Part 9

"She--Peter, you know--said there were races to-day in the Clinton direction. I expect she would have to go to them. Staying with people like that she would have to do what they did, wouldn't she?"

"Yes," answered Sally, in a hard voice. And then again, as an evident bar to further conversation, "Good-night."

"Most likely she'll come to-morrow. Anyhow, so long, kid," and Roger vanished.

To-morrow came, and sped on its way, and there was no sign of Trina Morrison. Sally's foot was better, but she looked so white and depressed that Mrs. Brendan became quite anxious.

"I know she has something on her mind. I do wish she would confide in me," she said to Cecilia, who sniffed rather indignantly.

"Well, Sally doesn't talk to me--only to Roger--and he is like a hedgehog these days--it's no use asking him anything. Anyhow, let us go for a family picnic this afternoon in the car, and insist on Sally coming. Bob and Fraser can carry her downstairs, though she could really manage quite well with her stick."

"I'll talk to her," said Mrs. Brendan, her face brightening; but Sally refused even to consider the idea.

"I'm much happier here. I won't be done good to by Cecilia--I do wish people would leave me alone."

"Much the best thing to do," growled Bob, who was not so sympathetic to Sally these holidays as usual. "If we took Miss Whine-and-Pine, she would probably turn the milk sour."

"Shut up," muttered Roger, and Mrs. Brendan told him not to be unkind; but the situation by this time was past mending. Sally, when pressed once more by her mother to go in order to please her, became not only angry, but defiant.

"I shan't stir from the house, and I wish you'd all clear out and leave me," she said. "It's simply sickening the way one can never get away from one's family."

"Sally!" Mrs. Brendan was really hurt, but could win no apology. Her daughter's shoulder remained turned to her, while there was sulky silence.

"Come away, Mother," said Bob. "There ought to be a limit to what even you'll stand from Sally," and he drew her out of the room after firing the parting shot at his sister, that "tons of people had their legs cut off in the War and never made the fuss she did over a twisted ankle."

"It isn't only her ankle, ass," said Roger--and would have remained behind to give some comfort but for Sally's expression. There were times when she was best left alone, and this was evidently one of them.

Getting on his bicycle, he rode to the village, and in the sweet-shop where he was buying chocolate almonds, Sally's favourite delicacy at the minute, he encountered Mrs. Musgrave.

"They aren't all for me," he muttered, scenting criticism in her glance at the large bag. "They're for Sally--she's laid up, you know."

"H'm ... invalid diet, I suppose?"

The twinkle in her eye contradicted her grim manner: for Mrs. Musgrave liked boys, and discovered a belated sense of humour when talking to them.

Roger got very red, as he answered gruffly, "It's nothing wrong with her inside--no disease, I mean. Just she has twisted her ankle again."

"Oh, poor Sally!" Mrs. Musgrave no longer bore her a grudge now that she had been sent to school on her advice: and then she called out, "Come here, Violet--this is Sally Brendan's brother Roger. I expect she has mentioned him to you."

"I don't think she has, but I'm glad to see him."

The introduction to Violet Tremson was made, and Roger, after the first blush, proffered his bag of almonds, and became quite confidential as they walked to the door munching. "Sally's off colour a lot, you know," he said unhappily. "I can't tell what's wrong--some school row--and she doesn't seem to have hit it off there--I mean--not to have many friends, exactly...."

"No, not very many."

The tone was non-committal, but the smile that accompanied it friendly and encouraging.

Mrs. Musgrave was deep in conversation with a parishioner about a choral practice, and Roger, after a quick glance at her over his shoulder, went on:

"Sally's a decent kid. She talks an awful lot--but any amount she doesn't mean--and underneath she's as sporting as anything."

"I know," said Violet Tremson.

Roger beamed. "I thought you would when I saw you. Perhaps you'll be looking in on her? We've got a family picnic this afternoon, and she can't come--at least, she doesn't want to. Her foot is giving her awful pain, and besides----"

He stopped, hesitating whether he should mention Trina Morrison, but decided not to do so. For one thing, he could only remember her as Peter, and felt it would be cheek for him to refer to anyone so grown up, by a nickname. Violet Tremson was also hesitating.

