Part 8

Down below, she could see some of the convalescents from measles walking arm in arm, or playing crazy croquet, on a lawn that was all bumps and slopes. The sound of good-natured squabbling, interspersed with many giggles and shouts, rose continuously; but though bored by her own society, the girl made no attempt to follow what was happening, or to attract attention. Rather, she pulled the curtain slightly forward so as to leave herself in the shadow.

A glance had told her that Peter, at any rate, had not found her way to the sanatorium group, and there was no one else in the school in whom she took the faintest interest: besides, when she hobbled across the room, she had passed a looking-glass, and, though vanity formed no part of Sally's conceit, the sight had given her something of a shock.

Her head might speak to a phrenologist in bumps of brains and determination, but to the ordinary observer it was, at the present moment, frankly ugly, with the short hair, that should have crowned it in curls, cut roughly, in odd, shaggy lengths. The injured eye was no longer swollen, but still rainbow-coloured; in fact, as Sally honestly told herself, she was a figure of fun, and when Miss Castle entered the room she looked up anxiously to detect a smile.

The smile was there; but it was friendly--not malicious--and Sally quickly forgot all about her own appearance when she saw the second visitor. For the moment she scarcely recognised the dirty cowering mongrel she had rescued in the well-brushed, rather self-assertive puppy who hurled himself on her knee and began frantically to lick her face.

"Why, he's quite handsome," she said, and Miss Castle laughed.

"I've told them so in the Common Room, but they won't believe me--except Miss Cockran--and she quotes, 'handsome is as handsome does,' because he caught a rat in the cellar last night."

"Oh, did he?--the angel! He is an angel dog, isn't he, Miss Castle?"

"I haven't found his wings yet--I fear he is a thief and a rascal--but he is a very attractive rascal, and has made me take more exercise in the last few days than in all the rest of the term, Sally."

Sally looked up quickly: she was amusing the puppy with the end of her dressing-gown tassel, and as she tried to prevent him from barking she said anxiously:

"Miss Castle, what is going to happen to him? I have not been allowed to get letters, or write home, but I know I can make Mother keep him, if I take him back with me; though if I ask her through the post my sister Cecilia will tell her to say 'No.' You see we have two dogs already."

"I sympathise with Cecilia, three dogs are too many in most houses."

"Well, you see, there are the boys and I who can always exercise them."

"Perhaps--in the holidays--but what about term time?"

Sally looked a little sulky. People always saw Cecilia's point of view: she was so dreadfully reasonable.

"Still, I shall take him home, all the same," she said obstinately. "When you rescue someone like that you can't just shut him out of your life, and forget him, as if he came to you in an ordinary way."

"No--I see that."

Miss Castle was sitting in the window seat and had drawn the puppy down on her knee, with her hand over his nose to make him be quiet.

"What do you say to his stopping here?" she added.

"Oh, Miss Castle! ... What, in school?"

"No, Sally, I don't mean that. Why, if one girl started a pet we should have a menagerie--cats, rabbits, tortoises and monkeys--Oh, Heaven forbid!"

Sally laughed, in spite of her anxiety.

"Well, I don't understand, then. Matron wouldn't have him in the san.: she's much too particular. The other day she told me cats were nasty dirty things that carried infection."

"I expect Miss Cockran would keep him, if you liked to give him to her."

"Miss Cockran?"

Miss Castle threw back her head and laughed at the open-eyed astonishment with which her suggestion was received.

"Oh, Sally, you girls are funny sometimes. Do you think mistresses are a race apart with no ordinary affections and weaknesses?"

The girl got very red.

"No, of course not--at least, I suppose not. You are quite different, at any rate. But Miss Cockran looks ... oh, and Miss Cheeseman, you know ... well, not silly, like us."

As she floundered, trying to find the words she wanted, Miss Castle, bending to kiss the puppy, who lay sprawled across her knee, examined her with twinkling eyes.

"I'm glad I'm silly," she said at last; and then as the girl began to expostulate indignantly that she hadn't meant that, of course, the other stopped her:

"I know what you mean, so don't apologise or explain--just remember it's not always safe to judge people by their appearances--Autolycus, for instance...."

"Auto!--what? Do you mean the puppy?"

