her
head.  She would never have the heart to draw caricatures again!  The
thick book with the mottled cover contained the compositions which had
won praise and distinction.  She had felt so proud of the "Excellent"
written in pencilled letters at the end of the final sentences.  Never
again would she know what it was to be happy and gay!  The big drawing-
book must have suffered from its fall--for the leaves appeared to be
bent and doubled back.  Dreda felt the calm indifference of despair, but
Miss Drake frowned and made a clicking sound of disapproval.

"My dear!  Your drawing-book!  You are really incorri--"

She stopped short in the middle of the word, for the moment that the
drawing-book was opened her quick eye had caught sight of a shiny black
cover behind the crumpled papers.  She lifted it rapidly, saw the
printed label on the back, and held it out towards her pupil with a
mingling of triumph and impatience.

"My dear Dreda!  What did I tell you?  All this fuss for nothing.  You
are really too trying.  Why didn't you look properly before coming to
me?"

Dreda's exclamation of bewilderment was echoed by another, as Susan
entered the room on her return from her unsuccessful search upstairs.
She added her own quiet testimony to Dreda's excited protestations that
the synopsis was not, could not conceivably have been in the desk when
she had turned it out ten minutes before, but Miss Drake refused to
listen.  Her temper was ruffled, she enforced silence with an imperative
gesture, bade Dreda follow her to the study, and seated herself at her
desk with her most severe and school-mistressy expression.

As for Dreda, she feebly dropped into a chair and sat staring blankly
before her, the image of limp dejection.  The very stars in their
courses seemed conspiring to fight against her, for no ordinary, every-
day reason could explain the extraordinary happenings of this afternoon!
She was so stunned and bewildered that she forgot to watch the effect
of the great synopsis on the Editor-in-chief, and so missed a delightful
study in expressions, as The Duck's irritation gave place to smiles and
dimpling spasms of amusement.  It was only after she had finished the
reading (after all the labour of production what a short time it took to
read), and had asked a word of explanation, that Dreda seemed suddenly
galvanised into fresh life, but as usual with her, when the awakening
came, it came with a vengeance.  She leapt to her feet, and disregarding
the question, launched her thunderbolt with dramatic vehemence.

"Miss Drake, I wish to resign being editor."

"Do you, Etheldreda?  Why?"

The voice was so calm, Miss Drake's whole manner so devoid of surprise
or chagrin, that Dreda felt as if a douche of cold water had been
suddenly poured down her back.  No kindly protests, no encouragement, no
sympathy.  Nothing but that cool, level "_Why_?"  She stood gaping and
hesitating, for in truth it was hard to answer.  To say that she was
sick of the whole thing because she had encountered a few initial
difficulties and worries seemed mean and poor-spirited, and Dreda could
not think so lightly of herself.  In the minute of hesitation she had
lightly brushed aside difficulties, and felt a swelling of righteous
renunciation.

"Because--I want Susan to take it.  She would do better than I."

"Have you only just discovered that, Dreda?"

The question was put in a tone which Dreda had never heard before from
Miss Drake's lips--a tone so tender, so gentle and conciliatory, that it
startled as much as the words themselves.  Dreda stared, the colour
paling on her cheeks, her hands clenched at the back of her chair.  What
did it mean?  Susan had volunteered her services, and Miss Drake had
deliberately rejected them in favour of herself, and now she said, she
implied-- The girl's lips quivered as she spoke again:

"You _chose_ me!"

"Why?" asked Miss Drake once more, in the same gentle voice.  "_Why_,
Dreda?  Think a moment!  Does it not occur to you, dear, that I might
have chosen you, not because the work needed _you_, but because you
needed the work?  Your duties called for patience, and perseverance, and
method, and punctuality, and neatness, and tact--all qualities which
needed development in your case; while in Susan's--"

"You would rather have had Susan!  You didn't really want me at all!"

The bitter disappointment in the girl's voice went to the hearer's
heart.  It was one of the hardest tasks which she had ever had to
perform to answer truthfully, and so give another pang to the sensitive
young heart.  The colour rose on her cheeks and her brows twitched
nervously, but she would not allow herself to prevaricate.

"Yes, Dreda, dear.  For the sake of the work I should have preferred
Susan, but I wanted to help you to get the better of your failings.  I
wanted it so much that I was prepared to undertake the extra work which
your carelessness might involve, for the magazine could not be allowed
to suffer.  I am afraid it is painful to you, dear, to hear this, but if
your vanity is wounded, you can comfort yourself with the remembrance
that I was so much interested in you, so anxious for your improvement,
that I rejected a most capable helper on your account."

