Title: The Princess of the School
Author: Brazil, Angela, 1868-1947
Language: English
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    THE PRINCESS OF THE SCHOOL
==================================
         By ANGELA BRAZIL
----------------------------------

            AUTHOR OF

"The Luckiest Girl in the School,"
"The Harum-Scarum Schoolgirl,"
"A Popular Schoolgirl,"
"The Head Girl at the Gables."


   Illustrated by Frank Wiles.
==================================
        A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers              New York


Published by arrangement with Frederick A. Stokes Company

Printed in U. S. A.


Copyright, 1920,
by FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY

All rights reserved

First published in the United States
 of America, 1921



Contents


CHAPTER                       PAGE

    I THE INGLETON FAMILY        1

   II A STOLEN JOY-RIDE         15

  III A VALENTINE PARTY         33

   IV DISINHERITED              50

    V THE NEW OWNER             61

   VI PRINCESS CARMEL           73

  VII AN OLD GREEK IDYLL        88

 VIII WOOD NYMPHS              100

   IX THE OPEN ROAD            114

    X A MEETING                129

   XI A SECRET SOCIETY         145

  XII WHITE MAGIC              157

 XIII THE MONEY-MAKERS         171

  XIV ALL IN A MIST            190

   XV ON THE HIGH SEAS         201

  XVI THE CASA BIANCA          215

 XVII SICILIAN COUSINS         229

XVIII A NIGHT OF ADVENTURE     242

  XIX AT PALERMO               261

   XX OLD ENGLAND              271

  XXI CARMEL'S KINGDOM         283



THE PRINCESS OF THE SCHOOL



CHAPTER I

The Ingleton Family


On a certain morning, just a week before Christmas, the little world of
school at Chilcombe Hall was awake and stirring at an unusually early
hour. Long before the slightest hint of dawn showed in the sky the lamps
were lighted in the corridors, maids were scuttling about, bringing in
breakfast, and Jones, the gardener, assisted by his eldest boy, a sturdy
grinning urchin of twelve, was beginning the process of carrying down
piles of hand-bags and hold-alls, and stacking them on a cart which was
waiting in the drive outside.

Miss Walters, dreading the Christmas rush on the railway, had determined
to take time by the forelock, and meant to pack off her pupils by the
first available trains, trusting they would most of them reach their
destinations before the overcrowding became a serious problem in the
traffic. The pupils themselves offered no objections to this early
start. The sooner they reached home and began the holidays, so much the
better from their point of view. It was fun to get up by lamp-light,
when the stars were still shining in the sky; fun to find that rules
were relaxed, and for once they might chatter and talk as they pleased;
fun to run unreproved along the passages, sing on the stairs, and twirl
one another round in an impromptu dance in the hall.

The particular occupants of the Blue Bedroom had been astir even before
the big bell clanged for rising, so they stole a march over rival
dormitories, performed their toilets, packed their hand-bags, strapped
their wraps, and proceeded downstairs to the dining-hall, where cups and
plates were just being laid upon the breakfast-table. It was quite
superfluous energy on the part of Lilias, Dulcie, Gowan, and Bertha, for
as a matter of fact not one of them was on the list of earliest
departures, but the excitement of the general exodus had awakened them
as absolutely as the advent of Santa Claus on Christmas mornings. They
stood round the newly-lighted fire, warming their hands, chatting, and
hailing fresh arrivals who hurried into the hall.

"You going by the 6.30, Edith? You lucker! My train doesn't start till
ten! I begged and implored Miss Walters to let me leave by the early
one, and wait at the junction, but she would not hear of it, so I've got
to stop here kicking my heels, and watch you others whisked away. Isn't
it a grisly shame?"

Gowan's round rosy face was drawn into a decided pout, and her blue eyes
were full of self-pity. She had to be sorry for her own grievance,
because nobody else had either time or much inclination to sympathize;
they were all far too much excited about their own concerns.

"Well, you'll get off sometime, I suppose," returned Edith airily.
"There are twelve of us, all going together as far as Colminster. We
mean to cram into one carriage if we can. Don't suppose the train will
be full, as it's so early. I thought you were coming with us, Bertha,
but Miss Hardy says you're not!"

"Dad changed his mind at the last minute, and promised to send the car
to fetch me. It's only forty miles by road, you know, though it takes
hours by the train. He seemed to think I should lose either myself or my
luggage at Sheasby Junction, and it is a horrid place to change. You
never can get hold of a porter, and you don't know which platform you'll
start from."

"How are you going home, Lilias?" asked Noreen, who with several other
girls had joined the group at the fire.

Lilias, squatting on the fender, stretching two cold hands towards the
blazing sticks, looked up brightly.

"We're riding! Astley and Elton are to fetch Rajah and Peri over for us.
Grandfather said they needed exercise. I don't suppose he'd have thought
of it, only Dulcie wrote to Cousin Clare and begged her to ask him.
Won't it be just splendiferous? We haven't had a ride the whole term,
and I'm pining to see Rajah!"

"Grandfather had promised to let us ride to school in September," put in
Dulcie, "but Everard and a friend of his commandeered the horses and
went to Rasebury, so we couldn't have them, and we were so disappointed.
I do hope nothing will happen to stop them this time! Everard was to
arrive home yesterday, so he'll be before us. I shan't ever be friends
with him again if he plays us such a mean trick!"

"It's 'coach--carriage--wheelbarrow--truck,' it seems to me, the way
we're all trotting home!" laughed Edith. "If I could have my choice, I'd
sprint on a scooter!"

"Next term we'll travel by private aeroplane, specially chartered!"
scoffed Noreen.

"I don't mind how I go, so long as I get off somehow!" chirped Truie.
"Thank goodness, here come the urns at last! I began to think breakfast
would never be ready. We want to have time to eat something before we
start."

Miss Walters' excellent arrangements had left ample time for the healthy
young appetites to be satisfied before the taxis arrived at the door to
convey the first contingent of pupils to the station. Sixteen girls,
under the escort of a mistress, took their departure in the highest of
spirits, packed as tightly as sardines, but managing to wave good-bys.
Their boxes had been dispatched the previous day, their hand-bags had
gone on by cart before breakfast and would be waiting for them at the
station, where Jones, that most useful factotum, would, by special
arrangement with the station-master, be taking their tickets before the
ordinary opening of the booking-office.

Though the departure of sixteen girls made somewhat of a clearance at
Chilcombe Hall, Miss Walters' labors were not yet over. There was a
train at eight and a train at ten, and the young people who had to wait
for these found it difficult to know how to employ the interval until it
was their turn to enter the taxis. By nine o'clock Lilias and Dulcie,
ready in their riding habits, were looking eagerly out of the
dining-hall window along the drive which led to the gate.

"I know Elton would be early," said Dulcie. "It's always Astley who
stops and fusses. It was the same when Everard went cub-hunting. You
don't think there's a hitch, do you?" (uneasily). "Shall we get a
horrid yellow envelope and a message to say 'Come by train'? It would be
_too_ bad, and yet, it's as likely as not!"

Dulcie's fears, which in the course of twenty minutes' waiting and
watching had almost conjured up the telegraph boy with his scarlet
bicycle and brown leather wallet, were suddenly dispelled, however, by a
brisk sound of trotting, and a moment later appeared the welcome sight
of her grandfather's two grooms riding up to the house, each leading a
spare horse by the rein. Those schoolfellows who had not yet departed to
the station came to the door to witness the interesting start. A sleek,
well-groomed horse is always a beautiful object, and the girls decided
unanimously that Lilias and Dulcie were lucky to be carried home in so
delightful a fashion. They watched them admiringly as they mounted.
Edith stroked Rajah's smooth neck as she said good-by to her friends.

"Riding beats motoring in my opinion," she vouchsafed, "though of course
you can go farther in a car. Perhaps I shall pass you on the road."

"No, you won't, for we're taking a short cut across country. We always
choose by-lanes if we can. Write and tell me if you get a motor-scooter.
They sound fearfully thrillsome. Good-by, see you again in January!"

"Good-by! and a merry Christmas to everybody!" added Dulcie, turning on
her saddle to wave a parting salute to those who were left behind on the
doorstep.

The two girls walked their horses down the drive, but once out on the
level road they trotted on briskly, with the grooms riding behind. They
formed quite a little cavalcade as they turned from the hard motor track
down the grassy lane where a dilapidated sign-post pointed to Ringfield
and Cheverley. It was a distance of seven good country miles from
Chilcombe Hall to Cheverley Chase, and, as the events of this story
center largely round Lilias and Dulcie, there will be ample time to
describe them while they are wending their way through the damp of the
misty December morning, up from the low-lying river level to the hill
country that stretched beyond.

Lilias was just sixteen, and very pretty, with gray eyes, fair hair, a
straight nose, and two bewitching dimples when she smiled. These dimples
were rather misleading, for they gave strangers the impression that
Lilias was humorous, which was entirely a mistake: it was Dulcie who was
the humorist in reality, Dulcie whose long lashes dropped over her shy
eyes, and who never could say a word for herself in public, though in
the society of intimate friends she could be amusing enough. Dulcie, at
fourteen, seemed years younger than Lilias; she did not wish to grow up
too soon, and thankfully tipped all responsibilities on to her elder
sister. Cousin Clare always said there were undiscovered depths in
Dulcie's character, but they were slow in development, and at present
she was a childish little person with a pink baby face, an affection for
fairy tales, and even a sneaking weakness for her discarded dolls. Life,
that to Lilias seemed a serious business, was a joyous venture to
Dulcie; she had a happy knack of shaking off the unpleasant things, and
throwing the utmost possible power of enjoyment into the nice ones. If
innocent happiness is the birthright of childhood, she clung to it
steadfastly, and had not yet exchanged it for the red pottage of worldly
wisdom.

Ever since Father and Mother, in the great disaster of the wreck of the
_Titanic_, had gone down together into the gray waters of the Atlantic,
the Ingleton children had lived with their grandfather, Mr. Leslie
Ingleton, at Cheverley Chase. There were six of them, Everard, Lilias,
Dulcie, Roland, Bevis, and Clifford, and as time passed on, and the
memory of that tragedy in mid-ocean grew faint, the Chase seemed as
entirely their home as if they had been born there. In Everard's
opinion, at any rate, it belonged to them, as it had always belonged to
the prospective heirs of the Ingleton family. And that family could
trace back through many centuries to days of civil wars and service for
king and country, to crusades and deeds of chivalry, and even to
far-away ancestors who gave counsel at Saxon Witenagemots. Norman keep
had succeeded wooden manor, and that in its turn had given place to a
Tudor dwelling, and both had finally merged into a long Georgian
mansion, with straight rows of windows and a classic porch, not so
picturesque as the older buildings, but very convenient and comfortable
from a modern point of view. The lovely gardens, with their clipped yew
hedges, were one of the sights of the neighborhood, and it was a family
satisfaction that the view from the terrace over park, wood, and stream
showed not a single acre of land that was not their own.

Mr. Leslie Ingleton, a fine type of the old-fashioned, kindly, but
autocratic English squire, belonged to a bygone generation, and found it
difficult to move with the march of the times. Because he had spent his
seventy-four years of life on the soil of Cheverley, the people
tolerated in "the ould squire" many things that they would not have
passed over in a younger man or a stranger. They shrugged their
shoulders and gave way to his well-meant tyranny, for man and boy,
everybody on the estate had experienced his kindness and realized his
good intentions towards his tenants.

"If he does fly off at a tangent, ten to one Miss Clare'll be down the
next day and set all straight again," was the general verdict on his
frequent outbursts.

Cheverley Chase would have been quite incomplete without Cousin Clare.
She was a second cousin of the Ingletons, who had come to tend
Grandmother in her last illness, and after her death had remained to
take charge of the household and the newly-arrived family of
grandchildren. She was one of those calm, quiet, big-souled women who in
the early centuries would have been a saint, and in mediæval times the
abbess of a nunnery, but happening to be born in the nineteenth century,
her mental outlook had a modern bias, and both her philanthropy and her
religious instincts had developed along the latest lines of thought. She
had schemes of her own for work in the world, but at present she was
doing the task that was nearest in helping to bring up the motherless
children who had been placed temporarily in her care. To manage this
rather turbulent crew, soothe the irascible old Squire, and keep the
general household in unity was a task that required unusual powers of
tact, and a capacity for administration and organization that was worthy
of a wider sphere. She might be described as the axle of the family
wheel, for she was the unobtrusive center around which everything
unconsciously revolved.

But by this time Lilias and Dulcie will have ridden up hill and down
dale, and will be turning Rajah and Peri in at the great wrought-iron
gates of Cheverley Chase, and trotting through the park, and up the
laurel-bordered carriage drive to the house. There was quite a big
welcome for them when they arrived. Everard had returned the day before
from Harrow, Roland was back from his preparatory school, and the two
little ones, Bevis and Clifford, had just said good-by for three weeks
to their nursery governess, and in consequence were in the wildest of
holiday spirits. There was a general family pilgrimage round the
premises to look at all the most cherished treasures, the horses, the
pigeons, the pet rabbits, the new puppies, the garden, and the woods
beyond the park; there were talks with the grooms and the keepers, and
plans for cutting evergreens and decorating both the house and the
village church in orthodox Christmas fashion.

"It's lovely to be at home again," sighed Lilias with satisfaction, as
the three elder ones sauntered back through the winding paths of the
terraced vegetable garden.

"And such a home, too!" exulted Dulcie.

"Rather!" agreed Everard. "That was exactly what was in my mind. The
first thing I thought when I looked out of the window this morning was:
'What a ripping place it is, and some day it will be all mine.'"

"Yours, Everard?"

"Why, of course. Who's else should it be? The Chase has always gone
strictly in the male line, and I'm the oldest grandson, so naturally I'm
the heir. It goes without saying!"

Dulcie's pink face was looking puzzled.

"Do you mean to say if Grandfather were to die, that everything would be
yours?" she asked. "Would you be the Squire?"

"I believe I'm called 'the young squire' already," replied Everard
airily.

"But what about the rest of us?" objected Dulcie.

"Oh, I'd look after you, of course! The heir always does something for
the younger ones. You needn't be afraid on that score!"

