Part 4

"Why, behind, of course; that is, if she is not afraid of your driving. Let me introduce Miss Sally Brendan--my cousin, Austin Ferrars, who has nearly killed us. Sally was trudging into Parchester to buy me some chocolates, so I brought her here instead, as I know you always have a supply."

"One of your slaves, eh?" he half-whispered, lifting his eyebrows and smiling; and Sally, who overheard him, found her heart beating fast, as she listened for Trina's answer. Yesterday she would have been furious at the insinuation, but now she waited for an acknowledgement, even, of her existence.

The answer was, as usual, unexpected.

"No--not my slave--merely a friend," Peter said smoothly. Then, "Do get in quick, kid--we shall only have about half-an-hour we can stop, as it is."

It seemed to Sally that the car flew over the ground, and soon they were the centre of a group of people drawn from the neighbouring tennis court by the honk of the motor as it slowed up in front of a low ivy-covered house. On all sides there were exclamations of astonishment, and some mild scoldings from an elderly lady, whom Trina called "Aunt Edith."

"Why, child, I don't understand this. I only got a note this morning saying that you were unable to come."

"That was dictated by Miss Cockran. This is my own answer."

There was a roar of laughter from the younger members of the party at this impudent assurance; but Aunt Edith shook her head.

"I am always glad to see you, Trina, as you know; but I don't always approve of your behaviour," she said, with some severity--on which her niece put her arms round her and kissed her.

"Love me, even if you don't approve of me," she said lightly, and then to Austin--"What about some chocolates?"

She disappeared after him into the house; and Sally, who had dismounted from the car, was left standing forlornly in the drive, until an old gentleman took pity on her and suggested that she might like some tea.

She agreed, and was soon seated near the tennis court, enjoying iced cake and strawberries and cream.

"So you are a pair of runaways?" said the old gentleman at last, fixing his pince-nez, and staring down at the girl beside him.

"Yes--you see it's so dull at school. Peter, that is Trina, you know, had been growing bored stiff this term, and I'm just the same."

"H'm! Trina is a very wild girl, I'm afraid."

There was condemnation in his tone, and Sally answered indignantly, "She is an absolutely wonderful person--you couldn't expect her to behave like ordinary people."

She did not realise that it was almost the first time she had praised anyone else whole-heartedly and without condescension; she only knew her anger was rising steadily as her companion continued with a shrug:

"Oh, she has charm all right, I grant you--but she's selfish, confoundedly selfish--so if you haven't found it out already, be warned, my dear, by one who has known her since she was a baby."

"She isn't selfish--not a scrap. Why, she wouldn't let me go into Parchester this afternoon and buy her chocolates."

The old gentleman smiled at the vehemence of this reply.

"Dear me! Dear me! Wouldn't she let you do that?" he murmured. "It was very thoughtful of her;" then added drily, "but she seems to have got some chocolates--all the same."

As he spoke, Trina Morrison appeared on the tennis lawn with her cousin and some of the other young members of the party. She was munching sweets out of a box and talking excitedly. Sally thought how pretty she was, and admired the ease with which she parried the jokes of the teasing group round her.

"A flying visit, I fear, Uncle Tom," she said, coming up to the old man. "Austin is going to run me back in his car."

"By rights I should go too, and inform Miss Cockran that we have been no party to your misdeeds."

His tone was grim, but his niece merely laughed.

"Dear Uncle Tom," she said lightly, "picture your awful half-hour, while Old Cocaine told you my faults, till you rose in righteous anger at an attack on the family and defended me. Besides, you wouldn't be a spoil-sport."

He turned away with an impatient movement, as Austin broke in eagerly:

"Dad thinks as we do--that it's jolly plucky of you. But, I say, must you go yet?"

"I'm afraid so. Lend me your big coat, do--and I will drive. Good-bye, Uncle Tom--good-bye, Aunt Edith. Next time I'll come for a night, if you will arrange a dance."

Sally thought that the grown-ups near her were not exactly pleased at this casual farewell. Indeed, one lady said discontentedly, "Why, it's too bad!--Austin going off again like that. He promised to make up a set directly he returned from the station."

"He seems to have forgotten that," returned someone else. But by this time Sally was running over the lawn, towards the car, whose engine had begun to throb.