"Thank you!" sighed Dreda faintly.  There was not a sign of irritation
or resentment in her manner, and her thanks were evidently genuine.  She
might have posed as an image of humility and abasement as she stood with
bowed head and downcast eyes before the desk.  The swing of the pendulum
had brought her into the valley of humiliation, and in characteristic
fashion she felt a melancholy pleasure in playing her part as thoroughly
as possible.  "Thank you.  You are very good.  I am very grateful.  We
have to learn our lessons in life, I suppose, but it's hard at the time.
It's been a great _shock_, but it's good for me, I suppose.  I can
never be careless again.  I've read in books about something happening
and finishing the girl's youth.  I feel like that now!  You meant me to
learn, and I _have_ learnt, so there's no need to go on.  You can have
Susan, and no more bother--"

Miss Drake's lips twitched in a smile which fortunately Dreda did not
see.

"I think not, Dreda.  I should prefer to keep to present arrangements.
If you have really learnt your lessons so quickly there will be no
`bother' to fear.  You may go now, dear.  We will discuss the synopsis
later on.  I dare say you will like to have a little quiet time before
dinner.  Come to me to-morrow at the same hour."

Dreda backed silently from the room a picture of tragic despair, and
slowly mounted to the dormitory where the faithful Susan awaited her
coming.  The two girls faced one another in silence for several moments
before Dreda spoke.

"Susan! on your word of honour will you answer me a question
truthfully?"

"Yes, Dreda, of course I will."

"Why did you offer to be sub-editor after I had asked?"

Poor Susan!  The freckles disappeared in a crimson blush which mounted
to her temples, and tinged her very neck beneath the stiff brown band.
She twisted her fingers together, and stammered incoherent nothings.

"Go on!  You promised.  The truth, and nothing but the truth."

"Dreda, dear--"

"Go on!  I'm prepared.  I've suffered so much humiliation already that a
little more or less doesn't matter.  Well?"

"I thought--I was afraid--I didn't want you to get into trouble, dear.
You are so clever, and original, and sparkling, it is natural that you
should get tired.  I am just a dull, plodding old machine."

Dreda bent her tall young head and kissed her friend with an air of
humble adoration.

"You are good and true, and I wronged you.  I thought you were as
despicable as myself.  All my life long I shall try to be worthy of your
forgiveness.  My heart's broken, Susan!  Everyone despises me in this
school, and I've an enemy, a secret enemy, who is hiding like a snake in
the grass.  You know perfectly well that that book was not in the desk
when we looked!"

Susan was silent.  She was as sure of the fact as it was possible to be,
but her cautious nature reminded her of the possibility of mistake, and
she would not venture on a definite assertion.

"I _thought_ it was not; I _thought_ we turned out everything."

"I _know_ we did!  It was the work of mine enemy.  Some day I'll
discover her, and then--"

Susan looked sharply upwards.

"What then?"

"I'll heap coals of fire on her head!  I'll forgive her, and try to lead
her into better ways.  That's all that's left to me now--to be a beacon
to others!"  Dreda's voice shook, her composure breaking down before the
force of her own eloquence.  She sank down on her bed, and the tears
rolled down her cheeks.  "Oh!  Oh!  My heart will break.  If it wasn't
for the exeat next week I should lie down and die.  I'm going home!
They love me there.  I never, never valued it before.  I'm going home to
mother and the girls!"



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

It was a very subdued, a very humble, a touchingly affectionate
Etheldreda who made her appearance at The Meads a few days later, and
her mother and sisters regarded her demeanour with anxious curiosity.

"Poor darling, poor darling!  She is so sweet and quiet--I'm glad, of
course; _very_ glad," repeated Mrs Saxon, with a forced emphasis, which
seemed to show that she needed to convince herself of her own sincerity,
"but it seems so short a time to have brought about such a change.  I'm
afraid she has been unhappy!"

Rowena stared thoughtfully at the fire.  Her face looked older, the
cheeks less rounded, the red lips dropping at the corner.  She was a
beautiful girl, but the old sparkle had given place to an air of weary
endurance sad to see on a young face.  At the moment when she had
expected most of life, she had been obliged to give up her dreams, and
to accept in their place a monotonous, uneventful existence, which left
too much time for the indulgence of her own thoughts.  The weather was
depressing, visitors few and far between, and, from a girl's point of
view, lacking in interest when they did arrive.  Maud was stupid and
obstinate, Dreda and the boys at school, and the parents depressed.
Lessons, walking, and practising occupied the days until four o'clock,
then the curtains were drawn, the lamps lit, and each afternoon afresh
Rowena counted up the long hours which must elapse before bedtime, and
asked herself how she could get through the time.  Poor Rowena!  She had
counted the days until Dreda's return, and now felt yet another pang of
depression at meeting this subdued edition of her lively sister.  She
sighed in melancholy, long-drawn fashion, while Maud wriggled and
grimaced.

