The Manor House School
by Angela Brazil · English · Gutenberg #28974 · 314,992 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Manor House School
Author: Angela Brazil
Illustrator: Arthur A. Dixon
Release date: May 26, 2009 [eBook #28974]
Most recently updated: January 5, 2021
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/28974
Credits: Produced by Suzanne Shell and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MANOR HOUSE SCHOOL ***
Produced by Suzanne Shell and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: GLORIOUS NEWS!]
The Manor House School
BY
ANGELA BRAZIL
Author of "The Nicest Girl in the School" "The Third Class at Miss
Kaye's" "The Fortunes of Philippa" &c.
_ILLUSTRATED BY A. A. DIXON_
BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY
Contents
CHAP. Page
I. NORA'S NEWS 9
II. AN INTERESTING STRANGER 22
III. A STRONG SUSPICION 36
IV. HAVERSLEIGH 50
V. AN UNEXPECTED DEVELOPMENT 67
VI. MONICA 80
VII. LINDSAY'S LUCK 94
VIII. PENDLE TOR 111
IX. THE PLOT THICKENS 127
X. UNDER THE HAWTHORN TREE 143
XI. SIR MERVYN'S TOWER 161
XII. AN ENIGMA 178
XIII. LINDSAY MAKES A RESOLVE 189
XIV. THE LANTERN ROOM 202
XV. HIDE-AND-SEEK 215
XVI. A SURPRISE 229
XVII. GOOD-BYE TO THE MANOR 243
Illustrations
Page
GLORIOUS NEWS! _Frontispiece_ 239
"SHE OPENED THE DOOR CAUTIOUSLY" 35
"I KNOW WHAT MONICA WAS GOING TO SAY" 93
AN UNFORTUNATE ACCIDENT 139
THE SECRET DOOR 202
CHAPTER I
Nora's News
It was the first week of the summer term at Winterburn Lodge. Afternoon
preparation was over, and most of the girls had left the classroom for a
chat and a stroll round the playground until the tea-bell should ring.
From the tennis court came the sounds of the soft thud of balls and a
few excited voices recording the score; while through the open windows
of the house floated the strains of three pianos, on which three
separate pieces were being practised in three different keys, the
mingled result forming a particularly inharmonious jangle.
On a bench in the corner by the swing two yellow heads and a brown one
might be seen bent in close proximity over a rather dilapidated atlas.
Their respective owners were apparently making a half-hearted endeavour
to hunt out a list of towns upon the map of England, and were amusing
themselves between whiles with the pleasant, though somewhat
unprofitable pastime of grumbling.
"I hate geography!" declared Lindsay Hepburn. "If we could be taken a
picnic to each of the places, there'd be some sense in it; but to have
to reel off a string of tiresome names that don't mean anything at all
to you--I call it stupid!"
"It's such a fearfully long lesson, too!" agreed Cicely Chalmers
dolefully. "Miss Frazer might have set us a shorter one for the first!
It's really too bad of her to make us begin with two pages and a half in
a new book! I'm sure I shall never get it into my head, if I try till
midnight."
"I wonder why things always seem so much harder to learn when one's just
come back after the holidays?" propounded Marjorie Butler with a
melancholy yawn.
"I don't know. I suppose because it all feels so horrid. It's perfectly
dreadful to think what a huge time it is until we can go home again."
"Thirteen whole weeks! And every one of them will be exactly the same:
lessons with Miss Frazer or Mademoiselle, an hour's practising, a walk
in the park or along the Surrey Road, and a game of tennis when you can
manage to get hold of the court. There's never anything different,
unless Miss Russell takes us to a museum or a concert, and that doesn't
happen often, worse luck!"
Lindsay's picture of the forthcoming term certainly did not seem a
remarkably enlivening one, and the other two groaned at the prospect.
"I wish one wasn't obliged to go to a boarding school," said Cicely in
an injured tone.
"Girls! Girls!" cried a fourth voice, breaking abruptly into the
conversation, "I've been hunting for you everywhere. I thought you were
in the house or the gymnasium. Oh! I've such a piece of news to tell
you!"
"What's the matter, Nora?" enquired Marjorie, for the newcomer was out
of breath, and looked as excited as if it were breaking-up day.
"Come here and sit between us," added Lindsay, pushing the others
farther along the seat to make room.
"Is it anything really nice?" asked Cicely.
"It depends on what you call 'nice'. I'll give you each six guesses, and
even then I don't believe one of you'll be right."
"Miss Frazer doesn't mean to take geography to-morrow?"
"Absolutely wrong, though I wish she wouldn't."
"Somebody has broken another window with a tennis ball?"
"Don't be silly! It's much more interesting than that."
"Miss Russell's going to give us a holiday?"
"You're getting warm! Try again."
"Oh, we can't!"
"We give it up!"
"Go on and tell!"
"Do you remember that just before Easter a gentleman came with Dr.
Redford, and they both went over the school, peeping and poking about in
such a mysterious manner?"
"Yes, we wondered what they were doing."
"Well, it turns out that he's a sanitary inspector, and he's sent a
report to Miss Russell to say that the drains are wrong, and must be
taken up immediately."
"Is that your grand news?"
"No, it's only the first part of it. Let me finish, and then you'll see.
Dr. Redford says the drains can't possibly be touched while we're all in
the house, and yet they must be opened at once. Can't you guess now?"
"Miss Russell never means to send us home when we've only just come
back?" gasped Lindsay hopefully.
"No, not that, though it's nearly as jolly. She's taken a beautiful old
manor house in the country, and it's to be our school for the whole of
the summer term. We're to go there in a body--girls, and teachers, and
servants, and everyone."
If Nora had hoped to astonish her companions she had certainly
succeeded. They were wild with curiosity, and fired off questions all
three together.
"Where is it?"
"When are we going?"
"How did you get to know?"
"One at a time, please," said Nora, enjoying her importance. "I met
Mildred Roper in the hall just now. Miss Russell has been explaining it
to the monitresses, and said they might tell us as soon as they liked.
It's a lovely Elizabethan house, at a place called Haversleigh, a long
way from here. We're to start next Tuesday."
Such a tremendous event as the removal of the school from town to
country was without precedent in the annals of Winterburn Lodge.
"It's almost too good to be true," cried Cicely rapturously.
"It will be like the last day and setting off for the seaside both
together," declared Lindsay, waltzing round the seat in the exuberance
of her spirits.
"Not quite, because we shall have lessons when we get there," corrected
Nora.
"Well, at any rate it'll be ever so much nicer than being in London."
"Hurrah for the old Manor!" shouted Marjorie Butler, clapping her hands.
Miss Russell had indeed been much alarmed by the sanitary inspector's
report. She was determined to make the change without delay, and hurried
on the preparation as speedily as possible.
Boxes were brought down from the attic, and teachers and monitresses
were kept busy superintending the packing of clothes, linen,
schoolbooks, and numberless other articles. For the few days that
remained work was relaxed, the headmistress's chief anxiety seeming to
be the health of the girls, and her one object to take them away before
any sign of illness should break out amongst them.
"Miss Russell looked so worried when I told her my head ached," said
Nora Proctor. "She asked every one of us afterwards if we had sore
throats."
"I was silly enough to say I thought mine felt a little scrapy," said
Lindsay ruefully. "I soon wished I hadn't, because she gave me a
horribly nasty disinfectant lozenge, and told me to suck it slowly until
I'd finished it. Ugh! I can taste it yet!"
"I'm absolutely sick of the smell of carbolic. There's a jar full in
every room," said Cicely.
"Never mind! You'll only have to endure it for one day more. We're
actually off to-morrow."
Those in authority might certainly be excused if they looked worried,
for it was no light task to accomplish so much in such a short space of
time. By Tuesday morning, however, the final arrangements were
completed; the rows of boxes were locked, strapped, and piled on railway
carts; while the girls, an excited, chattering crew, were ready and
waiting for the omnibuses which were to take them to the station.
"Good-bye to poor old Winterburn Lodge!" said Cicely, giving a last peep
into the familiar classroom. "We shan't see these maps and desks again
until next September."
"I wonder how many things will have happened before we come back here?"
said Lindsay thoughtfully.
It was a long journey into Somerset, but Miss Russell had engaged saloon
carriages, and taken large baskets of lunch; so, in the opinion of her
thirty pupils at least, the expedition felt like a picnic.
"How I wish we could go every year, or that Miss Russell would remove
into the country altogether," said Beryl Austen, who had secured a
corner seat, and was in raptures over the view.
"Then it wouldn't be town, and we shouldn't be able to have visiting
masters," said Mildred Roper, one of the monitresses.
"Who wants them? I'm sure I should be only too delighted never to see
any of them again!"
Mildred smiled.
"I suppose, after all, we're sent to school to learn something," she
remarked dryly. "I'm afraid you'll find Miss Frazer will give you plenty
of work to make up for the loss of Herr Hoffmann and Monsieur Guizet."
"I don't care a scrap, so long as there's fun when lessons are over.
We're going to have a glorious time, and I mean to thoroughly enjoy
myself."
Beryl only expressed the sentiments of the rest of the girls, most of
whom regarded the coming term in the light of a holiday. As the train
steamed through green meadows and woods just breaking into leaf, it
indeed seemed as if London and professors had been effectually left
behind, and their spirits rose higher with every mile.
By afternoon they were all impatience to arrive. For fully an hour
before they reached their destination they kept enquiring whether they
must get out at the next station, and were sure that each ancient house
visible from the carriage windows could not fail to be the Manor.
"Here we are at last!" announced Miss Russell, when, after many false
alarms, the welcome word "Haversleigh" made its appearance in plain
letters, and a porter's voice was heard pronouncing something which bore
a faint resemblance to the name. "Steady, girls! Steady! Remember each
is to take her own bag, and file out in proper order. Nobody is to move
until I say 'March!'"
Miss Russell first held a review on the platform, to make sure that none
of her pupils or their belongings had gone astray.
"I am quite relieved we have all arrived safely," she said. "I think we
may congratulate ourselves that not even an umbrella is missing. It is
only half a mile from here to the house, quite an easy walk, so we will
start at once, and leave our luggage to follow."
In a few minutes more they had passed the ticket collector, and found
themselves on the leafy high road. It seemed as different from London as
a fairy tale from a Latin grammar. There had been a slight shower of
rain, which had brought out the scent of growing grass and budding
leaves; the ground was white with the fallen blossom of blackthorn
hedges; and a thrush, seated on the summit of an apple tree, was pouring
forth a volume of song that sounded almost like a welcome to the
country.
With so many new sights to gaze at, it was difficult to walk primly two
and two, and the line proved a straggling one, in spite of Miss Frazer's
efforts in the rear. At a pair of great iron gates Miss Russell stopped
and turned to her girls.
"This is our first glimpse of the Manor," she said, with a touch of
pride in her voice. "I want you to take a good look at your new school."
It was nicer even than they had expected--a glorious old place, built
partly in Tudor fashion of grey stone, and partly of black and white
timbers. There were latticed windows, and a porch ornamented with stone
balls, and curious twisted chimneys, and picturesque gables at odd
angles.
"It's like a house out of one of Sir Walter Scott's novels," said
Marjorie Butler.
"It looks as if one might have all kinds of adventures there," added
Lindsay Hepburn gleefully.
The inside proved just as satisfactory as the outside. It was delightful
to sit down to tea in a great dining-hall, with a carved roof, and walls
hung with spears, shields, and stags' antlers.
"I feel we oughtn't to be drinking tea," said Cicely Chalmers. "I'm sure
they didn't have it in Queen Elizabeth's times. It was tankards of ale
or mead in those days."
"Don't finish your cup, then, if you wish to imagine yourself entirely
in the past," said Mildred Roper. "I'm afraid you'll have to leave the
marmalade too. That's quite a modern invention, and so are the Bath
buns."
"Don't be horrid!" said Cicely. "It really is an old-fashioned place.
Lindsay and I have got the quaintest panelled bedroom you could possibly
imagine. There's a great four-post bed, with yellow brocaded curtains;
it's big enough to hold six, instead of only two."
"And there's a lovely library, and a picture gallery, and ever so many
queer rooms and long passages upstairs," put in Nora Proctor. "I got
quite lost, and couldn't find my way down at first."
"So did I," said Beryl Austen. "I tried to explore a little, but it
looked so dim and dark I didn't dare to go alone, so I turned back. I
thought I might meet a Cavalier or a Roundhead on the landing!"
Beryl was not the only one to whom their new quarters seemed rather
weird and strange on this first evening of their arrival. After being
accustomed to electric light and modern bedrooms, it was a great change
to walk upstairs with candles to antique chambers that might have
belonged to the Middle Ages.
"Don't be silly, girls!" exclaimed Miss Russell indignantly, as they
scurried past the suits of armour in the picture gallery. "I shall not
allow any absurd nonsense of this kind. You have no more to be afraid of
here than you had at Winterburn Lodge. I will take you over the house
to-morrow and show you everything, and when you study the real history
of the place you won't want to concern yourselves with silly
superstitions."
Though the old Manor might look ghostly by night, it wore a bright and
cheerful aspect in the sunshine of next morning, and not even the most
ardent of Cockneys would have wished herself back among streets and
squares. It certainly seemed more interesting to learn lessons sitting
on tall-backed oak chairs at a carved table, than at desks in an
ordinary schoolroom, furnished with maps and blackboard. The teachers
enjoyed it as much as the girls, and everybody had a delightfully
romantic feeling of being transferred to the reign of Queen Elizabeth.
"We oughtn't to have science, or physiology, or anything up-to-date
here," said Cicely, as, in company with the rest of the third form, she
took possession of the panelled parlour that was to be their temporary
classroom.
"No, indeed," said Lindsay. "Girls in those days didn't have half our
work."
"You forget Lady Jane Grey," said Miss Frazer. "In the matter of
knowledge she would easily have put you to shame. If you want her
sixteenth-century studies you will have to begin Greek as well as Latin,
French, Italian, and some Hebrew and Arabic!"
"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Lindsay, aghast at such a list of accomplishments.
"I'd rather stick to our own century."
"I thought ladies did nothing but go hunting and hawking then," said
Marjorie Butler. "Did they all know Greek and Latin?"
"Probably not, but they could make preserves, and perfumes, and other
secrets of the still-room; and they embroidered the most beautiful
tapestries, if we are to judge from the specimens in the big
drawing-room. Young people were very severely brought up. They might
never sit without permission in the presence of their parents or
teachers, and they were beaten for the slightest offences. Don't you
remember that even poor Lady Jane Grey was punished with 'nips, bobs,
and pinches'; and little Edward VI had his whipping-boy, to receive the
blows which it was not considered seemly to bestow upon his own princely
person!"
"Had the other boy to be whipped for what the king had done? How
horribly unfair!" said Beryl Austen.
"Yes, their ideas of justice were rather different from ours. They would
have thought present-day children absolutely spoilt. The girls who
perhaps may have done lessons in this room three hundred years ago would
not learn them so easily and pleasantly as you are going to do this
morning. Fetch the geology books, Beryl. We must go on with modern work,
in spite of our ancient surroundings."
CHAPTER II
An Interesting Stranger
Among all Miss Russell's thirty pupils you could not have found two
stancher friends than Lindsay Hepburn and Cicely Chalmers, both of whom
were members of the third, or lowest, class.
Lindsay was a short, plump, fair, jolly-looking girl of twelve, with a
very energetic disposition; apt, according to Miss Frazer, to be
inconveniently lively and irrepressible in school, but a general
favourite in the playground.
Cicely, six months younger, was much more quiet and steady on the
surface, though her twinkling brown eyes belied her demurer manners, and
proclaimed her ready for anything in the shape of fun. She admired
Lindsay immensely, and copied her absolutely, being generally ready to
follow her through thick and thin, whatever scrapes might be the
consequence.
The pair shared a bedroom, and were so inseparable that Cicely was often
called Lindsay's shadow. That was an injustice, however; she had a
character of her own, though she might choose to merge it in her
friend's stronger personality. It is with these two, and their strange
experiences at the Manor, that my tale is chiefly concerned, for if it
had not been for Lindsay's enquiring mind, backed by Cicely's persistent
efforts, there might have been no story to tell.
This is how it all began.
On the second morning after their instalment at Haversleigh the whole
school was assembled ready for a history class in the big dining-hall.
Miss Russell, for a wonder, was late, and when she entered at last she
brought with her a new pupil. The stranger was about sixteen, a pretty,
graceful girl, with hazel eyes, long chestnut hair, and a rather
distinguished air. She was given a seat in the first form, and replied
to the few questions asked her in a quiet voice; then, at the close of
the lecture, she took her books and went away alone, without waiting to
join in the next lesson.
Naturally her sudden appearance and departure excited much curiosity.
The moment work was over, Lindsay and Cicely seized upon Kathleen
Crawford, who was rather a friend of theirs among the monitresses.
"Who's the new girl?" they asked. "We hadn't heard anybody was coming."
"She's only a day pupil for a few classes," answered Kathleen. "Her
name's Monica Courtenay. She lives here, but of course not just now."
"What do you mean?" enquired Cicely.
"Why, surely you knew Miss Russell has taken the Manor for the summer
from Mrs. Courtenay?"
"I never thought about whom it belonged to," confessed Lindsay.
"Well, at any rate, Mrs. Courtenay and Monica are staying in rooms in
the village while their house is let, and Monica is to come three times
a week for French and history."
"So this is really her home?"
"Yes, and I heard someone say it is all her own. She's an only child,
and her father is dead."
"It must seem funny for her to see a whole school here!"
"I expect it does. I shouldn't like it if the place were mine."
"Is she nice?"
"How can I tell? I saw no more of her than you did yourselves."
Everybody was greatly interested in the newcomer, and ready, at the end
of a week's acquaintance, to decide heartily in her favour. Monica was
rather dignified and reserved in her manners, and evidently not much
accustomed to mix with companions of her own age; but when her shyness
began to wear off she proved most attractive.
"She's not at all conceited, although she's mistress of the Manor," said
Lindsay.
"No, I can't say she gives herself airs in the least," agreed Cicely.
"I think she behaves beautifully," said Mildred Roper. "She never so
much as hints that it's her own house, or tries to take the lead, as
some girls would certainly have done. She doesn't go anywhere without
leave, nor even stop to play tennis unless she's asked. I heard her
apologizing to Miss Russell yesterday for giving an order to the
gardener. Mademoiselle says she is 'bien elevée' and 'très gentille',
and that's a great compliment, for she doesn't admire English girls as a
rule."
"No one could help liking Monica," said Kathleen Crawford. "She's
charming. I call her one of the nicest girls I've ever met. And she's
had such hard luck! I've just been hearing all about her from Irene
Spencer."
"How does Irene know?" asked Lindsay.
"She stays sometimes with an uncle who is vicar of the next parish, and
her cousins are friends of Monica's. It's a most extraordinary story--it
might have come out of a book."
"Oh, do tell us!" said the others eagerly.
Kathleen's tale was in scraps, and missed out several points of which
she was not aware at the time, so it will be better to set it down here
as the girls learnt it more fully afterwards, for it was of great
importance, and formed the basis of much that was to follow.
The Courtenays, it appeared, were a very ancient family, and had
inherited the Manor from an ancestor who had fought bravely on the
Yorkist side in the days of the Wars of the Roses. In the present
generation there was no male heir, and Monica was the last of her race.
Until a few years ago the old house had been in the possession of her
great-uncle, Sir Giles Courtenay, a most eccentric man, so odd and
peculiar, indeed, that many people had considered him to be out of his
mind. He was reputed to be extremely wealthy, yet lived in a miserly
fashion, entertaining no visitors, and never spending a penny which it
was possible for him to save. He never married, but passed his days as a
recluse, shut up among the books in his library, seeing only a few old
servants whose services he had retained. Sometimes in the early morning
he would wander about the woods and fields in the neighbourhood, seeking
for wild flowers, but on such occasions he seemed much annoyed if spoken
to, and evidently preferred to take his rambles unnoticed.
At his death he left everything to his great-niece, Monica.
"Both the Manor", so ran the will, "and all that it may contain,
especially commending to her the volumes in my library, and advising her
to pursue the study of botany, which has ever been a solace and a
distraction to me amidst the various ills and disappointments of life."
At first it was supposed that Monica must be a great heiress, but when
Sir Giles's legacy came to be investigated nothing could be found beyond
the ordinary furniture in the house and a few pounds in the local bank.
No one knew anything about his affairs, and neither papers nor documents
were forthcoming to give the slightest indication as to what had become
of the fortune he was known to have inherited.
Not only was all trace of the money lost, but the valuable silver plate
and jewellery that had been handed down from generation to generation of
the Courtenays were also missing, and there was no clue to their
whereabouts. It was generally believed that Sir Giles must have
concealed the whole of his wealth somewhere in the old house, but,
though a minute search had been made from cellar to garret, the
hiding-place had not yet come to light.
Instead, therefore, of owning a fortune, Monica had received nothing but
the Manor, in itself a very barren heritage. She and her mother had
taken up their residence there, but they possessed only a small income,
quite insufficient to maintain the former traditions of the family. It
was on this account that they had been glad to let the house to Miss
Russell for the summer, and to retire themselves into quiet lodgings
close by.