"You know, I don't think Sally would want to see me."

"Oh, what rot! It would cheer her up."

At this moment Mrs. Musgrave turned in their direction, and he said hastily, "Have another almond choc., do." As Violet Tremson helped herself, she murmured:

"Don't say anything to Sally about meeting me, will you?"

"Right oh!"

He looked rather surprised, and stared after her and Mrs. Musgrave as they went down the street. Girls were queer creatures and he didn't understand them--not even Sally. At any rate, he liked this one better than Peter-what-was-her-name, in spite of her fine clothes and scent, and if Peter didn't turn up--(he was ready to bet his boots she wouldn't)--this Violet might do instead.

After all, they both belonged to Seascape House, and could talk its "shop" to Sally--which was probably what she wanted.

His face grew smiling, as he pedalled slowly home on his bicycle, considering the matter, and priding himself on his tact.

Sally was astonished when the afternoon came, and he did not offer to stop with her. He was never very keen on family picnics, and she made certain that he would insist on keeping her company, if merely to annoy Cecilia. On the whole, she was relieved when she heard he was going, and Mrs. Brendan as well.

"Thank Heaven, I shall have the house to myself," she said, loud enough for Bob to hear, to which he responded amiably:

"The absent household won't miss you, my good kid."

She did not sit up on her couch to watch the motor disappear down the drive, but settled herself amongst her cushions instead, to write a poem, which bore a strong resemblance to one of Henley's that she had just been reading, about "an unconquerable soul." It was not even a good imitation, she was honest enough to admit when she read it through at tea-time, and tearing it in half she lay face downwards on her cushions and surrendered to self-pity.

Miss Castle had said friendship was what really counted at school, and here was a friendship wrecked--the only thing which had mattered to her life.

"Miss Sally--there's a young lady wants to speak to you--shall I show her up?"

Sally sat up with a start, threw the rug off her couch and tried to smooth down her shaggy hair.

"A young lady? What's her name? Where is she?"

"In the drawing-room, miss--and she didn't say who she was--only that she thought you'd know."

"Of course! Of course!--give me my crutch, Amy."

Amy tried to expostulate. "I'm sure you oughtn't to go downstairs with that bad ankle. What the Mistress will say---- But," as she added afterwards to the kitchen, "I might just as well have spoken to a whirlwind for all the notice she took."

Her crutch under her arm, Sally cleared the space to the door in a few quick jumps, and was soon fumbling her way down the stairs. On the last step she slipped, and had to lean her weight for a moment on her bad foot. The pain made her wince and catch her breath, but a few minutes later, as she entered the drawing-room, she was smiling.

"I knew you would come, Peter," she said, and then stopped dead, because it was not Peter, but Violet Tremson.

"You?" she said, her voice trembling.

"Yes, Sally--I saw your brother to-day, and he said you were laid up."

"He had no business to mention me to you. Why have you come? What do you want?"

Violet Tremson's quick colour came and went. "I haven't come to steal the silver," she said, laughing a little uneasily. Then abruptly, "Do sit down, Sally, you oughtn't to be standing--let me help you," and she went over.

"Don't touch me," said Sally fiercely. "I never asked you to come. Why do you pursue me in that horrible sort of way? Can't you take an answer when it's given you? I told you on the cricket pitch I never wanted to speak to you again."

Violet had gloves in her hand, and she measured them against the edge of her jumper before she spoke--very deliberately:

"I'm sorry. You were angry that day--and I knew Trina had put you against me--I hate keeping up a grudge, so I thought----"

"Even keeping up a grudge against Peter?" broke in Sally, with a sneer.

"Yes--even against Peter," said the other tranquilly, "I don't mind her now she's gone."

"Gone? What do you mean?"

Violet Tremson had been walking to the door: now she paused.

"Didn't you hear?" she said. "How odd--I--I thought you were together that night. She went to a dance, and stayed away, so she has been expelled."

For a minute she thought Sally was going to fall, but as she took a step towards her, the younger girl pulled herself together and caught at a bookcase for support.