"I expect she's _misunderstood_.  There's lots of people are, besides
the book.  I know One who is.  She's misunderstood by people who think
they know best, and are always scolding and finding fault.  `'Tis better
far to rule by love than fear.'  _I_ shall, when I'm big.  You could do
something then, but when people are always grumbling, it's no use
trying.  I expect Dreda has some one like that, and it's broken her
spirit.  If you don't let her leave, she'll pine away and die!"

"Is that what you contemplate doing yourself beneath the persecution of
the people, or person, to whom you so eloquently refer?  I must give you
a lesson in nominatives to-morrow, my dear.  They are evidently another
point which is misunderstood," retorted Rowena with cutting composure.
It was one of the little encounters which was daily, almost hourly,
taking place between the two sisters, whose widely differing
dispositions seemed to jar more than ever in the close relationship of
teacher and pupil.  Mrs Saxon was greatly troubled by the continual
friction, and she, like her daughter, had been anxiously looking forward
to Dreda's visit as a healthful enlivening influence which could not
fail to do good.  And now Dreda was so mysteriously subdued and silent!
What had happened to change the child so strangely in six short weeks?

As for Miss Dreda herself, she was not only conscious of, but felt an
acute enjoyment in observing the anxiety of her relatives on her behalf,
and, like a true actress, warmed to her part under the consciousness of
an audience.  The more intently did her mother's eyes regard her, the
more meek and downcast became her air; she figuratively turned the other
cheek to Maud's tactless sallies, and played humble handmaid to Rowena's
lightest wish.  For one whole day--and then of a sudden weariness fell
upon her.  She reflected with horror that only two more days of the
exeat remained, and determined to waste not another moment in repining.
Within five minutes' time from the forming of this decision Maud was
dumbfounded to find herself brutally snubbed, while a request from
Rowena was received with a callous exhortation to "Do it yourself!"

"I was wondering how long it would last," said Rowena, with a smile.
"It was really an admirable impersonation, but what was the idea, Dreda?
I can't quite see what you were driving at, but I suppose there was
some reason behind!"

"Yes, there was; several reasons!  I've recovered, Rowena, because I am
young and elastic, and time is a wonderful healer--but I've been through
awful difficulties!  Treachery and humiliation, and things turning to
dust and ashes when you expected to enjoy them most.  Talk of
martyrdoms!"--Dreda rolled her eyes to the ceiling--"I look back, my
dear, to the time when I lived quietly at home, and I can't believe it
was the same person!"

"Rubbish!  Bunkum!  Bosh!  What high-falutin' you talk, Dreda!  You're
not changed a bit, and I'm glad of it, for, oh, my dear, I _have_ missed
you!  I've been _so_ dull!  Come down from your stilts and talk
sensibly.  I'm aching for a good old talk."

Dreda beamed with delight.  Here was appreciation!  No sign of
superiority, no condescension from a young lady in long frocks and done-
up hair towards a schoolgirl fledgling, but an open avowal of need, an
invitation to a heart-to-heart talk on a basis of affectionate equality.
She clasped her hands together in the intensity of her delight, and
hitched her chair nearer her sister.

"Yes, yes, let's talk, let's--let's _grumble_!  We're both in the dumps,
and it's so cheering to grumble and get it off your mind.  Go on, you're
the eldest--you've the first turn.  Is it Maud?"

"Oh, Maud!  Maud is enough to drive anyone crazy; but she's only a
part."

"What's the rest?"

Rowena leant her head on her hand and stared out of the window.  The
garden was dank and deserted, the country beyond showed no sign of
habitation; the wind moaned among the tall, bare trees.

"Dreda," she asked unexpectedly, "am I pretty?"

Dreda's grey eyes widened with surprise.

"What in the world has that to do with it?" she asked curiously.
"Pretty?  Yes, of course.  Awfully, when you're in a good temper.  We
all are.  It's in the family.  Do you know what Susan calls us?--the
youngest Currant Bun, you know--`The Story-Book Saxons.'  Isn't it a
jolly name?  Because, she says, we look as if things would happen to us
like they do to people in a book."