"Hasn't Monica ever tried to hunt for the treasure?" asked Lindsay, when
Kathleen had finished her narrative.
"Oh, yes--often! I believe she has gone systematically through each
room, but it's so well hidden that it seems quite impossible to find
it."
"Yet it must be there!"
"No doubt. It may never turn up, though, until the place is pulled down.
The whole thing is a complete mystery, and so far nobody has been able
to solve it."
"Have you asked Monica where she has looked?"
"Certainly not. Irene says she's very sensitive about it, and can't bear
to hear it spoken of. Naturally it must have been a most terrible
disappointment. I don't wonder she avoids the subject. Please be careful
never to mention it to her, or you'll offend her dreadfully, and I shall
be sorry I told you."
"I'm sure both Lindsay and Cicely would have too nice feeling to
question Monica on such a personal matter," said Mildred Roper.
"Of course we shan't say anything--we wouldn't for worlds," promised the
two younger girls.
That Monica should be the heroine of so romantic a story made her doubly
interesting in the eyes of Lindsay and Cicely. They were much impressed
by Kathleen's account, and retired to the privacy of the summer-house to
talk it over together.
"It must be dreadful to be so poor when you know you ought to be so
rich!" said Lindsay.
"And so tantalizing, when perhaps the fortune is actually in the house,"
said Cicely.
"I could never be happy for thinking about it."
"No more could I."
"Look here! Why shouldn't you and I set to work? So long as this
treasure is hidden away somewhere, I suppose it's possible to find it."
"Oh, don't I wish we could!" cried Cicely, her eyes round at the idea.
"Well, I can't see why we shouldn't have as good a chance as anybody
else. I expect it's chiefly a matter of careful hunting."
"How splendid it would be if Monica really turned out an heiress after
all!"
"Glorious! It's worth trying for. Those panelled walls might be full of
hiding-places. We don't know what we may discover when once we begin."
"We shan't have to let Miss Frazer catch us looking about."
"Rather not! Nobody must know what we intend to do."
"Not even Marjorie Butler?" pleaded Cicely.
"No," said Lindsay firmly. "Marjorie couldn't help whispering it to
Nora, and then it would be all over the school. The big girls would make
dreadful fun of us, I'm sure. They'd call us 'The Gold Seekers', or some
other stupid name, simply for the sake of teasing. Besides, if it were
talked about among the rest, it would be sure to get to Monica's ears,
and we particularly don't want that."
"No, she mustn't hear a word of it."
"Very well, then, we had better keep it to ourselves. Will you promise
faithfully that it shall be a dead secret just between you and me?"
"Absolutely dead!" agreed Cicely.
The two girls were determined to institute a thorough search for the
lost legacy, but they foresaw many difficulties in the way. In the first
place, it was hard even to make a start without letting anybody suspect
what they were doing. Although the term at the Manor seemed like a
holiday, it was nevertheless school: there was a certain amount of
supervision by the mistresses, and there were rules and regulations to
be obeyed, the same as at Winterburn Lodge. The girls were not allowed
to wander about alone exactly when and where they wished, and even
during recreation time they were expected to play games in the garden.
One of the greatest hindrances to their plan was Mrs. Wilson, an elderly
servant who had been left in charge by Mrs. Courtenay, and who seemed to
consider herself responsible for her mistress's property. She evidently
much resented the presence of thirty schoolgirls in the Manor, and kept
a keen eye upon them to see that they did no damage. She was continually
watching to satisfy herself that they were not scratching the furniture,
nor spilling candle-grease upon the stairs; and was loud in her
complaints to Miss Russell over the most absurd trifles.
If she had had sufficient authority, I believe she would have limited
the girls entirely to their bedrooms and schoolrooms, but as that was
impossible, she did her best to frighten them away from the rest of the
house by being as disagreeable as she could. As a natural consequence
they detested her. They nicknamed her "The Griffin", and took a naughty
pleasure in defying her as far as they dared.
"She's as sour as a green gooseberry!" grumbled Effie Hargreaves. "If we
only take a stroll along the portrait gallery, she thinks we're going to
knock down the armour, or poke our fingers through the pictures."
"Yes, she seems to imagine we can't look at a thing without breaking it.
It's perfectly ridiculous!" declared Beryl Austen.
"She's an absolute nuisance. It's a pity she was left behind," said Nora
Proctor; and that was the general verdict in the old housekeeper's
disfavour.
With such a dragon continually on the alert, it was almost impossible
for Lindsay and Cicely to find the slightest opportunity of beginning
their treasure hunt, and they were reduced to very low spirits on the
subject. One half-holiday afternoon, however, Lindsay reported that Mrs.
Wilson, dressed in black bonnet and mantle, had been seen to leave the
back door and walk away in the direction of the village.
"Now is our chance!" she assured Cicely. "Miss Russell is lying down in
her bedroom with a bad headache, Miss Frazer is playing tennis, and
Mademoiselle is sitting reading in the arbour. Everyone else is in the
garden, and if we run indoors at once nobody will notice, and we shall
have the place practically to ourselves."
Could anything have been more fortunate? They lost no time in hurrying
into the Manor, feeling almost as desperate conspirators as Guy Fawkes
and his confederates; and commenced immediately to make a careful tour
of investigation. They stole round the hall, the dining-room, and the
library, scrutinizing every nook and corner, tapping the panels to hear
if they sounded hollow, and peeping up the old wide chimneys, but all
with no success.
"I'm afraid we shan't find anything down here," said Lindsay at last. "I
expect people made hiding-places where they wouldn't be so easy to get
at. Let us go and explore the attics. We've never been up there yet."
They reached the top storey without encountering even a servant. Somehow
it felt a little eerie to hear nothing but the echo of their own
footsteps, and to find themselves quite alone in such an out-of-the-way
part of the house. The Manor was very large, and nearly the whole of the
left wing was unoccupied. They passed door after door, all leading to
more and more empty rooms, till Lindsay began to grow almost dismayed at
the bigness of their undertaking.
"I didn't know the place was so huge!" she sighed. "I'm afraid one might
spend years looking round and examining it thoroughly. I don't wonder
Monica lost heart. There isn't the faintest clue to go upon, either, to
give one a hint where to hunt."
"Hadn't we better be turning back?"
Cicely was growing rather tired of the fruitless attempt.
"In a minute. Let us go to the end of this landing."
The passage in itself was like the others, but it differed in one
particular, for it terminated in a narrow, winding staircase. This
looked tempting--just the sort of thing, in fact, that they felt ought
to lead to somewhere interesting and important.
"It's like the way to the turret chamber where Sir Walter was
imprisoned, in _Tales of the Middle Ages_," said Lindsay.
"Or where Katherine was dragged when Sir Gilbert found she had overheard
the secret plot," said Cicely.
They scrambled almost on hands and knees up sixteen steep steps. At the
top was a small landing, and exactly facing them, up three steps more,
stood a closed door. The girls paused for a moment to consider what to
do next.
"Listen!" said Cicely suddenly. "I thought I heard a queer noise."
There certainly was a most extraordinary sound issuing from the room
opposite. It resembled somebody groaning, or giving long-drawn, sighing
breaths. It went on for a few moments and then stopped, then commenced
louder than before, and finally died away altogether.
"What is it?" whispered Cicely, rather nervously.
"I don't know, but I'm going to look and see."
"Oh! Dare you? I hope it's nothing that will bounce out!"
[Illustration: "SHE OPENED THE DOOR CAUTIOUSLY"]
"Nonsense! Why should it?"
"It might. Do be careful!"
"Don't be silly!" said Lindsay. "We came up here on purpose to discover
things, and help Monica. If there's a noise in that room, we certainly
ought to find out what's making it."
And with this plausible excuse for satisfying her curiosity, she opened
the door cautiously, and peeped inside.
CHAPTER III
A Strong Suspicion
If Lindsay and Cicely had counted upon finding something interesting
behind the closed door, they were much disappointed. The room was
absolutely bare and unfurnished. It was not panelled, as mysterious
rooms ought to be, but had an old-fashioned and rather ugly wallpaper,
adorned with big bunches of grapes and flowers; and there was a plain,
whitewashed ceiling. At one side a window overlooked the garden, and at
the other was a shallow store cupboard, the open door of which revealed
rows of empty shelves, probably intended for jam or linen.
There was nothing to give the least suggestion of romance, or the
possibility of any concealed hiding-place. There was no carved
overmantel nor four-post bed; in fact, the only article of any
description to be seen was a large horn lantern that hung from a hook in
the ceiling. The curious noise had ceased, and although the girls looked
round most carefully, they were not able to find anything which would
account for it.
"There isn't a corner that even a cat might hide in," said Lindsay. "It
was so loud, too! I can't understand it in the least."
"I call it rather uncanny. Let us go!" said Cicely.
She was stepping down on to the little landing again, when, to her
dismay, she almost ran into the arms of Mrs. Wilson, who, still in black
bonnet and mantle, had returned from the village sooner than they
anticipated, and must have come unheard up the winding staircase.
"The Griffin's" surprise at seeing them seemed as great as their own.
She gave a gasp of consternation, peeped hastily inside the empty room,
then turned to Lindsay and Cicely with a look of mingled relief and
wrath.
"What were you doing in the lantern room?" she asked sharply. "You know
perfectly well you've no right to be up here. You must mind your own
business, and keep to your own places, instead of poking and ferreting
about into matters that don't concern you. I can't have you rambling
about wherever you please, and the sooner you understand that the
better. It was sorely against my advice that the Manor was let for a
school!"
She spoke rudely, and seemed more upset and annoyed than the occasion
warranted. She swept the two girls downstairs before her, muttering
angrily as she went, and did not let them out of her sight until she
had watched them safely into the garden.
"How horrid she was!" exclaimed Cicely, when they were alone, and able
to talk things over. "Miss Russell never said we weren't to go on to
that top landing."
"What was Mrs. Wilson doing there herself--in an empty room, in such a
deserted part of the house?" asked Lindsay meditatively.
"I don't know. She looked quite aghast at seeing us."
"I believe there's something about it we don't understand. Perhaps she
has some reason beyond mere fussiness and nastiness for wanting to keep
us away from that particular room."
"What kind of a reason?"
"Well, suppose she had discovered the hiding-place?"
"Wouldn't she tell Monica?"
"She might intend to take some of the money."
"Oh, how dreadful! It's quite possible, though, that she knows where it
is. She was housekeeper to old Sir Giles for ever so many years."
"It seems to me most suspicious," said Lindsay. "We must watch her, and
find out everything we can, for Monica's sake."
The idea that Mrs. Wilson was concealing the treasure for her own ends
was a thrilling one. The more they thought about it, the more probable
it appeared. Who had a better opportunity than she of searching the old
house? She might even have been present when her eccentric master stowed
his fortune so carefully away. If this were really the case, the
greatest caution was necessary, for to allow "The Griffin" to see that
they had noticed anything might entirely spoil their plans.
"We must treat her just as usual," said Lindsay, "only we must keep our
eyes and ears open, in case something should turn up to give us a hint."
For the next few days they behaved with what they considered the
greatest diplomacy. They took care not to aggravate Mrs. Wilson, nor in
any way to attract her special attention; but they looked out for the
slightest chance of following her movements, dodging round corners, and
stalking her along passages with the zeal of detectives. Unfortunately
their efforts were not so unobserved as they supposed, and drew down a
reproof from headquarters.
"Lindsay and Cicely! how is it that you are continually loitering about
the landing when you ought to be in the garden?" said Miss Russell. "I
shall have to make a new rule, that nobody is to come upstairs until ten
minutes before meals. In this lovely weather I expect you to be
out-of-doors. It is a shame to waste a minute in the house. Don't let me
find you here again during recreation time."
This was a blow, as it brought the great scheme temporarily to a
standstill. The girls could not venture to disobey openly, and judged it
wiser to let things rest for the present, until the mistress should have
forgotten the matter, and they might once more quietly begin to renew
their investigations.
"We'll play cricket hard, and put our names down for the tennis
handicap," said Lindsay. "We mustn't on any account let Miss Russell
think we'd a special motive in what we were doing."
"Rather not! We'll 'lie low and say nuffin'', like Brer Rabbit," agreed
Cicely.
There was no lack of liveliness or occupation at the Manor to justify
anybody in idling about the passages, and there were certainly many
small excitements, apart from mysterious chambers or hidden treasures.
All kinds of funny events kept occurring which had never disturbed the
prim atmosphere of Winterburn Lodge.
Nora Proctor and Marjorie Butler awoke half the school one night by loud
and repeated screams, and when Miss Frazer rushed into their room,
imagining fire or burglars, she found them cowering behind the bed
curtains, in mortal terror of a large bat that had made its way through
the open casement. Earwigs were a constant nuisance, and everyone grew
almost accustomed to catching green caterpillars, which crept in from
the roses that surrounded the windows, and would turn up in the most
undesirable spots.
Naturally so old a house was infested with rats and mice. They scuttled
inside the walls, and squeaked behind the wainscots, and seemed to hold
carnival at the back of the oak panelling, often disturbing the girls at
night with the noise. This was particularly noticeable in the room where
Lindsay and Cicely slept. They were sometimes awakened by sounds like
the rolling of barrels overhead, as if heavy objects were being clanked
about up in the ceiling.
"You've no need to be afraid of them," said Mrs. Wilson, who made light
of all complaints, "they never venture out of the walls, to my
knowledge."
The fear, however, that a rat might possibly gnaw its way into her
bedroom afflicted Cicely continually.
"If it ran across my pillow I should die of fright, I know I should!"
she wailed. "I wish Mrs. Wilson would let us have the cat to sleep with
us. I should feel far safer."
"I wish we could send for the Pied Piper, and get rid of them all. They
woke me twice last night," said Lindsay.
Poor Cicely never dared to retire without first having a thorough
examination to assure herself that no lurking rodent was lying hidden
behind the wardrobe, or in any other obscure corner. One evening she was
making her usual round, armed with a tennis racket for protection, and
was peeping under the bed, when she suddenly let the valance fall
hurriedly, and drew back with a shriek.
"There's a rat there! I saw it quite plainly; its great big eyes were
glaring at me!" she announced in a trembling voice.
"What are we to do?" exclaimed Lindsay, in equal consternation.
"Call for Miss Frazer this instant. She hasn't gone downstairs yet."
"Don't disturb it on any account!" decreed Miss Russell, who was fetched
from the drawing-room to cope with the emergency. "I shall send at once
for Scott, the gardener, and ask him to bring his terrier dog. We must
really take some measures to destroy these pests."
It was not very long before Scott arrived. He clumped solemnly up the
stairs with a thick stick in his hand, and Bill, his sharp little fox
terrier, at his heels. Mrs. Wilson accompanied him, bearing the kitchen
poker; and the parlour-maid followed, holding the yard dog by the
collar, in case Bill should miss his prey. Miss Frazer and Miss
Humphreys were there to support Miss Russell; while Mademoiselle and a
great many of the girls hovered outside in the passage, half-frightened
and half-excited over the coming fray.
"If you'll please to tell me where the young lady saw it, mum," said
Scott, "I'll let Bill on it sudden. He's death on rats."
"It was just at the foot of the bed," quavered Cicely. Scott stooped,
and raised the valance with the greatest precaution. Bill sniffed
eagerly, but he did not pounce upon any concealed victim.
"There's nothing there, mum--leastways no rat," said Scott,
straightening his back.
"Are you sure?" gasped Miss Russell. "It couldn't possibly have
escaped."
"I think it's been a little mistake of the young lady's, mum," said
Scott, suppressing a grin. "If you'll kindly take a look under the bed,
you'll see for yourself."
Miss Russell hastened to comply, and, bending down, gave an exclamation
as she drew out one of Lindsay's best Sunday gloves.
"What an extraordinary illusion!" she cried. "I don't wonder Cicely took
it for a rat. The soft doeskin is exactly the same colour, and the
buttons were gleaming just like two bright eyes. I never saw a more
perfect resemblance. I should certainly have been deceived. Well, I'm
glad our chase has been a case of much ado about nothing. I think you
may go to bed with easy minds to-night, girls. If we have any more
alarms, we must send for Bill to protect us. Good dog! Can you find
some scraps for him in the kitchen, Mrs. Wilson?"
Cicely's rat was of course a great joke in the school, and a subject of
teasing for several days afterwards.
"You'll imagine your dressing-gown is a tiger next," said Effie
Hargreaves.
"Some people scream at nothing. I'd have been sure about it first,
before making such a fuss," said Beryl Austen.
"She thought it was a wily rat, and watched to see it move,
She looked again, and saw that it was nothing but a glove!"
improvised Nora Proctor, who was fond of _Alice_, and had rather a taste
for parody.
"It was such a disappointment to us, when we were waiting to hear the
scuffle," said Marjorie Butler.
"We shan't believe in your scares next time," said Effie.
"It's all very well, but I'm sure you'd have been just as frightened
yourselves," retorted Cicely. "You've no need to make so much fun of
me."
"It's too bad. I vote we pay them out, and have the laugh on our side,"
sympathized Lindsay, leading her friend away. "I've thought of such a
capital idea. Come to the summer-house and we'll talk it over."
As the result of Lindsay's cogitations, the two girls went boldly to
Mrs. Wilson, and begged an old cardboard box.
"It's half to pieces," said "The Griffin", quite amiably, for a wonder.
"It's not much good you'll do with it, I'm afraid."
"Never mind, it's enough for what we want, thank you. We're not going to
put anything very heavy in it, are we, Cicely?"
Cicely's reply was such a wildly hysterical giggle that Mrs. Wilson
stared at her in offended surprise.
"She's only silly!" explained Lindsay hurriedly. "Please, could you let
us have some scraps of dark cloth? Perhaps there'd be something in the
rag bag. Be quiet, you stupid!"
The last remark was aside to the irrepressible Cicely, who straightened
her face with an effort. "We're going to do some sewing," she
volunteered, choking back her mirth.
"You're not generally so industrious," said Mrs. Wilson grimly. "I
should be glad to see you using your needle for once. It seems all
tennis and croquet with you young ladies."
She produced the rag bag, however, and allowed the girls to take their
choice of the various odds and ends which it contained. They selected a
piece of rough, hair-brown serge; then, fetching their work-baskets,
they retired to a remote part of the garden, where they were not likely
to be disturbed. If Mrs. Wilson had imagined they were about to engage
in some fine and delicate needlework, she was much mistaken. They
confined themselves to cutting and snipping, and to a few big, cobbling
stitches that would have caused her to exclaim in righteous horror.
At the end of half an hour all was finished, and Lindsay proudly held up
the result of their labours. It really was not a bad imitation of a rat.
It had a nice round, plump body, four squat legs, a pointed nose, and a
long, thin tail.
"We can't make whiskers," said Lindsay, "but that doesn't matter in the
least. They wouldn't notice them. What a good thing it's light until so
late now! They'll be able to see it perfectly well."
"We couldn't manage if the bed weren't a four-poster," said Cicely,
chuckling in anticipation of the fun to come.
Beryl Austen and Effie Hargreaves slept in a room almost opposite to
Lindsay's and Cicely's. Before eight o'clock arrived the two latter
contrived to make an excuse to go upstairs, and hastily completed their
preparations. The arrangements were ingenious. They fastened their rat
very lightly by two pieces of thin sewing cotton to the middle of the
piece of tapestry that formed the roof of the great four-post bed. To
the cotton was attached a long strand of string, which passed through
the curtains and out at the door (conveniently near the bed), the end
being hidden under the mat on the landing.
"You'll see, when we jerk the string, the cotton will break, then down
will plump the rat right on to their chests," said Lindsay, justly proud
of her inventive powers. "Poke the box under the valance, Cicely, quick!
I thought I heard someone coming."
The cardboard box contained a bobbin, to which a second string was tied,
and concealed in the same manner as the first.
"I don't believe they'll suspect anything," said Cicely. "Won't it be
lovely to give them a scare!"
At bedtime the conspirators retired innocently as usual, having wished
Beryl and Effie good night in the passage.
"I nearly said I hoped nothing would disturb them," laughed Lindsay,
"but I thought it would be wiser not. How long must we leave them to go
to sleep?"
"About half an hour, I should think. Let us get up as soon as we hear
the clock in the picture gallery striking nine."
The twilight lasted long, so it was still quite possible to distinguish
objects as two nightgowned, barefooted figures stole gently across the
landing. Fortunately everything was perfectly quiet in the upper
portion of the house. The younger girls were in bed, and the elder ones
were with the teachers downstairs.
"We must be sure to work the right strings," breathed Lindsay. "Have you
got yours? This was mine, with a knot at the end."
She gave a smart pull, and the bobbin rattled loudly inside the box.
They could hear it plainly, even through the closed door.
"What is that?"
The question came in an anxious and wideawake tone from within the room.
"I don't know. Oh, there it is again!"
The voice this time was Effie's.
"It sounds as if it were under the bed!"
"Oh, surely it's not a rat!"
"Now for it!" whispered Cicely, pulling the second string.
The result was all they could have desired. A series of yells proceeded
from the four-post bed, sufficient not only to rouse the occupants of
the other rooms on the landing, but to bring Miss Frazer hurrying up
from the library. Lindsay and Cicely dropped their strings and fled, not
a second too soon. They could hear Miss Frazer striking a match to light
the candle, and her exclamation when she discovered the cause of the
uproar.