"Aren't you going to take me?" she called; and those standing round laughed--including Trina, who answered calmly:

"Of course, but I had forgotten you for the moment, kid. Here, hop in behind, and have some chocolates."

"She had better put on this coat."

It was Uncle Tom speaking, and as he helped the young girl into its ample folds, he whispered, with a jerk of his hand towards the driving-seat--"Don't trust her too much, child, or she may lead you into Queer Street."

"She landed me here," said Sally coolly; and in spite of the shock caused by this rejoinder, Uncle Tom burst out laughing.

"Bless me! I believe you can look after yourself all right, and I needn't have worried," he said, as he slammed the door; and he turned back into the house without waiting to watch them go.

CHAPTER THE SEVENTH

PENALTIES

"What was it Uncle Tom said to you just now?" asked Trina sharply, as they turned a corner of the drive that shut out the house from view; and when Sally told her of his warning and her own rejoinder, she laughed so much that the car swerved, and nearly carried away a gate-post at the end of the drive.

"Poor old Bean!" she said. "Did you hear that, Austin? He must have had the shock of his life."

Her cousin, who was trying to take the steering-wheel from her, did not look altogether amused.

"Cheeky little beast!" he murmured. And then louder, "Here! stop it, Trina, and let me drive. You have forgotten all I taught you last holidays, and are just carrying on like a madman."

"Don't be so fussy and old-maidish. I am quite all right, and anyhow, if we did graze the gate, it wants painting badly enough."

"You idiot! It is my new car that matters--not a silly gate-post. Here, do move----"

"'J'y suis--j'y reste'--Don't play the grandmother--I could drive quite well if you wouldn't keep interfering."

With this, they began a quarrel that lasted pleasantly enough, for they laughed most of the time, until the school wall appeared in the distance. Sally, munching chocolates on her back seat, was quite content to be forgotten, though her heart sank a little when she thought of the dangers that lay ahead. At this minute, when she had gained the friend she wished, expulsion did not seem so glorious as a few hours ago, and she wondered at Trina's unconcern. That was manifest, even when the car at last slowed down in a lane that bordered the school grounds.

"There, stop beneath that tree; it's my usual ladder," said the elder girl. "If you bend your shoulders, Austin, I can clamber up on them, and pull myself easily on to the wall."

She suited her actions to her words, and was soon seated on the top, peering mischievously down through the branches.

"Now lift up the kid," she commanded; and Sally felt herself swung off her feet, then grasped from above, and hoisted, until she rested securely beside her companion--clasping the chocolate box.

When they had wriggled out of their coats, and flung them back into the car, Austin stood up and bowed.

"I envy you your interview with Old Cocaine, my ladies," he said, grinning, "and remember, Trina, if you get the chuck, we can always house you for a bit."

"Thanks awfully--Uncle Tom and Aunt Edith would so love to have me, wouldn't they? But anyhow, there won't be any 'Come into my study' business on this occasion. Sally and I have merely been walking in the grounds, so wrapped in heart-to-heart conversation, that we forgot all about supper--including plum-and-apple jam--wonderful illustration of friendship, isn't it, Sally-kid?"

Sally laughed, a little uncomfortably. The motor disappeared, and they had scrambled down the tree into the grounds, when she ventured to say at last:

"All the same, Peter, you know that sort of tale won't be believed if we are caught--and I suppose we are sure to be--with prefects poking their noses everywhere for somebody to report."

"My child, when you have played truant as often as I have you will know there is a science in getting caught. In this case, as soon as we are out of the garden, I go round to the junior play-room, and enter boldly by the window."

"That's simply walking into the lions' den."

"Yes, silly; but the point is--choose your lion. There will be Poppy Bristow in charge of the kids until they go to bed; she told me so."

"Oh!" said Sally, with sudden understanding. "You mean that, even though she is a prefect, she won't dare to report you?"

Trina laughed--a rather unpleasant laugh, that had a good deal of malice in it.

"Poppy is head of my dormitory, and I see she runs it all right, and gets her sleep--and she leaves me alone in return. Poppy loves her Peter," she added, and then, "Come on, kid; be bold and resolute, and follow me."