"Well, they don't to me, anyway.  That's just it!  What's the use of
being pretty if one is buried alive?  Think of it, Dreda! nothing has
happened all these six long weeks, except old ladies coming to call, and
going to tea with mother at the vicarage.  I should think there never
was such a dull place.  We didn't notice before, because it was holiday
time, and the house was full, but it's awful for a permanency.  The
nearest interesting girl lives four miles off, the others are too boring
for words.  I asked one of them if there were ever any dances, and she
laughed and asked whom we should dance with.  There are only three young
men within a radius of miles.  There might perhaps be a Hunt Ball at C--
next autumn. ...  And I thought I should have a London season!"

Dreda meditated, hunched up in her chair, her chin resting upon her
hand.  For the moment the scarcity of dances did not affect herself, but
she loyally endeavoured to regard the situation from her sister's point
of view.

"Are the three young men _nice_?"

"Oh, my dear, what does it matter?  There aren't enough of them to
count.  Bob Ainslie is one; he used to come over to umpire for the boys'
cricket matches.  You remember him--freckles and stick-out ears.  He has
a moustache now.  I expect he's quite nice, but he is _not_ exciting.
Another is Frank Ross, at the Manor House--I believe he is generally in
town.  And that nice old Mrs Seton has a son, too.  He's handsome; I've
seen him riding along the lanes; but, of course, he doesn't pay
afternoon calls.  What are you to do in a neighbourhood where there are
no nice girls, and two and a half young men?"

"Improve your mind!" returned Dreda glibly.  "Providence evidently
doesn't mean you to move in the social round.  Perhaps if you had, you'd
have grown proud and worldly.  I think myself you _would_, for I saw
symptoms of it before we left town.  Perhaps you've got to be
chastened--" Dreda stopped short with a hasty remembrance that she had
promised to sympathise, not exhort, and added hurriedly: "Maud's enough
to chasten anyone!  It's sickening for you, dear, for you would have had
lots of fun, and been the belle wherever you went.  Let's pretend the
Hunt Ball is to-night, and you are going to make your _debut_, a radiant
vision in white satin--no, satin's too stiff!--silver tissue.  Yes, yes!
Silver tissue--how perfectly lovely!--and a parure of matchless
diamonds flashing like a river of light upon your snowy neck."

"_Debutantes_ don't wear diamonds, and it's not snowy.  These boned
collar bands leave horrid red marks.  An antique medallion of crystal
and pearl swung on a silver chain--"

Dreda pranced up and down on her chair in delighted appreciation.

"Yes!  Yes!  You're splendid, Ro; you know just what to say!  And a
feather fan, with a tiny mirror let into the sticks; dear little silver
shoes with buckles, and a single white rosebud tucked in your hair below
your ear.  That's the place they always put it in books.  It would fall
out before the first waltz was over, but no matter!  Then your opera
cloak.  That must be white, too--ermine, I think, or perhaps white fox,
worth hundreds and hundreds, that a Russian prince had sent you in token
of his devotion.  Oh, my dear, my dear; what an _angel_ you would look!"

Rowena laughed gaily.  Her cheeks had grown pink, and her blue eyes
sparkled with enjoyment.

"Dreda, Dreda!  What a mad hatter you are!  Where _did_ you get such
ridiculous ideas?"

But it was evident that the ideas, ridiculous though they might be, were
by no means unpleasing, and Dreda was about to venture forth on a fresh
flight of imagination when, to the annoyance of the sisters, the door
opened and Maud, the stolid and unimaginative, stood on the threshold.

"No admittance, Maud.  Go away!  We're having a private talk."

"I can't go away.  It's business.  Something awful's happened!"
announced Maud calmly.  "A man's called, and Mason said mother was in,
and she's out, and he's in the drawing-room, and it's rude to send him
away.  I came to tell you."

"A _man_!  What man?"

"The Seton man.  The young one with the nose."

The two elder girls exchanged quick, eloquent glances.

"Are you _sure_ mother is out?  She was in half an hour ago."

"She's out now.  She went across the fields to bandage the hand of the
baby that the kettle scalded in the white cottage in the dip.  You'll
have to see him instead."

Rowena turned a face of despairing resignation upon her sister.

"In this blouse!  A flannel blouse.  Oh, Dreda--the contrast.  Think of
the silver tissue!"

Dreda looked, and her face was eloquent.  Truth to tell, the flannel
blouse, though neat and tidy, as were all Rowena's garments, could by no
manner of means be called becoming.  It did seem tragic to appear to an
interesting stranger under such disadvantageous circumstances.