"All the girls have turned out to see what's the matter," said Cicely.
"If you and I don't go too, they'll know who's done it."
"I think we shall have to own up, in any case," replied Lindsay.
"It was worth the scolding," she declared afterwards, when Miss Frazer
had administered a due homily on the danger of practical jokes. "I only
wish I could have seen their faces when the rat plumped on to them. They
needn't talk of screaming at nothing, and if they ever begin to tease us
about anything again--well, we'll just say 'Rats!'"
CHAPTER IV
Haversleigh
There never was such a glorious place as the Manor. Upon that point the
whole school perfectly agreed. The garden was as fascinating as the
house, and proved an absolute dream of delight, with its smooth
bowling-green, its winding paths, its charming little arbours overgrown
with creepers, its clipped yew hedges, and its unexpected flights of
steps. It might have been designed as a kind of terrestrial paradise for
girls. The big lawns afforded space for so many tennis courts that there
was no need for the younger ones to hover about, waiting enviously until
their elders had finished before they could get a chance of a game; and
there was plenty of room left for croquet and clock golf. The shrubbery
and the plantation were ideal spots for hide-and-seek (almost too good,
Lindsay said, because it was so very difficult to find anybody); while
the various rustic seats scattered under the trees made sewing and
reading a luxury on hot days, when no one felt inclined for violent
exercise. A stone-flagged terrace ran the entire length of the front of
the Manor, proving an invaluable playground when the grass was too wet
for games in the garden; and a roomy summer-house stood near the
bowling-green, so big that it was capable of sheltering all the school
during a thunder shower.
Beyond the avenue, and at the farther side of the shrubbery, was a maze.
Marvellous little narrow, twisting paths, with high hedges of clipped
box, wound round and round in an utterly bewildering manner, most of
them either ending blindly or turning back to the original entrance, and
only one of the number leading to the arbour in the centre. For a long
time the girls amused themselves with trying to discover the proper
clue. Cicely, like Hansel, dropped pebbles to show which paths she had
already traced; Lindsay essayed to cut the Gordian knot by creeping
through the hedge; and it was only after many and repeated trials that
they were at last able to solve the puzzle.
In the midst of one of the lawns grew a grand old yew tree, the lower
branches of which were easy to climb. It was a favourite haunt of the
younger girls, each having her special seat, and here they might often
be seen perched like birds, and certainly chattering enough to suggest a
flock of magpies. A stalwart oak close by supported a swing that was far
more romantic than the swing in the playground at Winterburn Lodge,
because a strong push would send the happy occupant high up among the
green leaves, and give her a flying peep into a missel-thrush's nest on
the topmost bough, where four gaping yellow mouths were clamouring for
food. In a corner, down a flight of steps, there was a pond where grew
marsh marigolds, and irises, and forget-me-nots, and other water-loving
plants. A pair of ducks lived here in a wooden hutch, and would come
waddling up to be fed with bread, which the girls saved from breakfast
for them. Great was the delight of the whole school when one morning a
brood of seven small ducklings appeared on the water, each as yellow as
a canary, and seemingly quite at home already in its native element.
Then there was the rose garden, where every variety of the queen of
flowers seemed to flourish, from the delicate Maréchal Niel to the
sweet, oldfashioned, striped York and Lancaster. Archways and pillars
were covered with climbers and ramblers, a little untrained, but hanging
down in such glorious profusion that one almost approved of the neglect.
Round this garden was a high hedge of clipped holly, so that it was
sheltered from every wind, and the roses bloomed as if in a greenhouse.
Nor must we forget the peacocks, which were as much a feature of the old
house as the twisted chimneys, or the stone balls on the porch. There
were six of them, and the gorgeous sheen of their feathers as they
spread their tails in the sunshine was a sight worth remembering. In
fact, as Miss Russell often remarked, they gave a finishing touch to the
whole scene, and made the Manor look more than ever like a medieval
picture.
The village of Haversleigh was only ten minutes' walk from the lodge
gates. It consisted of one long row of quaint black-and-white cottages,
with thatched roofs, and gardens so gay with flowers that they seemed to
be overflowing into the road, and pinks and pansies were coming up
between the cobblestones of the street. At the end stood the beautiful
ancient church, built in days when each artisan was a master of his
craft, and made his work a labour of love. Strangers often came from a
distance to admire the delicate tracery of the windows, the exquisite
carving of the pillars, and the splendid old oak choir stalls that had
formed part of a tenth-century abbey. At the west end hung a collection
of banners, won by Monica's ancestors in many a hard-fought battle, and,
all tattered and faded as they were, still bearing tribute to the
glories of the past. There were monuments, too, in memory of the
Courtenays: stone effigies of knights in armour, lying under carved
canopies emblazoned with their coats-of-arms; stiff ladies and gentlemen
of Tudor times, with starched ruffs and buckled shoes; and one lovely
marble figure, by a forgotten sculptor, of a young daughter of the house
who had perished during the Great Plague. The ruthless hands that had
chipped and spoiled many of the other monuments had spared this one, and
the beautiful, calm face seemed to be resting in tranquil sleep,
patiently waiting for the summons to arise to immortality.
The Manor pew, though large, could not accommodate the school. The girls
sat in the left aisle, and made quite an important addition to the
little congregation of villagers. They certainly helped to swell the
singing, and I think even the most thoughtless among them learned to
love that dear old church, and carried its remembrance into after years.
The Rectory marked the last boundary of the village, then the road
passed over a bridge straight into the open country. The scenery was
pretty without being grand. Picturesque farmhouses stood in the midst of
rich pastures, behind which rose wooded slopes leading to a higher peak,
called Pendle Tor, that stood out as a landmark for the district.
Naturally the girls were very anxious to explore the neighbourhood, and
delighted when Miss Russell allowed walks on half-holidays. The whole
school was not often sent out together, but each form would go in turn,
separately, with its own teacher--an arrangement that all much
preferred, as they could then ramble about in an informal manner,
instead of keeping to the prim file which was the general rule.
One Wednesday afternoon, at the end of May, it was the turn of the third
class, and its six members were standing by the gate, impatiently
awaiting the arrival of Miss Frazer, who, to do her justice, was not
often at fault in the matter of punctuality.
"I hope she isn't telling Miss Russell what bad marks I got this
morning," said Effie Hargreaves dismally. "She threatened last week to
report me if I had another cross for history, and I missed five times,
and four times in literature, and all my problems were wrong in
arithmetic too."
"I believe they're planning to hire another piano," said Beryl Austen,
"so that we can all get in the same amount of practising as we did at
Winterburn Lodge."
"Oh, what a shame! I'm sure half an hour a day is enough for anybody,"
came in a chorus from the others.
"Especially now, when we haven't a music master," added Cicely.
"That's the very reason," explained Beryl. "Miss Russell says she wants
us to keep up what we've learnt, so that we won't seem to have fallen
back when we begin with Mr. Nelson again."
"Don't talk of Mr. Nelson! We shan't see him for ages."
"You will, in September."
"Well, it's not September yet, it's only May, and in the meantime we're
learning from Miss Frazer. Here she is, by the by, hurrying down the
drive as fast as she can."
"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, girls," said the teacher, "but Miss
Russell has been giving me a commission to transact while we are out.
She wants us to go to Monkend, a farm about a mile and a half from
here."
"A new walk?" asked Beryl.
"Yes, we have never been there before, but I don't think we can miss the
way."
A perfectly fresh walk was a pleasant prospect. Everyone set off,
therefore, in the best of spirits. It was a beautiful afternoon, one of
those glorious days when summer seems to clasp hands with spring and
join the delights of both seasons. The newly unfolded leaves were still
a tender green, and the sycamores were covered with pendent blossoms, in
the golden pollen of which the bees revelled like drunkards. The larches
had opened all their tassels, and the young cones on the firs glowed
with such a pink hue that they resembled candles on a Christmas tree.
The hawthorns were almost over, but here and there a crab apple showed a
mass of pink bloom, or a guelder rose made a white patch in the hedge;
and all the stretches of grass by the roadsides were carpeted with
bluebells and starry stitchwort.
Miss Frazer was indulgent, and would wait for a few minutes while the
girls gathered handfuls of flowers, or climbed up to the top of a bank
to admire the view. She was as interested as they were in the finding of
a robin's nest; and quite as excited when a hawk swooped suddenly into a
bush, and flew away with a young thrush in its claws. The cuckoos were
calling persistently from the woods, the larks were singing up in the
air above, and all the hedgerows seemed to teem with busy bird life.
Their way soon left the high road, and, striking across a field, led
them through a copse where there was an interesting pond, swarming with
tadpoles. The girls would have lingered here, trying to catch the funny,
wriggling, little black objects, but Miss Frazer's patience gave way at
last, and she hurried them on, declaring that if they were not quick
they would never get to the farm and back before tea-time.
Monkend was a quaint old house, built in the midst of cherry orchards.
Its timbered walls were grey and weather-stained, and its tiled roof
yellowed with lichens. By the side of the open barn door the cows were
standing lowing to be milked, and the dairymaid, a rosy-faced young
woman in a blue apron, was coming from the kitchen, singing as she swung
her bright pails. She stopped in astonishment at the unwonted sight of
visitors to the farm, and ran to call her mistress to the scene.
"You may wait for me here, girls, while I do my business with Mrs.
Brand," said Miss Frazer; "or if you like you may walk back to the
stile, and I will overtake you in the wood."
Mrs. Brand insisted that Miss Frazer should come into the best parlour
to transact her errand, so, left alone, the girls began slowly to
retrace their steps towards the copse.
"I wonder how long she'll be," said Lindsay, who with Cicely had
lingered a little behind.
"I believe she has to pay a bill and order more butter and eggs and
things, so I don't expect we shall see her for five or ten minutes at
least," replied Cicely.
"Then there'll be just time to run round the farm. I want to peep inside
those barns, and see what is at the other side of those haystacks. It
looks interesting. Come along! The dairymaid is busy milking, and
won't see us, and I don't suppose it matters if she does. We'll soon run
after the others."
Feeling rather adventurous, the pair fled away down the yard, and dived
through an open doorway into the depths of a big barn. How fragrant it
smelled--such a delicious, sweet scent was in the air! Surely it must
come from that great heap of hay in the corner. The girls ran across,
and jumping on to the pile, were soon burying each other with armfuls
of the hay, and scooping out nests to sit in. It was dark inside the
barn--the beautiful brown gloom that one sees only in old castles or
churches, or ancient buildings, and is quite different from the black of
ordinary darkness. Through the open door came just one shaft of
sunshine, in which the specks of dust seemed to float and flutter like
living things. Overhead the great beams of the roof were lost in dim
obscurity; very old and rough they were, and covered with a mass of
cobwebs, among which Cicely declared she could see bats hanging head
downwards, with folded wings, though Lindsay said it was all her
imagination.
It was so nice sitting perched on the hay that neither was in a hurry to
move. I believe they quite forgot about the time, until at last they
heard Miss Frazer's voice in the distance bidding good-bye to Mrs.
Brand.
"We shall have to go," groaned Cicely. "What a nuisance! I could stay
here for hours."
"So could I," said Lindsay, getting up with a yawn, and brushing loose
stalks from her dress. "Let us jump down on the other side of the hay."
I do not know why it should have occurred to Lindsay to get off the
stack by the back instead of the front. If they had gone out of the barn
by the way they came, they could have overtaken Miss Frazer in a
moment, and the adventure which followed would never have happened at
all. As it was, fate decreed that Lindsay, in her flying leap through
the dusk, should knock her shins against something decidedly hard. She
stood rubbing them ruefully, and put out her hand to feel what had been
the cause of her bruises. It was a ladder, standing against the wall,
and through the gloom of the barn she could just distinguish its upper
end, which seemed to communicate with a doorway in the angle of the
roof. This looked attractive. She pointed it out at once to Cicely.
"Where does it lead, do you think?" asked the latter.
"To some granary above, I expect. I wonder what's up there! Shall we go
and explore?"
Without even waiting for an answer, Lindsay had begun to ascend, and as
she was six rungs up before Cicely ventured a half-hearted remonstrance,
she did not see fit to come down again.
"Oh! we shan't be a minute," she declared. "Miss Frazer will wait for us
in the wood, and we can run all the way from the farm."
Where Lindsay went Cicely always felt bound to follow; accordingly, she
clambered up the ladder behind her friend, and in due course both
arrived at the top. As Lindsay had supposed, they found a granary
half-filled with sacks of corn and a pile of loose barley. A door at
the farther end appeared to open on to a flight of steps leading
outside, while opposite was a small lattice window overlooking the
fields.
"There's really nothing to see," said Cicely. "It was hardly worth while
coming, after all."
"We might go out through that door, instead of climbing down the ladder
again," suggested Lindsay, beginning to walk round the sacks. "Why,
look! Somebody has left his lunch here."
On the top of the barley was a tin can, and also a red cotton
pocket-handkerchief, evidently containing slices of bread. From sheer
idle curiosity Lindsay seized them, and showed them laughingly to
Cicely.
"Will you have some afternoon tea?" she exclaimed in joke.
At that moment she was startled by a low growl behind her. From a corner
of the room sprang a collie dog that, unobserved by them, had been lying
among the sacks, and keeping a watch over its master's property.
Lindsay promptly replaced the tin and the handkerchief on the barley.
"Good dog! Poor fellow!" she said encouragingly, holding out her hand.
The dog, however, did not make the least response to her friendly
advances. It came a little nearer, growling again, and showing its
teeth in an ugly fashion.
"Come here, silly fellow! Does it think I want to steal something?" said
Lindsay.
"I expect it does," replied Cicely, in rather a shaky voice. "Don't try
to touch it! It'll certainly bite you."
Even Lindsay, fond of animals as she was, could not deny that the
gleaming eyes and snarling mouth looked the reverse of friendly.
"Perhaps we'd better be going," she said, turning towards the door.
Directly she moved, the dog growled louder, and would have flown at her
if she had not instantly stopped.
"What are we to do?" she exclaimed, looking at Cicely with a terrified
face.
They were indeed in a most awkward and dangerous position. The dog,
deeming itself guardian of the granary, and doubtless considering the
two girls intruders for dishonest purposes, would let neither of them
beat a retreat. It stood looking vigilantly from one to the other,
snarling so fiercely if they stirred even an inch that they did not dare
to put its intentions to the test. Oh! why had they come? If they had
only gone back down the ladder before they had roused the dog, or if
Lindsay had not been inquisitive enough to peep inside the handkerchief,
they might have been across the yard and following Miss Frazer to the
wood. How were they ever to escape? Would they be obliged to remain
there until the dog's master returned?
"Perhaps Miss Frazer'll come to hunt for us," quavered Cicely, in a very
small voice, and with a timid eye on the collie lest it should spring.
Evidently it did not object to conversation, so long as they kept still,
for though it looked at her it did not growl. That was one comfort, at
any rate. The situation was terrible enough, but to endure it in silence
would have been ten times worse.
"I don't believe anybody knows where we are," said Lindsay. "I wonder if
the dairymaid noticed us go into the barn. They wouldn't dream of our
climbing the ladder. They'd look all round the stackyard, and perhaps
think we'd taken a short cut and gone home."
Would nobody ever arrive to release them? The minutes seemed long as
hours, and they felt as if their trembling knees could scarcely support
them. Cicely, from the place where she was standing, could fortunately
look through the window and command a view of the field below. Though
she gazed with as keen anxiety as Sister Anne in the story of Bluebeard,
she did not see anybody hurrying to their rescue. The dog apparently
grew a little tired, for it threw itself down on the floor, but without
relaxing any of its former vigilance.
"I believe it's going to stop here all night," groaned Cicely, almost in
tears.
The case was waxing desperate. So weary were the poor girls that they
were ready to drop with fatigue. Unless something happened, and that
speedily, there was bound to be a catastrophe. At the moment, however,
when Cicely felt that she simply could not endure any longer,
deliverance came. Through the little squares of the wooden lattice she
saw a figure strolling leisurely across the field. It was Monica
Courtenay, and she was walking in the direction of the farm. Cicely
shouted at the very pitch of her voice:
"Monica! Monica! Help! Oh, do come!"
Monica stopped in much astonishment, and looked round as if to ask who
was calling her by name; then, deciding that the screams came from the
direction of the granary, she hurried as fast as she could up the steps,
and opened the door. Her amazement was only equalled by her distress at
the girls' plight.
She did her best to call off the dog, but as that proved impossible she
ran to fetch the first person she could find. In less than a minute she
had returned with Mr. Brand, whose stout boot and stick soon sent the
collie yelping disconsolately into a corner, to realize that it had
exceeded its duties.
"He's a good watchdog, is Pincher," said the farmer, "but he's been a
bit too clever to-day. You silly hound! You ought to know better than to
set on two young wenches. You may well slink off! You'd better keep out
of reach of my stick, I can tell you!"
Lindsay and Cicely were much upset and shaken by their terrifying
experience. They never forgot how kindly and considerately Monica
behaved. She did not tell them it was their own fault, and that it
served them right for prying into places where they had no business (as
Mildred Roper or any of the other monitresses would certainly have
done); she only sympathized in her gentle way, and offered to escort
them to the Manor by a short cut, so that they should not be so very
late after all.
"It was a lucky thing I happened to be taking a walk this way," she
said. "It might have been hours before any of the farm people went into
the granary. I wouldn't keep such a savage dog if it were mine."
As Lindsay supposed, Miss Frazer was not aware that she had left two of
her pupils behind at Monkend, and imagined that the missing pair must
have walked home in front of the others. Their absence had only just
been discovered when they arrived to explain the cause. The teacher was
hardly so tender with them as Monica, and they received more scolding
than sympathy.
"Though it wasn't such a very dreadful crime to go into the barn," said
Lindsay afterwards to her companion in misfortune. "Miss Frazer needn't
say we are the two who are always in mischief, because it might have
happened just as easily to any of the others. I saw Beryl and Effie peep
into the cowhouse as they passed, though they didn't climb up a ladder.
Wasn't Monica nice? I believe the old farmer would have been cross with
us if she hadn't been there. He evidently knows her very well. So do all
the people in the village. She seems to know each man, woman, and child
there, and to be a favourite with everybody."
CHAPTER V
An Unexpected Development
Lindsay and Cicely had by no means forgotten either their quest for the
treasure or their curiosity about the lantern chamber. In spite of
several small efforts, nothing fresh had occurred to elucidate matters,
and they were almost beginning to despair of ever making any further
progress, when quite unexpectedly something important happened.
One afternoon, as they were sending tennis balls to each other along the
terrace, they heard a voice calling to them from overhead. They looked
up, and saw Merle Hammond, a second-form girl, leaning out of one of the
upper windows of the house and beckoning to them violently.
"Lindsay and Cicely, is that you?" she cried. "Come up here; I've made
such a discovery!"
"Where are you?" asked Cicely, for the old Manor had so many windows, it
was impossible to identify any particular one from the outside.
"In a room up a funny winding staircase, on the top landing. It's
empty, but there's a big kind of lamp hanging from the ceiling. Oh,
you'll never guess what I've seen!"
"The lantern chamber!" gasped both the girls, and, dropping their
rackets, they raced into the house in a state of the wildest excitement.
Were they actually on the brink of solving the mystery? How had Merle
found it out? It was good of her to call to them. Had she accidentally
come across the hiding-place? or was it some other secret still?
The answer to all these questions lay in that attic room, and they fled
upstairs as if their feet were wings.
They were halfway along the passage, and a few seconds more would have
seen them safely on the top landing, when (oh, the bad luck of it!) they
almost knocked down Miss Frazer, who emerged at exactly the wrong moment
from her own bedroom door.
"Gently, girls, gently!" she remonstrated. "Where are you going in such
a hurry?"
It was impossible to explain. How could they tell the teacher the nature
of their errand? They both stood still, looking very "caught" and
dismayed, and said nothing.
"As you have come indoors so early, you had better tidy your drawers,"
continued Miss Frazer dryly. "I looked at them just now, and found them
in terrible disorder. You will have nice time to do it before tea."
Could anything have been more aggravating? The poor girls were nearly
crying with vexation. There was no appeal, however. Miss Frazer escorted
them into their bedroom, and stood over them, giving directions, until
each pair of stockings or pocket-handkerchief was disposed according to
her ideas of neatness. They might chafe and fret inwardly at the delay,
but outwardly they were obliged to behave with due decorum.
The governess was certainly justified in her disapproval, for Cicely's
best coat and hat were lying jumbled together at the bottom of the
wardrobe, and Lindsay's belongings looked as if they had been stirred up
with a stick.
"If I notice any of your places in such a condition again, I shall be
obliged to give you each a punishment," she said gravely. "Wash your
hands now, and comb your hair. There's the first bell."
Would Miss Frazer never leave them alone? If only she would take her
departure at once, they could perhaps manage to rush up to the lantern
room before the second bell rang. Merle must be waiting for them, and
wondering why they did not come. And the secret was waiting too! Lindsay
looked at Cicely, almost meditating a bolt. Possibly the mistress read
her intention in her face; at any rate, she waited until both were
ready, then marched them downstairs to the dining-room like a female
policeman, without giving them the slightest chance to escape.
"Of all jolly sells this is the biggest!" whispered Cicely.