They crossed the empty gardens in silence, only halting once to hide their caps in a thick bush.

"Fetch them to-morrow," whispered the elder girl; "and we had better leave the chocolate box as well. Stuff your pockets with those that remain--there will be no other evidence that we have been outside the place."

It was still light; but the blinds were down in the mistresses' quarters, and the girls stole across the grass undiscovered, until they came to the junior play-room. Here, the window was open, and pulling the blind aside, Trina peered within.

"Fat Poppy is there all right," she said, "so now is the hour to strike;" and flinging up the sash, she scrambled over the low sill and into the room, followed by Sally.

"Hullo! my Poppet," she began cheerfully. "Can we lend a hand with the kids?"

The prefect gave a start, and put down the book that she had been reading. Her fat puffy face became anxious, rather morose, and she frowned.

"You were neither of you at supper," she said, with an obvious effort to be dignified and severe. "Where have you been?"

"Talking sweet nothings with Sally, in the garden--so sweet, we even forgot the plum-and-apple jam."

The little girls who had gathered round giggled. They all admired Peter immensely for her daring; besides, she petted them, when she remembered, and gave them smuggled sweets.

Poppy Bristow flushed.

"It sounds unlikely," she said.

"Do you mean that I'm a liar?"

All the carelessness in Trina Morrison's voice had vanished: instead, there was a cold fury that would have deceived Sally herself unless she had known it was a clever piece of acting. At once it placed her accuser in the wrong, and Poppy, backing towards the fire-place, stammered--

"Of c-course not, Peter, I didn't mean that."

"Then what do you mean?"

"I mean ... mean it's very wr-wrong of you to stay out so late, and ... and all that sort of thing. Edith Seymour was taking supper, and she noticed you weren't there."

"Oh, she did, did she?"

"Yes,--and she said if she c-caught you, she'd report you to Miss C-Cockran."

"And I suppose you said at once, 'You are q-quite right, Edith,' and all that sort of thing?"

Trina mimicked the prefect's stammer and vagueness so cleverly that all the juniors laughed; while Poppy Bristow's naturally red face, that had won her her nickname, flushed even more deeply.

"Be quiet, Peter," she said, with a desperate attempt at dignity and confidence. "You shouldn't talk to a prefect like that."

"All right, old dear; I'm sorry." Trina's tone was suddenly conciliatory. "But I do hate you just imitating a stiff old poker like Edith Seymour. In a public school, prefects should act on their own responsibility; not be always confessing their weakness by reporting to the staff--and you can usually follow a line of your own, too--at least I thought so."

Poppy Bristow smiled, and looked important.

"If you hadn't tried to be funny over things I never said," she returned, "I would have told you that that was very nearly the answer I made to Edith."

"Good for you! Well, what are you going to do? ... put us in gaol, eh?"

Trina slipped her arm into Sally's and laughed. "We will own up that we have sinned, won't we, kid? But it's a temptation to linger out of doors on a summer night."

"Rather!" said Sally. "We are frightfully sorry, of course." But she could not keep a tinge of cheerful impudence out of her voice, and Poppy Bristow scowled at her as she said hesitatingly:

"You had better do some lines, and let me have them by Wednesday--Tennyson's Idylls--let me see--say 700."

"My good Poppy!"

Trina looked extremely injured as she added:

"Why, I have an Algebra paper, and an essay on Cromwell, and..."

"Well, 300 lines, each of you," said the prefect hurriedly, "and if I don't get them by Wednesday, of course I shall have to report you to Miss Cockran."

"Right oh! Your will is law; but I do think you are a hard old flint. Still, it's something to have a prefect that knows her own mind."

If there was a gleam of mockery in Trina Morrison's eyes, her tone did not betray her as she turned away, with Sally following at her heels.

In the passage the two girls ran into Edith Seymour, who called to them to stop when they tried to push by her.

"Where have you been, Peter?" she said sharply; "you were not at supper."

"In the garden, but we have just reported to Poppy Bristow."

"Has she sent you to Miss Cockran?"

"That's her business, isn't it? She was made a prefect the same time as you."

Edith Seymour bit her lip. Like all the elder girls who cared for school discipline, she disliked Trina Morrison.

"I shall speak to Poppy," she said briefly.