"You must change it!" she cried hastily.  "Put on your blue dress; you
look ripping in that.  I'll go in for a minute, and tell him to stay
while I run for mother; by that time you'll be ready, and can talk till
she gets back.  I'll tell Mason to get tea.  Fly!  You are so quick, you
can be ready in five minutes."

Rowena flew, and Dreda smoothed her hair with her hands and prepared to
leave the room in her wake, but Maud's square figure blocked the way,
and Maud's voice demanded instantly:

"And what shall _I_ do?"

"You?  Nothing!  It's not your affair.  Go up to the nursery and keep
quiet."

Maud gurgled with indignation.  Not her business, indeed!  She who had
been first on the scene, and had carried the message!  Dreda was
hateful!  Simply hateful!  After pretending to be so good, too.
"Nursery, indeed!  _I'll_ show her!" growled Maud eloquently.

Guy Seton was standing before the fire as the door opened in
Etheldreda's impetuous hand, and the man and the girl stared at each
other in mutual admiration and approval.  "Fair hair, clean shaven,
twinkly eyes, big shoulders, Norfolk suit, gaiters.  I do _love_ men in
country clothes," decided Dreda in a mental flash.  "Halloa! whom have
we here?  A schoolgirl daughter.  What a pretty, bright-looking girl!"
thought the young man almost as quickly.  Then they shook hands and
Dreda plunged into explanations.

"How do you do?  It's so stupid.  Mother's out!  The maid didn't know,
but she has gone across the fields to see a little boy who upset the
kettle.  Burnt, you know!  Mother dresses it.  If you will sit down and
wait a few minutes, I'll run and bring her back."

Mr Seton smiled, a delightful twinkly smile.

"Oh, please don't hurry her.  I should be so sorry.  You mustn't trouble
about me.  I can call another day."

But this was not at all what Dreda desired, and her voice took a tone of
keen personal entreaty as she replied:

"Oh, please don't go away!  Mother can finish the dressing and be back
in ten minutes from now, and I've ordered tea, and my sister will give
it to you while you wait.  We have so few callers, and it's such a dull,
wet day.  Do _please_ stay and have tea!"

At that the smile gave place to a laugh.  Mr Seton found it altogether
delightful to be welcomed in so appreciative a fashion, and told himself
that it was a treat, indeed, to meet a girl so natural and unaffected.
He made no further demur, but when Dreda left the room sat down in a
comfortable chair and stretched his long legs towards the fire, smiling
to himself with obvious enjoyment of his recollections.  It was indeed a
grey wintry afternoon, and he was by no means averse to sitting by this
cheery fire, looking forward to tea and further conversation with "Miss
Golden-locks."

And the sister who was to entertain him meantime--that must be Miss
Saxon, the grown-up daughter of whom he had heard, though he did not
know her by sight.  He did not care for grown-up girls as a rule, they
were too self-conscious and self-engrossed--schoolgirls were far more
fun.  Then the door creaked once more, and he started to his feet to
behold a square, stolid form advancing towards him, and to receive a
pompous greeting from Maud, who had waited only until Dreda was safely
out of the house, and had then hurried into the drawing-room determined
to enjoy "her turn" before Rowena arrived.

"How do you do?  My mother will soon be here.  My sister has gone to
fetch her.  I hope you are quite well."

"Perfectly so, thank you.  I hope you are the same.  To whom have I the
pleasure of speaking?" inquired Mr Seton, with a sudden change of
demeanour which said much for his powers of adaptability.  With Dreda he
had been all candour and friendliness; confronted with Maud he became at
once a solemn model of decorum.

"I am Maud--Maud Saxon.  We are all named to match, because we are
Saxons by name as well as appearance.  You are the Mr Seton who lives
in the grey house at Fenley.  I have seen you on the roads riding a grey
cob with a white nose."

"Very probably.  He is a great treasure.  Are you interested in horses?
Perhaps you ride yourself!"

"I did once, but I don't now.  We're _rejuiced_!" announced Maud,
rolling out the new word with an enjoyment at which the hearer had much
ado to retain his composure.  "We used to keep five horses, and ride in
the Row, but horses cost too much now.  Stables and grooms, and things
to eat, and, of course, they may die.  We've got nothing now except the
car, and that saves money, for you can bring home the stores from the
station, and drive Dreda to school, and save the fares."

"Just so," said Mr Seton dryly.  "Gars are most useful.  Especially in
the country."  Maud had taken possession of a chair at the opposite side
of the fireplace, and as he looked at her square, solemn face, he prayed
that it would not be long before Mrs Saxon and her elder daughter
returned.  "Do you also go to school

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