"I wish Miss Frazer had been at the bottom of the sea!" groaned Lindsay.
Merle came in rather late and took her place at table, looking a little
red and self-conscious. Lindsay tried to meet her eyes, but she avoided
the gaze, and went on stolidly with her bread and butter as if nothing
had happened. When Cicely made a like effort she fared the same. What
had Merle seen? How they longed for tea to be over, that they might hear
of her discovery! They hoped she would not reveal it to any of the other
girls first, and they looked on in quite a fever of anxiety whenever she
spoke to Elsie Ryder or Marjorie Butler, who sat one on either side of
her.
"She doesn't know what we suspect about Mrs. Wilson," whispered Lindsay.
"She may be letting out something it would be far better, for Monica's
sake, not to tell."
The moment the meal was finished the two girls followed Merle into the
garden, but, greatly to their surprise, she took no notice of them, and
began to play tennis.
"I expect she's waiting for a safer time. Of course it wouldn't do for
her to be seen talking to us so particularly. We'll stay here while she
finishes her set," said Cicely.
The game lasted until preparation, and then Merle walked away with such
an evident intention of escaping from them that the two were most
indignant.
"What does she mean?" burst out Lindsay.
"Do you think she's offended because we didn't go up at once?" returned
Cicely. "She doesn't know yet that Miss Frazer stopped us. We must
explain it as soon as we can."
They tried to get hold of Merle after supper, but she kept persistently
to Elsie Ryder's company, and would not give them any opportunity of
speaking to her in private, so they were obliged to go to bed in a
horrible state of suspense. Next morning things were just as bad. There
was no mistaking the fact that Merle wished to avoid them, and it was
only with the greatest difficulty that they succeeded at last in
catching her alone.
"What do you want?" she enquired abruptly. "Please don't go chasing me
about like this all over the school."
"We want to know what you saw in the lantern room, of course," replied
Lindsay.
"Well, I'm sorry, but I can't tell you."
"Not tell us!"
Lindsay and Cicely could scarcely believe the evidence of their own
ears.
"No, it's quite impossible."
"But why?"
"Simply that I can't."
"Were you offended, Merle, because we didn't come when you called us?"
asked Cicely.
"We were hurrying up as fast as we could, only Miss Frazer stopped us
and made us tidy our drawers. It wasn't our fault," added Lindsay
apologetically.
"No, I'm not offended in the least. I'm very glad you didn't come."
"But you shouted to us to be quick."
"I know I did."
"Was it something or somebody you saw in that room?"
"Please don't ask me."
"But look here, Merle, this is too bad," protested Lindsay. "You're
playing a very nasty trick upon us."
"It can't be helped. I've said I am sorry," returned Merle doggedly.
"Well, you are a fraud," cried Cicely. "I like people who keep their
promises."
"So do I," said Merle, in rather a significant tone. "It's exactly what
I intend doing, too."
"You don't mean to say you've promised not to tell!" exclaimed Lindsay.
"I didn't say anything at all."
"Have you told Elsie Ryder or Marjorie Butler?"
"Certainly not. I haven't mentioned the matter to anybody, and I hope
you won't either."
"But why shouldn't you whisper it just to Lindsay and me? We wouldn't
let a soul know," pleaded Cicely reproachfully.
"I can't explain why. Do let us drop the subject."
Here was indeed a deadlock. They had been afraid lest Merle should
betray her secret indiscreetly, but they had certainly never
contemplated being kept out of it themselves. The more they pressed her,
the more obstinately she refused, and neither scolding nor coaxing would
induce her to disclose even the least hint. They gave it up at last,
feeling very baffled and rather out of temper.
"We do know something about your old room, all the same," said Lindsay
crossly, as a parting shot.
"Oh, Lindsay, you don't really!"
There was an anxious note in Merle's voice.
"More than you think."
"Then, whatever it is, you had better keep it to yourselves, and not let
it go any farther."
Merle's extraordinary behaviour seemed to make the mystery even deeper
than before. She had evidently been exploring the Manor on her own
account and had made some discovery, which she undoubtedly had intended
to share with them when she called from the window. Then something must
have occurred afterwards which caused her to change her mind.
To whom had she given a promise of secrecy? Surely not to Mrs. Wilson?
That would be aiding and abetting one whom they strongly believed to be
Monica's enemy. If only Miss Frazer had not such a tiresome love of
tidiness, they might have reached the lantern room in time, and be now
in possession of the information they wanted. It was too tantalizing to
feel that they had been so near a solution of the problem, and had
missed it by a few moments.
Events never happen singly. For a whole fortnight they had been able
to find out nothing, yet on the very day following this disappointment
something occurred which seemed to add another link to their chain of
strange circumstances. They had managed to escape Miss Frazer's
vigilance, and were indulging in a surreptitious game of "tig" along the
forbidden ground of the picture gallery, when one of the bedroom doors
opened, and Mrs. Wilson appeared in the distance, carrying a pile of
clean towels in her arms.
"There's 'The Griffin'!" exclaimed Lindsay. "She mustn't catch us here,
on any account. She'll tell Miss Russell, and we shall each lose a
conduct mark. Quick! Let us hide somewhere till she's gone by."
The ancient arras seemed to offer a safe retreat. As fast as possible
they whisked behind it, and stood flattening themselves against the
wall, hoping Mrs. Wilson would notice nothing lumpy or unusual as she
passed.
At the same time came a sound of heavy tramping footsteps from the other
end of the gallery, and Cicely, peeping through a hole in the tapestry
which happened to be on a convenient level with her eyes, saw Scott, the
gardener, coming down the flight of stairs which led from the upper
landing. He met Mrs. Wilson exactly opposite the hiding-place where the
girls were concealed, and the two stopped to speak, quite unaware that
listening ears were eagerly following their conversation.
"Have you been in the lantern room?" began the old housekeeper uneasily.
"I'd no idea you were going up this afternoon."
"Thought I'd best take a look," returned Scott.
"There wasn't any need. I was there myself this morning, and things were
all right."
"I don't know what you may call all right," grunted Scott. "There was
far too much noise going on to satisfy me."
"You don't think there's any danger----?" burst out Mrs. Wilson, in an
anxious voice.
"No, no!" interrupted Scott quickly. "Not for the present, at any rate.
Don't upset yourself. Still, it needs care, especially with all this
crew in the house."
"Yes, it's that that's worrying me. I shan't breathe freely till they're
gone. And such an inquisitive, meddlesome set they are, too! You'd
scarcely believe the trouble they give me. Two of them took it into
their heads one day to go wandering on the upper landing. I actually
found them inside the lantern room!"
Scott gave an exclamation of something like alarm.
"That'll never do!" he said. "You mustn't let them go poking about
there; it would be most unsafe. Can't you lock the door?"
"No, the key's lost."
"I must try if I can find a padlock for it."
"I wish you would. It would take a load off my mind. By the by, I wanted
to warn you----"
But here one of the housemaids came along the landing, Mrs. Wilson's
voice sank to a whisper, and the only words audible were "Miss Monica",
"evening", and "wouldn't trust".
"I'll be extra careful," said Scott, as he clumped away.
Lindsay and Cicely waited several moments after the gallery was empty
before they ventured to emerge from behind the tapestry. They had the
great satisfaction of having learnt something. They now knew definitely
that there was a secret in connection with the lantern room which both
Mrs. Wilson and Scott were anxious to keep from them.
"What can it be?" speculated Cicely. "Did you notice what he said about
the noise? It must have been that dreadful groaning we heard."
"I've been thinking about that," replied Lindsay. "There may be a hidden
room, and someone shut up in it."
"As a prisoner, do you mean?"
Lindsay nodded.
"But who could it be?"
"I can't imagine, unless--could it possibly be old Sir Giles Courtenay?
Perhaps he didn't really die, after all. Don't you remember, in
_Ivanhoe_, how Athelstane of Coningsburgh was supposed to be killed, and
he was really only stunned; and the monks of St. Edmunds put an empty
coffin in the chapel, and kept him in a dungeon and pretended he was
dead, because they wanted his property? Mrs. Wilson may be doing the
same."
"How dreadful!" Cicely looked quite appalled at the idea. "I suppose she
goes up, then, to feed him. Scott must know too. I shouldn't have
thought it of Scott. I rather liked him. I expect they'll share the
money between them. I wonder what 'The Griffin' was warning him about. I
hope they're not hatching a plot against Monica!"
"It looks bad," said Lindsay, "decidedly bad. It's evidently something
shady, or they wouldn't want to keep it so quiet. It may be a very good
thing for Monica that we've taken the matter up."
"What shall we do?"
"We must stalk 'The Griffin' again, and try to follow her to that room,
and see what she does there."
"She's as wary as a weasel."
"Then we must be clever and outwit her. I'm positive she has some scheme
on hand that ought to be watched. One doesn't know how much may depend
upon it."
It was certainly very exciting to feel that dark deeds might be taking
place in the attic, and that they were the fortunate instruments
selected by fate for the purpose of bringing the wrongdoers to justice.
It gave them a delightful sense of superiority over the other girls,
whose heads were full of nothing but tennis and croquet, and who never
troubled themselves with a thought about the missing treasure.
"Merle is the only one who knows anything," said Lindsay, "and I verily
believe 'The Griffin' must have bribed her."
Mrs. Wilson evidently used the utmost precaution in her visits to the
top landing. In spite of the pains they took to watch her movements, it
was some days before they found the propitious moment. "All things come
to those who wait," says the old proverb, however, and it proved true in
this case.
One afternoon, through the chink of the bathroom door, they saw her walk
into the gallery as if she were going to the upper story. As stealthily
as Indians they crept after her. They tiptoed along the passages, and
just caught a glimpse of the tail of her skirts as she passed up the
winding staircase and entered the lantern room. Very quietly they
followed on to the little landing, and listened for a moment outside the
closed door.
"What is she doing?" whispered Cicely.
"That's what I want to find out."
They both tried to peep through the keyhole, and bumped their heads
together in the attempt.
"I can hear her moving!"
There was a slight noise inside, almost like the clicking of a latch,
then all was perfectly silent.
Lindsay could bear it no longer.
"Here goes!" she cried boldly, and flung open the door. To her utter
amazement, the room was absolutely empty. Mrs. Wilson had vanished as
completely as if she had been a ghost.
CHAPTER VI
Monica
The two girls rushed into the empty room and examined every corner
minutely. There was not a trace of any secret exit to be found. The
opening through which Mrs. Wilson must have disappeared was evidently
marvellously well concealed.
"Where can she be? It's like magic!" whispered Cicely.
"Wherever she's gone, I suppose she'll have to come back," replied
Lindsay.
"Listen!" said Cicely, with a start.
It was the same strange sound again which they had heard on their former
expedition--a low, long-drawn-out moaning, as of someone in pain, feeble
at first, then growing louder, and suddenly ceasing.
"Oh! I wonder if she's hurting anybody?" cried Cicely, shuddering with
horror.
"I'd give a great deal to find out what's going on. I'm afraid it's
something that won't bear the light of day," said Lindsay uneasily.
"Dare we wait till she comes out of her hiding-place?"
"Yes, but we mustn't stay here. It would spoil everything if she caught
us. Let us go outside and close the door again, and watch through the
keyhole; then, if we see her coming, we can rush."
Mrs. Wilson's errand was evidently a long one. Though they relieved each
other more than once in mounting guard over the keyhole, she did not
return.
"Perhaps she knows we're here, and won't come out till we've gone,"
suggested Lindsay at last.
"How could she know?"
"She may have been looking at us all the time through some little spy
place."
"Oh, how horrid! It makes me feel quite creepy to think of it."
The fact that they were doing exactly the same did not strike either of
the girls. Circumstances alter cases, and they considered they were
justified in their plan of action. They grew extremely tired of waiting,
but they were determined not to give in.
"There's that noise again!" said Cicely. "She must have a prisoner shut
up there; I'm perfectly certain about it."
Both put their ears to the door, and were so absorbed in listening to
the queer sounds inside the room that they did not hear footsteps
sounding up the winding staircase. An exclamation behind them caused
them to turn hastily round.
There was Monica!--the last person in the world whom they had expected
to see, and who was looking as astonished as themselves at the meeting.
Lindsay and Cicely felt decidedly embarrassed. Monica must have seen
them peeping through the keyhole, and they knew they had been discovered
in a somewhat doubtful and discreditable occupation. They could not
possibly begin to explain that it was entirely on her account and for
her benefit, so they simply turned very red and said nothing. It was a
most uncomfortable situation.
There was a painful pause, and then Monica recovered her presence of
mind.
"Why, Lindsay and Cicely, I thought you were with the others in the
garden!" she said.
"We were only exploring the house a little," replied Lindsay, trying to
pass the matter off carelessly. "Miss Russell said there were
interesting things all over it."
"I'm afraid you won't find much to interest you among empty bedrooms,"
said Monica, in her calm, quiet voice. "If you like to come downstairs
with me I'll show you some of the curiosities in my cabinet. I've a
great many old coins and a few daggers that were dug up when the moat
was drained."
Looking rather shamefaced, the pair went with Monica to the library,
where she unlocked an oak cupboard, and spent quite twenty minutes in
explaining her various treasures. She was most kind, and spared no
trouble, but the others could not get over their confusion. They had the
guilty sensation that they had been caught like naughty children, and
were being amused to keep them out of the way.
"Why was Monica going into the lantern room?" demanded Lindsay, the
moment they were alone.
"Does she know the secret?" ventured Cicely.
"Either she knows, or she's trying to find out. Perhaps she's stalking
Mrs. Wilson too!"
This was a new idea, and required consideration.
"Then that would perhaps be what 'The Griffin' was warning Scott about,"
said Cicely reflectively. "Ought we to tell Monica?"
"Not yet--not till we've something more definite to go upon. We've only
suspicions at present, and one can hardly speak about those. She might
be offended, and think us meddlesome, especially as she doesn't like to
talk of her affairs."
"I'm afraid she'll think us sneaky and underhand, in any case. I'm so
sorry she saw us spying like that."
"Well, we couldn't help it, and we can't explain."
"Mightn't we just say why----?"
"It's no use," interrupted Lindsay decidedly. "We'd better not breathe a
word."
And Cicely, as usual, gave way.
It was gratifying to feel that they were Monica's champions, though she
might not yet be aware of what she owed them. They must be content to be
misunderstood for a little while; afterwards she would appreciate what
they had been doing for her, and would thank them accordingly. They
often looked at her in school with the satisfactory sensation that they
knew something of which everyone else, even Miss Russell, was ignorant.
I fear the lessons suffered sometimes while they indulged in day-dreams,
for it was hard to recall such mundane matters as the capital of Mexico,
or the date of Magna Charta, when their thoughts were far away in the
lantern room, busy with concealed prisoners or supposed plots.
"You're the two most inattentive girls in the class!" cried Miss Frazer
indignantly one day, after a specially bad lapse of memory. "You both
did far better at Winterburn Lodge. I cannot understand why your work
should have fallen off so much lately. This is the third time this week
you have had bad marks. If it occurs again, I shall be obliged to report
you to Miss Russell."
Apart from their interest in her as the owner of the hidden treasure,
Lindsay and Cicely regarded Monica with the worship which schoolgirls
are sometimes fond of bestowing upon a companion who happens specially
to attract them. They admired the shape of her nose and her long
chestnut hair, and considered her dignified manner absolute perfection.
They used to follow her about at a respectful distance, longing to
improve the acquaintance; but they received so many snubs from the elder
girls, who also wished to monopolize her, that matters did not advance
much further than an occasional "Good morning" or "Good afternoon".
"The big ones are so jealous, they like to keep her all to themselves,"
grumbled Cicely. "Eleanor Wright was quite rude when I offered to lend
Monica a pencil yesterday. She said I was 'officious'."
"They're horribly mean," agreed Lindsay.
Monica had certainly become a great favourite at the Manor with both
teachers and pupils, and, had she been of a less steady disposition,
might have run considerable danger of being spoilt. She took her sudden
popularity, however, very serenely, and scarcely seemed to notice that
her schoolfellows were quarrelling over who should sit next her in
class, or take part with her in a game of tennis.
"She always seems so calm and superior, like a nightingale among
sparrows," remarked Irene Spencer sentimentally.
"Or a swan among a flock of geese," laughed Mildred Roper. "You've all
grown really quite silly over Monica. I admire her very much myself,
but I don't go and kiss her jacket when it's hanging in the vestibule,
or beg her old torn exercises for keepsakes."
"Oh, well, you're a monitress!"
"I've got a little common sense left, I'm thankful to say."
The pretty rose-covered cottage where Monica and her mother had
established themselves for the summer was only a few minutes' walk away
from the Manor. One afternoon Miss Russell, happening to meet Lindsay
and Cicely in the hall, gave them a note, and told them to take it at
once to Mrs. Courtenay, and bring back an answer.
The two girls ran off in high glee, delighted to have this opportunity
of seeing their idol in private. They found Monica preparing her French
lesson in the small strip of front garden, but she put her books aside
as they opened the gate.
"Come to Mother," she said, when they had explained their errand,
leading the way through a French window into a low, old-fashioned
sitting-room.
Mrs. Courtenay was a sweet, delicate-looking lady, with a gentle,
refined face, and hair slightly streaked with grey. She did not rise
from her sofa when they entered, but held out her hand instead, and
asked them to come and speak to her.
"I am somewhat of an invalid, you see," she said. "The doctor is very
strict, and has told me to lie still. It's rather hard, but I am trying
to obey. So you are two of Monica's little friends? Well, now you are
here, you had better stay for tea. The letter? Oh, I'll send Jenny, our
maid, with the answer, and she shall tell Miss Russell that I'm keeping
you. We'll take care that you go back in plenty of time for
preparation."
This was indeed a most unexpected treat. Both Lindsay and Cicely beamed
with smiles. They were the only girls in the school who had been thus
favoured, and they felt that their present enjoyment would be equalled
by the envy which they would excite among the others on their return.
"I am glad to hear you are all so happy at the Manor," continued Mrs.
Courtenay. "Isn't it a dear, interesting old place? I expect Monica will
have told you most of the legends. No! Why, Monica, what have you been
thinking of? Do you mean to say they haven't heard yet about your
ancestress and Sir Humphrey Warden in the rose avenue?"
"There really hasn't been any time for telling stories, Mother,"
declared Monica, "we've been so busy playing tennis when we were not at
lessons. I'm never very good at remembering them, either--not like you
are."
"I suppose I must consider myself the family chronicler," said Mrs.
Courtenay. "We certainly ought to let Lindsay and Cicely hear the tale
of the picture. Ah, here comes tea! Monica, you must look after our
guests."
Monica evidently loved to be her mother's nurse. She placed a small
table by the side of the sofa, and busied herself in arranging cushions
and seeing that everything was placed for the invalid's greatest
comfort. She did not neglect the visitors either, and brought out a jar
of honey for their special benefit.
"I know you'll like it, because you were so interested in the bees," she
said. "Do you remember the day when you went too close to the hives, and
nearly got stung?"
"Yes; we had to run the whole length of the walk where the roses grow. I
shan't forget it in a hurry," answered Cicely.
"That is the rose avenue where my namesake outwitted Sir Humphrey
Warden. I wish you would tell them the story, Mother."
"Oh, do, please," pleaded Lindsay and Cicely; "we'd like so immensely to
hear it!"
"I believe I shall just have time while we finish tea," said Mrs.
Courtenay. "I suppose you need not be back in school until half-past
five? Have you been in the long gallery at the Manor, and looked at the
pictures?"
"Yes, often," said Cicely.
"Then you will remember one, at the far end, of a girl in a white
dress, holding a bunch of roses in her hand?"
"Yes; it's the prettiest of them all. We always say it's the exact image
of Monica."
"It is the portrait of a Monica Courtenay who lived here in the time of
the Civil War. Her father was killed fighting for the king at Marston
Moor, and her only brother, Sir Piers, was also one of the hottest
supporters of the crown. When Cromwell came into power, Sir Piers had to
flee for his life. He was chased from one hiding-place to another.
Sometimes, like Prince Charles, he had to clamber up a tree until the
soldiers had passed by, and once he spent a night in a fox's hole.
"At length, one summer evening, hunted almost to desperation, he
returned to his old home. He met his sister in the garden, and though
she exclaimed with joy at seeing him, she immediately made a sign for
silence, and motioned him to conceal himself under a large box tree
which stood near.
"It was not safe, so she whispered, to go to the Manor. There were spies
about, and Sir Humphrey Warden, the most zealous Roundhead in the
district, had set a watch upon the house. At any moment they expected he
might arrive with a troop of soldiers. Piers must stay where he was, and
she would run and bring him the key of the boathouse; then, under cover
of the darkness, he might creep away to the river, get out the boat, and
drop with the current until he reached the sea, where possibly he might
find a ship to take him over to France.
"She hurried indoors at once to fetch the small key that unlocked the
boathouse, but as she was returning down the avenue she found she was
just too late. There was a tramp of horses' hoofs, and Sir Humphrey
Warden came riding up at the head of a band of men.
"'Good even, fair neighbour,' he said. 'I must needs make an inspection
of your house, and with your permission I will give myself the honour of
supping with you to-night. What brings you hither?'
"'I do but take the air, and pluck a few of these fragrant blossoms,'
replied Monica hastily. 'I will presently conduct you to the Manor
myself, and entertain you.'