"And you--you goody-goody, I suppose you went to Miss Cockran and told her what a lot of harm Peter was doing directly the row came out--like the sneak you are?"

"Sally, be careful what you're saying."

"Well, did you go to Miss Cockran after the row?"

"Yes--but only----"

"Shut up! That's enough--and get out. I don't want to hear any more. You are the most unspeakable cad, and if you have got any pride, you will leave me alone after this."

Violet Tremson was nearly as white as Sally, and, for a second, her usually smiling mouth was twisted with a very ugly expression.

"I think I have enough pride for that," she said quietly, and stooped to pick up one of the gloves she had dropped. Then she walked out of the room with her back held very straight, and Sally heard the front door close with a jerk behind her.

"I hate her! I hate her! How dared she come!" she said to herself, crouching down in one of the armchairs, but in her heart she was not sure if she did not hate Peter most.

So that explained things--Peter was expelled. She knew she would not see Sally at Seascape House any more, and therefore she had not bothered--even to write a postcard. She had just put their whole friendship out of her life as something that no longer counted. It had been the easiest thing to do, and Peter's comfort had, as always, dictated the line of least resistance.

"Confoundedly selfish," that was what her Uncle Tom had called her, and it was true after all.

"I won't think of her again--ever," said Sally passionately, and picking up her crutch, forced herself to go upstairs. She was very tired, and her foot was aching by the time she reached the schoolroom, but she went over to her desk and picked out the few mementoes she possessed of her friendship--a school snap-shot she had stolen from Mabel Gosson, a scrawled note, a caricature done of herself by Trina, in a schoolbook.

In the grate, she burnt them all, angry tears rolling down her cheeks.

When the picnic party returned, Sally was already in bed with her blinds drawn, and refused either to talk or to eat her supper.

CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH

THE NEW TERM

Sally spent a couple of weeks in bed after her interview with Violet Tremson, the renewed swelling of her ankle after her journey downstairs being aggravated by a fever, for which the doctor could not account. As soon as she was better, she was sent off, at his suggestion, to stay with her Uncle Frank and Aunt Antoinette in Brittany for a complete change of air and scene.

"But I don't want to go, so what's the use of sending me? I just want to be left alone," Sally had protested sullenly; but somehow, when she saw her uncle's smiling face at Cherbourg and realised that he knew nothing of the cause of her unhappiness, she began to forget it too, and felt comforted.

"Been overworking, have you, Miss Pale-face? So they have cut off your curls to give your brain air--was that it?" he demanded cheerily: and Aunt Antoinette, who had first of all cast glances of horror at her niece's shaggy head, became sympathetic, and offered to see what her maid and the local hairdresser could do towards improving matters.

They did a good deal, and by the time Sally arrived home just on the eve of her second school term, she no longer looked the shorn little ragamuffin of Parchester Fair. She had grown also, and though very thin, had lost something of the irresponsible elfin wildness of which Mrs. Musgrave had so strongly disapproved.

"You will be happier this term, won't you, darling?" asked her mother, a little anxiously, as they stood looking down on the already packed trunk on the last night of the holidays.

"Oh, yes!" said Sally, "I expect so."

Her tone was careless, but she did not meet Mrs. Brendan's eyes, until, hearing a sigh, she looked up suddenly, put her arms round her mother, and hugged her.

"I'm going to make this term a success," she said, almost fiercely. "Don't say anything to Cissy, but just remember that I mean to--whatever happens. I was nearly expelled last term, but this time I shan't run any risks. It's not good enough."

She laughed bitterly, and Mrs. Brendan kissed her. "My poor Sally," she said, "you take things so hardly."

Sally shrugged. "I did--but I shan't in future--I'll just go on in my own way. You know the Miller--'For I care for nobody--no not I--and nobody cares for me.'"

Again she laughed, and Mrs. Brendan looked a little more distressed.

"My dear, but one can't live to oneself only in this world," she began, when Sally cut her short:

"I can," she said impatiently, "and I mean to do it. As long as my work is up to the mark, and I keep the rules, as I intend, there's nothing you need worry about, is there? I won't disgrace you--or even Cecilia."

