Chapter THE TENTH: The Breach Widens (2)

"Miss Cockran will tell you anything she wishes, when she has time to see you," was her final answer to Sally's frequent entreaties, and the girl's heart sank.

Left to herself, she lay and brooded over Trina Morrison's remark that, were they to run away and be caught, they would not be allowed to provide the school with even a few minutes' peep-show.

"I suppose it means expulsion," she told herself--and longed to know if Peter had escaped detection. It was maddening to think that when she did see Miss Cockran she could not inquire after her for fear of arousing suspicion.

It was a very sulky girl, outwardly calm, but really a good deal shaken, who faced her interview with the Headmistress. The account she gave of her adventures was of the barest.

"I heard there was a Fair--and I wanted to go. So I got out of the house and went: and as I was coming away, some boys were illtreating the puppy--and afterwards he followed me."

"Haven't you missed out that you fought the boys?" asked Miss Cockran quietly.

Sally flushed. Something had kept her from her usual boasting: indeed, when she remembered the fight, her feeling was rather of shame than pride.

"I put up a simply rotten show," she muttered.

"You fought pluckily, at any rate--and in a good cause. I am proud of that."

The girl found the tears rising to her eyes at this praise, and her sullenness began to vanish.

"I ... I'm sorry about the rest now--I wasn't before ... but ... it's been horrible at school, and I didn't care----"

"You wanted to be expelled, you mean?"

Sally crumpled the edge of the counterpane between her hot hands.

"I did at one time. I'm not doing any good here that I can see."

"You have a good form record--top every week, I think. On the other hand, I hear you are untidy in the dormitory, and often rude to Matron, and Decima Pillditch."

There was no answer for some minutes, and then the girl said:

"I like the class work--it's interesting--I could do stiffer stuff."

"I know. You would have been moved up next term."

Sally's heart sank at that "would have been."

"Are you going to expel me?" she demanded suddenly.

Miss Cockran had been sitting very still on her chair beside the bed; but now she rose, and after looking down at the girl with her clear grey eyes for a few seconds, turned and paced the room.

"I don't know, Sally," she said, stopping at last. "Frankly, I can't decide. I hate expelling girls. It means such a stain on their career for always, and you are so young to start with that. Yet what you have done is quite impossible, and fully deserves the worst punishment school life knows."

Sally had begun to grow sulky again, and almost involuntarily her usual formula of disdain sprang to her lips:

"I don't care----"

The Headmistress had walked to the window, and was looking out, but she wheeled sharply as she caught the words.

"Do you mean it, child? If so, there is, of course, nothing more to be said--you will leave directly your foot is well enough, and not come back here. But have you thought what expulsion stands for?"

"I've only been here one term, and..."

"Yes--one term--and that will be the end of your school life, at any rate, in England, I fear. Other schools will not be anxious to take you. Is it because you preferred home work so much, and living with your family, that you have done this reckless thing?"

There was so much real anxiety in Miss Cockran's voice as she asked the question, and her eyes, though grave, were so kind, that Sally felt the last of her outposts of defiance break down. At the same moment, she caught a vision of the schoolroom at home, and the boredom of lessons alone there, for all the years, until she grew up.

"It wasn't true, what I said just now," she burst out suddenly. "I do care--the other girls are hateful to me, and I'm very unpopular; but I like the work and the games, when I'm given a chance at them. I'd like to get a scholarship, and go on to College--Oxford--I know I could do it."

Miss Cockran nodded as if she understood.

"Then why ... why this mad escapade?" she said at last; "I don't understand."

Sally flushed a deep red. It seemed as if Trina Morrison's share in the adventure was not known, and she, at least, had come back all right, undetected. Her spirits rose at the thought.

"It was just ... just silliness----" she said at last. "I do mad things sometimes."

"Ah," said the Headmistress, "just silliness, ... and it might have wrecked your life. If I had thought it deliberate naughtiness, and not, well--just silliness--I would have had no hesitation in thinking it my duty to expel you. A school cannot be run without discipline, any more than a ship."

Sally shifted her bad foot uncomfortably. She hated apologies, and usually skimmed over them as airily as possible; but something told her that nothing but complete submission would be of any use on this occasion. With a great effort, she forced herself to look Miss Cockran in the face as she spoke.

"I ... I'm really sorry, and would like to stay, if you'll have me--and I'll try to keep straight--keep the rules, I mean--in future. And ... and I don't think it will do the discipline any harm if I stop, because everyone hates me so much that I couldn't have persuaded them to go to the Fair with me, even if I had wanted to--I mean, I'm not a bad influence--I'm just no influence at all."

In spite of herself, the Headmistress smiled at the last part of this confession.

"Poor Sally," she said. "There's a lot to learn at school besides lessons, isn't there?"

"No one gives me a chance ... they all hate me ... and----"

Miss Cockran put up her hand.

"Hush, Sally--think very carefully before you speak when you begin to say anything like that. Just remember this--that I am going to give you a chance now--suppose you give the others a chance next term."

She bent, kissed the girl and went quickly from the room.

CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH

AUTOLYCUS

Sally Brendan saw no one belonging to the school during the remainder of her convalescence except Miss Cockran occasionally, and once Miss Castle, who came to tea with her. It was a red-letter afternoon, for Sally had been allowed up for the first time, with a crutch under her arm, to take the weight off her injured foot, and was able to establish herself in a cosy armchair in the window, from which she could command a view of the distant lodge and drive.

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:

"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.