"She was in a desperate strait. How could she manage to save her
brother? Now that Sir Humphrey had come, she knew her every movement
would be watched. No one could be trusted, for the servants (so she
feared) had all been bribed. Gathering a bunch of roses, she contrived
unnoticed to slip her little key inside the heart of one of them.
"'I would fain crave the favour of a flower, madam,' said Sir Humphrey,
who was an admirer of fair dames, in spite of his Puritan dress.
"'Take your choice, sir,' replied Monica, boldly holding out her bunch.
'Nay, not this red one; it is overblown, and will fall directly. 'Tis
but fit to be flung away. This pink hath the sweeter scent, an you will
wear it for me.'
"As she spoke she tossed the rose containing the key with apparent
carelessness over the hedge to the foot of the box tree where her
brother was lying concealed; then, leading her unwelcome guest to the
house, she gave orders for his due entertainment.
"Sir Humphrey and his men searched the Manor in vain, but they never
thought of looking in the garden, where the fugitive was waiting till
the darkness should be black enough to hide him. Sir Piers got safely
away to France, and returned in triumph to his estates when Charles II
came to his own again. As a remembrance of his wonderful escape, he
caused his sister's portrait to be painted, with the bunch of roses in
her hand. Ever since the Courtenays have had an almost superstitious
reverence for the picture. There is an old saying that it guards the
safety and fortunes of the family."
"And what became of Monica?" asked Lindsay, who had been deeply
interested in the story.
"She married a cavalier friend of her brother's, and went to live in
Devonshire. I believe she kept one of the roses treasured away in a box,
and it was buried with her when she died."
"I suppose Monica was christened after her?" said Cicely.
"Yes; that has always been a favourite name with the Courtenays, though
I do not think any of them can have more closely resembled the
portrait."
"How can the picture guard your fortunes?" enquired Lindsay.
"I don't know. It is one of those quaint ideas that sometimes linger in
families. Of course it is only a tale, and I am afraid I have been a
long while in telling it. Monica, dear, it is twenty minutes past five.
Lindsay and Cicely must hurry back to school at once, if they are to be
in time for preparation. We shall get into sad disgrace with Miss
Russell if we allow them to be late."
"I think your mother is perfectly sweet," said Lindsay, as Monica walked
with them along the road to the Manor gates.
[Illustration: "I KNOW WHAT MONICA WAS GOING TO SAY"]
"She's just everything in the whole world to me," replied Monica. "I
wish she were stronger, though. She has been ill for such a long time.
The doctor says it would do her good to spend next winter in the south
of Italy, but that, I'm afraid, will be quite impossible. She ought
to go, it might make all the difference," she continued, almost as if
talking to herself; "yet we can't manage it, however much we try,
unless, indeed----"
But here she seemed to recollect the presence of her companions, and
wishing them a hasty good-bye, she turned back to the cottage.
"I know what Monica was going to say," remarked Cicely, as they walked
up the drive.
"She meant her mother would be able to go away if the treasure were
found," replied Lindsay. "Oh! it does seem hard, when they need it so
badly, that it should be shut up somewhere, and doing no good to anybody
at all."
"I think Monica is frightened lest Mrs. Courtenay should grow worse and
die, if they have to stay in England for the winter. I don't believe she
would enjoy a penny of her fortune if it were to come too late for her
to share it with her mother."
CHAPTER VII
Lindsay's Luck
One day, shortly before Whitsuntide, Irene Spencer walked into the
third-class schoolroom with a letter in her hand, and a look on her face
which proclaimed news of some importance.
"I don't believe any of you will ever guess what I've come to tell you,"
she announced. "I've heard this morning from my aunt at Linforth
Vicarage. She writes asking me to spend a few days there at Whitsuntide
(we are to have a short holiday, you know), and she says: 'We have asked
Monica Courtenay, and we should be very pleased if Miss Russell would
also allow you to bring one of your younger schoolfellows who would
prove a nice companion for Rhoda.' My cousin Rhoda is twelve, so I have
to pick out one from among you six. Whichever it is will have an
uncommonly jolly visit, because we always have glorious times at
Linforth."
"How delightful! Oh, do take me!" exclaimed the six in chorus, each
enchanted with such a tempting prospect, and anxious to be the chosen
favourite.
"I wish I could take you all," replied Irene, "but unfortunately the
invitation is only for one. Miss Russell says this will be the best way
to arrange it. The girl who is nearest to Rhoda's age must go. Will you
each tell me the date of your birthday, and then I shall be able to
decide. Rhoda's is on the twentieth of March."
It certainly seemed the fairest way of settling the question, and one
against which there could be no appeal.
"Miss Russell is a modern Solomon," declared Cicely. "I'm afraid I
haven't the slightest chance, because I'm only eleven and a half, and so
is Nora."
"I'm almost thirteen," wailed Beryl. "I wish I were a few months
younger. Effie, I shall be horribly jealous if the chance falls to you."
"No such luck! I am a Christmas child," returned Effie. "I believe
Marjorie is nearer."
"The twenty-seventh of February. Can anybody do better than that?" asked
Marjorie hopefully.
"Mine is the sixth of April," said Lindsay.
"About as much after Rhoda's as Marjorie's is before," said Irene. "We
must count it up exactly. Somebody give me a pencil and a piece of
paper. Let me see, the twenty-seventh of February to the twentieth of
March is twenty-one days, and the twentieth of March to the sixth of
April is only seventeen. Then Lindsay is nearer by four days."
"Hurrah!" cried Lindsay, clapping her hands, "I'm glad I wasn't born a
week later. How dreadfully sorry I am for you all, especially Marjorie!"
"My aunt says she will send the trap for us on Friday afternoon,"
continued Irene. "And we are to stay until Tuesday morning, so that will
give us three whole days at Linforth. I'm sure you'll like Rhoda, and my
other cousins too. There are eight of them altogether. Meta, the eldest,
is seventeen; she's going to study music in Germany next September.
Ralph and Leonard are fifteen and fourteen; they go to the Appleford
Grammar School, and ride there every day on their bicycles. Then comes
Rhoda, and there are four little ones. They do lessons with a governess,
but perhaps some time Rhoda is to be sent to Winterburn Lodge. Aunt
Esther says she shan't treat us as visitors; we must make ourselves at
home amongst the others."
The visit seemed an event worth looking forward to, not only on its own
account, but because Monica was to be one of the party. Lindsay could
hardly believe her good fortune, and rejoiced again and again over the
happy date of her birthday. She was in a state of great excitement on
the Friday afternoon, when the phaeton arrived with Monica already
installed on the front seat. To drive away in such company was indeed a
matter for congratulation, and she felt much sympathy for the
disconsolate five who were perforce left behind, especially for poor
Cicely, who would miss her more than anybody, and whose eyes were full
of tears at the parting.
"Never mind," she whispered to the latter, "perhaps it will be your turn
next time for something nice. At any rate, I shall have heaps to tell
you when I come back."
Linforth Vicarage was a long, rambling stone house, the flagged roof and
mullioned windows of which proclaimed it as belonging, equally with the
Manor, to a period of the past. It was a delightful, roomy, almost
medieval kind of a place, so picturesque, in its old-world fashion, that
one could forgive the lowness of the rooms, the narrowness of the
passages, the steepness of the stairs, and the inconvenience of the fact
that the front door opened directly into the dining-room, and the
bedrooms nearly all led into one another. None of these drawbacks seemed
to distress the young Greenwoods, who thought their home the nicest spot
in the world. They were a particularly jolly, merry, happy-go-lucky
family, full of jokes and noise. Rhoda, for whose benefit Lindsay had
been invited, received her visitor with enthusiasm.
"I'm so glad Miss Russell let you come!" she said. "You see, Meta will
monopolize Irene and Monica, and I should have been left out altogether.
I'm delighted to have someone of my own age."
Monica was a great favourite in the household, and held in request by
all, from Mr. and Mrs. Greenwood to Cyril, the baby. As Rhoda had
prophesied, however, she disappeared after tea with Meta and Irene, the
three elder girls evidently wishing to have a chat in private. Rhoda
made an effort to secure Lindsay to herself, but the four little
ones--Wilfred, Alwyn, Joan, and Cyril--begged so piteously not to be
banished from the society of the interesting visitor that in the end she
yielded, and allowed them to help to exhibit the various treasures in
the garden which she wished to show to her new friend.
The Greenwoods had quite a menagerie in the way of pets. They kept them
in a disused stable, in neat cages with wire fronts, most of which had
been made by Ralph and Leonard. There were silky-haired, lop-eared
rabbits, that could be hugged in small arms without offering any
remonstrances; bright-eyed little guinea-pigs, which often caused
exciting chases by escaping from their owners' embraces and hiding away
behind the cages; a family of piebald mice, consisting of a mother and
five young ones, which generally went to bed in the daytime, and had to
be poked out of their sleeping quarters with a lead pencil to make them
show themselves; a morose-looking tortoise that would allow Wilfred to
scratch its head, but spat indignantly at the others; and a whole box
full of silkworms in various stages, from tiny, wriggling black threads
to chrysalids in cocoons. The children were accompanied to the stable by
a sharp little black Pomeranian; but they were obliged to leave him
outside in case he might hurt the rabbits, and he sat howling dolefully
on the doorstep until they came out again. He escorted them into the
garden afterwards, however, and so did a large nondescript kind of yard
dog, which was called Bootles, and which allowed itself to be harnessed
to a mail-cart, and drew Cyril up and down the path.
"I want to show you our fruit trees," said Rhoda, leading the way to the
orchard. "We each have one of our very own, planted as soon as we were
born. Meta, Ralph, and Leonard have apples, Wilfred and Alwyn pears,
mine is a Victoria plum, Joan has a greengage, and Cyril a black cherry.
You see, they stand in a row, away from the other trees, so we call this
our part of the orchard."
"Whose is the ninth?" enquired Lindsay, looking at a fine pear tree
which headed the line.
"That belonged to our eldest brother," said Rhoda. "He died before I
can remember, but we still call it 'Herbert's tree'. The pears are
always ripe every year on his birthday, so we pick them all and pack
them carefully in a box, and send them to a children's hospital in
London. Mother sends the money she would have spent on his birthday
present too. They're the most beautiful pears, the best we have, and we
thought that was the nicest thing we could do with them."
The Greenwoods' little gardens were as interesting as their fruit trees.
Each child appeared to have been trying a different experiment. Wilfred
had made a pond in his by sinking an old wooden tub in the ground, and
was trying to persuade a water-lily to grow in it. He had planted a
clump of iris and some forget-me-nots at the edge, which hung over
rather gracefully, and really looked quite pretty. He kept several frogs
to swim about in the water, though the constant catching of these rather
interfered with the wellbeing of the struggling lily. Alwyn had built a
miniature house in her plot out of old bricks and stones, and had
thatched it neatly with straw. She had made a gravel path up to the
front door, and had sown grass to represent lawns, and cut a round
flower bed in the middle of each. Joan's garden was subject to violent
changes. Last year it had been a potato patch, but as she dug up those
useful vegetables every day to see how they were sprouting, it was not
surprising that they refused to make much growth. Lately she had
converted the whole into a dolls' cemetery, and, with Cyril's aid,
keenly enjoyed conducting the funerals of various headless favourites,
waxing so enthusiastic over the obsequies that she even buried several
quite respectable wax babies, though, regretting their loss afterwards,
she was eventually forced to dig them up again. She put tombstones at
the heads of the graves, made of slates from the roof of a tumble-down
shed, and carefully wrote names, dates, and epitaphs upon them in slate
pencil, being greatly distressed when the inscriptions were invariably
obliterated by every fresh shower of rain.
Cyril had sown the letters of his name in mustard and cress, which were
just coming up fresh and green, and would soon be ready to cut. He also
had some bulbs under pieces of glass in a corner which he called his
hothouse. Ralph and Leonard were so busy at school that their gardens
appeared to be mostly cared for by Rhoda, who had a very ambitious
scheme for her own.
"I want to make a floral clock," she explained. "You see, I've dug a
round face and marked it out into twelve parts, and I'm going to put
each figure in different-coloured flowers. Then I thought if I could fix
a pole in the middle it ought to cast a shadow, and tell the time like a
sundial. I've made it north, south, east, and west by my compass, and
it will be most delightful if I can only get it to work."
Rhoda had almost as much to show Lindsay in the house as out-of-doors.
There was her bedroom, a tiny sanctum where she kept all her special
treasures out of the way of the children's meddlesome fingers. It was a
very old-fashioned little room, with a low, black-beamed ceiling, and a
window that opened on to a small balcony, where she could grow
nasturtiums and other trailing plants in pots. The walls were covered
with pictures in home-made frames, wonderful arrangements of corks,
acorns, shells, or plaited straw; and there were quite a nice
writing-table and some wonderful bookcases.
"The boys made these out of old boxes," said Rhoda. "They learn how in
their carpentry class at school, and they did them to surprise me on my
birthday. I keep all my books here. Father is giving me the poets now as
Christmas presents. I have Longfellow and Shakespeare and Wordsworth,
and I expect it will be either Cowper or Goldsmith next time. This is my
paint-box. I daren't leave it in the schoolroom for fear of the little
ones getting hold of it. Isn't it a beauty? Miss Johnson, our governess,
gave it to me as a prize for passing the Trinity College exam. in piano
and theory."
"Do you like music?" asked Lindsay.
"Yes, I think I'm rather fond of it. Miss Johnson wanted me to go in for
this exam.; she said it would be something to practise for. We had to go
to Bridgend to take it. It was rather fun, for we were the whole day in
getting there and back, and luckily I wasn't a scrap nervous. Do you
play?"
"A little," replied Lindsay. "I'm learning the violin, but I can't have
any lessons at the Manor."
"I wish you could come over and help us at one of our temperance
concerts."
"Oh, I should be much too frightened!" exclaimed Lindsay, in horror.
"You needn't mind in a little village like this," declared Rhoda. "The
people would think whatever you did was splendid. They clap at
everything, even when Ralph gives nigger songs; and he's got no voice,
and the banjo's generally out of tune, so that he's singing away in one
key and playing in another."
"I don't know whether I could promise to keep in tune," laughed Lindsay.
"Do you play at these concerts?"
"Yes, nearly always. It was a little awkward last time, because
something had gone wrong with the keys of the piano. They stuck down,
and I had to get Wilfred to sit underneath and keep poking them up as
fast as I played on them, or else half the notes wouldn't sound; and it
seemed so queer to only get part of a chord, and to miss the middle of
a run. It quite put me out. I suppose it was the damp that caused it. We
must get a tuner to come and see to it."
"Did the people applaud?"
"Yes, tremendously. I think it amused them to see Wilfred sitting
underneath. They simply roared every time he pushed up the keys. It was
as good as a comic song. It really is tiresome, though, to have a piano
like that at the school. John Crosby, the stonemason's little boy, sings
very nicely, and I went so wrong in playing his accompaniment, through
losing so many of the notes, that he finished half a verse ahead of me.
I apologized to him afterwards, but he said he didn't think anyone had
noticed it!"
Lindsay found it quite a novel and entertaining experience to stay in
the midst of such a large, enterprising, lively family as the
Greenwoods. From Meta, the eldest, to Cyril, the baby, hardly out of
petticoats, all had very decided opinions of their own, which they urged
and argued with considerable force of character, but an amount of good
temper which spoke well for their training. Mrs. Greenwood, who thought
quarrelling greatly a matter of habit, insisted upon a certain standard
of home politeness being maintained, and would tolerate neither
domineering in the elder ones nor whining amongst the younger.
"You can discuss a subject perfectly well without being rude to each
other when you differ," she declared. "You must take it in turns to have
your own way. It is not fair that the eldest should always arrange
everything, but on the other hand Joan and Alwyn will get nothing at all
if they begin to wail and complain in that most grumbling and unpleasant
tone of voice. I think it is a disgrace if you're all so selfish that
you can't agree. You must each be prepared to give up a certain amount,
for among eight children it is quite impossible for every one to be
first and foremost."
Irene, being the Greenwoods' cousin, was accustomed to their tempestuous
ways, and ready to hold her own amongst them; while Monica looked on
with an amused smile, without taking part in any arguments or disputes.
There was certainly plenty to do at the Vicarage, and none of the three
guests could complain that the holiday was dull.
On Saturday afternoon Meta, Rhoda, and the two eldest boys arranged that
they should make an expedition to a large lake about a couple of miles
away. They had been promised the loan of a boat there, and they proposed
to take their visitors for a trip on the water. They started off with
baskets of provisions, intending to land and have a picnic tea, if they
could find sufficient dry sticks upon the banks to light a fire and boil
their kettle. Both Meta and her brothers could row well, so the boat
was soon skimming over the lake in a delightfully smooth and
satisfactory fashion.
"We daren't anchor anywhere near the woods," declared Meta, "Sir Percy
Harwood, the owner, is so very strict about trespassing."
"Yes, the keepers are down on you if you even go a few yards into the
preserves," agreed Ralph. "Look here! What do you say to camping out on
that little island? There can't be any pheasants there to scare, and we
ought to get plenty of sticks."
The island in question was a small, green-looking collection of hazel
bushes and birch trees, well out in the middle of the lake. It had an
attractive appearance, so they rowed through the quiet stretch of water
that separated them from it, and ran the boat in among the reeds that
grew at the edge.
"It seems rather jolly," said Rhoda. "Suppose we leave the baskets here,
and go and explore first to find a good place?"
"It's quite romantic," declared Irene, "like Ellen's Isle in the _Lady
of the Lake_. We ought to find a hunting-lodge among the trees, and an
interesting outlaw living there."
"More likely to find a poacher!" laughed Ralph; "though there'd be
nothing for him to trap here, unless he kept a boat stowed away in the
reeds, and took midnight excursions into the woods."
"I think it's the kind of place for a hermit," said Monica. "He could
have had a little cell and told his beads without being disturbed by
anybody, except an occasional knight-errant who would blow a horn from
the opposite bank. I wonder if one ever lived here?"
"The landlords couldn't have been so particular about trespassing in
those days, then, if he did," replied Leonard. "I don't believe Sir
Percy Harwood would let anybody settle so near his pheasants; he'd
suspect steel traps or wire snares under the cassock, and expect to hear
a shot in the woods instead of a vesper bell."
"We'll tie the boat to this old stump," said Ralph. "Be careful where
you step in getting off--the ground seems fearfully soppy. Perhaps it
may be better higher up. Let us come on a little. I say, there's
something rather queer about it, isn't there?"
There certainly was something decidedly queer. The green mossy earth
under their feet gave way as if they were treading upon a feather bed.
At each step it sank with a curious squelching sound, and rose behind
with the elasticity of a cork, so that as they sprang here and there the
whole of the little island appeared to be bounding up and down beneath
them, as Leonard expressed it, "just like a spring mattress when you
jump on it".
"The ground is so funny, too," said Meta, poking about with a stick; "it
doesn't seem proper soil, only roots and moss and grass growing through
it. Why, this stick goes down ever such a long way, and there's actually
water coming up!"
The others all came to investigate, and standing close together began to
dig their sticks into the curious heaving surface. It bore their
combined weight for a moment or two, then sinking suddenly, like a
punctured indiarubber ball, it collapsed, and they found themselves
struggling nearly up to their waists in water. Luckily they were able to
clutch at the hazel bushes above, and, by swinging themselves along the
branches, to arrive at a firmer foothold, though even there the ground
felt very insecure and spongy, and little dark pools came oozing up with
every step.
"We must keep as far apart from each other as we can," shouted Ralph;
"the wretched place has no solid foundation, it's only a collection of
sticks and leaves. Cling to the trees, and try to get back to the boat
before you go in any deeper. Don't put your weight on it! It's like
walking on thin ice."
Very wet and muddy, and somewhat frightened, the explorers picked their
way carefully back, treading as much as possible on the roots of the
trees, and never letting go their hold of the boughs. They scrambled
into the boat again with considerable relief, and held a review of
their damaged garments.
"I'm soaked to the skin!" declared Rhoda. "It's a horrible nuisance.
Look at Lindsay!"
"I don't mind my clothes so much, if it weren't so uncomfortable. My
dress will wash," said Lindsay.
"Mine won't though, I'm sorry to say!" groaned Irene.
"I was carrying the cakes, and they're wet through, and not fit to eat,"
announced Leonard.
"The island is a perfect trap," said Meta, trying to squeeze the muddy
water from her own dress and Monica's. "I believe it's nothing but a
kind of raft, made out of all the dead wood and rubbish that have
accumulated in the lake. I expect seeds have blown on to it, and then
trees and bushes have sprung up. Now I think of it, I don't believe it
was in the same place last year, so it must be able to float. We shall
have to go home; we can't stop and picnic when we're drenched like
this."
"I wonder how the hermit managed, if he ever lived there?" said Monica.
"It must have been an excellent penance, with a chance of martyrdom at
the end of it," returned Ralph. "Well, I must say we have given our
visitors a pleasant afternoon! They won't want to take this as a
specimen of our picnics. No good offering tea and cake in this
condition!"
"I'd rather have a cake of soap and a can of hot water!" said Irene.
"Never mind!" said Leonard consolingly. "I vote we go up Pendle Tor on
Monday. We can boil a kettle there, and have no end of fun. If you've
never been before, I expect you'll say it makes up for this."