Sally clutched her friend's arm when they were left alone. "I say, you were splendid, Peter. But won't Poppy give in to her and report us after all? Edith Seymour has such a much stronger will."

Again Trina uttered her malicious little laugh. "I don't think so, kid. You see Poppy has to sleep in my room, not with Edith Seymour. She hates quarrelling with me; besides, I have put her back up about taking advice, and she is as vain as a peacock, if you stir her up the right way."

"What do you think will happen, then?"

"A row between Poppy and Edith, of course, and meanwhile, we shall escape. I have done this sort of thing before, my child, and it is risks like these that keep school life from becoming unutterably boring."

Sally's eyes gleamed. This was a point of view that, at the moment, won her whole-hearted admiration and assent.

"You are splendid," she repeated; and then, tentatively, "I say, Peter, if you do this sort of thing again, you will let me join in, won't you?"

"Perhaps--I can't say."

"Oh, Peter, do ... please ... I would like most awfully to be your friend, and will never give you away--and you will let me write all the lines for us both, won't you? I can imitate your hand quite easily, if I take time, I really can."

Trina laughed, her musical jolly laugh.

"Well, I don't mind, if it would give you any pleasure. I never refuse a good offer."

"And you will be my friend?"

"Perhaps, if you will only hustle, and grow up a bit--and not talk about yourself. I simply couldn't stand that. Why, it's more boring than school."

Her eyes had a teasing smile, but Sally did not fly into her usual rage.

"I'll try," she said humbly. "It has been a simply scrumptious day, you know."

Trina bent and kissed her carelessly. "And yet we haven't astonished the school--nor bowled the Borley Second Eleven," she said mockingly.

"I had forgotten all about the match," answered the younger girl simply; but as she climbed the stairs to her room she was rather astonished at herself all the same. That morning, the match and its postponement had occupied her entire thoughts.

CHAPTER THE EIGHTH

A RIFT IN THE LUTE

It was the Tuesday evening after the adventures of the last chapter; and the Lower Fifth was holding what it called an "Indignation Meeting" under the line of oaks that bordered the cricket field. (It is the way of Lower Fifths to adopt such excitable measures to express their feelings, while Upper Fifth and Sixth stroll by in dignified contempt, and Juniors stand at a distance and wish they were able to join in the discussion, or had thought of holding a "pow-wow" themselves.)

"Only three cases of measles--one of them scarcely a bit spotty, so Matron says--and yet here we all are shut up like lepers for the whole summer."

"Last Saturday's Second Eleven match cancelled, and now next Saturday's First Eleven! You bet there will be no half-term leave, or fête. I can't see it's worth while going to school at all."

"Simply rotten sport! Look here, let us insist that those who have had measles are not lepers, and can go anywhere they ordinarily would have, in any decently managed term."

"Rather! and if not, we will all go on strike."

"Oh, do let's! Strikers always win--my father says so."

"Whom do you intend to strike first? Cocaine? And if so, what with?--A bath sponge?"

It was Peter speaking now, from under the shade of a big hat, and there was contempt mingled with amusement in her lazy voice.

"Oh, Peter darling!--so you have woken up at last. Do tell us what you did on Saturday; something awful, I'm quite sure."

The Lower Fifth, uncertain how to proceed with a strike from any practical standpoint, was quite glad to change the subject.

As Mabel Gosson took her friend by the arm and shook her gently to elicit an answer to her question, another of the Form broke in with:

"There was a fiendish row, I know, between Poppy and Edith Seymour, as soon as the Juniors had gone to bed; and then they had another kick-up at the prefects' meeting yesterday. I heard Poppy was heavily censured: or whatever committees do, when they are sick with anyone. I saw Poppy afterwards, and she was mad with you, Peter ... said it was all your fault, and she wished you would leave."

"Kind of her! I'm sure. It is I who ought to be in tears, 300 lines of 'Morte d'Arthur' for my sins."

"And you have done them already?"

Trina Morrison took off her hat, and flapped it at her questioner.

"My friend, am I not always a slave to duty? Rest assured that they will be done. I think I may safely say that Little Arthur's barge has pushed off from the bulrushes towards Avilion, by now."

"Yes--but it is not you who are pushing the barge, but Sally Brendan."