"Yes--I have christened him that because he was picked up at a Fair, and there's no doubt he's a rascal--Shakespeare met, or invented, a gentleman of that name who was a pedlar, habitually attending Fairs. Anyhow, we'll call him 'Tolly' for short, except at School Commemoration."

"And Miss Cockran says he may stay here?"

"Yes--she is even prepared to adopt him, if you will pass on the ownership. You see, about a year ago she had a Yorkshire terrier, 'Gyp,' whom she loved very much, and he was lost down a rabbit burrow. She says she never meant to have another dog, because she suffered so much when 'Gyp' disappeared; but 'Tolly' seems to have been sent to her, and he's very fond of her already."

"How splendid!"

"Yes--we are all fond of him. Even Miss Cheeseman will be converted to him in time, I hope, though she doesn't really care about animals."

"She wouldn't," muttered Sally, who disliked the thin, dark, rather precise little mistress, who was second in command at Seascape House, and took her Form in English Composition.

Miss Castle appeared not to hear this remark, unless the slight puckering of her brows showed she was displeased at it.

"I'm going to take Tolly away now," she said, "or he will begin to eat the cushions; but I will come back for some tea in about half-an-hour."

"Oh, thank you, Miss Castle--it's awfully decent of you."

They had a very jolly tea, and discussed everything except Seascape House: such topics as County Cricket, Napoleon's character, haunted houses, and even how to make stick-jaw toffee.

"I think I'll have a toffee party next term," said Miss Castle as she rose to go; "and you shall come and be kitchen-maid."

"May I be taster-in-chief as well, please?"

"Ah, I don't know about that. There will be so much competition for the office, I shall have to hold an examination, I expect, and charge an entrance fee."

She bent and kissed Sally as she spoke, and stood looking down at her for a minute, before she went.

"You will try to make friends here next term, won't you, child? It's the great thing that comes out of school life, I always think."

"But I have friends here," said the girl; "one at least and she is splendid."

After Miss Castle had gone she pulled out a pencil and block from under her pillow, and went on with the long letter she had been writing to Trina Morrison ever since her eye had been well enough to let her look continuously at the paper.

She intended to post this as soon as she had left Seascape House; not before--since she was afraid of drawing attention to any connection between herself and the elder girl which might involve the latter in her disgrace. To some nine or ten pages written earlier in the week she now added five or six more in praise of Miss Castle, and, more doubtfully, of Miss Cockran.

Peter had not admired Old Cocaine. She said she was stuffy and inhuman, like a mummy in the British Museum, that had dried up years ago, and ought to be kept on a shelf.

"But you see she is human, after all," wrote Sally, as she told about the Yorkshire terrier and the adoption of Autolycus.

In the end, the letter was so long that Sally had to ask Matron for a large envelope, pretending that she wanted it to hold part of a story that she was writing; and when she had got this, she addressed it to Trina at her uncle's house, with "Please Forward" in the corner.

It was very nearly holiday time now, and all who had had measles before, and seemed in no danger of getting it again, were sent home early, along with the convalescents.

Seascape House became quieter and quieter, save for the barking of Autolycus, who nearly wore himself out chasing sea-gulls, or hunting wildly for rabbits, amongst the furze bushes along the top of the cliff. He had to be washed twice a week by the indignant Jakes, who pretended that he would like to put a rope round his neck, attached to a big boulder, and sink him in the sea.

"He won't be allowed to do it, will he?" said Sally anxiously to Miss Cockran, when she went to say good-bye, just before starting for home.

"Certainly not! Autolycus is the school watch-dog. I am going to trust him to see no one comes in or out after dark."

Was there a twinkle in the grey eyes? Sally was not sure, and felt uncomfortable under their scrutiny.

"Good-bye," she said gruffly. "And ... and I'm sorry, you know, about it all----"

"That's all right. We start fresh next term, child-- Don't think of what's behind you, but of what's in front. And for goodness' sake, don't go and play tennis on that foot of yours, or do anything foolish for the next six weeks."

She shook hands briskly, and Sally hobbled out to the taxi in which Matron was taking her to the station. Her first term at Seascape House was over.

CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH

WILL SHE COME?