CHAPTER VIII
Pendle Tor
It was with much pleasurable anticipation that the picnic party set out
on Whit Monday for Pendle Tor. The four younger Greenwoods were left at
home, as the walk would be too far for them, but they announced their
intention of climbing a small hill behind the Vicarage in the afternoon,
and having an alfresco tea on their own account, which was to be equal,
if not superior, to that enjoyed by their elders--"because Mary will
just have finished baking, and she has promised to bring us some buns
straight out of the oven, and you certainly won't get those on Pendle
Tor," said Joan.
Although they might be debarred from the pleasure of hot tea-cakes, the
mountaineers nevertheless did not mean to starve on their journey, to
judge from the baskets full of provisions which they bore with them.
Leonard had taken a milk-can that would serve to boil the water in
instead of a kettle, it being lighter to carry, and having the added
advantage that they could pack the teacups inside.
"You see, an iron kettle is such a weight", he explained, "and the last
time we took one of those rubbishy sixpence-halfpenny tin ones the
solder all melted directly we put it on to the fire, and the spout
dropped off. We can sling the milk-can on a stick and prop it over the
fire, and it does splendidly."
"Mind you don't break the cups!" said Irene, expecting to hear a smash
after the reckless way in which the can was being swung about.
"Couldn't do it if I tried; they're all enamel ones. The Mater wouldn't
trust us with her best china, I assure you."
"There are ever so many trout up in the stream by Inglemere," remarked
Ralph. "If we could manage to tickle a few, we might fry them in the lid
of the milk-can."
"It's rank poaching!" declared Meta.
"I don't care in the least," returned Ralph. "If Sir Percy complains
that any are missing, you can give him the bones, with my compliments."
"I don't think he would mind your catching one or two," said Monica. "I
know Sir Percy rather well, and it is only real poachers that he's so
hard on, and excursionists who come sometimes and try to fish. You see,
as he says, if everyone were allowed to take fish, there would soon be
none left, and people would begin to do it for the sake of selling them,
and not for the sport. He allowed Mr. Cross's nephews to fish last
summer when they were staying at the Rectory, and he said I might too,
if I ever felt inclined."
"I've never seen trout tickled," said Lindsay.
"It will be a case of 'First catch your fish, then cook it'," laughed
Rhoda. "It isn't at all easy to whisk them out--they're the most
slippery things you can imagine. I'm glad we don't have to depend on
Ralph's skill for our dinner. I was hoping we might find some mushrooms,
and stew them in part of the milk we've brought. We could put the can
down among the ashes of the fire, and they'd be cooking while we ate the
first course."
"Well, it is certainly a case of 'First pick your mushrooms', for you
don't even know whether there'll be any," retorted Ralph. "The trout are
always there, at any rate."
It was a long walk to Pendle Tor, and appetites, sharpened by the fresh
air of the hills, began to grow rather keen; but as they had all
resolved not to have their picnic before they had reached the summit,
they staved off the edge of their hunger with a few biscuits, and,
trudging on, covered the last mile in such quick time that Leonard
declared it reminded him of a paper-chase. It was rather a steep pull to
gain the highest point, yet they were well rewarded when they reached it
by the bird's-eye view of the landscape around them, farms, churches,
and distant village looking like so many toys, and the fields like the
divisions in a map.
"I hope it doesn't mean to rain," said Monica, pointing to some rather
threatening clouds that were rolling up from the west.
"We shall get a nice wetting if it does, for we haven't an umbrella
amongst us!" returned Irene.
"Rain? Not it! Don't distress yourself; the glass was up to 'Fair' this
morning. It's only a little scrap of mist blowing over. I don't mind
giving you a butter-scotch in exchange for every drop of rain you get on
your hat to-day," declared Ralph, whose prophecies were generally in
exact accordance with his hopes, and who was apt to shut his eyes to
unwelcome truths.
"Better not promise too much, old chap, or you may have to pay up," said
Leonard. "I don't like the look of the sky myself. But what's the odds?
It won't be the first time we've been wet through, by a long way, and I
suppose we shan't melt."
"What about the lunch?" asked Rhoda. "I'm getting so famished, I can't
wait much longer."
It was decided that the extreme top of the Tor was hardly a suitable
place--the wind was strong, and no water was available; so they climbed
some little distance down the cliff on the farther side, and at last hit
upon a sheltered spot among the rocks, where a small surface spring,
bubbling up from the ground, enabled them to fill the milk-can which was
to serve as a kettle. The boys cut large bundles of dry heather, and,
stacking it well together, soon had a good fire burning. They found it
after all impossible to suspend the can, for the flames burnt directly
through any stick that they tried to hang over the blaze; so they were
obliged to set it securely on an arrangement of stones, and rake the
fire round it. They had brought the tea in a muslin bag, which they
dropped into the can, to save a teapot; and though pouring out was
rather difficult, owing to the tin being so extremely hot, Meta managed
to dispense the cups without burning her fingers.
"You haven't provided the fish course yet," said Rhoda to Ralph. "I
thought we were to have fried trout as part of the feast."
"And I thought you were to give us mushrooms," retorted Ralph.
"Shouldn't care to wait while she cooked them," declared Leonard. "Ham
sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs are quite good enough for me. Did you
bring any salt? Another cup of tea, please, and don't be stingy with
the sugar, Meta. I like three lumps."
"I wonder why things always taste so different out-of-doors," said
Lindsay, looking reflectively at the three-cornered strawberry jam
pastry she was eating.
"Why, I saw you swallow an ant on your tart just now," said Ralph, "so
perhaps that has given it a flavour. Oh, you needn't distress yourself!
Ants are quite wholesome, I assure you. There are a frightful lot of
them crawling about here, though. I think we shall have to move on a
stave."
"Ugh! Yes. They're stinging me already!" agreed Lindsay.
They were all a little tired after their long walk, so they were glad to
sit and rest after lunch, asking riddles, cracking jokes, and listening
to the boys' school tales of exciting cricket matches, private feuds,
combats between class champions, and the punishments that had been meted
out to certain sneaks and bullies--accounts which were as thrilling in
their way as the doughty deeds of mail-clad knights of old, the warlike
sentiments being just the same, though the setting of the century might
differ. It was so interesting that nobody gave a thought to the time, or
remembered the ominous clouds that had been stretching themselves out
like long ribbons over the moor.
"Why, where's the view gone to?" cried Monica at last. "I thought we
could see Linforth and the lake from here, and the tower of Haversleigh
Church."
She might well exclaim in astonishment. Instead of the landscape which
had met their eyes before, there was nothing to be seen but a great
white wall of mist that seemed to close them in on every side, as if
some giant hand had suddenly drawn down a blind between them and the
distance.
"Whew!" exclaimed Ralph, starting to his feet, and indulging in a
long-drawn-out whistle. "This is a nice fix! We're in the middle of a
cloud. I never saw it coming up. It will be uncommonly awkward to get
out of it. What a shame of old Pendle Tor to play us such a trick!"
"Will it soon blow over, do you think?" asked Irene.
"I don't know," replied Meta rather gravely. "Sometimes the clouds stay
on these moors for days and days together. I wish we had noticed it
sooner, and gone down to the road again before we were surrounded. I'm
afraid it may be very difficult to find our way now."
"I don't think it's any use waiting," said Leonard, "it mayn't clear for
hours. We'd better pack up our traps, and make the best push we can to
try to strike the path."
"We must all stick close together," remarked Ralph. "It won't do to get
divided, or we might never find each other again. We'd better keep well
to the right; there's an old quarry on the left, and it wouldn't be
exactly pleasant to walk into it. Luckily I've a pocket compass on my
watch chain."
Very much sobered in spirits, the picnic party hastily packed up the
baskets, and, choosing Ralph as guide, set off down the hillside, hoping
to find some track that would lead eventually into the road below. It
was a strange walk, groping their way through what Monica described as
"white darkness". The heavy mist hung in the air like a blanket, so
completely shutting them in that they could scarcely see each other at a
distance of even a few feet, and it was only by keeping near enough to
touch one another that they managed to avoid being separated. Though
they had some general idea of their direction, they did not really know
where they were walking, and stumbled blindly on through heather and
bilberry bushes, over stones and rocks, only feeling that they were
going downhill. It was very slow progress. Ralph stopped continually to
consult his compass, and occasionally gave a loud "cooee", in case they
might find some wandering shepherd or countryman who would be able to
help them. There was no answer to his calls, however--only the
occasional bleat of a sheep that sounded far off and muffled through
the mist. They knew there was neither cottage nor farm within hail, and
unless they could strike the road they might wander on hour after hour
over the moors, only getting farther and farther out of their way. Tired
out with the rough trudge, the girls at last declared they must sit
still for a few minutes and rest.
"I'm awfully sorry to have landed you in such a hole," said Ralph, "but
who would have thought those innocent-looking clouds would have come
down on us like feather beds? You really never know what to expect on
these hills."
"I wonder what we'd better do?" said Monica.
"Stay where we are," suggested Irene.
"It would be too cold to spend the night here," replied Meta.
"We haven't even our jackets with us," added Lindsay.
"Unless we're quite dead beat, we'd better push on," said Leonard. "I'm
hoping we may come to the stream, because we could find our way along
the banks to Whitcombe, at any rate. I've been listening for it all the
time, but I haven't heard a sound."
"I wish we had a divining rod!" groaned Rhoda. "That would tell us in
what direction the water lay. We've been going south-east all the time,
haven't we?"
"Yes, I believe the stream lay due south from where we started,"
answered Ralph, "but I didn't dare to turn that way, because of the
quarry. Perhaps we may strike it higher up. If you're rested, girls,
we'll be going."
The damp, clinging clouds appeared to have settled down to stay. The
wind that had been blowing earlier in the day, when they ascended Pendle
Tor, had ceased, and there was not even the breath of a breeze to blow
away the clammy mist that was already drenching their clothes with a
chilly dew. It was now half-past five o'clock, and they had been
wandering for more than an hour.
"I haven't an idea where we are, nor how far we've come," said Ralph. "I
only know I've been steering east by the compass. Of course we've been
going very slowly, but I think we shouldn't be far from the brook. If we
could find that, it would be an enormous help."
"I believe I hear water now," said Rhoda, pausing a moment. "I'm sure I
do: to our left. Listen!"
All stood still, with every sense on the alert, straining their ears
intently for the faintest murmur. In the far distance it seemed to them
that they could certainly catch the unmistakable rush of a stream
flowing swiftly over a rough, stony bed. Guided by the sound, they
stumbled on, till at length, after climbing over a number of rocks,
they reached the welcome brook that was to be their path to home and
safety.
"I'm uncommonly glad to see it!" said Ralph, stooping to take a drink.
"I began to think we should never get back again. If we follow it down,
it will lead us straight into Whitcombe. Of course, that's far enough
out of our way, but we might get a trap there, and drive home."
It was a most terrible scramble down the bed of the stream, over jagged
rocks, among briers and bushes, and through rushes and reeds. The mist
still wrapped them round, and they did not dare to venture away from the
water to find smoother walking. The three visitors, who were not
accustomed to such exploits, were nearly exhausted, while even sturdy
Meta and Rhoda showed signs of giving in.
"We're at the old bridge now," said Ralph, trying to encourage them. "We
can climb up and get on to the road. It's only about three miles farther
to Whitcombe village. We're bound to find a trap of some sort there, and
then you'll be all right."
"I think the mist is lifting a little," said Leonard; "it isn't half as
thick as it was. Look at the sun trying to get through!"
"I believe we're walking straight out of the edge of the clouds. That's
what it is!" declared Ralph. "I begin to see the trees. Hurrah! It's
clearing ever so. We'll scramble up the bank, and we shall get along
much faster on the road than down here on these wretched stones. Cheer
up, girls! You'll soon be in Whitcombe now."
An hour afterwards, very footsore and weary, the party limped into
Whitcombe, a small hamlet consisting of a wayside inn and a handful of
cottages. It was eight o'clock, and the sun, behind long bars of crimson
and grey, had already begun to sink below the horizon. They were nine
miles away from home, as the stream had led them in quite a different
direction from Linforth, and, as Leonard expressed it, they had
"altogether landed themselves in a jolly pickle". Just at present tea
seemed the most pressing necessity, so a council of war was held to see
what funds could be mustered for the purpose. These did not amount to
very much. Lindsay and Rhoda were penniless, Monica also had left her
purse at the Vicarage. Irene and Meta mustered a shilling between them.
Ralph had a sixpence, while the contents of Leonard's pockets proved to
be exactly those of the traditional schoolboy's, twopence-halfpenny and
an old knife.
"I'm afraid it won't go very far," said Ralph. "We shall have to ask
them to give us tick. Come along! We'll try the inn, and see what they
will do for us."
"We must tell them who we are," added Meta, "and say Father will pay
afterwards."
The sight of seven such _bona fide_ travellers appeared to occasion much
surprise, to both the good woman at the bar and the few villagers who,
with pipes and glasses, were sitting discussing local politics and the
chances of the harvest. Tea at the unwonted hour of eight seemed an
unprecedented request, and the landlady was not content until she had
satisfied her curiosity as to who her guests were, where they came from,
and what they wanted at Whitcombe at that time in the evening.
"What we want is some tea," said Ralph, after a brief explanation of
their adventure, "and anything in the shape of a conveyance that can
take us back to Linforth to-night. We've only one and
eightpence-halfpenny amongst us, but my father will pay the rest when we
get home. If you like, I'll leave you my watch and chain."
"You've no need to do that!" laughed the landlady. "I'm sure I can trust
you. Come into the little parlour, and have your teas there. The young
ladies look ready to drop, and this is no fit place for them to sit down
in. Those mists be nasty things up Pendle Tor. It's a mercy as you've
got down at all. There was a gentleman from London caught there last
autumn, and he wandered round and round in a circle for two days before
it cleared and they found him. He was nigh dead, too, with the cold and
the damp. My son Albert shall put the horse in the trap and drive you
home. I dare say you'll manage to cram in somehow."
No tea was ever so acceptable as the large, steaming cups which they
drank in the stuffy little parlour, and no carriage and pair could have
been more welcome than the old market cart that came round to the door
afterwards. It was rather a problem how to pack themselves and the
driver into it, but Lindsay sat on Meta's knee, and Rhoda squeezed
herself between her two brothers on the front seat. The horse walked up
and down hill, and only rose to a measured trot on level ground, so it
took a considerable time to accomplish the nine-mile journey, and it was
nearly eleven o'clock before they reached the Vicarage. Very tired and
cold and cramped, they rushed into the house, where Mrs. Greenwood, in
an agony of suspense, had been imagining all the accidents which could
possibly have happened to them, and was preparing herself for the worst.
The Vicar and some of the neighbours, it appeared, were out searching
for them with lanterns, so a messenger was quickly sent through the
village to spread the good news of their safe arrival.
"You can't complain you've had no excitement here," said Ralph to the
three guests. "We almost drowned you on Saturday, and to-day we nearly
lost you on the moors. You're going to-morrow, or we might have had some
more hairbreadth escapes. At any rate, I don't think you'll forget
Pendle Tor in a hurry!"
Lindsay had certainly plenty of news to relate when she returned to the
Manor. Her classmates were quite envious, and poor Cicely was a little
wistful lest Rhoda should have usurped her place in her friend's
affections. Of that, however, she need not have been afraid. Lindsay was
faithful to her chosen chum, and had so many things to ask about, as
well as adventures to tell, that the two were soon chattering as fast as
usual. Cicely had made no further important discoveries during the few
days, though she had kept a careful watch on Mrs. Wilson, and had once
noticed her go up to the lantern room carrying a jug in her hand. Scott
had not been in the house again, but he had been seen talking earnestly
with "The Griffin" in the garden. He had gone hastily away when Cicely
approached, so he evidently did not wish the conversation to be
overheard. Whether it had anything to do with the mystery or not, it was
of course impossible to say.
"I'm rather glad, on the whole, that nothing particular happened while
you were away," said Cicely. "I should have wanted so dreadfully to
tell somebody, I'm afraid Marjorie Butler might have wormed it out of
me. As it is, they none of them know, and we still have the secret to
ourselves."
CHAPTER IX
The Plot Thickens
After hearing the story of Monica Courtenay, their friend's ancestress,
Lindsay and Cicely felt a special interest in her portrait. They
strolled one afternoon along the picture gallery to take another look at
it. There were the pretty smiling face--so like Monica's--and the bunch
of red roses that had saved the life of Sir Piers Courtenay. Was all the
good fortune of the race to be hers, and would none of it descend to the
namesake who so closely resembled her?
"If she could only come back and be of some use again!" sighed Lindsay.
"She ought to know every secret of this house."
"I wish we could make her speak and tell us," said Cicely.
At that moment a distant door banged, and a great gust of wind blew
along the gallery. Cicely started violently.
"Lindsay, did you see?" she exclaimed. "The picture moved in its
frame!"
"Nonsense! How could it?" said Lindsay, who had been looking the other
way.
"I tell you it did!"
"You must have imagined it."
It certainly seemed rather improbable. The portraits were all firmly
fixed in the panelled walls, and no breath of air could be expected to
penetrate behind them.
"It's almost as if she were alive," continued Cicely, "and just when we
were wishing she could talk! No wonder people make up tales about her. I
don't think I quite like it."
"How silly you are!" said Lindsay scornfully. "You might have seen a
ghost!"
"Well, it is queer! You needn't laugh at me so. I'm not going to stay
here any longer; I vote we go out into the garden."
Pictures that moved were rather more than Cicely had bargained for.
Mysteries were all very well in their way, but she began to feel it was
possible to have too much of a good thing. It was a distinct relief to
her to leave the gloomy old gallery, with its armour and tapestry, and
walk out into the fresh air and sunshine. There was still half an hour
to be disposed of before tea, and the two girls sauntered leisurely in
the direction of the kitchen-garden.
"I wish I knew where the boathouse used to be that Sir Piers wanted the
key for," said Lindsay.
"It was not very far away, I dare say. The river runs somewhere at the
bottom of those fields."
"I wonder if there's a path."
"I believe there's one at the end of the orchard. I saw Scott walking
down there once."
"Shall we go and see?"
"All right!"
The orchard was forbidden ground. Perhaps, though, the fact that they
risked a scolding, or even a mark for bad conduct, only made the
adventure more interesting. They ascertained first that Scott was safely
attending to his tomatoes in the greenhouse, then they dived hastily
between the rows of young apple trees. Cicely was right. At the far end
there was a small gate that led into a meadow.
"The river must be over there, hidden by those willows," said Lindsay.
"I hope we shan't meet a bull," said Cicely, looking nervously at a
group of cattle in the distance.
"Oh, come along! You're surely not afraid of cows!"
They had soon crossed the field and reached the shade of the willows by
the water's edge. The low bank was covered with reeds and rushes. Tall
purple flowers were growing on a green, boggy island close by. It was a
very pleasant place, just the kind of spot to choose on a hot summer's
afternoon.
"Far nicer than the garden, because we have it all to ourselves,"
declared Cicely.
"Oh, look what I've found!" exclaimed Lindsay ecstatically.
She had been poking about among the reeds, and now pointed in triumph
under the branches of a big willow to a smooth little pool, where there
actually floated a punt, anchored by a long chain to the trunk of the
tree.
It was a most attractive-looking boat, nicely polished, and with the
name _Heatherbell_ painted in neat white letters on the prow. It came
quite easily to the edge of the bank when Lindsay pulled the chain, and
seemed deliberately to invite them to step into it. Such a temptation
was not to be resisted. In a moment they were both inside.
"If I can manage to untie it, I'm sure I could punt us out on to the
river," said Lindsay.
"Oh, do! And then perhaps we could find some water-lilies," agreed her
ever-willing friend.
Lindsay leaned over to reach the chain. It was wound tightly round the
tree, and was very difficult to unfasten.
"I'll come and help you!" cried Cicely, and without a thought of the
consequences she bounced up, and stepped to the other end of the boat.
Her sudden change of position utterly upset the balance of their small
craft. There was a splash, a succession of squeals, and both girls were
floundering in the water. Luckily the pool was shallow, and they were in
no danger of drowning; but by the time they reached the bank they were
wet through, and in an extremely draggled condition.
"What are we to do?" said Cicely blankly, trying to wring the water out
of her skirts.
"Go back, I suppose, and put on dry things," replied Lindsay. "We shall
get into a fearful scrape, I expect."
"Yes! What will Miss Frazer say?"
Miss Frazer was on the point of collecting her flock in preparation for
tea, when two dejected, dripping figures came creeping along the
terrace. If they had hoped to reach the side door unobserved, they were
soon undeceived; the governess's sharp eyes spied them at once.
"Lindsay and Cicely!" she burst out wrathfully. "You naughty girls!
Where have you been? Come at once into the house and change your
clothes. You give more trouble than all the rest of the class put
together. Miss Russell will have to be told about this."
Miss Russell was angry--really angry. She lectured them both severely,
and stopped their recreation for the whole of the next day. This seemed
only a very small circumstance in itself, but strangely enough it led
indirectly to something of much more consequence.