Once more she was Sally Cocksure--cool and defiant. But Mrs. Brendan, as she kissed her in silence, felt there was a subtle difference between her old attitude and her new. Before, she had been sure of the citadel of her own independence; now, she had learned that she would have to fight for its defence.

Lying in the dark, with her hands behind her head, Sally sang softly to herself that night, the lines she had taken as her motto:

"I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul."

Thinking of it made her eyes shine and her heart beat fast. It was splendid. It meant getting things done as one wanted, as Napoleon did, without being worried by qualms about other people's opinions. Napoleon was Sally's hero at this time, in contrast to Charles the Martyr, who, during the last term, had been the idol of her Form. She remembered with satisfaction how she had outraged public opinion by referring to him in an essay as "the man of straw."

"Strength is the only thing that really counts," she told herself, and the phrase pleased her so much that she repeated it next morning while dressing, and came down to breakfast whistling cheerfully. Fortified by her own courage, she said good-bye with great calmness to her mother at Clinton Station. She had utterly refused to allow Cecilia to go with her, and now she begged Mrs. Brendan to leave her as soon as she had taken her ticket and seen that her box was properly labelled.

"I loathe hanging about for last words, Mummy," she said. "You'll probably want to cry, and that will make me feel softy too--so do let us get it over here. There are crowds of Seascapers on the platform, so I shan't be stranded by myself, or anything."

"I thought I saw that girl--Mrs. Musgrave's niece, you know--I liked her when I met her that time you were in bed ill," and Mrs. Brendan looked round hopefully, but rather vaguely. She did not care for the idea of Sally travelling by herself.

"I daresay you did see her, and perhaps I shall run into her, but I'm not going to be left in her charge, or anyone's--so there!" Sally bumped her suit-case impatiently against a seat, but at that minute she saw Miss Castle in the distance, and hastily leaving her mother, made off.

"One of the mistresses--I'll be all right--so long!" she called out, and disappeared.

The porter, standing close by with her box, grinned.

"Don't you worry, ma'am, she'll be all right--I'll see she don't miss the train."

Mrs. Brendan, presenting him with a shilling, turned back slowly into the town; she remembered that she had some shopping to do for Cecilia. As she went, she sighed. Sally, in the meantime, had indeed run very hard into Violet Tremson, with her suit-case, because she was wondering where Miss Castle had gone, and looking over her shoulder to try to find her.

"Sorry," she said with a scowl, and encountered a cold stare that was so unlike her remembrance of Violet's tranquil friendliness that it made her feel uncomfortable. She could never recall exactly what she had said that evening in the drawing-room, for all she had thought about was her longing to find Peter; and then, when she was disappointed, a desire almost as strong had taken possession of her to hurt the immediate cause of her disappointment and make her suffer a little of her own pain.

"I don't care if I was beastly--do her good--interfering missionary!" she muttered, mindful of Trina's sneers, and came upon Miss Castle as she was seeing a couple of new girls into one of the carriages.

"Keep a corner seat there for me with a book," Sally heard her say, and running up to her, asked:

"Please, Miss Castle, may I get in with you too?"

"Why, Sally,--of course you can--climb in--how's the foot?"

"Better--but I mayn't play hockey this term. Isn't it a shame?"

She got in happily, and as she stood in the doorway, saw two scowling faces watching her. One belonged to Olive Parker, her old enemy of the Shrimps, and the other to a friend, Susy Cranstone, of the Upper Fourth, who had been one of the group that had ducked her in the sea. Susy, for the time being at any rate, "adored Miss Castle"--as she announced on every possible occasion. She had obviously wished to travel in the same carriage as her idol, but had not dared to ask the adored one's leave; and now there was no room for her, as besides Sally and the new girls, there were several quite small juniors giggling together at the far end.

"Silly ass!--why didn't she bag the seat, if she wanted it so much?" said Sally to herself, with great contempt, in her best Napoleonic manner--and settled herself ostentatiously opposite Miss Castle, by shifting a new girl--then fell to reading her magazines till the train started.