"Sally has improved in many ways--and I don't think, Cecilia, you are being quite fair to her when you complain she is so troublesome."

Mrs. Brendan spoke plaintively. Like many another mother, she wished her daughters agreed better, but did not know how to make them do so. During the term, Cecilia had been sweet-tempered and apparently happy; now, since Sally's return, she was continually ruffled and even snappy--so that the atmosphere of the house had become quite tense.

"There is nothing much to choose between Sally and the boys," went on their mother. "They all expect to do exactly what they like, in the holidays," and she sighed for the selfishness of youth.

"Oh, the boys!" broke in Cecilia impatiently; "that's quite different."

She did not explain, perhaps she did not realise, that the difference lay in her own attitude towards them. She had long ago ceased to try to control her brothers, but Sally's case was another matter. Cecilia felt she should behave at home like a junior at school in the presence of a senior, and if Seascape House could not teach her this elementary piece of manners in the course of a term it had certainly failed in its task.

"I expect the school is not what it used to be when I was there," she continued, jumping from the subject of the boys to what was chiefly occupying her mind, and heedless of the fact that schools, like newspapers, never are what they used to be.

"Why, in my time, no kid of Sally's age would think of cheeking an elder girl, or of speaking to her in the way she does to me."

"You continually find fault with her, Cecilia."

"It would be continuous, if I were to point out even half her sins. That foot of hers, she was told to rest--what care does she take of it? Miss Cockran ordered her to avoid tennis, and all she says is, 'Well, I am doing that,' and then goes and rushes madly round at 'Bumble-Puppy' with Roger."

"She is very fond of Roger."

"She is even fonder of herself, little wretch! ... I suppose she had a shocking report? We have never heard exactly what she did to twist her ankle; but it was over some piece of mischief."

"It was not a very good report, I fear, except for her work--but Miss Cockran says she has promised to do better next term, and that other mistress she likes--Miss Castle--writes that her behaviour was good in form."

Cecilia snorted. "It's my belief, from what she has let drop, that she was very nearly expelled."

At this moment Roger appeared with rather an anxious expression on his round and usually cheerful face.

"Sally has gone and jammed her foot again. She says it's nothing, but even leaning on my arm, I could hardly get her into the drawing room."

"I told you so," said Cecilia triumphantly, as Mrs. Brendan rose from her chair and hastened to the house.

"And you are jolly glad she has done it, aren't you?" said Roger, in an angry voice, as he turned to go. "You've changed into a nice sort of cad since you stuck your hair up, Cissy."

He flew off, leaving Cecilia with the tears smarting in her eyes--tears of self-pity at the way in which she was misunderstood.

"Mother has no idea how trying Sally can be," she told herself, and perhaps Mrs. Brendan had not. What she realised was that Sally had altered very considerably during the weeks she had been at school. She was distinctly less cocksure and talkative--restless, in a nervous, rather than an energetic sense--and with little of her old careless joy in the mere fact of being alive.

It was as if she were on the defensive the whole time against criticism she dreaded, whereas criticism before had made little or no lasting impression.

In those days, her frequent "I don't care!" had rung true, while now, it was obviously bravado.

"She is unhappy," said the mother to herself, but Sally was in no mood to make confidences. She felt it would be impossible to tell anyone, even Roger or Miss Castle, how Trina Morrison's silence had hurt her. Surely she could have sent a line--even a mere note--to say she was sorry about the sprained ankle, and that she was looking forward to next term?

"Rotten luck!" said Roger sympathetically, as he caught sight of his sister's expression. They were seated in the schoolroom, to whose couch Sally had been banished, to rest the ankle, swollen again after its new twist. For the moment, as their eyes met, she thought of confiding in him what was really paining her.

He knew a little about Peter's adventures, and had condescended to be quite thrilled over their daring; but when it came to the point, she could not bring herself to do it. Roger could understand a damaged foot, but the idea of a broken heart, as Sally conceived her own to be at the moment, would seem to him mere "girl's gush."

"Yes--it is rotten," she said. "But, of course, I shouldn't have played 'Bumble-Puppy.' I never meant to--only Cecilia went on at me so about our hopping race on the lawn before breakfast, and then I felt I must do something worse."