The two delinquents looked decidedly rueful when, instead of going into
the garden as usual, they were obliged to sit in the classroom, and copy
out a passage from "Lycidas" in their best handwriting. It was trying,
certainly, particularly as the other girls were playing a tennis
handicap, and they could hear the soft thud of balls, and the cries of
"'Vantage!" or "Game!" It was possible to see a few heads bobbing over
the wall, but they could not gather how the tournament was progressing,
nor which was the winning side.
Long before tea-time they had finished their allotted portions, and
going to the window they leaned out, to try to catch a glimpse of what
was happening on the lawn. The classroom was at the back of the house,
and overlooked a small paved courtyard. Below, on a wooden bench in the
sunshine, sat Scott, leisurely blacking boots, and humming to himself in
a voice that had little tune in it. The cat, purring loudly, was rubbing
herself vigorously against his trousers.
The girls were just going to call to him, and beg him to peep through
the door in the wall and give them some news of the tennis players, when
they suddenly changed their intention. Mrs. Wilson had appeared in the
porch. She brought out a flower vase, flung the stale water away, and
refilled it from one of the butts that stood near.
Scott had evidently seen her too, for he gave a short whistle to attract
her attention, then, throwing down his blacking brush, he crossed the
courtyard to speak to her. In spite of his lowered tone, his voice rose
up clearly to the classroom window above.
"About what we were talking of this morning," he began. "It had best be
done as soon as possible. I'll do it to-night."
"I've marked the place," replied Mrs. Wilson, "but I'll come with you to
make sure. You'll want a helping hand. It's too much for one."
"You can hold the lantern, at any rate. It's a job that will need some
caution. We mustn't attempt it till it's quite dark."
"No, not till everything's quiet," said Mrs. Wilson, as she re-entered
the house.
Lindsay drew Cicely back quickly into the room, as Scott returned to his
rows of boots on the bench. She did not wish him, at any cost, to see
them at the window, or to know that they had overheard the conversation.
"What are they going to do?" asked Cicely breathlessly.
"I don't know. It must be something dreadful if they want to keep it so
quiet."
"And do it in the dark, too!"
"I'm afraid both Mrs. Wilson and Scott are bad characters," said Lindsay
in an impressive voice. "I expect they've stolen the treasure, and
they're going to hide it in the garden. Perhaps even it may have
something to do with the prisoner in the lantern room."
"You don't think they've killed him?" gasped Cicely.
"I can't tell. I believe they're capable of anything. I'm quite uneasy
for fear they intend to harm Monica. We'll watch to-night, and find out
what they're about. I shouldn't wonder if we're on the verge of a great
discovery. It was most fortunate we were kept in this afternoon; if we
hadn't happened to be at the window just then, we shouldn't have heard
their plans."
Cicely's face had lengthened considerably at the idea of the black
doings which it was evidently their duty to investigate.
"I don't know how we're to follow them in the dark," she said, after a
moment's hesitation.
"We must," declared Lindsay emphatically. "I feel it all depends on us.
Monica may be in the greatest danger, and we are the only ones who know
anything about the matter, and can save her."
The tea-bell ringing at that moment sent them down to the dining-hall.
The meal had been delayed half an hour on account of the tournament, so
preparation followed immediately afterwards, and Lindsay and Cicely were
obliged, with their thoughts still running on possible tragedies, to
endeavour to apply their minds to the unromantic details of parsing.
It seemed of such minor importance whether a verb were transitive or
intransitive, weak or strong, compared with whether Mrs. Wilson and
Scott were really going to meet in the garden to carry out some fell
intention. The time seemed endless until the books were at last put
away, and they could snatch a few moments for private talk.
"There's one comfort," said Lindsay, "they won't begin until it's dark,
so they can't have been doing anything while we've been in prep."
"It's generally light for quite half an hour after we're in bed," said
Cicely. "I don't see yet how we're to know when they're starting."
"We shall find out," returned Lindsay confidently. "I have a kind of
feeling that something is going to happen to-night."
"What are you two whispering about?" asked Nora Proctor curiously.
"Oh, only a joke of our own!"
"You've got some secret, I'm sure," said Beryl Austen; "you're always
looking at each other and making signs. I noticed you yesterday during
arithmetic."
"Do tell us, Cicely," begged Marjorie Butler. "You and I used to be
friends, but we never have a secret together now."
"There's really nothing worth telling," declared Cicely, much
embarrassed.
"We shall have to be careful though," said Lindsay afterwards. "We don't
want the others to hear, and then go poking about and making
discoveries."
"Certainly not; if there's anything to be found out, I'd rather we found
it out ourselves."
Cicely was tired when bedtime arrived, and ready to curl herself up and
forget what might be happening outside. Lindsay, on the contrary, lay
with wide-open eyes, watching the room grow darker and darker. When the
wardrobe and the chest of drawers and the washstand had at last all
merged together into one deep mass of shadow, she got up and peeped
through the open window. What she saw there caused her to run hurriedly
and shake her sleepy companion.
"Cicely! Do wake up! There's a light moving in the garden."
It took a second or two for Cicely to recover her senses, but when she
realized the nature of the news, she hopped out of bed in frantic
excitement.
"Is it Mrs. Wilson and Scott?" she asked eagerly.
"I expect so, but of course I can't tell. Be quick! We must go at once
and see what they're doing."
The two girls hastily scrambled into their clothes, and tiptoed
downstairs to the side door. The servants had not yet locked up, so it
was still standing ajar.
"Suppose we were to meet Miss Russell or Miss Frazer!" shivered Cicely,
with a nervous glance down the corridor.
"Don't think about it. They're both safe in the drawing-room."
In another minute they had closed the door gently behind them, and were
running softly across the lawn. It was a cloudy night, with neither moon
nor stars in the sky. The outlines of the trees and shrubs were just
visible, but it was very dark indeed under their shade.
"The light seemed to be going through the shrubbery towards the arbour,"
said Lindsay, feeling her way along the rose avenue.
"There it is!" replied Cicely, as a faint gleam shone in the distance.
"We must be very, very careful," said Lindsay, "not to disturb them on
any account. We must stop somewhere near, and just look and listen."
As quietly as ghosts they stole down the path, trying not to rustle so
much as a leaf. They were close now to the lantern. They could see it
quite clearly, set on the ground, and two figures bending over it.
Skirting round under the bushes, they reached the shelter of an oak tree
that grew on the side of a bank, and peeped cautiously round the trunk.
Yes, it was certainly Scott and Mrs. Wilson who were in the shrubbery
below. Every now and then a glint of light revealed their faces
unmistakably. They were talking together in low tones, unfortunately too
low for their conversation to be overheard. Scott held a spade in his
hand, and was stooping to watch Mrs. Wilson, who, kneeling on the grass,
was fumbling inside a large sack.
"Can you see if she's counting money?" breathed Cicely into Lindsay's
ear. "I believe they're going to bury it."
"It looks like something bigger and heavier," whispered Lindsay, trying
to crane her neck farther forward.
"Is it silver plate?"
"It might be anything in that huge sack."
"Oh! Not a body!"
I believe Cicely would have fled precipitately if Lindsay had not held
her tightly by the hand. The fear that old Sir Giles Courtenay was being
finally disposed of oppressed her like a nightmare.
"No! I expect it's the treasure. We must notice exactly where they're
putting it."
[Illustration: AN UNFORTUNATE ACCIDENT]
Lindsay took a step nearer, to gain a better view of the proceedings,
but as she did so her foot trod noisily on a dead twig.
"What's that?"
The question was in "The Griffin's" well-known voice.
There was a growl in reply from Scott.
"Best take a look, anyhow," came from Mrs. Wilson.
Scott seized the lantern, and began to flash it round in every
direction. Then, oh horrors! he walked straight towards the oak where
the two girls were hiding. Nearly paralysed with fear, they did not dare
to run away, and could only hope that, after all, under cover of the
darkness, he might chance to overlook them.
In her desperation, Lindsay tried to draw farther behind the trunk of
the tree. To do so she perforce pushed Cicely back. The latter was not
quite prepared for the sudden movement, the ground was uneven, she
swayed, clutched violently at her companion to save herself, and over
they both rolled down the bank, almost to the very feet of Scott
himself.
As Lindsay and Cicely came crashing down the bank, Scott uttered a cry
of consternation. In the suddenness of his dismay, the lantern dropped
from his hand, extinguishing the light in its fall.
Instantly the two girls were on their feet, and rushed helter-skelter
across the garden through the darkness. They plunged anyhow through
bushes and over flower-beds, scratching their faces on overhanging
boughs, and tearing their dresses on thorns, their one fear lest Scott
should be pursuing them, and their one anxiety to gain the safe shelter
of the house.
They reached the side entrance without hearing any footsteps behind
them. If Scott had tried to follow them, they had evidently managed to
elude him, and he must have given up the chase. The door was still
unbolted, and they hurried breathlessly upstairs, luckily meeting nobody
on the way. What a harbour of refuge it seemed to be, back in their own
room! Without daring to light the candle, they went back to bed again
with all possible speed.
"Well, we have had an adventure!" began Lindsay, when they were once
more comfortably ensconced between the sheets.
"Do you think Scott noticed who we were?" whispered Cicely.
"I can't tell. He had just time to catch a glimpse of our faces before
the lantern went out."
"I'm sure they were doing something dreadful that they wanted to keep
secret, he looked so utterly horror-stricken at seeing us."
"There's no doubt about it. The unfortunate part is that now they find
they've been discovered, they'll bury the treasure somewhere else
instead."
"What a pity we fell just at that moment!"
Cicely's voice was very doleful.
"It will have aroused their suspicions, too, and will make them extra
careful," lamented Lindsay. "If Scott recognized us, he and Mrs. Wilson
will know we're watching them. They'll owe us a grudge. 'The Griffin'
was bad enough before, but she'll be worse than ever now."
They scanned the old housekeeper's face narrowly next morning, as she
carried the coffee into the dining-room, but her countenance wore its
accustomed aspect of grim inscrutability. If she connected them with
last night's happenings, she certainly did not betray the knowledge; it
was impossible to tell whether she mistrusted them or not, or what
feelings lay concealed under her forbidding exterior.
The moment breakfast was over, they rushed into the garden to renew
their acquaintance with the scene of their adventure. Somebody had
plainly been digging in the bank, though the traces had evidently been
tidied carefully up, and the sods replaced.
"Do you think there could be anything here?" said Cicely wistfully,
poking a stick into the loosened soil.
"Oh, dear me, no!" replied Lindsay. "Why, the first thing they'd do
would be to rush off with that sack to some safer spot. Even the very
stupidest persons wouldn't have gone on burying valuables in a place
where they knew they'd been watched. 'The Griffin' and Scott are
certainly not idiots!"
"If we could only guess where they'd put it!" sighed Cicely.
For the present they had had such a fright that, though neither would
confess it, both were a little inclined to let the matter rest in
abeyance. It needed courage to risk the anger of Mrs. Wilson and Scott
if they were once more caught meddling. It had seemed pleasant enough to
search for the treasure themselves in the house, but the affair was now
beginning to assume a graver aspect.
"I sometimes wonder if we ought to tell Monica or Miss Russell," said
Cicely, who occasionally had uneasy scruples as to the wisdom of their
plan of secrecy.
"It wouldn't be of the slightest use," declared Lindsay. "'The Griffin'
and Scott would simply deny everything. They'd make out it was all
nonsense on our part, like grown-up people generally do. And how could
we prove we were right? Miss Russell would tell us to mind our own
business, and we should only get into a scrape for our pains. No, we
shall just have to let things take their course, and trust to luck."
CHAPTER X
Under the Hawthorn Tree
It was high summer at Haversleigh. The trees, now in full leaf, cast
rich shadows over the landscape, the wild roses were in bloom on the
hedgerows, and tall foxgloves stood like crimson sentinels at the
margins of the woods. The fields were white with moon-daisies, growing
among the long, lush grass; and all the roadsides were a tangle of
vetches, campion, bugle, trefoil and speedwells. The wind was fragrant
with the scent of newly turned hay; everywhere the mowers were busy, and
the daisies were falling fast beneath the swinging scythe or the blades
of the reaping-machine. In the Manor garden the roses had reached
perfection, and the flower-beds were a mass of colour. The girls spent
every available moment out-of-doors, making the most of the bright days,
and enjoying their country visit to the full.
One blazing half-holiday afternoon Lindsay and Cicely, allowed for once
in the select company of a few of the elder girls, were lounging
blissfully under the shade of a big hawthorn tree. The air seemed
dancing for very heat; the grasshoppers were chirping away at the edge
of the lawn, a lizard lay basking on the stones of the terrace wall, and
the sparrows for once were silent.
"It's far too hot to play tennis," said Irene Spencer. "One just wants
to sit somewhere where it's green and cool."
"I'm glad we're here, then, instead of at Winterburn Lodge," said Mary
Parkinson.
"So am I; and yet Winterburn Lodge is nicer than many other schools,"
remarked Mildred Roper.
"It's not half bad," assented Mary. "I like it better, at any rate, than
the French school I was at in Brussels."
"I didn't know you'd ever been in France," said Lindsay, idly picking a
dandelion clock and blowing it to find out the time.
"No more I have, goosey."
"Then why did you say you'd been at a French school? You're telling
fibs."
"No, I'm not, because Brussels doesn't happen to be in France--it's in
Belgium."
"I thought you were supposed to learn geography in the third class,"
laughed Irene Spencer.
"She said a French school, not a Belgian one," objected Lindsay.
"Well, everybody speaks French in Brussels."
"Don't they speak Flemish?"
"Only the poor people, and even they can generally talk French as well."
"How long were you there, Mary?" put in Mildred Roper.
"Only one term. I got ill, and had to come home."
"Was it nice?"
"Oh, just tolerable!"
"Had you to talk French all the time?"
"I had to try, because none of the girls knew anything else. They used
to laugh at me if I spoke English."
"How nasty! I shouldn't have cared to be you," said Cicely.
"Yes, it was horrid, when I was sure they were saying things about me
and I couldn't understand them. I used to get quite cross, and that made
my head ache."
"Was the school in the country?" asked Lindsay.
"No, I've told you already it was in Brussels, and that's a big city. It
was a large building, with a great high wall all round it, with spikes
on the top, as if it were a prison. Inside there was a courtyard where
we used to play games. It had orange trees and oleanders in big green
tubs, but no grass nor flowers. You couldn't possibly have called it a
garden. We hardly ever went out for proper walks. Sometimes we were
taken to the park, but even there we had to go very primly, two and two,
with the teachers looking after us most sharply."
"Were the teachers nice?"
"Yes, pretty well. I liked them better than the girls, at any rate.
There were two sisters in my class, called Marie and Sophie Beauvais,
who were always making fun of me because I was English. I had a horrid
time until a German girl came to the school, and then they teased her
instead of me. The best thing of all was the coffee. It was perfectly
delicious--nicer than any I've ever tasted in England."
"Why didn't you stay in Brussels?"
"I was ill, and my mother had to come and fetch me. She declared she
would never let me go so far away from home again; so she sent me to
Winterburn Lodge instead. Miss Russell is very kind if one's not well,
and Mother said she would rather have me properly looked after, even if
I didn't learn French."
"Yes, Miss Russell does take care of us," said Irene. "I used to be at
another school, and the teachers never noticed if we had headaches, or
couldn't eat our meals. We had to work most fearfully hard for exams,
too. The headmistress made a point of getting a certain number of passes
each year, and one was obliged to prepare and go in whether one was
clever or not. Give me good old Winterburn Lodge!--especially when one's
at the Manor instead. By the by, there's Monica. She's surely not come
to play tennis? It's too hot."
"Fifteen degrees too hot," agreed Monica, throwing herself down on the
grass beside the others and fanning herself with her hat. "Out on the
road the heat's at simmering-point. I came to bring a message to Miss
Russell, and I hear she's gone to Linforth and won't be back until
half-past four. I think I shall wait for her."
"Oh, do!" cried the others. "We'll have a 'palaver' here under the
trees."
"What's a 'palaver', please? I hope it's something cool and fizzy to
drink."
"No, it's nothing of the sort. It's a kind of meeting, where everybody
has to tell a story in turn."
"But I'm rigidly truthful!" objected Monica, with a twinkle in her eye.
"You naughty girl! You know we don't mean telling falsehoods. It's
telling tales," said Irene.
"I'm no tell-tale either!"
"Don't be too funny. Your story will have to be longer than anyone
else's to make up for this. Mildred, you explain, as I don't seem able
to express myself properly."
"It can either be a story you have read, or one of something that has
happened to yourself," said Mildred. "We prefer people's own adventures
if we can get them."
"So few people have any adventures in real life!" said Monica.
"Then you can tell something out of a book."
"Suppose I can't remember anything?"
"You must. It needn't be grand; we're not a critical audience."
"I'm very stupid at telling things," said Monica; "might I read you
something instead?"
"If you've got it here."
"As it happens, I have," replied Monica, opening a bound volume of a
magazine which she held in her hand. "I brought this book to lend to
Miss Russell, as I knew it would interest her. It has a story about the
old Manor in the times of the Wars of the Roses, and how Sir Roger
Courtenay came to win it for his own. I dare say you might like to hear
it."
"If it's about the Manor I'm sure we shall," said Irene. "Who wrote the
tale?"
"A gentleman who stayed in the village a year or two ago. He was very
enthusiastic about Haversleigh. I suppose he made it up from the short
account in the guide-book. All the facts are quite true, though he must
have used his imagination for the details. The worst of it is that it's
a fairly long story, and if I read it I'm afraid there won't be any time
left for you to tell yours."
"Oh, we don't mind that!"
"So much the better!"
"Fire away!"
"Do go on!"
Thus encouraged, Monica found her place and, the girls having clustered
round her in a close circle so as to hear the better, she began her
tale:
SIR MERVYN'S WARD
The middle of the fifteenth century was one of the most stormy periods
that the pages of English history have ever recorded. The rival claims
of the houses of York and Lancaster had led to those disastrous Wars of
the Roses that wiped away the flower of chivalry and made the fair land
one bloody battlefield. In the autumn of 1470 Edward IV had been driven
from his throne by the powerful Earl of Warwick, known as the Kingmaker,
and Henry VI had been once more restored to power, though for how long a
period none could venture to guess. They were hard times to live
through, especially for those lesser gentry and yeomen who had not
placed themselves definitely under the protection of any of the greater
barons, and still strove to keep their estates in peace and quiet. The
turmoil of the great struggle had not spared even the obscure village of
Haversleigh. The inhabitants went about their tasks with an air of
unrest. It seemed scarcely worth while to plough the fields, and sow
corn which might be trampled underfoot by the soldiery before there was
a chance to reap it. There were loud and deep murmurs among the
villagers at the many exactions and tyrannies of Sir Mervyn Stamford,
the then occupant of the Manor, the estates of which he administered on
behalf of his ward, Catharine Mowbray. Catharine's father, Sir John
Mowbray, had fallen in battle on the side of the Yorkists, but with the
return of Henry VI to power, Sir Mervyn, a stanch Lancastrian, had
bought the rights of her guardianship from the half-imbecile king, and
had not only assumed control of her property, but had announced his
intention of wedding the maiden, either with or without her consent.
This was a state of affairs which, however satisfactory to Sir Mervyn
himself, was by no means pleasing either to Catharine or to her lover,
Roger de Courtenay, a young gentleman of high lineage though broken
fortunes. Sir Mervyn was indeed a man whom any girl might have dreaded.
Dark, stern, and forbidding, his face seamed with scars, he was a harsh
master, a relentless foe, and a cruel tyrant to any who dared not resist
his authority. He was cordially hated in Haversleigh, the inhabitants of
which were Yorkists to a man, but he had garrisoned himself so strongly
in the Manor, with so formidable a band of retainers, that the wretched
villagers could do no more than groan under his oppressions, and bewail
the advent of the day when, by his marriage with the unwilling
Catharine, he would become their legal lord.
Matters were at this crisis one April morning in the year 1471 when
Diccon of the Moat Farm came slowly down a path through the forest from
Torton. He led a horse laden with a sack of flour, which he had taken to
be ground at the mill of the convent of St. Agatha, to avoid the heavy
dues imposed by Sir Mervyn on every sack ground within the jurisdiction
of the Manor. In consequence he looked warily about him, since, should
he chance to meet any of Sir Mervyn's retainers, not only would his
flour be confiscated, but his own back would receive such a cudgelling
as would lay him up for a month or more. For this reason he had avoided
the main road, and chosen a little-used bridle path; and he glanced
cautiously up and down each green alley, and listened for every sound
that might give a hint of approaching footsteps. It was with a sense of
swift alarm, therefore, that he saw a figure suddenly step out from
behind the shelter of an oak in front, and heard himself challenged by
name. The newcomer was a young man, tall and of fine build, and his
commanding presence belied the shabbiness of his poor and travel-stained
attire.
"I am an honest man minding mine own business, and sith ye are the same,
seek not to hinder me," replied the owner of the Moat Farm.
"Nay, Diccon! Hast thou forgot thine old friend? Come hither, I pray
thee, for in good sooth I have tidings of great import."
So saying, the stranger dropped the cloak with which he had so far
partly concealed his face, and showed his features more fully.
"Master Roger!" gasped Diccon. "This is indeed a rash venture. An Sir
Mervyn find you within a five mile of the Manor there will be an arrow
through you ere nightfall."