There was much criticism in Violet Tremson's tone; and criticism of Peter's actions was so rare in the Lower Fifth that Trina raised her eyebrows while the rest stared.

"My good child, why be a purist? Did I lay claim to be the moving spirit?"

"No--but you didn't say, either, that Sally wasn't able to go to cricket yesterday, or to-day, because she is doing your lines, as well as her own. Doris Forbes is mad with her; and thinks she doesn't bother to turn up and practise, because there are no matches. If she loses her place in the Second Eleven, it will be your fault."

Violet Tremson was on her feet now, her usually calm eyes bright with indignation; but Trina merely shrugged her shoulders and settled herself more comfortably against her tree.

"Sally the Martyr," she said pleasantly. "Such a shy gentle soul, that she always needs mothering and persuading to make her do what she wishes."

Everyone laughed, except Violet, who made an impatient movement with her foot.

"I wish you would leave her alone, Peter. You are not playing fair by her--messing up her chances at cricket, etc."

At this point there was a general shout of "Oh, shut up, Violet. What business is it of yours?" And then Sally appeared, very inky and rather breathless.

"Just look, Peter," she said, producing some sheets of closely written foolscap, and pressing them into Trina's hand. "I don't believe anyone but a Scotland Yard detective could see the difference between them and the lines you gave me."

The elder girl sat up, and after examining them carelessly, patted the younger on the back.

"You will have to look out, kid, or if the habit grows on you it will be a case of spending your days in prison for forgery."

"Then you do think them awfully good, don't you?"

Sally couldn't resist angling for further praise. She wished she had not done so, as she met Peter's mocking glance.

"Oh, they are certainly good enough to take in an ass like Poppy; if no one here has an attack of conscience, and gives the show away."

Cries of--"Of course we won't, Peter--Rather not!" arose on all sides.

Sally stood shifting from one leg to the other, her face sullen. No one had taken any notice of her, or looked at her handiwork, except Peter, who had not even thanked her. All her pride rose in arms.

"I think it's a frightfully good copy, myself," she said at last, defiantly.

"I wouldn't go so far as that," retorted Trina calmly; "you have scarcely done the dots over my 'i's' justice, for instance, or the fashionable curve of my 's'. Still, I daresay it's quite a good effort for a youngster." And she yawned.

There was a roar of laughter that made Sally go hot with rage.

"If the lines are not good enough for you, I won't ask you to make use of them," she said furiously.

Trina Morrison's eyes had closed; but now she half-opened them languidly, and her voice, when she spoke, had a cold edge to it.

"Take them back if you want," she said curtly, "and clear out, do." There was silence while Sally stood, her hands clenched, fighting a battle between her pride and newly proffered loyalty. Were pride to conquer, she knew it would be an end of all friendship between herself and Peter; and could she bear this? There was entreaty in the glance with which she looked at last at the elder girl, but the other's eyes were shut again, and she realised there was to be no half-way house of mercy.

"I ... I don't want the lines, Peter. You know I did them for you."

The words were so halting--her voice so humble--that she hardly recognised it. Now, perhaps, Trina would speak a few words of thanks, but she did not; and after a fresh tussle with her pride, that urged her to pick up the foolscap and tear it into little pieces, Sally left it on the grass, and, turning on her heel, walked away across the playing-fields.

"I suppose they are all jeering at me," she told herself miserably. "Now they will despise me as soft, besides hating me." With difficulty she choked back tears, and hurried along, that she might not catch the echo of Fifth Form laughter. Had she known it, the group she had left, instead of laughing at her, was quite silent, until Violet Tremson said:

"You are a prize beast, Peter."

And though Mabel Gosson told her to shut up, and not be a prig, and someone else muttered, "It will do the little ass good to be taken down a peg," no one looked quite comfortable about it.

Trina Morrison might be a joy to the Lower Fifth, but even her admirers did not always understand her.

"Of course she has her nasty side; most people have," they would explain her lapses from their ordinary code; and perhaps part of her fascination lay in the uncertainty of what she would do and say on different occasions.

Now she made no visible effort to combat criticism, or justify herself. As the school-house bell rang, she got up leisurely and gathered the lines from "Morte d'Arthur" together.