Roger nodded.

"Cissy is a grandmother, but you do rag her rather a lot, you know. If I cheeked Bob like that he'd black my eye."

"Oh, shut up about Cissy, can't you?"

Sally was furious in a minute at the implied reproof, and Roger, with a noble effort at keeping the peace, walked to the window with his hands in his pockets and stared out in silence.

"What shall we do this afternoon, Sal?" he said, at last. "Look here, I'll go to the village and get some grub, and we'll have a brew of toffee on my Tommy cooker."

Sally shook her head.

"It's the Cartwrights' tennis party, and Cissy is driving the motor over."

"Well, Bob and Fraser can go--I don't want to, a bit. There'll probably be tons of grown-ups and nothing for us to do."

(Fraser was a school friend of the elder brother, stopping with the Brendans for part of his holidays.)

Sally's heart warmed to Roger in a sudden glow of affection. He had just bought a new tennis racquet, and she knew he was secretly longing to use it.

Hadn't Fraser, who was nearly seventeen, and quite "hot stuff" in the tennis line, said he had improved a lot lately?

"Nonsense!" she said sharply. "Of course you'll go. Why, I have all the new library books--and writing of my own to do too. I am always so thankful I can amuse myself."

"Honest Injun--do you mean it?"

Roger's expression was very doubtful. Condemned to half-an-hour of his own society, he would have welcomed a little conversation, even with the vicar, on cuneiform writing. On the other hand, he did want to play tennis at the Cartwrights' very badly. They had three courts, and, apart from the tennis, their teas were good, while the people they collected were usually an amusing crowd. It was bad luck for Sally not being able to go, of course, but if she didn't really mind being left, he would enjoy it.

His eyes told his sister what was passing in his thoughts, and she laughed as she said:

"No--I don't really mind a bit--in fact, your staying here would only make my foot feel worse; so don't be an ass, but go, and when you come back I'll want to know all about everybody."

"Rather--and I'll bring you an ice in my pocket."

He grinned cheerfully, and hurried off to change into his flannels.

Sally tried her best not to mind, as, her lunch over, she watched the motor disappear down the drive, with Roger waving his racquet in farewell from the dicky.

"After all, as Cecilia says, it's my own fault," she muttered with a grimace, and read novels until she fell asleep, to dream that she was riding Autolycus on a merry-go-round, with a clown pulling at her foot to make her pay sixpence.

"But he's my own dog," she expostulated, and found it was tea-time, and her mother was lighting up the kettle.

"So after I'd been to the bank," said Mrs. Brendan, who had evidently been talking for some minutes, "I called on those new people--the Meyers--and as they were out, and the vicarage was so close, I dropped in there for a little chat."

"If I gave you sixpence for every time you went to the village without dropping in at the vicarage, you wouldn't be very rich."

Mrs. Brendan laughed deprecatingly.

"I know you don't like Mrs. Musgrave, my dear, but her old age suits mine, and we have always plenty to talk about. Who do you think is arriving to-night to stop with her, by the way?"

"A black missionary," said Sally crossly.

"No," said Mrs. Brendan, "I don't think they have ever had a really black man--there was one from Borneo who was very dark.... I remember once, but----"

"Well, who was it, then--a yellow one?"

Sally knew she was being rude, but with an aching foot and head she felt thoroughly bored, and out of sorts.

"No, of course not, dear, but that young cousin of hers--the girl at Seascape House--Violet Tremson. I said I couldn't remember your mentioning her name very much in your letters."

Sally laughed rather bitterly, and pushed her cup across the table.

"Violet Goody-goody," she said. "No thanks, she's not in my line. Quite as dull as any missionary. She ought to suit the Musgraves."

"Sally!"

Mrs. Brendan's tone was so indignant that her daughter was driven to say "Sorry." Then, with a shrug, she returned to her novel-reading, and the silence was scarcely broken till the tennis party appeared.

Roger was in high spirits. His racquet had played splendidly, and he and a girl called "Bouncer,"--he thought her right name was Barbara Something-or-other--had got five games in a set against Fraser and Miss Cartwright.

Sally listened wearily for a quarter of an hour to a detailed account of each stroke, and then said she was going to bed.