"I am more like to send an arrow through him," replied Roger fiercely.
"He hath done me ill enough already, and now to crown it all he purposes
to wed my betrothed. Catharine is mine, not only by her choice, but by
the law of the land. She was affianced to me by King Edward himself.
Have her I will, or leave my body for the crows!"
"Brave words, Master Roger, brave words!" said Diccon, shaking his head.
"'Twill need more than a single sword to cross Sir Mervyn in the
matter."
"Where a sword can naught avail, craft and guile must find a way,"
returned Roger. "List you, I have brought tidings. Edward has come to
his own again. But two days since did his arms meet those of Lancaster
at Barnet. The Red Rose is trampled under foot, and Warwick and Montague
lie dead upon the field."
"In sooth if this be true it were news of great import."
"I met one who carried a letter from my lord of Gloucester. He rode to
gather the supporters of York in the West. Margaret the Queen hath
landed at Weymouth, and is calling the men of Devon and Cornwall to the
standard of the red rose. I hied me in all haste to my lord of Norfolk,
and he hath given me a band of stout fellows that are even now hid under
the brushwood yonder. An I can surprise Sir Mervyn ere he hears that the
emblem of Lancaster is raised in the west it will strike a blow for York
in Somerset, and moreover I shall win me my bride. I must myself to the
Manor. I would see how it is garrisoned, and convey a message to
Catharine alone."
"You are a dead man first!" exclaimed Diccon. "This were folly, Master
Roger. A lion's den were safer than the Manor."
"None shall pierce my disguise if you, good Diccon, will but aid to
trick me out for the part I fain would play. I wot I could count on your
faith!"
"To the last drop of my blood. Yet it is a rash venture, and one that
ill pleases me," replied the old man sadly.
Late that same afternoon the golden shafts of the warm spring sunshine
were finding their way through the narrow windows of an upper room in
the Manor. The house in those days was but a quarter of its present
size; it was strongly fortified, and bore more resemblance to a medieval
keep than to the Tudor mansion of later times. Strength and defence had
been considered before beauty and elegance, and there was little even of
comfort to be found inside the stern, forbidding walls. In the apartment
in question some rude attempt had been made to render things more
habitable than in the rest of the grim establishment. A few pieces of
tapestry covered the rough masonry, and the floor was strewn with fresh
rushes. On a carved wooden bench by the window sat a fair and beautiful
girl of seventeen, who was occupying herself with a piece of needlework,
and talking earnestly meanwhile to her attendant, a maiden of her own
age, busy also with her tambour frame.
"I tell thee, Anne, I will not wed him--not if he drag me by force to
the altar! Verily, it is a pretty case. Here be I a prisoner in mine own
manor, my estates squandered, my tenants oppressed and robbed, my
retainers dismissed, save only thee, my poor faithful Anne; and in
return I am to wed him to boot! Nay! Rather will I take the veil and
give all my goods to the convent of St. Agatha at Torton; though thou
knowest I have scant mind to be a nun."
"It wants but five morns now to the bridal day," sighed Anne. "If I
mistake not, lady, Sir Mervyn will wed you even against your will and
despite the convent."
"Then I will die first! Oh, Roger, Roger!" she added softly to herself,
"only a year agone, and I was thy betrothed! It is six months since I
had tidings of thee, and whether thou art alive or dead I know not."
"Nay, weep not, sweet lady--weeping cures no ills," said Anne; then,
wishful to divert her mistress's sad thoughts, she directed her
attention to a commotion which was going on in the courtyard below.
"Some stranger hath arrived. If I mistake not, 'tis a huckster come to
spread out his wares. An it be your pleasure, I will hie me down and
bring you tidings of what he hath."
Receiving a half-hearted consent, she hurried to the great courtyard,
where many of the servants and retainers were already gathered to look
at the contents of the pedlar's pack. At that period the arrival of a
travelling merchant was an event at a remote country house, and even Sir
Mervyn himself did not disdain to examine the cloths and buy an ell or
two of velvet for a doublet. The pedlar, a white-haired man, much bent,
and with a strange hood of foreign fashion drawn over his face, was
proclaiming the virtues of his goods in a lusty voice.
"What do ye lack? What do ye lack?" he cried. "I have here hosen, shoon,
caps, gloves, girdles, such as ye never might see out of London town.
Here be beside cloth of silk and damask fit for the Queen. Is there no
worshipful lady of this noble lord before whom I might spread forth my
choicer wares?"
"My mistress would gladly have silk for a kirtle, an I may summon her to
the courtyard," Anne ventured to whisper to Sir Mervyn.
Receiving a grudging permission, she hurried panting up the stairs with
her tidings. Catharine at first would hardly be persuaded to descend
from her chamber into the hated presence of Sir Mervyn, and it was
finally more to please her maid than herself that she assented.
"Fair apparel is of scant use to one who hath a mind to wed the Church,"
she said, "but thou shalt have a riband for thyself, Anne, and a silk
girdle withal."
No one remarked the swift, eager glance that the pedlar bestowed upon
Catharine as she appeared in the doorway, nor how his hand shook as he
untied his second pack. With apparent lack of intention he managed
skilfully to draw her a few steps away from the rest, under pretence of
exhibiting his silks in the best light; then, whispering: "Keep secret!
Betray not that you receive this!" he rapidly thrust a small piece of
parchment into her hand. Full of surprise, Catharine yet had the
presence of mind to utter no exclamation, and to conceal the parchment
in the folds of her gown. Hastily completing her purchases, she retired
again to her chamber, where, dismissing Anne, she was able to examine
the letter in private. It contained but a few lines:
"Right dear and well beloved,
"The White Rose musters again in the west, and I have hope of your
release. Ope the west postern ere sunrise. Till then God keep ye.
"Written in great haste this eve of St. Withold by the hand of him
who would remain ever yours,
"ROGER COURTENAY."
Catharine's wild excitement on the perusal of this missive can be more
readily imagined than described.
"He is alive! He comes to my rescue!" she exclaimed. "Perchance it was
even Roger himself disguised as the pedlar. He was ever one to venture a
bold deed. Alack! that I should have been so near, and not have known
him!"
She did not dare to confide her secret even to her faithful maid, Anne,
but retiring as usual at nightfall she lay awake, waiting in burning
anxiety for the earliest peep of dawn. When the first faint glimmer of
light stole into her room she rose and crept softly down the stairs. She
was obliged to make her way through the great hall, where the
men-at-arms lay sleeping on the rushes. A dog sprang up and growled, but
she managed to quiet it with a caress, and passed on without disturbing
the sleepers. The little west postern door was heavily barred, and it
took all the strength of her white hands to pull back the bolts.
Cautiously she peered out into the half-darkness. At the same moment a
tall figure stepped from the shadow and clasped her in his arms.
"Sweet, you must fly! This is no place for ye now," whispered Roger.
"Diccon waits with a trusty steed to conduct ye to Covebury. Take
sanctuary at the convent of the Franciscans till I come to claim ye. I
have stern work to do here."
Wrapping her hastily in a cloak, and helping her to mount, Roger waited
till he judged the fugitives to be at a safe distance; then, giving the
word of command to his followers, he commenced his attack on the Manor.
Sir Mervyn and his retainers, surprised in their sleep, nevertheless
offered a determined resistance. A fierce combat was waged in the great
hall and in the courtyard, till, pressed from one point of vantage to
another, the defenders made a desperate sally, and rushing
helter-skelter down the village sought refuge inside the ancient church.
It was of no avail; the villagers, hastily armed with swords and pikes,
had joined in the fray. Determined to avenge themselves upon Sir Mervyn
for his many acts of tyranny and injustice, they set upon him without
mercy, and without respect even for the sacredness of the edifice.
Chased from the choir to the Lady Chapel, and from the Lady Chapel to
the tower, he fled up the narrow steps to the belfry, where he turned at
bay, and held the staircase with the courage of despair. Driven from
this last standpoint, he climbed yet higher to the rafters where hung
the bell, and slew six men in succession before he fell, at length,
shouting curses upon his foes.
Roger Courtenay had scant time to enjoy his triumph. The Yorkist army
was mustering for a great struggle; so, having left a small garrison in
charge of the Manor, he rode away immediately with the rest of his
followers to join the adherents of the White Rose. The result of the
battle of Tewkesbury is a matter of history. The unfortunate remnant of
Lancaster took to flight, and York gained a final and triumphant
victory. Roger, whose bravery was conspicuous throughout the day,
worthily won his spurs, and was knighted on the field by Richard of
Gloucester. His forfeited estate was restored to him, and King Edward
himself forwarded his union with Catharine Mowbray, so that before the
summer was over the ancient parish church of Haversleigh, which but
lately had rung to the clash of arms, now echoed instead to the merry
peal of wedding bells.
CHAPTER XI
Sir Mervyn's Tower
"Is that all?" asked the girls, as Monica finished her story and closed
the book.
"Why, yes. It's a fairly long tale, I think."
"Not long enough. I want to know so much more about them," said Irene.
"Is it perfectly and absolutely true?" enquired Cicely.
"Yes, it is quite true. It was Sir Roger Courtenay who began to build
the Manor as it stands to-day. All the central portion was put up in his
time, and the coats of arms over the porch are those of himself and his
wife, Catharine Mowbray. Their tomb is in the church too--that big
carved monument in the side chapel. They had seven children--five sons
and two daughters. The eldest son, Sir Godfrey Courtenay, married a
relation of Sir Thomas More. Her name is mentioned in one of the Paston
Letters."
"Was it really in Haversleigh Church that Sir Mervyn climbed into the
belfry and was killed?"
"Or did the writer make that up?"
"No, that is true too," replied Monica. "The tower is still called 'Sir
Mervyn's Tower', and it is said there is the stain of his blood on the
great bell, and that nothing can ever take it off."
"Have you seen it?"
"Yes, once. It's only a patch of rust."
"Was Sir Mervyn buried in the church too?"
"There's no monument to him, and no record in the old church documents
of his grave. I should think it was much more likely that his followers
were allowed to carry him to his own estate near Appleford, and bury him
in the church there. The story runs that his ghost haunts Haversleigh
Tower and walks up the belfry stairs, but of course that's nothing but
superstition and nonsense."
"Don't you believe in ghosts?" asked Cicely, who was sometimes a little
afraid of the dark passages at the Manor.
"No: when people are dead, I think if they were good they are either
resting until the resurrection, or have something so much better and
nobler to do in another world that they could not revisit this, any more
than a butterfly could turn again into a chrysalis; and if they were
bad, I am sure they would not be allowed to come back simply to terrify
the living."
"Quite right," agreed Mildred. "In most of the stories one reads about
ghosts, they never return for any useful purpose, only to make silly
people run and scream."
"There was one thing that didn't seem perfectly clear in the story,"
said Lindsay. "Was it really Roger who came to the Manor disguised as an
old pedlar?"
"Evidently it was. He couldn't trust anyone else to give the letter to
Catharine, and he wanted to see for himself how Sir Mervyn was prepared
to defend the Manor. There is still part of a ruin left of the old
Franciscan Convent near Covebury, where Catharine took sanctuary. It's
not much though--only a few pillars and a tumble-down wall."
"Why didn't she go to the Convent of St. Agatha at Torton? It was so
much nearer to ride."
"Because the nuns there wished to persuade her to take the veil, and she
wanted to marry Roger."
"Were they very angry with her?"
"How can I tell, Cicely? You must ask the writer of the romance; he has
a better imagination than I have. I wonder if Miss Russell has come back
yet? I'm going indoors to see. By the by, I want to ask a favour. I
practise the organ every Wednesday evening at the church, and to-night
Judson, the old clerk, will be too busy to blow for me as usual. Would
anybody be charitable enough to volunteer? And would Miss Russell allow
it, do you think?"
"I expect Miss Russell wouldn't mind," said Mildred. "I'd go with
pleasure if I could, but I have an hour's practising to do myself
to-night, as well as preparation, and so have Irene and Mary."
"Oh, Monica, could we blow the organ?" cried Lindsay. "Cicely and I have
both finished our practising, and if we were to learn our French at
once, before tea, I believe Miss Frazer could be persuaded to excuse us
from prep. We'd simply love to come."
"Thank you, Lindsay. I'll ask Miss Russell. If she says 'Yes', will you
meet me at the church at seven?"
Miss Russell was lenient enough to give the required permission, having
ascertained that all lessons for next day were duly prepared; so Lindsay
and Cicely, much envied by the rest of their class, betook themselves
with zeal to try their 'prentice hands at the task of organ blowing. The
church was open, and Monica was already waiting for them in the porch.
She soon showed them how to work the bellows, and after telling them to
stop and rest as soon as they were tired, seated herself at the keyboard
and began her practice. Both the younger girls felt it a decidedly novel
and interesting experience to be in the little space behind the pipes,
working away at a long handle. As they took it in turns they were able
to keep the organ going fairly steadily, and only once left Monica
without wind in the middle of a piece. As a reward she allowed them to
try the instrument before she locked it up, showing them the various
stops and pedals, and how they were to be used.
"It's much more difficult than the piano," sighed Cicely, after a rather
unsuccessful attempt, "and yet it's simply grand to hear the lovely big
notes sounding through the church. I should like to learn myself
sometime when I'm older."
"Saint Cecilia was the patroness of music, and is always represented
playing the organ, so you might very well justify your name by following
in her footsteps," said Monica. "Now I simply must go, because my mother
will be wanting me. I've been far longer than usual to-night."
"It's our fault, I'm afraid," said Lindsay. "We kept making you pull out
the stops."
"No, you were dears to come. Perhaps Miss Russell will let you blow for
me some other evening; then we'll start earlier, and I shall have time
to let you both try again."
They had passed under the old yew trees of the churchyard and out
through the lich-gate into the road, when Monica suddenly looked over
her music and exclaimed:
"How stupid! I've left my little copy of _Lux Benigna_ behind. It
doesn't really matter much, only I don't care to get my pieces mixed up
with the organist's, and he will be there at a choir practice
to-morrow."
"Shall we go back?" suggested Cicely.
"No, I'm in too great a hurry. I want to get home at once."
"Then we'll fetch it for you," said Lindsay.
"Oh, thanks so much! Will you take it to school, please, and give it to
me to-morrow, so that I needn't wait now? Good-bye!" and Monica hastened
away as fast as possible in the direction of the cottage.
Lindsay and Cicely walked leisurely into the church again, and found the
missing piece of music lying on a seat near the organ. They were
returning down the aisle when Cicely said:
"Which is the tomb of Sir Roger Courtenay and Catharine Mowbray?"
"Monica said it was the one in the small side chapel," replied Lindsay.
"Shall we go and look at it?"
What an old monument it was! Four centuries had passed away since it was
placed over those who slept beneath. The carving was chipped and the
marble scratched; part of Sir Roger's head was broken away, and one of
poor Dame Catharine's clasped hands; and the letters of the inscription
were so worn and effaced that it was with difficulty the girls could
make out even a few words.
"It's in Latin, so we couldn't have understood it in any case," said
Lindsay.
"How funny her costume is!" said Cicely. "She has a coif on her head,
and very long sleeves; and he is in full armour. It makes them seem much
more real people when we know their story."
"Can you imagine them living at the Manor?"
"I can hardly believe there was ever a fight going on inside this
church."
"And people killing one another!"
"I suppose Sir Mervyn ran through this door up into the tower."
"I wonder if the stain is still on the bell?" said Lindsay.
"The story was that nothing could ever take it off."
"Shall we go up and see if it's really there?"
"What! Up into the belfry?"
"Yes. Why not?"
"Well, isn't it getting too late, and a little dark?"
"Not yet."
"All right, then," assented Cicely, agreeing as usual with Lindsay's
proposal.
The small, nail-studded oak door leading to the tower stood open, and
they could see that there was a winding staircase inside. There was
nobody to forbid them to explore, and though they knew they were due
back at the Manor they considered they might allow themselves a little
latitude in the way of time. It was rather dark up the corkscrew stairs,
though there was a slit every now and then in the wall to admit air and
light. At the top they found themselves in a square room, where the
clerk evidently pulled the bell on Sundays, for the rope was hanging
within easy reach. The roof was made of enormous oak rafters, and
through it ran a ladder reaching higher than they could see.
"That will be the way up to the bell," said Lindsay.
"What a horrible place for Sir Mervyn to climb!" commented Cicely. "I
can imagine him rushing up with a dagger in his hand, and the others
swarming after him. I'm almost sorry they killed him. He was very brave,
although he was so bad. You go first, Lindsay."
Up and up they toiled, till they thought they should never reach the
top.
"The bell's hung very high," panted Cicely.
"We're nearly there now," replied Lindsay.
The ladder ended in a rough platform which was built round the bell,
probably to allow workmen to attend to it now and then in case it were
not hanging safely. It looked a great mass of metal, so large and heavy
that even the clapper must be an enormous weight.
"There's a very queer mark on it here," said Cicely, in rather an awed
voice.
Lindsay walked round to the other side of the platform. There was a most
curious stain running along a portion of the bottom of the bell--a dull,
irregular mark that might well have had its origin in some dark and
dreadful deed. Cicely touched it cautiously, and then looked at her
finger as if she expected to find the traces red on her hand.
"I think we'd better go down again," she said, with a shiver.
"All right, only I want to look out of the window first. Oh, what a
glorious view!"
There was indeed a splendid prospect to be seen from the old church
tower--a vista of village roofs, and tree tops, and fields, and winding
high road, and distant woods and hills, all bathed in the beautiful,
rosy light of sunset. It was so lovely that the girls stood for some
time watching the sky turn from pink to crimson, and great bands of
dappled clouds catch the reflection from the glow beneath. They quite
forgot that supper would probably be over at the Manor, and that Miss
Russell would be wondering why Monica had kept them so long, and wishing
she had not allowed them to go without Miss Frazer or one of the
monitresses to escort them back.
At last they tore themselves reluctantly away. It was much harder to
come down the ladder than it had been to climb up. Cicely turned quite
giddy, and they were both glad when they reached the square room where
the bell rope was hanging. It was very dark on the winding staircase;
they had to feel their steps most carefully, and keep a hand on the wall
as they went. The church looked dim and gloomy as they found themselves
once more in the nave. Cicely turned her back upon the monuments. She
did not want to give even a glance in their direction just then. Perhaps
Lindsay felt the same, for she also hurried quickly towards the door. To
their utter amazement it was closed, shut tight and firm; and though
they lifted the latch, and tugged and rattled and pulled with all their
might, they could not open it. They stared at each other with blank,
horror-stricken faces. They were locked up alone in the empty church!
"Let us call," quavered Cicely.
"Perhaps someone may be in the churchyard. I can't believe they've
really left us shut up here. Somebody must be coming back," said
Lindsay.
She knew in her heart of hearts all the same that it was a forlorn hope.
The old sexton had probably seen Monica walk through the village, and
had come to lock the church as usual after her practice, quite unaware
that anyone was exploring the belfry. By this time he would be at home
again, with the keys in his pocket. The two girls shouted themselves
hoarse, and kicked and beat against the door, but there was no reply
except hollow echoes that resounded from the vaulted roof. The church
was just out of earshot from either the village on one side or the
rectory on the other, and it did not seem likely that anybody would
happen to pass through the churchyard at that hour in the evening. No
doubt they would soon be missed at the Manor, but Miss Russell would be
sure to go first to Monica to enquire about their absence, and it might
therefore be some little time before anyone came to look for them inside
the church.
"What are we going to do?" asked Cicely.
"We must get out somehow," replied Lindsay desperately. "Let us walk all
round, and see if there is any window it would be possible to climb
through."
They went up the aisle, looking carefully at the windows; but all were
equally impracticable, being built high up in the walls, and the only
panes that opened were at the top.
"There may be a lower one in the vestry," said Lindsay, after they had
examined the side chapels and transepts. "Here's the door, and
fortunately it's not locked."
Again they were doomed to disappointment. The vestry was one of the
oldest portions of the building, and the tiny diamond-paned casement was
fully ten feet above their heads. Plainly it was useless to think of
escape there.
"We'd better go back to the door," said Cicely, "just in case anyone
should be coming down the road, and might hear us."
The light was rapidly growing dimmer and dimmer, the pillars cast long
shadows, and the corners were already wrapt in darkness, through which
here and there a figure on a monument stood out white against the gloomy
background. Once more the girls thumped at the door and shouted, though
they feared it would be of no avail.
"There's only one thing left to be done, Cicely," said Lindsay at last.
"And what's that?"
"Go up into the belfry again and ring the bell. Everybody in the village
would hear that, and Judson would come to see what was the matter."
"Yes," replied Cicely with some hesitation, "I suppose we must--but----"
"But what?"
"We should have to walk up the belfry stairs."
"Well?"
"Oh, Lindsay, Sir Mervyn! Suppose we were to meet him on the staircase?
The village people say he walks!"
"And Monica said it was nothing but nonsense and superstition."
Lindsay tried to sound brave, but she held Cicely's arm tightly
notwithstanding.
Poor Cicely felt "'twixt Scylla and Charybdis". To toll the bell seemed
their only chance of escape, and to do so they must certainly mount into
the square room where the rope was hanging. On the one hand was the
prospect of spending some time in a building which was rapidly growing
darker and darker, and on the other, there was a quick dash up the
winding st
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