To her annoyance, when she arrived at Seascape House and went to take up her old quarters in room No. 9, she found she had been moved. Her cubicle was now in a bigger dormitory, A, on the top floor, at the end of a passage--and her next-door neighbour was no other than Susy Cranstone. Beyond Susy was Frisky Harrison, quite recovered from her last term's measles, and ready to live up to her nickname, to judge by the noise going on behind her curtains--where she was supposed to be unpacking.

"Can't you kids be quiet?" said a voice suddenly, and Poppy Bristow flounced into the room.

"What are you doing--standing about there?" she demanded of Sally, who answered coolly:

"Looking at you. I've only just turned up, and I'm not making a row."

This remark led to further noise and giggles behind the curtains, and Frisky Harrison pushed her head out between them.

"Ah, Poppy, darlint, have pity on me. Sure, isn't it the first day of term?"

(Frisky was not Irish, but she cultivated a brogue for humorous purposes.)

Poppy scowled. She did not seem to have come back in a good temper, and was certainly not amused on this occasion.

"Be quiet," she said. "I want everyone who sleeps in this room to come out here a minute."

There was something so truculent in her manner that complete silence fell, and in a minute Frisky Harrison and Susy Cranstone were standing beside Sally. They were joined by Violet Tremson, from the fourth cubicle in the corner.

"What is it?" said Violet.

Poppy's face cleared slightly. "Oh, I didn't know you were going to be here, Violet--it's these three kids I meant. Now listen, you three. I have got a 'single' at the end of the passage, and Miss Cockran has put me in charge of this room. She says she won't have any of the insub-sub-subordination there was last term, and if I have any trouble I am to report it at once--and I j-jolly well mean to--see?"

As she grew excited she began to stammer, but no one laughed--there was too much grim earnestness in her tone. "All right, Poppy--I didn't mean anything," muttered Frisky at last, in a weak voice; and she and Susy went back soberly behind their curtains. Violet Tremson had already disappeared. Sally was turning into her cubicle with a shrug when Poppy caught her by the shoulder.

"See here, kid--your precious friend has left, and I'll stand no cheek. You've not got a good name at headquarters, so you'd better be careful."

Sally met her glance without flinching. It was with a great effort of will that she prevented herself from smiling contemptuously as she would have liked to do.

"I haven't cheeked you yet, have I?" she asked quietly, and it was Poppy's eyes that fell before hers, as the prefect turned away.

"All the same, it will be difficult not to get into a row with her as monitress," Sally told herself, as she reflected complacently on the triumph of will that had kept her from giving Poppy a handle to abuse her.

How difficult it was going to be she had not yet realised.

CHAPTER THE EIGHTEENTH

THE BLOTTED ESSAY

Half the autumn term had gone, and Sally, though she did not mention it in her letters home, found that she disliked her life at Seascape House a great deal more than even when she had been a new girl. It was true that she had achieved her move into the Lower Fifth, where she sat, like an infant prodigy, among her elders; but the change was not to the throne of triumph which she had pictured in imagination.

Violet Tremson was head of the form, and kept her place by a narrow margin, above her friend, Doreen Priestly. It was only on occasions that Sally came third, more often she was fifth or sixth; and though at her age she should have been contented with this position, it did not satisfy her ambition to take the lead and dominate those around her.

What worried her most was that she could not understand her failure to achieve anything for which she worked. To her mother, she wrote that her new Form-mistress, "Old Cheeserings," disliked her; and though this was probably true--for Sally's manners were not endearing towards those whom she herself disliked--she knew in her heart that mutual lack of affection would make no difference in her marks.

The only other explanation was that Sally was still too young to achieve, with her usual ease and quickness of grasp, the standard of work in the Lower Fifth, and this she was not prepared to admit.

"Of course, it is difficult to play a lone hand," she wrote Roger, in a moment of expansion, when she longed for sympathy--even in her brother's almost illegible scrawl--and she added, "Still, you bet I hold some trumps, and will make the most tricks in the end."

She also put "Napoleon did," but crossed this out, for Napoleon had been beaten at Waterloo. He had trusted his friends--people like Bernadotte--and they had betrayed him.

Sally never meant to trust anyone at school again; but though she made no effort to win friends, she would have been glad of a group of admirers--however humble.