"I'll give you an arm to your room," said Roger affably. And then, "Oh, snakes! I nearly forgot. That girl--what's her name,--you told me of, was there."

"What girl what's-her-name?"

"Peter--you know--Morrison, wasn't she? The Bouncer kid she came with called her Trina, and it wasn't till we were nearly going I twigged who she must be."

"What, Peter Morrison at the party? And you mean to say you didn't speak to her?"

Sally's eyes were shining now with mingled anguish and excitement.

"Keep your hair on--that's just what I did. It took some nerve too, for she was playing mostly with the grown-ups. Fraser had one set with her, and was fearfully 'smit'; but he said she wasn't much use at the game--more with her eyes, you know."

"Then he's an ass--for she's awfully good when she chooses."

"Perhaps she didn't choose. Anyhow, I'm only quoting what Fraser said; but the point is that I nerved myself up, walked over to her, and said--'I say---I think my sister's at school with you?' and she drawled, 'Was she?"

"Yes--she would--she often drawls--she doesn't mean anything by it."

Roger laughed.

"You bet she does, sometimes. Awfully cheeky ass she made me feel--then I said, 'Her name's Sally Brendan, and she's got red hair.'"

"You didn't? How could you, Roger? And what did she say?"

"Goodness! do let me get it out. She laughed, then looked quite friendly, and said--'Had red hair, you mean, or has it grown again already?' Then we both laughed, and..."

"And didn't you ask her to come and see me, you cuckoo?"

"Course I did, though she's stopping with the Bouncer kid, whose people we don't know--they live right over t'other side of Clinton. Anyhow, I said you were laid up, or you would have been at the party, and that you'd like it no end, if she'd turn up."

"And what did she say?"

"Oh, usual stuff about being ever so sorry for you, and, of course, she'd come if she could; but she had only a couple of nights more before she went home, and the Bouncer lot were being hideously active about planning dances and things."

"And didn't you pin her down for any day or time?"

"How could I, kid?--I jolly well did my best, but the Bouncer youth--he's at Sandhurst--would keep telling her the car was ready, and glancing at me as if I were a grasshopper he'd like to stamp on. And Cecilia was shrieking at me across the drive, to buck me up--In the end, your Peter friend said, 'Your sister's calling you, isn't she?' so I had to toddle."

Sally clasped her hands together to hide that they were trembling.

"Of course she'll turn up some time," she said. "To-morrow I expect."

"Yes," said Roger, stoutly, "of course---bet your boots she will!" But his tone lacked any real conviction.

CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH

DISILLUSIONMENT

Sally waited indoors all the next day, her eyes almost glued to the schoolroom windows, from which she could watch the drive. Part of the time she pretended she was interested in the motor bike which Bob and Fraser had brought from the local shop, and were testing as a possible purchase. Roger and the mechanic stood on the grass at the edge of the gravel sweep, and gave their opinion at intervals; and when it seemed important enough, Roger would shout comments to his sister, using his hands as a megaphone.

"Some day we'll have one, Sally, and go touring," he said enthusiastically, when he appeared at last, to get ready for lunch, his hands black with oil.

"That thing down there is no earthly--not properly geared, and only a two-stroke--but I have my eye on just the right sort of fellow--brand new too, and quite cheap--just look here." And he produced a well-thumbed paper out of his pocket.

Sally read the advertisement and studied the diagrams languidly. At the minute she had no wish to ride a motor cycle and admitted as much, when Roger at last took her to task for not listening to him.

"A Rolls Royce, or an ambulance car would be more in my line," she said gloomily, to which her brother responded:

"Rotten luck, old girl, I know, but cheer up."

"Why should I?" demanded his sister, sulkily; and Roger, looking awkward, scratched his head with an oily hand.

"Oh, I don't know, but grousing doesn't help things," he blurted out at last, to the rage of Sally, who had believed herself rather heroic in concealing her depression.

"Do get out, and leave me in peace," she said, and Roger went.

After tea they were reconciled, and played card games until Sally decided that she was tired, and would have her supper in bed, as she had done the night before. This time she said nothing about Trina Morrison, when she wished her brother good-night, and he stood fidgeting awkwardly in the doorway, before he at last volunteered: