The Madcap of the School Part 18

"No, of course not. Gibbie would never have given it to her if it had.

Cynthia found it inside her desk. She doesn't know who put it there.

It's most mysterious."

For the day, Cynthia was a heroine of romance among her Form. She played the part admirably, wearing an abstracted expression in her blue eyes, and starting when spoken to, as if aroused from daydreams.

She mentioned casually that she believed the family of Fitzmaurice to be an extremely ancient one, and that its members were mentioned in the _Peerage_. As there was no copy of that volume in the school library, n.o.body could contradict her, and her audience murmured interested acquiescence. When asked whether they preferred the name of Algernon or Augustus, their opinions were divided.

At first the juniors were sympathetic, but by the end of the afternoon the G.o.ddess of envy began to rear her head in their midst. Cynthia's manner had progressed during the day to a point of patronage that was distinctly aggravating. She openly pitied girls who did not receive private letters, and spoke of early engagements as highly desirable.

She missed two catches when fielding at cricket, being employed in staring sentimentally at the sky instead of watching for the ball.

"Buck up, you silly idiot, can't you? You're a disgrace to the school!" snarled Nora Fawcitt furiously.

Cynthia sighed gently, with the air of "Ah-if-you-only-knew-my-feelings!"

and twisted the ends of her hair into ringlets. After tea, in defiance of all school traditions, she changed her dress and put on her best slippers. She appeared in the schoolroom with a bunch of pansies pinned into her belt.

Preparation was from six to seven, and was supposed to be a period of strenuous mental application. That evening, however, Cynthia made little progress with her Latin exercise or the Wars of the Roses. Her Form mates, looking up in the intervals of conning their textbooks, noted her sitting with idle pen, gazing raptly into s.p.a.ce or glancing anxiously at the clock. Though she had not confided the details of her secret, her companions felt that something was going to happen.

Romance was in the atmosphere. Several of the juniors found themselves wis.h.i.+ng that clandestine letters had appeared in their desks also.

When the signal for dismissal was given, and the girls trooped from the schoolroom, Cynthia mysteriously melted away somewhere. Ardiune, walking round the quad. five minutes later, accosted Joan Butler, Janet Macpherson, Nancie Page, and Isobel Parker, who were sitting on the steps of the sundial reading Ella Wheeler Wilc.o.x's _Poems of Love_.

"If you'd like a little sport," she observed, "come along with me. You may bring Elsie and Nora if you can find them. I promise you a jinky time!"

The juniors rose readily. None of them were really very fond of reading, but Cynthia had lent them the book earlier in the day, with a few pages turned down for reference. They flung it on to the stone step, with scant regard for its white cover. Ardiune led her recruits hastily to the back drive, and bade them hide behind the thick laurel and clipped holly bushes that backed the border.

"Somebody you know is coming to keep an appointment, and will get a surprise," she volunteered.

They had hardly taken cover when Cynthia Greene appeared, strolling along the drive. She advanced to the gate, leaned her elbow on it, and, posing picturesquely, glanced with would-be carelessness up and down the back lane, and coughed.

At this very evident signal a figure emerged from the shelter of the opposite bushes and strode to the gate. The juniors gasped. They had all taken part in last Christmas's term-end performance, and they easily recognized the hat, long coat, and military moustache of the school theatrical wardrobe, the only masculine garments permitted at the Grange. Cynthia, being a new-comer, was not acquainted with them.

Her agitated eyes merely took in a manly vision who was accosting her politely, though without removing his hat.

"Have I the pleasure of addressing Miss Cynthia Greene?" asked a deep-toned voice.

Cynthia, utterly overcome, giggled a faint a.s.sent.

"I am Algernon Augustus. Delighted to make your acquaintance! You're the very girl I've always longed to meet. I can't describe my loneliness, and how I'm yearning for sympathy. Fairest, loveliest one, will you smile upon me?"

What Cynthia might have answered it is impossible to guess, but at that critical moment the hat, which was several sizes too large, tilted to one side, and allowed Raymonde's hair to escape down her back. Cynthia's agitated shriek brought a crowd of witnesses from out the laurel bushes. They did not spare their victim, and a perfect storm of chaff descended upon her.

"Did it go to meet its ownest own?"

"Did you call him Algernon, or Augustus?"

"Did he tell you his family pedigree?"

"Where's his motor-car, please?"

"Is the engagement announced yet?"

"I think you're a set of beasts!" whimpered Cynthia, leaning her head against the gate and sobbing.

"If you hadn't been such a silly idiot you wouldn't have been taken in by such a transparent business," returned Raymonde, pulling off her moustache. "Look here, we don't care about this sickly sort of stuff, so the sooner you drop it the better. Gracious, girl! Turn off the waterworks! Be thankful Gibbie didn't scent out your romance, that's all! If the b.u.mble knew you'd put that card inside that strawberry basket, she'd pack up your boxes and send you home by the next train.

Crystal clear, she would!"

For at least a week after this, Cynthia Greene suffered a chastened life, and shed enough tears to make her pocket-handkerchiefs a conspicuous item in her laundry bag. She began to wish that the names of Augustus and Algernon could be expunged from the English language.

Her Form mates hinted that she might receive a present of Debrett's _Peerage_ on her next birthday. If she missed a ball at tennis, or slacked a little at cricket, somebody was sure to enquire: "Thinking of him?" She found a picture of two turtle-doves attached to the pin-cus.h.i.+on on her dressing-table, and drawings of hearts and darts were scrawled by unknown hands inside her textbooks. Moreover, she lived in constant dread lest somebody should have really found the card inside the strawberry basket, and should send an answer by post, which would fall into the hands of Miss Beasley. The prospect of expulsion from the school haunted her.

Fortunately for her, n.o.body troubled to notice her request for correspondence, the basket of strawberries having probably found its way to some snuffy individual at a greengrocer's stall, who took no interest in the loneliness of blue-eyed, fair-haired damsels. As for her volume of _Poems of Love_, Hermie confiscated it until the end of the term, and recommended a _Manual of Cricket_ instead.

CHAPTER XV

On the River

Miss Gibbs was fast arriving at the disappointing conclusion that patriotism costs dearly: in other words, that if you take away eighteen girls to do strawberry picking, you cannot expect them, immediately on their return, to settle down again into ordinary routine and everyday habits. An atmosphere of camp life seemed to pervade the place, a free-and-easy, rollicking spirit that was not at all in accordance with Miss Beasley's ideas of propriety. The Princ.i.p.al, who had never altogether approved of the week on the land, considered that the school was demoralized, and made a firm effort to restore discipline. The monitresses, several of whom had been guilty of whistling in the pa.s.sages, were summoned separately for private interviews in the study, whence they issued somewhat subdued and abashed; and the rank and file, by means of punishment lessons and fines, were made to feel a wholesome respect for the iron hand of the law.

Miss Beasley and Miss Gibbs agreed that the Fifth Form gave the largest amount of trouble. It was here that most of the mischief fermented and fizzed out on unexpected occasions. At present the Mystic Seven, who beforetime had offered a united front to the world, were suffering from a series of internal quarrels. The four who had been to camp a.s.sumed an air of superiority over the three who had not, which led to unpleasantness. Naturally it was annoying to Ardiune, Valentine, and Fauvette to hear constant allusions to people they had not met, and to thrilling experiences in which they had not partic.i.p.ated. They sulked or flew out as the occasion might be.

"I believe you're just making up half the things to stuff us!" sneered Ardiune.

"Indeed we're not!" flared Morvyth. "Every word we've told you is gospel truth, as you'd have found out if you'd come and done your bit for your country!"

"D'you mean to call me a slacker?"

"Certainly not, but it's no use ostriching about things. You either went and picked strawberries, or you didn't"

"You know I wasn't allowed to go! You mean wretch!"

"I know nothing at all about it."

"Well, I've told you a dozen times."

"I really can't listen, child, to all the things you tell me!"

"Then I shan't take the trouble to speak to you again!"

With Ardiune and Morvyth on terms of distant iciness, Valentine and Katherine constantly sparring over trifles, Fauvette preserving an att.i.tude of martyred dignity, and Aveline, out of sheer perversity, striking up a friends.h.i.+p with Maudie Heywood, matters were not very brisk in the Fifth.

"I'm getting just about fed up with you all!" said Raymonde irritably. "I never saw such a set! How can we have any fun, when everybody's grousing with everyone else? For goodness' sake, buck up!

I've a blossomy idea in my head! Yes, I have, honest!"

Signs of interest manifested themselves on the faces of her companions. Raymonde's ideas were always worth listening to. Aveline stopped yawning, Morvyth desisted from kicking her geography book round the floor, and Fauvette snapped the clasp of her bracelet, and sat bolt upright.

"We're hanging upon your words, if you'll condescend to explain, O Queen!" she vouchsafed.

Raymonde bowed, with heels together and hands back, like the star of a pierrot troupe.

"Don't mens.h.!.+ Glad to do my bit!" she replied. "Well, my notion's this. It's the b.u.mble's birthday on Friday!"