Everard's tone was magnanimous and patronizing in the extreme. He was
gazing at the house with an air of evident proprietorship. Dulcie, who
had never considered the question before, revolved it carefully in her
youthful brain for a moment or two; then she ventured a comment.

"Wouldn't it be fairer to divide it?"

"Nonsense, Dulcie!" put in Lilias. "You don't understand. Properties
like this are never divided. They always go, just as they are, to the
eldest son. You couldn't chop them up into pieces, or there'd be no
estate left."

"Couldn't one have the house and the other the wood, and another the
park?"

"Much good the house would do anybody without the estate to keep it up!"
grunted Everard. "Dulcie, you're an utter baby. I don't believe you ever
see farther than the end of your silly little nose. You may be glad
you've got a brother to take care of you."

"But haven't I as much right here as you?" persisted Dulcie obstinately.

"No, you haven't; the heir always has the best right to everything.
Cheer up! When the place is mine, I mean to have a ripping time here!
I'll make things hum, I can tell you--ask my friends down, and you girls
shall help to entertain. I've planned it all out. I suppose I shall have
to go to Cambridge first, but I'll enjoy myself there too--you bet! On
the whole I think I was born under a lucky star! Hallo! there goes
Astley; I want to speak to him."

Everard whistled to the groom, and ran down the garden, leaving his
sisters to return to the house. At seventeen he was a fair, handsome,
dashing sort of boy, of a type more common thirty years ago than at
present. He held closely to the old-fashioned ideas of privileges of
birth, and, according to modern notions, had contracted some false
ideals of life. He had lounged through school without attempting to
work, and was depending for all his future upon what should be left him
by the industry of others. All the same, in spite of his attitude of
"top dog" in the family, he was attractive, and inclined to be generous.
Like most boys of seventeen, he had reached the "swollen head" stage,
and imagined himself of vastly greater importance than he really was.
The sobriquet of "the young squire" pleased his fancy, and he meant to
live up to what he considered were the traditions of so distinguished a
title.



CHAPTER II

A Stolen Joy-ride


Christmas passed over at Cheverley Chase in good old-fashioned orthodox
mode. The young Ingletons, with plenty of evergreens to work upon,
performed prodigies in the way of decorations at church and home. They
distributed presents at a Christmas-tree for the children of tenants,
and turned up in a body to occupy the front seats at the annual New
Year's concert in the village. When the usual festivities were finished,
however, time hung a little heavy on their hands, and one particular
morning found them lounging about the breakfast-room in the especially
aggravating situation of not quite knowing what to do with themselves.

"It's too bad we can't have the horses to-day!" groused Dulcie. "I'd set
my heart on a ride, and I can't get on with my fancy work till I can go
to Balderton for some more silks."

"And I want some wool," proclaimed Lilias, stopping from a rather
unnecessary onslaught of poking at the fire. "There's never anything
fit to buy at this wretched little shop in the village!"

"Except bacon and kippers!" grinned Roland.

"I can't knit with kippers!"

"Fact is, we're all bored stiff!" drawled Everard from the sofa,
flinging away the book he was reading, and stretching his arms in the
luxury of a long-drawn yawn. "What should you say to a turn in the car?
Wouldn't it be rather sport, don't you think?"

"If Grandfather would spare Milner to take us!" said Lilias doubtfully.

"We don't want Milner. _I'll_ drive you! I can manage a car as well as
he can, any day. Don't get excited, you kids! _No_, Bevis, I shall
certainly _not_ allow you to try to drive! There's only going to be one
man at that job, and that's myself!"

"Shall we go and ask Grandfather?" suggested Dulcie.

"Right you are! No, not the whole of us," (as there was a general family
move). "Three's enough!"

So a deputation, consisting of Everard, Lilias, and Dulcie, promptly
presented themselves at the study door and tapped for admission. As
there was no reply to a second rap, they opened the door and walked into
the room. Grandfather was rather deaf, and sometimes, when he had
ignored a summons, he would say: "Well, why didn't you come in?" He was
generally to be found writing letters at this hour in the morning, but
to-day the revolving chair was empty. He had apparently begun his usual
correspondence, for his desk was littered with papers. Leaning up
against the ink-pot there was a photograph. The young people, who had
walked across the room towards the window, could not fail to notice it,
for it was tilted in such a prominent place that it at once attracted
their attention. It represented a very pretty dark-eyed young lady,
holding a baby on her lap, with a slight background of Greek columns.
The decidedly foreign look about it was justified by the photographer's
name in the corner: "Carlo Salviati, Palermo." Over the top was written
in ink, in a man's handwriting: "My wife and Leslie, from Tristram."

"Who is it?" asked Everard, gazing at the portrait with curiosity.
"She's rather decent looking. Never seen her here, though, that I can
remember!"

"It's a ducky little baby! But who is Tristram?" said Dulcie.

"We had an Uncle Tristram once," answered Lilias doubtfully.

"Why, but he died years and years ago, when we were all kids!" returned
Everard.

"I know. He was the only Tristram in the family, though. I can't
imagine who these two can be. Leslie, too! Why, that's Grandfather's
name! Was the baby christened after him?"

"We'll ask Cousin Clare sometime," said Dulcie, so interested that she
could scarcely tear herself away. "I really want to know most fearfully
who they are."

"Oh, don't bother about photos at present! Let's find Grandfather!"
urged Everard. "Perhaps he's gone down to the stables, or he may be in
the gun-room."

On further inquiry, however, they ascertained that a telegram had
arrived for Mr. Ingleton, on the receipt of which he had consulted Miss
Clare, had ordered the smaller car, and they had both been driven away
by Milner, the chauffeur, and were not expected back until seven or
eight o'clock in the evening. This was news indeed. For a whole day the
heads of the establishment would be absent, and the younger generation
had the place to themselves. For the next eight hours they could do
practically as they pleased.

Everard stood for a moment thinking. He did not reveal quite all that
passed through his mind, but the first instalment was sufficient for the
family.

"We'll get out the touring car, take some lunch with us, and have a
joy-ride."

Five delighted faces smiled their appreciation.

"Oh, Everard! Dare we?" Dulcie's objection was consciously faint.

"Why not? When Grandfather's away, I consider I've a right to take his
place and use the car if I want. I'm master here in his absence! I'll
make it all right with him; don't you girls alarm yourselves! Tear off
and put on your coats, and tell Atkins to pack us a basket of lunch, and
to put some coffee in the thermos flasks."

With Everard willing to assume the full responsibility the girls could
not resist such a tempting offer, while the younger boys were, of
course, only too ready to follow where their elders led. Elton, the
groom, made some slight demur when Everard went down to the motor-house
and began to get out the big touring-car, but the boy behaved with such
assurance that he concluded he must be acting with his grandfather's
permission. Moreover, Elton was in charge of the horses, and not the
cars, and Milner, the chauffeur, who might reasonably have raised
objections, was away driving his master.

The cook, who perhaps considered it was no business of hers to offer
remonstrances, and that the house would be quieter without the young
folks, hastily packed a picnic hamper and filled the thermos flasks. A
rejoicing crew carried them outside and stowed them in the car.

It seemed a delightful adventure to go off in this way entirely on
their own. There was some slight wrangling over seats, but Everard
settled it in his lofty fashion.

"You'll sit where I tell you. I'll have Lilias in front, and the rest of
you may pack in behind. If you don't like it, you can stop at home. No,
I'm not going to have you kids interfering here, so you needn't think
it."

Everard had been taught by the chauffeur to drive, and could manage a
car quite tolerably well. He possessed any amount of confidence, which
is a good or bad quality according to circumstances. He ran the large
touring "Daimler" successfully through the park, and turned her out at
the great iron gateway on to the highroad. Everybody was in the keenest
spirits. It was a lovely day, wonderfully mild for January, and the
sunshine was so pleasant that they hardly needed the thick fur rugs.
There seemed a hint of spring in the air; already hazel catkins hung
here and there in the hedgerows, thrushes and robins were singing
cheerily, and wayside cottages were covered with the blossom of the
yellow jessamine. It was a joy to spin along the good smooth highroad in
the luxurious car. Everard was a quick driver, and kept a pace which
sometimes exceeded the speed limit. Fortunately his brothers and sisters
were not nervous, or they might have held their breath as he dashed
round corners without sounding his horn, pelted down hills, and on
several occasions narrowly avoided colliding with farm carts. A reckless
boy of seventeen, without much previous experience, does not make the
most careful of motorists. As a matter of fact it was the first time
Master Everard had driven without the chauffeur at his elbow, and,
though he got on very well, his performance was not unattended with
risks.

Towards one o'clock the crew at the back began to clamor for lunch, and
to suggest a halt when some suitable spot should be reached. The
difficulty was to find a place, for they were driving so fast that by
the time the younger boys had called out the possibilities of some wood
or small quarry, the car had flown past, and, sooner than turn back,
Everard would say: "Oh, we'll stop somewhere else!"

By unanimous urging, however, he was at last persuaded to halt at a
picturesque little bridge in a sheltered hollow, where they had the
benefit of the sunshine and escaped the wind. A small brook wandered
below between green banks where autumn brambles still showed brown
leaves, and actually a shriveled blackberry or two remained. There was a
patch of grass by the roadside, and here Everard put the car, to be out
of reach of passing traffic, while its occupants spread the rugs on the
low wall of the bridge, and began to unpack their picnic baskets. Cook
had certainly done her best for them: there were ham sandwiches and
pieces of cold pie, and jam turnovers, and slices of cake, and some
apples and oranges, and plenty of hot coffee in the thermos flasks.

"It's ever so much nicer to have one's meals out-of-doors, even in
January!" declared Bevis, munching a damson tartlet, and dropping stones
into the brook below. "I believe it's warm enough to wade. That water
doesn't look cold, somehow!"

"No, you don't!" said Lilias briskly. "You needn't think, just because
Miss Mason isn't here, you can do all the mad things you like. It's no
use beginning to unlace your boots, for I shan't let you wade, or
Clifford either! The idea! In January!"

"Why not?" sulked Bevis. "I didn't ask _you_, Lilias. Everard won't say
no!"

"You can please yourselves," answered his eldest brother, "but _I'm_
going to take the car on now. If you stay and wade, you'll have to walk
home, that's all! I certainly shan't came back for you."

At so awful a threat the youngsters, who had really meant business where
the water was concerned, hurriedly relaced their boots, and ran to take
their places in the car; the girls finished packing the remains of the
picnic in the basket, and followed, and soon the engine was started
again, and they were once more flying along the road.

Everard had brought out the family for a joy-ride without any very
particular idea of where they were going, though he was steering
generally in the direction of the Cleland Hills. To his mind the chief
fun of the expedition lay in simply taking any road that looked
interesting, without regard to sign-posts. The others trusted implicitly
to his powers of path-finding, and had really not the slightest idea in
what part of the country they were traveling. After quite a long time,
however, it occurred to Lilias to ask where they were, and how long it
would take them to get home again.

"We've come such a roundabout route, I scarcely know," replied Everard.
"Those are the Cleland Hills in front of us, though, and if we bowl
straight ahead, and go over them, we shall get to Clacton Bridge; then
we can get the straight highroad back to Cheverley."

"We shan't be home before it's dark, though?"

"Well, no! But the head lights are working all right--I tried them
before we started."

"It will be fun to drive in the dark!" chuckled the boys behind.

"I hope we shall be back before Grandfather and Cousin Clare, though,"
said Dulcie a little uneasily.

The road over the Cleland Hills was much wilder than they expected, and
it was very stony and bad. Up and up they went till walls, hedges and
farms had disappeared, and only the lonely moor lay on either side of
the rough track. It was a place where no motorist in his senses would
have ventured to take a car, the extreme roughness of the road made
steering difficult, and the strain on the tires was enormous. Instead of
driving cautiously, Everard plunged along with all the hardihood of
youth, bumping anyhow over ruts and stones. They were just beyond the
brow of the hill when a loud bang, followed by a grinding sensation,
announced the bad news that one of their tires had burst.

"What beastly bad luck!" lamented Everard, getting out to inspect the
injured cover. "It might have had the decency to keep up till we had
reached civilization! Well, there's nothing for it but to put on the
spare tire. I've helped Milner to do it before, so I can manage. It's a
bother we left the spare wheel at home. I shall want some of you to help
me, though."

Everard had indeed rendered some assistance to the chauffeur on various
occasions, but it was quite another matter to perform the troublesome
operation of changing the tire with only two girls and three young
brothers to lend a hand. In their inexperienced enthusiasm, they did all
the wrong things, very nearly nipped the tube, mislaid the tools, and
pulled where they should have pushed. It was only after nearly an hour's
work that Everard at last managed to get the business finished. The
family, warm and excited, packed once more into the car.

"Well, I hope we shall have no more troubles now!" exclaimed Lilias, who
was growing tired and longing for home and tea. "What's the matter,
Everard?"

"Matter! Why, she won't start, that's all!"

Here was a predicament! Whether the bumping up the rough road had thrown
some delicate piece of mechanism out of gear, or the waiting in the cold
had cooled the engine, it was impossible to say, but nothing that
Everard could do would induce the car to start. He examined everything
which his rather limited knowledge of motorology suggested might be the
cause of the stoppage, but with no result. After half an hour's
tinkering, he was obliged ruefully to acknowledge himself utterly
baffled.

They were indeed in an extremely awkward situation, stranded on a wild
moor, probably sixty miles from home, and with the short winter's day
closing rapidly in.

"What _are_ we to do?" gasped Lilias, half-crying.

"We can't stay here all night!"

"Finish our prog and sleep in the car," suggested Roland.

"No, no! We should be frozen before morning."

"I think we'd better walk on while it's light enough to see," said
Everard. "We shall probably strike a highroad soon, and we'll stop some
motorist, ask for a lift to the nearest town, and stay all night at a
hotel."

"But what about the car?"

"We must just leave her to her fate. There's nothing else for it. I
don't suppose anybody will touch her up here. It can't be helped, any
way."

"Let's finish our prog before we set off!" persisted Roland, opening the
picnic basket.

The family was hungry again, so they readily set to work to dispose of
the remains of their lunch. It might be a long time before they were
within reach of their next meal, and they blessed Cook for having packed
a plentiful supply. Everard would not let them linger for more than a
few minutes.

"Hurry up, you kids!" he urged. "We don't know how far we may have to
go, and it will be getting dark soon. Thank goodness we shall be
walking down hill, at any rate."

[Illustration: "WHAT _ARE_ WE TO DO!" GASPED LILIAS]

After whisking along in the car, "Shanks's pony" seemed a very slow mode
of progress; their breakdown had happened in an out-of-the-way spot, and
it was more than an hour before they reached a highroad. It was almost
dark by that time, and matters seemed so desperate that Everard
determined to hail the very first passing motorist who seemed to be able
to help them. Fate brought along no handsome tourist car, but a rattling
motor-lorry, the driver of which stopped in answer to their united
shouts, and, after hearing of the difficulty they were in, consented to
give them a lift to the town, five miles away, for which he was bound.
Fortunately the lorry was empty, so the family thankfully climbed in,
and squatted on the floor, while Everard sat in front with the driver.

It was not a very aristocratic mode of conveyance for the heir of
Cheverley Chase, but Everard was in no mood to pick and choose just
then, and would have accepted a seat in a coal truck if necessary. As
for the younger ones, they enjoyed the fun of it. It was a very bumpy
performance to sit on the floor of the jolting wagon, but at any rate
infinitely preferable to walking.

Arrived in Bilstone, their cicerone drove them to a Commercial Hotel
with whose landlady he had some acquaintance, and that good dame, after
eyeing the party curiously, consented to make up beds for them for the
night.

"I've no private sitting-room to put you in, and I can't show these
young ladies into the commercial room," she objected; "but I'll have a
fire lighted in one of the bedrooms, and you can all have some tea up
there. Will that suit you?"

Lilias and Dulcie, catching a glimpse through an open door of the
company smoking in the commercial room, agreed thankfully, glad to find
some safe haven to which they could beat a retreat.

"I wonder what Cousin Clare would say?" they asked each other.

It was indeed an urgent matter to send some news of their whereabouts to
Cheverley Chase, where their absence must be causing much alarm. While
the landlady, therefore, ordered the tea, Everard went out to the public
telephone, asked for a trunk call, and rang up No. 169 Balderton. He
could hear relief in the voice of old Winder, who answered the
telephone. Everard was not anxious to enter into too many explanations,
so he simply said that they had had a breakdown, told the name of the
town and the hotel where they were staying, and suggested that Milner
should come over next morning to the rescue. On hearing his
Grandfather's voice, he promptly rang off. To-morrow would be quite
time enough, so he felt, for giving the history of their adventure. The
unpleasant interview might just as well be deferred, and he had no wish
to listen to explosions of anger over the telephone.

Tea, tinned salmon, plum and apple jam, and very indifferent bedrooms
were the best that the Commercial Hotel had to offer, but it was
infinitely better than being benighted on the moor. In spite of lack of
all toilet necessaries, the Ingletons slept peacefully, worn out with
their long day in the fresh air. Milner, the chauffeur, must have made
an early start, for he arrived at eleven o'clock next morning in the
small car, armed with his master's instructions. He paid the hotel bill,
chartered a taxi, in which he dispatched Lilias, Dulcie, Roland, Bevis
and Clifford, straight for home, then, engaging a mechanic from a
garage, and taking Everard as guide, he started up the hill in the
pouring rain to find the abandoned car. It needed several hours'
attention before it could be induced to start, and it was not until
evening that he was able to place it safely back in the motor-house at
Cheverley Chase.

Everard had expected his peppery grandfather to be angry, but he was
quite unprepared for the intensity of the storm which burst over his
head on his return.

"Your insolence goes beyond all bounds!" thundered Mr. Ingleton. "To
borrow my car without leave! And to take your sisters without a chaperon
to a fifth-rate public-house! You deserve horsewhipping for it! You
think yourself the young Squire, do you? And imagine you can do just
what you like here? While I'm above ground I'll have you to know _I'm_
master, and nobody else in this place!"

"I can't see it was anything so out of the way to take the kids a run in
the car, and I never meant to keep the girls out all night," replied
Everard defiantly. He had a temper as well as his grandfather, and the
pair had often been at loggerheads before.

"Indeed! There are ways of making people see! You can just go a little
too far sometimes!" declared the old gentleman sarcastically. "I've
given orders that you don't take either car out again unless Milner is
with you. So you understand?"

"I suppose I do," grunted Everard, turning sulkily away.

It was only a few days after this that Everard, Lilias, and Dulcie,
returning home across the park from a walk in the woods, met Mr. Bowden,
the family solicitor, who was riding down the drive from the Chase. He
stopped his motor-bicycle and got off to speak to them. They knew him
well, for he often came to the house to conduct their grandfather's
business, and he was indeed quite a favorite with them all. He looked at
Everard keenly when the first greetings were over.

"Been getting yourself into considerable hot water just lately, haven't
you?" he remarked.

Everard colored and frowned, then burst forth.

"Grandfather's quite too ridiculous! Why shouldn't I take out the car if
I want to? I can drive as well as Milner! He behaved as if I were a kid!
It's more than a fellow can stand sometimes! He likes to keep everything
tight in his own hands; at his age it's time he began to stand aside a
little and let _me_ look after things! I shall have to take charge of
the whole property some day, I suppose!"

Mr. Bowden was gazing at Everard with the noncommittal air often assumed
by lawyers.

"I wouldn't make too sure about that," he said slowly. "I suppose you
know your Uncle Tristram left a child? No! Well, he did, at any rate. I
must hurry on now. I've an appointment to keep at my office. A happy New
Year to you all. Good-by!"

And, starting his engine, he was off before they had time to reply.

"What does he mean?" asked Lilias, watching the retreating bicycle.
"Uncle Tristram has been dead for thirteen years! We never seem to have
heard anything about him!"

"What was that photo we saw on the study table?" queried Dulcie. "Don't
you remember--the lady and the baby, and it had written on it: 'My wife
and Leslie, from Tristram.'"

"I suppose it was Uncle Tristram's wife and child," replied Everard
thoughtfully. "He must have called the kid 'Leslie' after Grandfather.
They ought to have christened _me_ 'Leslie.' I can't think why they
didn't."

"Have we a cousin Leslie, then, whom we don't know?"

"I suppose we must have, somewhere!"

"How fearfully thrilling!"

"Um! I don't know that it's thrilling at all. It's the first I've heard
of it until to-day. I wish our father had been the eldest son, instead
of Uncle Tristram!"

"Why? What does it matter?"

"It may matter more than you think. You're a silly little goose, Dulcie,
and, as I often tell you, you never see farther than the end of your own
nose. Surely, after all these years, though, Grandfather _must_----"

"Must what?" asked Lilias curiously.

"Never you mind! Girls can't know everything!" snapped Everard, walking
on in front of his sisters with a look of unwonted worry upon his
usually careless and handsome young face.



CHAPTER III

A Valentine Party


Chilcombe Hall, where Lilias and Dulcie had been boarders for the last
two years, was an exceedingly nice school. It stood on a hill-side well
raised above the river, and behind it there was a little wood where
bulbs had been naturalized, and where, in their season, you might find
clumps of pure white snowdrops, sheets of glorious daffodils, and later
on lovely masses of the lily of the valley. In the garden all kinds of
sweet things seemed to be blooming the whole year round. Golden aconite
buds opened with the January term, and in a wild patch above the rockery
the delicious heliotrope-scented _Petasites fragrans_ blossomed to tempt
the bees which an hour's sunshine would bring forth from the hives,
scarlet _Pyrus japanica_ was trained along the wall under the front
windows, and early flowering cherry and almond blossoms made delicate
pink patches of color long before leaves were showing on the trees.

Beautiful surroundings in a school can be quite as important a part of
our education as the textbooks through which we toil. We are made up of
body, mind, and spirit, and the developing soul needs satisfying as much
as the physical or mental part of us. Long years afterwards, though we
utterly forget the lessons we may have learnt as children, we can still
vividly recall the effect of the afternoon sun streaming through the
fuchsia bush outside the open French window where we sat conning those
unremembered tasks. The lovely things of nature, assimilated half
unconsciously when we are young, equip us with a purity of heart and a
refinement of taste that should safeguard us later, and keep our
thoughts at a lofty level.

The "beauty cult" was a decided feature of Chilcombe Hall. Miss Walters
was extremely artistic; she painted well in water-colors and had
exquisite taste. Many of the charming decorations in the house had been
done by herself; she had designed and stencilled the frieze of drooping
clusters of wistaria that decorated the dining-hall wall; the framed
landscapes in the drawing-room were her own work, and she herself always
superintended the arrangement of the bowls of flowers that gave such
brightness to the schoolrooms.

Her twenty pupils had on the whole a decidedly pleasant time. There were
just enough of them to develop the community spirit, but not too many
to obliterate the individual, or, as Ida Spenser put it: "You can get up
a play, or a dance, or any other sort of fun, and yet we all know each
other like a kind of big family."

"Divided up into small families according to bedrooms!" added Hester
Wilson.

The bedrooms at Chilcombe Hall were rather a speciality. They were
large, and were furnished partly as studies, and girls had their own
bookcases, knick-knacks, and pretty things there. As the house was
provided with central heating, they were warmed, and a certain amount of
preparation was done in them each afternoon. Miss Walters' artistic
faculty had decorated them in schemes of various colors, so that they
were known respectively as The Rose, The Gold, The Green, The Brown, and
The Blue Bedrooms. Lilias and Dulcie Ingleton, Gowan Barbour, and Bertha
Chesters, who occupied the last-named, considered it quite the choicest
of all. They had each made important contributions to its furniture, had
clubbed together to buy a Liberty table-cloth, had provided vases in
lovely shades of turquoise blue, and had worked toilet-mats, nightdress
cases and other accessories to accord with the prevailing tone. "The
Blue Grotto," as they named their dormitory, certainly had points over
rival bedrooms, for it looked down the garden towards the river, and
had the best view of the sunset. Moreover, it was at the very end of the
corridor, so that sudden outbursts of laughter did not meet the ears of
Miss Hardy quite so easily as from the Rose or the Brown room.

The work of the spring term had been in full swing for nearly a month,
when Gowan Barbour, looking at the calendar--hand-painted, with blue
cranesbill geraniums--suddenly discovered that next morning would be the
festival of St. Valentine.

"Could anything be better?" she exulted. "We've won the record for
tidiness three weeks running, so we're entitled to a special indulgence.
I vote we ask to bring tea up here, and have a Valentine party. Don't
you think it would be rather scrumptious? I've all sorts of ideas in my
head."

"Topping!" agreed Dulcie, pausing in the act of tying her hair ribbon to
consider the important question, "specially if we could get Miss Walters
to let us send to Glazebrook for a few cakes. I believe she would, if we
wheedled!"

"What about visitors?" asked Lilias. "It would be much more of a party
if we had a few of the others in."

"We don't want a crowd, or we might as well be in the dining-hall,"
objected Bertha.

"Well, of course we shouldn't ask the whole school, naturally, but
perhaps just Noreen and Phillida!"

"We must get at the soft spot in Miss Walters' heart," decided Gowan.
"Pick a bunch of early violets if you can find them, lay them on her
study table, talk about flowers and nature for a little while, then ask
if we may have a quiet little party in our bedroom to-morrow afternoon,
with cakes at our own expense."

"Quiet?" queried Lilias.

"Well, of course you couldn't call it rowdy, could you? We'll send you
to do the asking. Those dimples of yours generally get what you want,
and on the whole I think you're the pattern one of us, and the most
likely to be listened to."

Tea at Chilcombe Hall was a quite informal meal. It partook, indeed more
of the nature of a canteen. The urns were what the girls called "on tap"
from four to four-thirty, and during summer any one might take cup,
saucer, and plate into the garden, provided she duly brought them back
afterwards to the dining-hall. Special permission for a bedroom feast
was therefore not very difficult to obtain, and Lilias returned from her
interview in the study with her dimples conspicuously in evidence.

"Well?" asked the interested circle in the Blue bedroom.

"Sweet as honey!" reported Lilias. "She said 'Certainly, my dear!' We
may each ask one friend, and we may spend two shillings amongst us on
cakes, if we give the money and the list of what we want to Jones this
afternoon, because he's going into Glazebrook first thing to-morrow
morning."

"Only two shillings!" commented Gowan.

"It will go no way!" pouted Bertha.

"Well, I can't help it. Miss Walters said 'Two shillings' most
emphatically."

"You might have stuck out for more! Those iced cakes are always half a
crown!"

"I didn't dare to stick out for anything. I was so afraid she'd change
her mind, and say 'There's good plain home-made cake with your
schoolroom tea, and you must be content with that,' like she did to Nona
and Muriel."

"We could get twelve twopenny cakes for two shillings," calculated
Dulcie; "but if there are eight of us, that's only one and a half
apiece."

"Best get eight twopenny iced cakes, and eight penny buns," suggested
Bertha, taking pencil and paper to write the important order.

"Right-o! Only be sure you put _pink_ iced cakes, they are so much the
nicest."

"Whom shall we ask? It won't be much of a beano on two shillings. Still,
they'll be keen on coming, I expect."

Noreen, Phillida, Prissie, and Edith, the four finally selected
favorites, accepted the invitation with alacrity. Bedroom tea-parties
were indulgences only given to winners of three weeks' dormitory
records, so the less fortunate occupants of the Brown and Rose rooms
were really profiting by the tidiness of their hostesses. The Blue
Grotto was placed in apple-pie order on the afternoon of the fourteenth
of February. A white hemstitched cloth and a bowl of snowdrops adorned
the center table, and the cakes were set out on paper doilies. Both
hostesses and guests were in the dining-hall by four o'clock, awaiting
the appearance of the urns, and each bore her cup of tea and a portion
of bread and butter and scones upstairs with her.

It was a jolly party round the square table, and if the cakes were not
too plentiful, they were at least voted delicious. The girls carried
down the cups when they had finished, shook the table-cloth out of the
window, carefully collected crumbs from the floor, so as to preserve
their record for neatness, then gathered round the table again for an
hour's fun before the bell should ring for prep.

"It's a Valentine party, and I've got a ripping idea," said Gowan.
"We'll put our names on pieces of paper, fold them up, shuffle them and
draw them; then each of us must write a valentine to the one we've
drawn. We'll shuffle these, and one of us must read them all out. Then
we must each guess who's written our valentines."

"Sounds rather brainy, doesn't it?" objected Noreen. "I don't think I'm
any hand at poetry!"

"Oh! you can make up something if you try. Valentines are generally
doggerel."

"Need it be quite original?" asked Edith.

"Well, if you really _can't_ compose anything, we'll allow quotations."

"Cracker mottoes?" suggested Dulcie.

"Exactly. They're just about in the right style."

"Are you all getting into a sentimental vein?" giggled Bertha. "Remember
'Love' rhymes with 'Dove,' and Cupid with--with--"

"Stupid," supplied Dulcie laconically.

"I'm not going to give my rhymes away beforehand," said Phillida. "Is
that shuffling business finished, Gowan? Then bags me first draw."

Each girl, having been apportioned the name of her valentine, set to
work to compose a suitable ode in her honor. There was much knitting of
brows and nibbling of pencils, and demands for a few minutes longer,
when Gowan called "Time!" At last, however, the effusions were all
finished, folded, shuffled, and laid in a pile. Gowan, as the
originator of the game, was unanimously elected president. She drew one
at a venture, opened it, and read:

    "TO PHILLIDA

    "Fair maiden, who in ancient song
     Was wont to flout her swain,
     I prithee be not always coy,
     But turn your face again.
     My heart is true, and it will rue,
     That ever you should doubt me,
     So sweet, be kind, and change your mind,
     And don't for ever flout me."

"Who wrote that?" asked Phillida, glancing keenly round the circle.
"Noreen, I believe you're looking conscious! I always suspect people who
say they can't write."

"_I!_ No, indeed!" declared Noreen.

"You may make guesses, but nobody's to confess or deny authorship till
the end," put in Gowan hastily. "Remember, valentines are always
supposed to be anonymous. Now I'm going to read another.

    "TO LILIAS

    "Cupid with his fatal dart
     Shot me through and made me smart,
     So I pray, before we part,
     Kiss me once, and heal my heart!"

"Short and sweet!" commented Edith.

"Very sweet--quite sugary, in fact," agreed Lilias. "It's the sort of
motto you get out of a superior cracker with gelatine paper on the
outside, and trinkets inside. There ought to be a ring with all that. I
believe it's Prissie's, but I'm not sure it isn't by Bertha."

"You mayn't have two guesses!" reminded Gowan, reaching for another
paper. "Hallo! this actually to me! I feel quite shy!"

"Go on! You're not usually afflicted with shyness," urged the others.

    "TO GOWAN

    "Wee modest, crimson-tipped flower,
     Thou'st met me in an evil hour;
     For I maun gang far frae thy bower,
     And leave thee greeting 'mang the stour.
     But lassie, thou art no thy lane,
     This heart is also brak in twain,
     And like to burst with grief and pain
     To think I'll see thee ne'er again."

"H'm! He might have signed 'Robbie Burns' at the end of it!" commented
Gowan. "Seems to take it for granted I'm doing half of the grieving. No,
thanks! I prefer to 'flout them' like Phillida. He may go away with his
old broken heart if he likes. That's not my idea of a valentine."

"There were bad valentines as well as good ones, weren't there?"
twinkled Dulcie.

"Certainly; and if I set this down to you, perhaps I'll not be far out.
Who comes next? Oh! Bertha.

    "TO BERTHA

    "I have a little heart to let,
     As nice as nice can be;
     It's vacant just at present,
     On a yearly tenancy.
     It's quite completely furnished
     With affection's choicest store,
     Sweet nothings by the bushel,
     And kisses by the score.
     It sadly wants a tenant,
     This little heart of mine,
     So I beg that you will take it,
     And be my Valentine!"

"Edith! Dulcie! Phillida!--Oh! I can't guess!" laughed Bertha. "There's
not the least clue! Go on, Gowan! I'll plump for Phillida."

The next on the list was--

    "TO NOREEN

    "Cupid on his rosy wing
     Flits to offer you a ring:
     Take it, dear, and happy make
     One who'd die for your sweet sake!"

"That's the sugary type again, and suggests a cracker!" decided Noreen.
"You feel there ought to be a big dish of trifle somewhere near."

"I wish there were!" chirped Edith. "You haven't guessed yet!"

"Oh, well, I guess you!"

"I hope it's my turn next," said Prissie.

"No, it happens to be Dulcie," retorted Gowan. "You'll probably be the
last of all.

    "TO DULCIE

    "Oh, lady fair from Cheverley Chase,
     The day when first I saw your face
     Put me in such a fearful flutter
     I could do naught but moan and mutter.
     Whether I'm standing on my head,
     Or if I'm on my heels instead,
     I scarce can tell, for Cupid's arrows
     Have made my brain like any sparrow's.
     When you come near, my foolish heart
     Goes pit-a-pat with throb and start,
     And when I try my love to utter,
     My fairest speech is but a stutter.
     How to propose is all my task,
     Whether to write or just to ask,
     And ere I solve the problem knotty
     I really fear I shall go dotty.
     Oh, lady fair, in pity stop
     And list while I the question pop.
     'Tis here on paper; think it over,
     And let me be your humble lover."

"Quite the longest of them all!" smiled Dulcie complacently.

"But not as poetical as mine!" contended Noreen.

"Oh, go on!" said Edith. "I'm sure I'm next!"

And so she was.

    "TO EDITH

    "Maiden of the swan-like neck,
     I am at your call and beck;
     If you will but wave a finger,
     In your neighborhood I'll linger,
     Praise your eyes, and cheeks of roses,
     Bring you presents of sweet posies,
     Sweetheart, if you will be mine,
     Let me be your Valentine!"

"I haven't got a swan neck! It's no longer than other people's, I'm
sure!" protested Edith indignantly, looking round the circle for the
offender. "Who wrote such stuff?"

"There, don't get excited, child!" soothed Gowan. "'Edith of the Swan
Neck' was a historical character. Don't you remember? She ought to have
married King Harold, only she didn't, somehow. It's meant as a
compliment, no doubt!"

"I believe you wrote it yourself!"

"No, I didn't. At least I mustn't tell just yet. I'm going to read the
last one now.

    "TO PRISSIE

    "I am not sentimental, please,
       I cannot write in rhyme,
     I beg you'll all ecstatics leave
       Until another time.

    "But if I'm lacking in romance,
       At least my heart is true,
     And in its own prosaic way,
       It only beats for you.

    "'Mong damsels all I think you are
       The nicest little Missie,
     And beg to have for Valentine
       That sweetest maid, Miss Prissie."

"Author! Author!" cried Prissie. "It's Lilias, I do believe!"

"Guessing's been horribly wrong!" said Gowan. "Only about one of you was
right. Shall I read the list?

    "To Phillida by Dulcie.
     To Lilias by Noreen.
     To Gowan by myself.
     To Bertha by Phillida.
     To Noreen by Prissie.
     To Dulcie by Bertha.
     To Edith by Lilias.
     To Prissie by Edith."

"So you wrote your own, Gowan! What a humbug you are! You quite put us
off the scent!"

"Well, I drew my own name, you see. I had to write something! Bertha
ought to have a prize for guessing right, only we've nothing to give
her. Shall we play something else?"

"Prissie's brought a pack of cards, and she says she'll tell our
fortunes," proclaimed Edith.

"I learnt how in the holidays," confessed Prissie. "A girl was staying
with us who had a book about it. We used to have ripping fun every
evening over it. Whose fortune shall I tell first? Oh, don't all speak
at once! Look here, you'd better each cut, and the lowest shall win."

Dulcie, who turned up an ace, was the lucky one, and was therefore
elected as the first to consult the oracle. By Prissie's orders she
shuffled the cards, then handed them back to the sorceress, who laid
them out face upward in rows, and after a few moments' meditation began
her prophecies.

"You're fair, and therefore the Queen of Diamonds is your representative
card--all the luck's behind you instead of facing you. I see a
disappointment and great changes. A dark woman is coming into your life.
She's connected somehow with money, but there are hearts behind her.
You'll take a journey by land, and find trouble and perplexity."

"Haven't you anything nicer to tell me than that?" pouted Dulcie. "Who's
the dark woman?"

"She seems to be a relation, by the way the cards are placed."

"I haven't any dark relations. They're all as fair as fair--the whole
family."

"It's silly nonsense! I don't believe in it!" declared Lilias
emphatically.

"I dare say it is, but it's fun, all the same. Do tell mine now,
Prissie!" urged Noreen, gathering up the cards and reshuffling them.

Before the fates could be further consulted, however, the big bell
clanged for preparation, and the magician was obliged to pocket her
cards, hurry downstairs, get out her lesson books, and write a piece of
French translation, while the inquirers into her mysteries also
separated, some to practise piano or violin, and some to study.

"A dark woman!" scoffed Dulcie, spilling the ink in her scorn as she
filled her fountain pen. "Any gypsy would have told me a fortune like
that. I'll let you know when she comes along, Prissie!"

"All serene! Bring her to school if you like!" laughed Prissie. "You
didn't let me finish, or I might have gone on to something nicer. There
were other things on the cards as well as those."

"What things?"

"Oh, I shan't tell you now, when you only make fun of them! Sh! sh!
Here's Miss Herbert!"

And Prissie, turning away from her comrade, opened her French dictionary
and plunged into the difficulties of her page of translation from
Racine.



CHAPTER IV

Disinherited


Valentine's Day had brought early flowers, and the song of the thrush
and glints of golden sunshine, but the bright weather was too good to
last, and winter again stretched out an icy hand to check the advance of
spring. Green daffodil buds peeped through a covering of snow, and the
yellow jessamine blossom fell sodden in the rain. The playing-field was
a quagmire, and the girls had to depend upon walking for their daily
exercise. Their tramps were somewhat of an adventure, for in places the
swollen brooks were washing over the tops of their bridges, and they
would be obliged to turn back, or go round by devious ways. The river in
the valley had overflowed its banks and spread over the low-lying
meadows like a lake. Tops of gates and hedges appeared above the flood,
and sea-gulls, driven inland by the gales, swam over the pastures.
Flocks of peewits, starlings, and red-wings collected on the uplands,
and an occasional heron might be seen flitting majestically across the
storm-flecked sky.

As a rule the school sallied forth in waterproofs and thick boots,
regardless of drizzle or slight snow, but on days of blizzard there was
Swedish drill or dancing in the big class-room, to work off the
superfluous energy accumulated during hours of sitting still at lessons.

One afternoon, when driving sleet and showers swept past the house, and
an inclement sky hid every hint of sunshine, the twenty girls, clad in
their gymnasium costumes, were hard at work doing Indian club exercises.
Dulcie, who stood in the vicinity of the window, could watch the
raindrops splashing on the pane, and see the wet tree-tops waving about
in the wind, and runnels of water coursing down the drive like little
rivulets. It was the sort of afternoon when nobody who could help it
would choose to be out, and a visitor to the Hall seemed about the most
unlikely event on the face of the earth. Judge her surprise, therefore,
when she heard the hoot of a motor-horn, and the next instant saw,
coming up the drive, the well-known Daimler touring car from Cheverley
Chase. In her excitement she almost dropped her clubs. Had Cousin Clare
come over to see them? Or had Everard a holiday? She longed to
communicate the thrilling news to Lilias, but the music was still going
on, and her arms must move in time to it. She waited in a flutter of
expectation, revolving all kinds of delightful possibilities that might
occur. Cousin Clare would surely send a cake and a box of chocolates,
even if she had not come herself. Five minutes passed, then Davis, the
parlor-maid, opened the door, and whispered a brief message to Miss
Perkins. The mistress held up her hand and stopped the exercises.

"Lilias and Dulcie are wanted at once in the study," she said.

Amid the astonished looks of their companions, the two girls put down
their clubs and left the room, Dulcie hastily telling her sister, as
they hurried down the passage, how she had seen the car from the window.
They tapped at the study door, and entered full of pleasant
anticipation. Miss Walters was standing by the fire, with a letter in
her hand.

"Come in, girls," she said gravely. "I've sent for you because I have
something very sad to tell you. Can you prepare your minds for a great
shock? Your Grandfather was taken ill suddenly last night, and passed
away this morning. Your cousin has sent the car to fetch you both home.
Go at once and change your dresses, and Miss Harvey will help you to
pack a few clothes. The chauffeur is having some tea, but you must not
keep him waiting very long. I can't tell you how grieved I am. You must
be brave girls and try to comfort every one else at home. It will be a
sad loss for you all."

Lilias and Dulcie went upstairs almost dazed with the unexpected bad
news. They could hardly believe that their grandfather, whom they had
left apparently in the best of health and spirits, could have gone away
into that other world where Father and Mother and a little sister had
already passed over before. They packed in a sort of dream, drank the
cups of tea which Miss Walters, full of kind sympathy, pressed upon them
in the hall, greeted Milner, who was starting his engine, and entered
the waiting car. Owing to the floods, they took a roundabout route, but
half an hour's drive through sleet and rain brought them to Cheverley
Chase. It was strange to see the blinds all down as they drew up at the
house. As they ran indoors, Winder, the old butler, came from his pantry
into the hall. They questioned him eagerly. He shook his head as he
replied:

"It's a sad business, Miss Lilias and Miss Dulcie. He was just as usual
yesterday, then about nine o'clock Miss Clare rang the bell violently,
and when I came into the drawing-room, there was Master lying on the
floor in a kind of fit. I telephoned to the doctor, and we got him to
bed, but he never recovered consciousness. He went at eleven this
morning, as you'll see by the clock there. I stopped all the clocks at
once. It's the right thing to do in a house when the master dies. Miss
Clare's in her room. I'll let her know you've arrived."

"We'll go and find her, thank you," said Lilias, walking quietly
upstairs.

The Ingleton children were truly grieved at the loss of the grandfather
who, for so many years, had stood to them in the place of a parent. They
went softly about the house and spoke in hushed voices. Everything
seemed strange and unusual. A dressmaker came from London with boxes of
mourning for Cousin Clare and the girls; beautiful wreaths and crosses
of flowers kept arriving and were carried upstairs. Mr. Bowden, the
lawyer, was constantly in and out, making arrangements for the funeral;
neighbors left cards with "Kind sympathy" written across the corner.
Everard, who had arrived home shortly after his sisters, seemed to have
grown years older. He walked with a new dignity, as of one who is
suddenly called to fill a high position.

"I'll be a good brother to you all," he said to the younger ones. "You
must always look upon the Chase as your home, of course. I'll do
everything for you that Grandfather ever did, and more!"

"Will the Chase be yours now, then, Everard?" asked Bevis.

"I suppose so. I'm the eldest son, you see, and the property has always
gone in the direct line. It was entailed until fifty years ago. I shan't
make any changes. I've told the servants so, and they all said they
wished to stay on. I wouldn't part with Winder or Milner for the world!
They're part of the establishment."

"I couldn't imagine the place without them," agreed Dulcie.

On the afternoon before the funeral, Mr. Bowden, who had motored over to
make some final arrangements, concluded his business, drank a cup of tea
in the drawing-room, and was escorted by Everard and Lilias through the
hall.

"The passing of the Squire is a sad loss to the neighborhood," he
remarked. "He was a true type of the good old school of country
gentlemen, and most of us feel 'we shall not look upon his like again.'"

"No," replied Everard. "It will be very hard to succeed him, I know, but
I shall try to do my best."

Mr. Bowden started, looked at him musingly for a moment, knitted his
brows, then apparently came to a decision. Instead of taking his hat and
coat from Winder, he waved the two young people into the study, followed
them, and shut the door.

"I want a word with you in private," he began. "I'm going to do a very
unprofessional thing, but, as I've known you for years, I feel the case
justifies me. I can't let you come into the dining-room to-morrow, after
the funeral, and hear your grandfather's will read aloud, without giving
you some warning beforehand of its contents. I hinted to you, Everard,
at Christmas-time, not to count too much upon expectations."

"Why, but surely I am the heir?" burst out Everard with white lips.

"My poor boy, you are nothing of the sort. Your grandfather has willed
the property to the child of his elder son, Tristram."

At that critical moment there was a rap at the door, and Winder, the
butler, entered, respectfully apologetic, to summon Mr. Bowden to the
telephone. The lawyer answered the call, which was apparently a very
urgent one, for, without another word to Everard and Lilias, he took hat
and coat, hurried from the house, mounted his motor-cycle, and was gone.
He left utter consternation behind him. The two young people, returning
to the study, tried to face the disastrous news. He had indeed told them
no details, but the main outline was quite sufficient. They could
scarcely accustom themselves to believe it for a moment or two.

"To bring me up as the heir, and then disinherit me!" gasped Everard.

"Why, everybody called you 'the young squire'!" exclaimed Lilias. "It's
unthinkable!"

"Unthinkable or not, I'm afraid it's true," said Everard bitterly.
"Bowden wouldn't have told me otherwise. I suppose he drew up the will,
so he knows what's in it. Nice position to be in, isn't it? Turned out
to make room for some other chap!"

"Who is this child of Uncle Tristram's? We've never heard of him."

"It'll be the kid who is in that photo, I suppose--Leslie. He looked
about a year old in the portrait, and it's thirteen years since Uncle
Tristram died, so he's probably fourteen or so now. To think of a kid of
fourteen taking _my_ place here! It's monstrous!"

"Oh, Everard, what _shall_ we do?"

"I don't know. I'm going out to think it over. Don't say a word about it
to anybody yet. Promise me you won't!"

Everard seized his cap and waterproof, and plunged out-of-doors into the
rain. He did not return till dinner-time. If he was silent and
preoccupied at that meal, both Cousin Clare and Dulcie set it down as
natural to his new sense of responsibility. Lilias looked at him
uneasily. There was a hardness in his face which she had never seen
there before. She longed to catch him alone and question him, but after
dinner he purposely avoided her, and left a message that he had gone to
the stables. She would have liked to confide in Cousin Clare, but she
had given her promise to keep the secret, and even Dulcie must not share
it yet. The girls slept in separate rooms at home, so that when Lilias
had said good night to the family she was alone. She went to bed, as a
matter of course, but tossed about with throbbing heart and whirling
brain. Mr. Bowden's information had effectually banished sleep. In about
an hour, when the house was absolutely quiet, came a soft tap at her
door. She jumped up hastily, threw on her dressing-gown, and opened it.
Everard stood in the passage outside.

"May I come in? I want to speak to you, Sissy! It's important," he
whispered.

"I thought you had gone to bed," said Lilias, admitting him, and
dragging forward two basket chairs. "What is it, Everard? Don't look
like that--you frighten me!"

Her brother had seated himself wearily, and buried his head in his
hands. He raised two haggard eyes at her words.

"I've come to say good-by to you, Sis. I'm going away to-night! Don't
speak to me, for I'm not in a mood for argument! Do you think that I
could stand by Grandfather's grave to-morrow, when I know he has
disinherited me? I tell you, I can't. I'm not going to stay and hear the
will read! If I'm kicked out of the property, at least I'll keep my
dignity. Why, everybody on the estate believed I was the heir! Only this
afternoon, Rogerson, the new under-gardener, asked me to keep him on,
and Hicks said he'd serve me as faithfully as he'd served the old
Squire. How could I face the servants when they knew the Chase wasn't
mine after all! The humiliation would be intolerable! No! I've all the
Ingleton pride in me, and if I'm not to be master here, I'll shake the
dust of the place off my feet for ever. Grandfather will have made some
provisions for you younger ones; he always promised to do that, and it's
right you should take it, but as for me, if he's left me anything, I
don't mean to touch a penny of it--it must be all or nothing! You others
are welcome to my share, whatever it is. I'm going out into the world to
earn my own living."

He spoke forcibly, and with desperate earnestness. To Lilias, watching
him anxiously, he seemed in these few hours to have changed from a boy
into a man. Eager words rose to her lips, but he stood up and stopped
her.

"I've told you it's no use arguing! My mind's absolutely made up. I've
ordered Elton to have the small car ready, and to drive me to Balderton
to catch the midnight express to town. It's the last order I shall give
in this house. He looked surprised, but he didn't dare to question me.
To-morrow everybody will know that I've no more authority here than the
kids. I'll be far away by then, thank goodness."

"But, Everard, what are you going to do in London? How can you earn your
own living?" pressed Lilias.

"Sweep a crossing, or go to sea! I don't care two-pence what happens to
me. Good-by, Sis, I'm off! You may tell the others to-morrow, if you
like. No, I won't promise to write! You'll be better without me. I've
closed this chapter of my life completely, and I'm going to begin a
different one. The two won't bear mixing up."

Giving his sister a hasty kiss, Everard left the room and walked softly
away down the passage. A few minutes later, Lilias heard the sound of
wheels, and, looking through the window, saw the rear lights of the car
disappearing down the drive, and away across the park. She went back to
bed, sobbing.



CHAPTER V

The New Owner


The wild wind and rain, which for some weeks had blown from the north,
changed suddenly to a southerly breeze, and the sun shone out in all its
spring glory on the day of Mr. Ingleton's funeral. Half the country-side
came to do honor to "the old Squire." He had been a favorite in the
neighborhood, and people forgot his autocratic ways and remembered now
only his many kindnesses. The absence of Everard, who should have been
the chief representative of the family, caused universal comment, and
some rumor of the state of affairs began to be passed round among the
servants and guests. Cousin Clare, to whom Lilias had confided the
secret of her brother's flight, shook her head.

"He might at least have shown his grandfather the respect of following
him to his grave!" she commented. "He owed that to him, at any rate. I
thought Everard would have realized such an obvious duty. Whatever comes
or does not come to us in the way of legacies cannot free us from our
obligations to the dead. It seems to me hardly decent to be thinking
about the disposal of the property while its late owner is still
unburied."

Lilias crept away, crying. She knew there was justice in Cousin Clare's
scathing judgment, but she was sure the latter did not, could not,
understand the extent of Everard's bitter disappointment. She did not
care to say any more, or ask questions, and could only wait until the
whole sad, miserable affair was over. Some of the guests returned to the
house after the funeral, and these, with the family, were present when
Mr. Bowden read aloud the will of the late Squire of Cheverley Chase.
Like most testamentary documents, it was couched in legal terms, but
Lilias and Dulcie, sitting in their black dresses beside Cousin Clare,
grasped the main features. There were certain legacies to servants and
friends, a provision for each of the grandchildren and for Cousin Clare,
then the entire residue of the estate was bequeathed to "Leslie, only
child of my elder son, Tristram."

All, except the few who had known the secret beforehand, were filled
with surprise that Everard, who had always been regarded in the
neighborhood as "the young squire" should have been passed over in favor
of another heir. The guests, however, after a word or two of sympathy,
took their departure, and went away to spread the news, leaving the
family alone to discuss matters among themselves.

"So I suppose the Chase isn't our home any longer?" asked Dulcie, as the
young Ingletons clustered round their cousin for explanations. "Who is
this Leslie? We've never heard anything of him before."

"I didn't know Uncle Tristram had a son!" said Roland.

"Will everything be his instead of Everard's?" asked Bevis pitifully.

"No, and yes," replied Cousin Clare. "The estate is certainly left to
Leslie, but, as it happens, she is a daughter, and not a son."

Here was a surprise indeed!

"A daughter!" echoed Lilias. "The Chase left to a girl!"

"Remember, she is the daughter of the elder son, so that in your
grandfather's opinion she was the lawful heiress."

"But where does she live?"

"How old is she?"

"Why have we never seen her?"

"It's a long story," said Cousin Clare. "But, without going into any
details, I can tell you briefly that years ago your grandfather and your
Uncle Tristram had a serious quarrel. It was about a lady whom your
grandfather thought his elder son loved, and whom he very much wished
him to marry. Well, we can't love to order, and, though Tristram liked
and respected the prospective bride whom his father had chosen for him,
he had given his heart to a beautiful Italian girl, and he insisted upon
marrying her. The affair caused a complete breach between them, but
shortly before Tristram's death he patched up a half reconciliation, and
sent home a photograph of his wife and little daughter, whom he named
'Leslie' after her grandfather. I believe some years ago an effort was
made to bring the child over to England to be educated, but her mother,
who by that time was married again and living in Sicily, refused to give
her up to her English relations. I have never seen her myself, but she
must be quite fourteen years old by now. It will be a great surprise to
her to learn that she succeeds to the property."

"And a great disappointment to us," said Lilias bitterly. "It seems most
unfair, when we've lived at the Chase all these years, that this
interloper should step in and turn us out of our home."

"I hate her!" declared Clifford, clenching his little fists.

"No, no, dears! Don't take it in that way!" begged Cousin Clare.
"Remember that, after all, the Chase was Grandfather's property, and he
had absolute right to leave it to whom he pleased. He stood in the
place of parents to you all, but that did not mean that he must will the
estate to Everard. Leslie is also his grandchild, and belongs to the
elder branch of the family. He has left you each a most generous legacy,
so that there is plenty for your education. I don't know what
arrangements will be made for you, but Mr. Bowden is one of your
guardians, and he is such a kind friend that I am sure he can be
thoroughly trusted to take good care of your affairs. Try to look on the
bright side of things. Matters might be so much worse."

In Lilias's opinion, at any rate, matters were quite bad enough. As
Everard's particular chum, she took his disinheritance more hardly than
Dulcie. She wondered what he was doing in London, and if he would send
her his address. It angered her that Mr. Bowden took his departure quite
calmly, and seemed to think he would turn up again in a few days, when
he had spent the money he had taken with him. She knew her brother too
well for that, and was sure that his pride would not allow him to return
either to Cheverley or to Harrow in the character of a disappointed
heir. In that respect she could entirely sympathize with him. She and
Dulcie went back to Chilcombe Hall at the beginning of the next week,
and, though all their companions were very kind and sympathetic, it was
humiliating to be obliged to acknowledge that the Chase was no longer
virtually their home. For the present, as the heiress was a minor, the
estate was in the hands of the executors. Mr. Bowden decided to send
Bevis and Clifford to the same preparatory school as Roland, and Cousin
Clare, after various letters and telegrams, departed on a mission to
Sicily, to interview Leslie's mother and stepfather. What the purport of
her visit might be, the girls had as yet no hint.

The weeks dragged wearily on towards Easter. Though Dulcie might throw
herself into hockey or basket ball, to Lilias school interests seemed to
have lost their former zest. She wondered where they were to spend their
holidays. Various friends had extended invitations, but Mr. Bowden, to
whom everything must now be referred, had not yet written to consent. At
last came his reply.

"I have arranged for you and your sister to spend your holidays as usual
at the Chase. Miss Clare will be arriving back from Sicily, and will
bring your cousin Leslie with her. They would like you to be at home to
receive them."

Lilias, showing the letter to Dulcie in the privacy of the Blue bedroom,
simply raged.

"It's _too_ bad! When we were so keen to go to London, too! Why should
we be there to receive Madame Leslie, I should like to know. I don't
want to see her!"

"Neither do I, only I _do_ wonder what she's like, all the same,"
ventured Dulcie. "Can she speak English? And will she take over the
whole place, and make us feel it's hers?"

"No doubt she will. We shall have to take very back seats indeed! It's
just too disgusting for words. I really think Mr. Bowden needn't have
forced this upon us."

"The girls will be ever so sorry for us!"

"I know; and that's just what I hate. I can't bear to be pitied."

The Easter exodus seemed very different indeed from the happy breaking
up of last Christmas. No "Rajah" and "Peri" with glossy coats and
arching necks came to take Lilias and Dulcie from school, and give them
the delight of a ride over the hills, though Milner arrived with the
car, and told them that he was to fetch their three younger brothers on
the following morning. The Chase seemed lonely and deserted with nobody
to welcome them except the servants. It brought back vividly those few
sad days of drawn blinds, and the memory of the long black line slowly
disappearing down the drive. They had supper by themselves, and spent a
very quiet evening reading in the drawing-room. The advent next day of
Roland, Bevis, and Clifford certainly enlivened the atmosphere, and
things would have felt like old times again had it not been for the
shadow of the arrival of the heiress. A telegram had been received from
Cousin Clare announcing the train, and the car was to meet them at the
station on that same evening. Winder and the other servants were
bustling about getting the house in order for its new mistress. A log
fire was lighted in the hall, and plants in pots were carried in from
the conservatory. The Union Jack fluttered from over the porch, and the
gardener had put up some decorations with the word "Welcome."

Five very sober young people stood in the drawing-room and watched as
the car came up the drive to the front door. Next minute they heard
Cousin Clare's cheerful voice calling to them, and they came shyly forth
into the hall.

Standing on the Persian rug in front of the log fire was a girl of about
fourteen, an erect, slender, graceful little figure, with dark silky
hair hanging in loose curls, and wonderful bright eyes that were dark
and yet full of light and seemed to shine like stars. For an instant she
included the Ingletons in one comprehensive glance, then her whole face
broke into eager smiles.

"I know which of you is which! Lilias, Dulcie, Roland, Bevis, Clifford!"
she declared, shaking hands with each. "I'm very rich to have five new
cousins all at once! To-morrow you must show me everything, the rabbits
and the dogs, and the tame jackdaw! Oh yes! I've been hearing about them
and about you! Cousin Clare told me just what you would be like. I kept
asking her questions the whole way!"

She spoke prettily, and without a trace of a foreign accent; her manner
was warm and friendly. She looked, indeed, as if she would like to kiss
her new relations. She was so entirely different from what the Ingletons
had expected, that in their utter amazement they could think of nothing
to say in reply, and stood gazing at her in embarrassed silence. Cousin
Clare saved the situation.

"Carmel, child, you're tired out!" she decreed. "I'm going to take you
straight upstairs and put you to bed. Thirty-six hours of traveling is
too much for anybody, and you never slept in the train. Come along! You
must make friends with your cousins to-morrow."

Long afterwards, when Dulcie tried to analyze her first impressions of
the new-comer, she realized that what struck her most was the extreme
charm of her personality. We have all possibly gone through a similar
psychic experience of meeting somebody against whom we had conceived a
bitter prejudice, and finding our intended hatred suddenly veer round
into love. The effect is like stepping out into what you imagine will be
a blizzard, and finding warm sunshine. The little mistress of the Chase
was very weary with her long journey, but, when at last she was
sufficiently rested to be shown round her demesne, she made her royal
progress with an escort of half-fascinated cousins.

"You'll like to see your property," Lilias began shyly, leading the way
into the garden.

"_Please_ don't call it mine. I want you all to understand, at the very
beginning, that it's still your home, and I don't wish to take it from
you. I have my own dear home in Sicily, and I hope to go back there some
day. While I'm in England, let me be your visitor. That's all I want. I
can't bear to think that I'm taking anybody's place, or anything that
ought to belong to some one else. If only Mother were here, she'd
explain properly."

"But it _is_ yours, Leslie!" objected Dulcie.

"In a way yes, but in another way, no! It can be mine and yours at the
same time. And please will you call me Carmel? Leslie is a boy's name,
not a girl's. I'm always Carmel at home. I didn't want to leave home at
all, but Mother and Daddy said I must go with Cousin Clare when she had
come all the way to Sicily to fetch me. They promised it should be only
a visit."

Lilias and Dulcie could hardly believe the evidence of their ears. They
had expected Carmel to be appraising her new property with keen
satisfaction, instead of which she appeared to be suffering from a bad
attack of homesickness. She looked at the gardens, the stables, and all
the pets with interest, but without any apparent sense of
proprietorship. Her behavior was exactly that of an ordinary visitor who
admires a friend's possessions. In her talk she referred constantly to
her home in Sicily, to her stepfather and her younger brothers and
sisters. They and her mother were evidently the supreme center of her
life.

"We thought you'd only know Italian," confided Dulcie, whose shyness was
beginning to wear off.

Carmel laughed.

"Of course I talk Italian too, but we always speak English at home.
Isn't it strange that mother should have married two Englishmen? I can't
remember my own father at all, but Daddy is a dear, and we're tremendous
friends. I've brought his photo, and Mother's and the children's. I'll
show them to you when I've unpacked."

Carmel's astounding attitude, while it amazed her cousins in the
extreme, was certainly highly satisfactory. The boys, when they realized
that she had no desire to wrest their pets from them, waxed suddenly
friendly. With the naïve impulsiveness of childhood they gave her a
full account of what they had expected her to be.

"Perhaps I was rather frightened of you too, till I saw you all," she
confessed. "We've none of us turned out such dreadful bogies, have we?"

"Do you know what I'm going to call you?" said Clifford, slipping a
plump hand into hers, and gazing up into the shining brown eyes.
"Princess Carmel!"

And Carmel bent down and kissed him.



CHAPTER VI

Princess Carmel


In the long talk which Cousin Clare had had with Mr. and Mrs. Greville
in Sicily, it had been arranged that Carmel was to be sent to school
with Lilias and Dulcie at Chilcombe Hall. The new term, therefore, saw
her established in a little dressing-room which led out of the Blue
bedroom, and which by good luck happened to be vacated by Evie Hughes,
who had left at Easter. It was soon spread over with Carmel's private
possessions. They were different from the equipment of an ordinary
English schoolgirl, and aroused as much interest as their owner. First
there were the portraits of her mother, of her stepfather, Mr. Greville,
and of the little half-brothers and sisters--Bertram, Nina, Vincent, and
Luigia--taken by an Italian photographer in wonderfully artistic poses,
and with classic backgrounds of pillars and palm trees. Then there were
fascinating snapshots of her home, a white Sicilian house with a
vine-covered veranda, and its lovely half-tropical garden with fountains
and statues and pomegranate blossom, and trees hung with ripe oranges
and lemons. Carmel's things seemed nearly all foreign. Her nightdress
case was of drawn linen beautifully embroidered by the nuns at a
convent; her work-box was of inlaid wood from Sorrento; the trinkets on
her dressing-table were Italian; her clothes and shoes bore the names of
Paris shops. Some of the books she had brought with her were in French;
the calendar that hung on her wall held pictures of Naples and Vesuvius.

Carmel was undoubtedly a most unusual combination of two nationalities.
Though in some respects she was English enough, there was a certain
little gracious dignity and finish about her manners that was peculiarly
southern. Clifford, with a child's true instinct, had named her
"Princess." She was indeed "royal" with that best type of good breeding
which gives equal courtesy to all, be it queen or beggar. In the school
she was soon an immense favorite. The girls admired her attitude towards
Lilias and Dulcie. If she had posed as the heiress of the Chase, they
would probably have "sat upon her" thoroughly, but, as she never put
forward her claims in that respect, they were disposed to show her
decided consideration, all the more so as she was visibly fretting for
her Sicilian home. She put a brave face on things in the day-time, but
at night she would be caught crying, and her eagerness for letters was
pathetic.

"Poor child! She's like an exotic plant transferred to a northern soil!"
said Miss Walters. "We must try to settle her somehow. It won't do for
her to go about with dark rings round her eyes. I wonder how we could
possibly interest her? I don't believe our school happenings appeal to
her in the least."

Certainly the new-comer went through the ordinary routine of classes,
walks, and games without any display of enthusiasm. Gowan Barbour tried
to coach her at cricket, but the result was not successful.

"It's a boy's game, and the ball is so hard, it hurts my hands!"
objected Carmel.

"Didn't you play cricket at home?"

"Never!"

"Or tennis?"

"On a cinder court. The sun scorched up our grass court."

"What used you to do then, to amuse yourself?"

"We made paper dresses for the carnival, and sometimes we acted. We used
to have plays on the veranda, or in the garden. And we went on picnics
to the hills. It was beautiful there in spring, when the anemones were
out in the fields."

"We're to have a picnic next Saturday," announced Gowan; "I heard Miss
Walters telling Miss Herbert so."

It was perhaps with special reference to Carmel that Miss Walters had
arranged an outing for the school. It was bluebell time, and the woods
in the neighborhood would be a show. By permission of the owner, Sir
Ranald Joynson, they were to have access to large private grounds, and
to be allowed to ramble in his famous rhododendron gardens. None of the
girls had ever been there before, so it was a treat for all. Motor
wagonettes were to convey them all the six miles; they were to start
after an early lunch, and to take tea baskets with them. Even Carmel
cheered up at the pleasant prospect.

"You have a treat before you!" Dulcie assured her. "You may talk about
your Sicilian flowers, but just wait till you have seen an English wood
full of bluebells! There's nothing to beat it in the whole world. I've
often heard of Sir Ranald Joynson's grounds. We're in luck to get leave
to go in them, because I believe he's generally rather stingy about
allowing people there. I wonder how Miss Walters managed it."

"She's a clever woman," said Gowan. "She always seems to manage to get
what she wants. Some people do!"

"I wish _I_ did!" wailed Bertha. "I've wanted a principal part in the
French plays ever since I came to school, and Mademoiselle never will
give me one; I always have to be a servant, or an extra guest, and speak
about two lines!"

"Well, your French accent is so atrociously bad, I don't wonder!"
returned Gowan. "You certainly wouldn't be a credit to Mademoiselle in a
principal part. And you're very stiff and wooden in acting, too!"

"Thank you for your compliments!" sniffed Bertha, much offended.

"Oh, don't be sarkie! I must tell the truth. Cheer up! It's a picnic on
Saturday, not a French play!"

"Thank goodness it is!" rejoiced Dulcie. "I hate Mademoiselle's French
afternoons! I don't know which is worst; to have to learn and act yards
of dialogue, or to sit in the audience and listen while other people
show off. I like out-of-doors treats! I'm an open-air girl."

The occupants of the Blue bedroom decided that it was high time
something happened to stir up Carmel, who was behaving more like an
exile than an heiress. Now the first excitement of her arrival and
unpacking was over, she had relapsed into a piteous fit of homesickness.

"I believe she's crying again!" said Dulcie, laying an ear to the door
that communicated with the dressing-room. "Do you think I ought to go in
to her?"

"It's no use!" declared Lilias. "I went last night and tried to comfort
her, and I'm sure I only made her cry harder. Best leave her to
herself."

"Homesick people always do cry harder if you sympathize," proclaimed
Gowan. "I was prefect of the junior dormitory at my other school before
I came here, and the new kids always turned on the water works at first.
I learnt how to manage them. Sympathy makes them worse. What you want is
to switch their minds off thinking about home, and make them enjoy
school life. Carmel will come round in time."

"Meantime," said Bertha, "she reminds me of that picture in Miss
Walters' study: 'The Hostage.' You know the one I mean, the girl who's
standing leaning over the castle wall and gazing out to sea, and
evidently thinking of her own country. I wonder if princesses who were
sent to be married to foreign princes felt homesick?"

"I dare say they did," grunted Gowan, "but I'm sure my plan's the best
for curing the complaint. Smack them on the back and make them cheer up,
instead of letting them weep on your shoulder. I don't like a damp
atmosphere!"

To do Carmel justice, however acute her sense of exile might be, she had
not obtruded her woes upon her schoolfellows, and had conducted her
weeping in secret. If sounds of distress filtered through the door, it
was only when matters seemed particularly hopeless. On Saturday she
came down dressed for the jaunt, and all smiles.

"Sit her between Edith and Bertha," commanded Gowan, "and tell them they
may be their silliest! Make her laugh till she's weak. I'll take a turn
at her myself later. Don't let her mope about in the woods alone. Keep
close to her, and make all the insane jokes you can. I tell you I was
homesick myself once, though you mayn't believe it. I don't often dab my
eyes now, do I?"

"Here are the wagonettes," said Dulcie. "Why, that driver has stuck up a
flag! How nice of him! It looks so festive. Bags me go in his chariot."

It took a little while to arrange mistresses, girls, and tea-baskets
inside the two motors, but at last everything was packed in, and they
started off in the direction of Bradstone. Other people were out
enjoying Saturday's holiday, and cars, bicycles, and conveyances were
frequent on the road. Grinsdale Park, their destination, was approached
by great gates, outside which the wagonettes stopped and unloaded their
passengers. Miss Walters, armed with Sir Ranald Joynson's letter, called
at the lodge for permission to enter, and, her credentials being in
strict order, the party was duly admitted.

"Won't everybody who sees us go in be just green with envy?" rejoiced
Edith. "Did you see how those two cyclists tried to hang on to us and
push in too? Miss Walters looked at them most witheringly. 'May I ask if
you have a private permit?' I heard her say to them. It squashed them
flat, and they beat a retreat."

"I believe Sir Ranald used to let the public in at one time," said
Noreen, "but people behaved so atrociously that he had to stop. Rough
boys used to tear about and break the bushes, and take the flowers, and
do a great deal of damage."

"I know! I've heard about it," said Lilias. "They went bird-nesting,
too, and took all the eggs. That was the absolute finish. Sir Ranald is
very keen on natural history, and he keeps these grounds as a sort of
bird sanctuary. I believe quite rare kinds build here, and he never lets
them be disturbed."

"I wonder he gave us a permit to come!"

"Well, you see, most of the young birds are fledged by now, and,
besides, he wouldn't expect us to go about climbing trees and robbing
nests!"

Carrying the picnic-baskets amongst them, the party started forth along
the drive, but after ten minutes' walking turned down a bypath into the
woods. They were at the edge of a beautiful lake, and on one side of
them stretched a gleaming expanse of water, edged with shimmering reeds,
and on the other grew thick groves of trees with a carpet of wild
hyacinths beneath. The sun glinted through the new green leaves on to
the springing bracken and bluebells, and made long rifts of light across
the water, birds were flitting about and twittering in the trees, and
everywhere there was that delicious scent of the woodlands, a mixture of
honey and flowers and warm moist earth and damp moss, which is the
incense nature burns at the shrine of the goddess of spring.

It was so lovely that the party straggled considerably. They could not
help putting down the picnic-baskets and leaving the path to explore and
gather flowers. There were so many delightful surprises. Phillida and
Noreen noticed a moorhen's nest built on an overhanging bough that swept
the lake, and saw four tiny downy creatures swimming away very fast to
take cover; Ursula found a specimen of the Truelove-knot, and triumphed
immensely, partly on botanical grounds and partly because she regarded
it as an omen of early matrimony, though needless to say this latter
aspect of her rejoicing was not communicated to Miss Walters, only
chuckled over in private with her intimate friends.

Knowing that the girls would not do any damage, the mistresses allowed
them to disperse, on the understanding that they came at once when they
heard the Guide's whistle.

Dulcie, Carmel, and Prissie had wandered away down the banks of the
little stream where grew pale marsh violets, golden globeflowers, and
the sweet-scented fern. Pushing through the undergrowth above the water,
they found themselves in a tiny natural clearing such as poets of old
would have described as a "a bower." Budding trees encircled it, a
guelder rose bush overtopped it, and delicate fern-like moss sprang
through the grass underfoot. There were fairies, too, in the bower; four
little whitethroats were flitting about in the sunshine. It was perhaps
their first exodus from the nest, for as yet they were without the
slightest sense of fear. They allowed the girls to catch them, fondle
them, and stroke their lovely plumage; they would fly delicately away,
twittering with pleasure, then flit back to the caressing hands like
sprites at play. Anything more innocent and beautiful it would have been
impossible to conceive; it was like a glimpse into Paradise before the
fear and dread of man had passed over God's lesser creatures. The girls
stood absolutely fascinated, till at last, attracted perhaps by some
warning mother-signal, their dainty bird friends took a sudden rapid
flight into the woods and were gone. Carmel looked after them with
shining eyes.

"It's like St. Francis of Assissi and his 'little sisters the birds,'"
she said softly. "Have you read the _Little Flowers of St. Francis_, and
how he preached to the swallows and they all flocked round him and
twittered? I've never seen birds so tame as this! They aren't in Sicily,
you can hardly ever get near them there."

"They aren't in England either," said Dulcie, "though our gamekeeper
told us that if you can just chance to see them when they first leave
the nest, they don't know what fear is. He once found some newly-hatched
wild ducks, and they were perfectly unafraid, but when he passed the
place half an hour later, the mother duck gave a call, and the little
ones wouldn't let him come anywhere near them. They'd had their lesson,
and learnt fear."

"I once brought up a starling that had tumbled out of a nest," said
Prissie, "and it was always perfectly tame, and would let me stroke it,
and would perch on my hand. I had it for years. Do you think we could
have kept the whitethroats?"

"No, no!" said Carmel quickly. "I'd as soon think of caging fairies! It
would be a shame to take them out of this lovely wood; it's their
fairy-land. I'm so glad Sir Ranald doesn't allow boys to come in here! I
thought at first it was rather selfish of him, but I begin to
understand. There must be some quiet places left where the birds can be
undisturbed. I'm glad to have seen these!"

Miss Walter's whistle, sounding loudly in the distance, recalled them
to the path. They found the school very excited over a heronry which
they could see on an island in the lake. Some large untidy nests were in
the trees, and every now and then a heron, with long legs outstretched
behind it, would sail majestically through the air from the mainland.

"It would be a very fishy place if we could get near," remarked Miss
Hardy. "All the ground underneath the nests would be strewn with bones
and remains. The herons fly a tremendous long way in search of food,
sometimes a radius of as much as forty miles. Look! there's one fishing
in the lake over there."

"I like the whitethroats best," said Dulcie. "I shouldn't care to hold a
young heron in my hand and cuddle it!"

At the lower end of the lake was a hill-side, and down the slopes Sir
Ranald had caused to be planted a little forest of rhododendrons. They
were in their prime, and stretched a beautiful mass of every shade from
crimson to pink and lavender. On the top of the hill was a summer-house,
a temple-like building with pillars and steps, and here, by arrangement,
they expected the lodge-keeper's wife to supply them with boiling water
for their tea. It looked an ideal place for a picnic, and they started
at once to climb the steep path that led among the rhododendrons to the
summit. Up and up under the screen of delicate blossom, they felt as if
they were treading in some tropical garden, and when they reached the
summit, and the view burst upon them of crimson-clad slope, gleaming
lake, and flecked blue sky, they stood gazing with much satisfaction.
"The Temple," as the girls called the summer-house, was a classic
building with a terrace in front, and here the school elected to sit,
instead of in the rather cramped room. There was a kitchen at the back,
and Mrs. Bates, the lodge-keeper's wife, had lighted a fire and boiled
kettles in readiness for them.

"Sir Ranald and his friends come for lunch here sometimes in the
shooting season," she explained, "so I'm used to getting tea and coffee
made. Take some chairs outside if you like. You'd rather sit on the
steps! Well, there's no accounting for tastes! Give me your teapots, and
I'll warm them before you put the tea into them."

Sitting in a row on the steps that led from the "temple" to the terrace,
the girls had a glorious view, Carmel in especial seemed particularly to
enjoy herself.

"It's more like home than anything I've seen yet!" she declared
enthusiastically. "I could almost fancy that this little piazza is on
the slope of Etna! The goatherds ought to be playing the 'Pastorale'
down there! I can nearly hear them!"

"What's the 'Pastorale'?" asked Dulcie.

"It's the Sicilian National Dance. Every body dances it--sometimes by
sunlight and sometimes by moonlight. Oh! it's a thing that gets into
your blood! Once you hear it played on the pipes you have to jump up and
dance--you simply can't help it. There's magic in it!"

"Dance it for us now on the terrace!" suggested Dulcie.

"I've no music!"

"Can't you hum it? Miss Walters, may Carmel show us a Sicilian dance?"

"By all means, if she will!" acquiesced the head-mistress.

"Go on Carmel!" commanded the girls. "Show us how it goes!"

Thus urged, Carmel rose from her seat, and went on to the terrace at the
foot of the steps. She looked for a moment or two at the crimson slope
of flowers and the shining lake, as if to put herself into the right
mental atmosphere, then, humming a lively but haunting tune, she began
her old-world southern dance.

It was wonderful dancing, every action of her alert young body was so
beautifully graceful that you forgot her modern costume and could
imagine her a nymph in classic draperies. Her arms kept motion with her
tripping feet, and both were in time with the tune that she was
trilling. It seemed a spontaneous expression of gaiety as natural as the
flight of a dragon-fly or the sporting of a kitten. Her dark hair flew
out behind her, her eyes shone and sparkled, and her cheeks flushed with
unwonted color. For the moment she looked the very incarnation of joy,
and might have been Artemis surprised in a Sicilian grove. It was such a
fresh aspect of Carmel that the girls stared at her in amazement. From
Princess she had changed to Oread, and they did not know her in this new
mood. They gave her performance a hearty clap, however, as she stopped
and sank panting on to the steps.

"You'll have to turn dancing-mistress, Carmel, and give the others a
lesson in your Pastorale," said Miss Walters. "It's a pretty step, and
we shall ask you to do it again when we give our garden fête in aid of
the 'Waifs and Strays.' Don't you think our English scenery can compare
favorably even with your beloved Sicily?"

"It's very beautiful," admitted Carmel, "but I miss Etna in the
distance."

"Then you won't yield us the palm?" laughed Miss Walters.

"I love it all, I do indeed, but Sicily will always be the most
beautiful place in the world to me, because it's home!"



CHAPTER VII

An Old Greek Idyll


After the picnic at Bradstone, Carmel, possibly from something she heard
the girls say about her, seemed to make a supreme effort to overcome her
homesickness, and to settle down as an ordinary and rational member of
the school. She was undoubtedly a favorite. Even Lilias admitted her
charm, though she had not fallen under her spell so completely as
Dulcie. At the bottom of her heart, Lilias could not quite forgive
Carmel for supplanting her brother at the Chase. From the night he had
said good-by and motored to Balderton, not a word had been heard of
Everard. He had not returned to school, neither had he visited any
relations or friends, and indeed since he stepped out of the car at the
railway station all trace of him seemed to have vanished. Mr. Bowden did
not take the matter too seriously. He considered Everard was more of a
man now than a schoolboy, and that, if he had fulfilled his threat of
running away to sea, the brief experience of a voyage before the mast
would do him no harm, and that when the vessel returned to port he
would probably be only too glad to come back and claim his share of the
inheritance.

This easy view annoyed Lilias. She had a share of the Ingleton pride,
and she would have liked his absence treated with more concern. She
thought Mr. Bowden ought to advertise in the Agony Column of _The
Times_, beseeching Everard to return home, but their guardian only
laughed when she suggested such a course, and assured her that her
brother would turn up in time when he was tired of managing for himself.

"I've been in the law for thirty years, my dear, and I know human nature
better than you do," he declared indulgently.

"But you don't know Everard as I do!" protested Lilias.

She could not take Mr. Bowden's view of the case. Everard had left the
Chase in such deep anger and resentment that the chances of a speedy
change in his outlook seemed remote. Lilias longed to write to him, but
knew of no address to which it was possible to post a letter. She
worried often over his mysterious absence, and was quite angry with
Dulcie for not taking the matter more keenly to heart.

"But Mr. Bowden and Cousin Clare think he's all right!" protested that
easy going young damsel.

"How do they know? I think you might show a little more interest in your
own brother, who, after all, has been treated extremely badly. It seems
to me hardly decent to circle round Carmel as you do!"

Dulcie opened her blue eyes wide.

"Do I circle round Carmel? Well, really, and why shouldn't I like her?
She's my cousin, and a jolly good sort too! I believe she'll give us all
a far better time at the Chase than Everard would have done. He always
wanted everything just his own way. None of us ever had an innings when
he was at home. I never could see why the eldest of a family should lord
it so over the others."

"You never had any proper sense of propriety!" retorted Lilias
indignantly. "_I_ believe in keeping up the traditions of the Ingletons,
and the estate has always descended strictly in the male line. It's only
right it should have been left to Everard instead of to a girl, and I'll
always say so. There!"

Dulcie shrugged her shoulders.

"Say what you like, Sister o' Mine! The twentieth century is different
from the Middle Ages, and people don't bother so much nowadays as they
did about descent and all that. The owner of an estate hasn't to fight
for it. Oh yes, of course I'm glad I'm an Ingleton, but Carmel's an
Ingleton too, as much as we are, and if the Chase is hers we can't help
it, and we may just as well make the best of it!"

With which piece of philosophy, Dulcie turned away, leaving Lilias to
shake her head over the decay of family feeling, and the degeneracy of
younger sisters.

It was perhaps Carmel's rendering of the Pastorale dance that suggested
to Miss Walters a scheme of entertainment for the garden fête which the
girls were to give in aid of the "Homes for Waifs and Strays." She
decided that the garden of Chilcombe Hall would make an excellent
background for some classic representations, and that nothing could be
prettier than old Greek costumes. By a stroke of great good luck she
managed to engage Miss Adams, a former pupil who had been studying
classic dancing in Paris, to come for a few weeks and train the
performers. Miss Adams was a tremendous enthusiast, and arrived full of
ideas which she was burning to teach to the school. The girls were
delighted with her methods. It was quite a new phase of dancing to trip
barefooted on the lawn, holding up garlands of flowers. They liked the
exercises which she gave them for the cultivation of grace, and
practised classic attitudes on all occasions, with more or less success.

"You go about the school so exactly like Minerva!" complained Noreen to
Phillida, rather dismayed by the sudden change in her lively friend from
bounding spirits to a statuesque pose. "Need you always walk as if you
were thinking of the shape of your ankles?"

Phillida shook her head carefully, so as not to disarrange the Greek
fillet she was wearing.

"It's been too hot lately to tear round and play tennis. I think, too,
that what Miss Adams says is quite right. English girls _are_ lacking in
grace and dignity. Just look at the way Ida and Joyce are flopping about
now. An artist would have fits to see them!"

"Well, of course they're not sitting for their portraits. Oh yes! I love
dancing, but I don't want to worry about being graceful all day long!"

"That's just the point, though," persisted Phillida, who was a zealous
convert. "The dances are to make you graceful _always_. You so get into
the poetry of motion that it's quite impossible for you ever to flop
again!"

"Is it? Oh, Kafoozalum!" burbled Noreen, exploding into a series of
chuckles. "'She never flopped again!' We ought to make a parody on that
from the poem of 'The White Ship.'

    "Miss Adams to the school came down,
       The classic wave rolled on:
     And what was cricket's latest score
       To those who danced alone?

    "From dawn they practised attitudes
       Until the sun did wane;
     And fast confirmed in Grecian pose,
       They never flopped again!"

"You may mock as much as you please!" retorted Phillida, "but it's sheer
envy because you know you won't be chosen as a wood nymph. Play cricket
and tennis if you wish, by all means! But _I_ think when we're having a
performance we may just as well give our minds to it, and do it
properly, especially when Miss Adams is here to teach us."

"Right you are! Float on, O goddess! You're getting too ethereal for the
school. I shall be glad when the entertainment's over, and we can have a
cricket match again. It's decidedly more in my line!"

Miss Adams, with all the enthusiasm of youth and a new vocation, was
determined to make the entertainment a success. She spared no trouble
over constant rehearsals, and having weeded out those girls who could
not adapt themselves to her methods, she kept the rest well at work in
any time that was available. She determined not only to have dances, but
to give in addition a short Greek play, and selected for that purpose
the famous fifteenth idyll of Theocritus.

"But we're not to act it in Greek, surely!" objected Edith in alarm.

"It's bad enough to have to learn French plays! We'd never be able to
tackle Greek!" urged Dulcie, absolutely aghast.

"Don't look so scared!" laughed Miss Adams. "I'm not going to ask you to
give it in Greek. Probably few people would understand it if you did! I
have a delightful translation here. It ought to take very well indeed
with the audience. Come and squat on the grass, and I'll read it aloud
to you first, and then I'll allot parts."

"Is it _very_ stiff and educational?" groaned Dulcie, obeying
unwillingly.

"Wait and see! Come under the shade of the lilac bush, it's so hot to
sit in the sun."

The girls composed themselves into attitudes of more or less classic
elegance, and Miss Adams, book in hand, began to read.

    "IDYLL XV

    "_Gorgo._ Is Praxinoë at home?

    "_Praxinoë._ Dear Gorgo, how long it is since you have been here! She
     _is_ at home. The wonder is that you have got here at last. Eunoë,
     see that she has a chair. Throw a cushion on it, too.

    "_Gorgo._ It does most charmingly as it is.

    "_Praxinoë._ Do sit down.

    "_Gorgo._ Oh, what a thing spirit is! I have scarcely got to you
     alive, Praxinoë! What a huge crowd! What hosts of four-in-hands!
     Everywhere cavalry boots, everywhere men in uniform. And the road
     is endless: yes, you really live _too_ far away!

    "_Praxinoë._ It is all the fault of that madman of mine! Here he came
     to the ends of the earth, and took--a hole, not a house, and all
     that we might not be neighbors. The jealous wretch, always the
     same, ever for spite!

    "_Gorgo._ Don't talk of Dinon, your husband, like that, my dear girl,
     before the little boy. Look how he is staring at you! Never mind,
     Zopyrion, sweet child, she is not speaking about papa.

    "_Praxinoë._ Our Lady Persephone! The child takes notice!

    "_Gorgo._ Nice papa!

    "_Praxinoë._ That papa of his the other day--we call every day 'the
     other day'--went to get soap and rouge at the shop, and back he
     came to me with salt--the great, big endless fellow!"

"But, Miss Adams," interrupted Dulcie, "surely this isn't an old Greek
play? It sounds absolutely and entirely modern!"

"As a matter of fact, it was written by Theocritus about the year 266 B.
C. It describes the visit paid by two Syracusan ladies residing in
Alexandria to the festival of Adonis. Their manners and talk then must
have been very similar to ours of to-day. Listen to the part where they
are getting ready to start.

    "_Gorgo._ It seems nearly time to go.

    "_Praxinoë._ Idlers have always holidays. Eunoë, bring the water, and
     put it down in the middle of the room, lazy creature that you are!
     Cats always like to sleep soft! Come, bustle, bring the
     water--quicker! I want water first, and how she carries it! Give it
     me all the same: don't pour out so much, you extravagant thing!
     Stupid girl! Why are you wetting my dress? There, stop, I have
     washed my hands, as heaven would have it! Where is the key of the
     big chest? Bring it here.

    "_Gorgo._ Praxinoë, that full body becomes you wonderfully. Tell me,
     how much did the stuff cost you just off the loom?

    "_Praxinoë._ Don't speak of it, Gorgo! More than eight pounds in good
     silver money--and the work on it! I nearly slaved my soul out over
     it.

    "_Gorgo._ Well, it is _most_ successful: all you could wish.

    "_Praxinoë._ Thanks for the pretty speech. Eunoë, bring my shawl, and
     set my hat on my head, the fashionable way. No, Zopyrion, I don't
     mean to take _you_! Boo! Bogies! There's a horse that bites! Cry as
     much as you please, but I cannot have you lamed. Let us be moving.
     Phrygia, take the child, and keep him amused, call in the dog, and
     shut the street door!"

"It's exactly like anybody going out to-day!" commented Carmel, as Miss
Adams came to a pause.

"Why does it seem so modern?" asked Dulcie.

"Because it was written during the zenith of Greece's history, and one
great civilization always resembles another. England of to-day is far
more in touch with the times of ancient Egypt, Babylon, Greece and Rome,
than with the Middle Ages. Read Chaucer, and you find his mental outlook
is that of a child of seven. In the days of the Plantagenets grown men
and women enjoyed stories of a crude simplicity that now only appeals
to children. The human race is always progressing in great successive
waves of civilization; after each wave breaks, a time of barbarism
prevails, till man is again educated to a higher growth. We're living at
the top of a wave at present!"

"I remember," said Carmel, "when Mother and Daddy took me to Rome, we
saw the busts of the Emperors, and of all sorts of clever people, who'd
lived in about the first century, and we all said: 'Oh, aren't their
faces just like people of to-day?' We amused ourselves with saying one
was a lawyer, and another a doctor, and calling some of them after our
friends. Then we went afterwards to an exhibition of sixteenth-century
portraits; perhaps the artists hadn't learnt to paint well, but at any
rate the faces were utterly different from people of to-day. They seemed
quite another type altogether--not so intelligent or so interesting. We
were tremendously struck with the difference."

"It marks my point," said Miss Adams.

"What else do Gorgo and Praxinoë do?" asked Edith.

"They go into Alexandria for the festival, and find the streets so
crowded that they are almost frightened to death, and have hard work not
to lose Eunoë, the slave girl, whom they have taken with them; she
nearly gets squeezed as they pass in at the door. They go into raptures
over an exhibition of embroideries. 'Lady Athene,' says Praxinoë, 'what
spinning-women wrought them? What painters designed their drawings, so
true they are?' I haven't time to read it all to you now, but I must
just give you the little bit where they quarrel with a stranger. It's
too absolutely priceless.

    "_A Stranger._ You weariful women, do cease your endless cooing talk!
     You bore one to death with your eternal broad vowels!

    "_Gorgo._ Indeed! And where may this person come from? What is it to
     you if we _are_ chatterboxes? Give orders to your own servants,
     sir. Do you pretend to command ladies of Syracuse? If you must
     know, we are Corinthians by descent, like Bellerophon himself, and
     we speak Peloponnesian. Dorian women may lawfully speak Doric, I
     presume?"

"Oh, _do_ let me be Gorgo!" begged Dulcie. "I love her; she's so smart
and sarcastic. Isn't it exactly like somebody talking during a concert,
and a person in the row in front objecting, and a friend butting in with
rude remarks? That's what generally happens."

"Did people's accent matter in Greek as much as it does in English?"
asked Prissie.

"Evidently. The Alexandrian gentleman--who sounds a decided fop--did not
approve of a Doric pronunciation. No doubt broad vowels were out of
fashion. I believe I shall give his part to Edith. It's a small one,
but it has scope for a good deal of acting."

"And who is to be Praxinoë, please?"

"I think I must choose Carmel. She ought to act in an idyll by
Theocritus, as he was a Sicilian like herself. Would he find Sicily much
altered, Carmel, if he came back? Or is it the same after two thousand
years?"

"There are still goatherds on the mountains, though we don't see wood
nymphs now!"

"No, the wood nymphs have all trotted over to England, and are going to
give a performance in aid of the 'Waifs and Strays!'" said Dulcie. "I
hope Apollo will remember them, and send them a fine day, if he's
anything to do with the weather over here. Perhaps his sun chariot only
runs on the Mediterranean route."

"Surely he's got an aeroplane by now!" laughed Edith. "We'll send him a
wireless message to remind him of his duty. 'Nymphs dancing Thursday
week at 2.30 P. M. Kindly cable special supply of sunshine.'"

"Now, girls, you're getting silly!" said Miss Adams, shutting her book
and rising. "If we want to make a success of our classic afternoon,
we've plenty of hard work before us. I'm going on with costumes at
present, and anybody who cares to volunteer can fetch her thimble and a
needle and cotton, and hem a chiton."



CHAPTER VIII

Wood Nymphs


It needed a tremendous amount of rehearsing and preparation before Miss
Adams judged her classic performance fit for public exhibition. The
Greek garments, simple as they were, nevertheless required sewing, and
there were certain pieces of scenery to be constructed. The other
mistresses helped nobly, though they were thankful to be spared the
organization of the proceedings, and to leave the brunt of the burden to
a specialist. Tickets for the entertainment had been sold in the
neighborhood, and parents and friends of the girls who lived within
motoring distance had promised to drive over.

"Cousin Clare is coming!" rejoiced Dulcie. "She has two friends staying
at the Chase, and she'll bring them with her. If Milner drives them, I
shall ask Miss Walters if he may come and watch too. He'd be _so_
delighted to see it. He loves anything of that kind. His own little girl
was May Queen at the village pageant two years ago, and he's talked
about it ever since."

"I wrote to Mr. Bowden," said Lilias, "and he's taken two tickets, but
he's doubtful if he'll find time to get off. He's always so busy."

"Never mind if he sent the money for them!" consoled Edith. "Of course
it's nice to have big audiences, but it's money we're out for. We want
to make a decent sum."

"Miss Walters says the tickets have sold quite well. Even if it's a
doubtful day, and we don't have a very big audience, we shall clear
something, at any rate."

"Oh, but I do hope people will come! It's so disappointing to take all
this trouble, and to act to rows of empty chairs. What's going to
happen, by the by, if it's a wet day? Will it be put off?"

"We shall have to have it in the big schoolroom. It can't be put off,
because Miss Adams can only stay till Friday, and we couldn't get
through it without her."

"No, indeed! She's the directing genius of it all!"

"Oh dear! It simply _must_ keep fine!"

Never was weather more carefully watched. All the old country saws and
superstitions were remembered and repeated. It became a matter of vital
importance to notice whether the scarlet pimpernel was out, if the
cattle were grazing with their heads up hill, and whether a heron flew
across the sky. Prissie took a candle into the garden last thing before
bed-time, to observe if the lawn showed earthworms; the finding of black
slugs was considered to be rather fatal, and the hooting of owls a
decidedly bad omen. The goddess of the English climate, however, is such
a fickle deity that there is never the least dependence to be placed on
weather prophecies. She always seems to prefer to give a surprise. On
the day before the performance it rained; evening closed in with a
stormy sky, and every probability of waking next morning to find a
drizzle. Dulcie, putting her head out of the window last thing, reported
driving clouds and a total absence of stars.

Yet, lo and behold! they woke to one of those rare ethereal dawns that
come only now and then in a summer. The Blue bedroom faced east, and
over the line of laurels in the garden they could watch pearl and opal
flush into rosy pink before the sun shone out in an almost cloudless
sky. By nine o'clock the wet grass of yesterday was beginning to dry up,
and Miss Adams, with the help of Jones the gardener, was setting up her
scenery, and making initial arrangements for the business of the
afternoon.

She had contrived her open-air theater as far as possible on Greek
lines. There was no stage, but the audience sat on chairs on the grass,
and on cushions and rugs placed down a bank that commanded the lawn.
The performance was to begin at 3 o'clock, and soon after 2.30 visitors
began to arrive. There was quite a long row of cars in the drive,
bicycles were stacked against the veranda, and two ponies were put up in
the stable. Cousin Clare and her friends came in excellent time,
driven--much to Dulcie's satisfaction--by Milner, who in company with
the other chauffeurs received a cordial invitation from Miss Walters to
witness the show.

"And wasn't it nice of him?" said Dulcie to Carmel, "he insisted on
giving a shilling to the funds. I told him it wasn't expected, but he
said he should _like_ to, if we didn't mind. Mind! Why, we want all the
money we can get!"

"I think Milner is an old dear!" agreed Carmel.

Mr. Bowden had actually managed to get away from his office after all,
and had brought a niece with him in the side-car of his motor-bicycle.
He looked quite beaming, as if he meant to forget the law for a few
hours, and to enjoy himself. He sat next to Cousin Clare, chatting
affably and admiring the arrangements.

A piano had been carried out on to the lawn for the occasion, and Miss
Lowe, the music mistress, took her seat at it. She was supported by a
small school orchestra of three violins and violoncello, and together
they struck up some Eastern music. When it was well started there was a
flashing of white among the bushes on the farther side of the lawn, and
out came tripping a bevy of charming wood nymphs. They were all clad in
Greek chitons, very delicately draped, their hair was bound with gold
fillets, and their arms and feet were bare. They held aloft garlands of
flowers, and circling on that part of the lawn which formed the stage,
they went through the postures of a beautiful and intricate classic
dance.

Viewed against the background of trees and bushes it was a remarkably
pretty performance. There were no accessories of limelight or "make-up"
to give a theatrical or artificial effect; the afternoon sunshine fell
on the girls in their simple costumes, and showed a most natural scene
as their bare feet whirled lightly over the grass in time to the music,
and their uplifted arms waved the long garlands. There was a tremendous
clapping as they retired into the shelter of their classic groves.

The next item on Miss Adams' program was rather ambitious. An upright
screen of wood, covered with black paper, was placed upon the lawn to
serve as a background, and in front of this Hester Wilson and Truie
Tyndale, attired in Venetian red chitons, performed a Grecian dance. The
effect was exactly a representation of an ancient Etruscan vase, with
terra cotta figures on a black background, and when at the end they
stood posed as in a tableau, the likeness was complete. Though scarcely
so pretty as the garland dance, it was considered very clever, and met
with much applause.

For the Idyll XV of Theocritus, Miss Adams had followed Greek tradition,
and had used only the scantiest and simplest of scenery. A few screens
and stools did service for a house, a tiger-skin rug was flung on the
grass, and a brass waterpot, brought by Miss Walters from Cairo,
completed the idea of a classic establishment. It was better to have few
accessories than to present anachronisms, and place modern articles in
an Alexandrian home of the third century B. C.

Dulcie and Carmel, as Gorgo and Praxinoë, made an excellent contrast,
the one carrying out the fair Greek type and the other the dark. They
played their parts admirably, rendering the dialogue with much spirit
and brightness, and with appropriate action. Praxinoë, the fashionable
belle of the third century B. C., donned her garments for the festival
with a mixture of coquetry and Greek dignity that delighted the
audience; Gorgo's passage of arms with the Stranger of Alexandria, was
smart and racy, while Edith, as the affected "man-about-town" of the
period was considered a huge success. As nobody in the school was young
enough to take Zopyrion, they had borrowed the gardener's
three-year-old baby, and had trained him to walk on, holding the hand of
Eunoë. He was a pretty child, and dressed in a little white chiton, with
bare legs and feet, he looked very charming, and quite completed the
scene. His round wondering eyes and evident astonishment were indeed
exactly what was required from him to sustain the part.

The wood nymphs, with some slight additions of costume, acted the crowd
through which Gorgo and Praxinoë had to push their way and pilot their
slaves. They pushed and hustled with such vigor as amply to justify the
episode where Praxinoë's muslin veil was torn in two, and the whole
party would have been separated, and Eunoë altogether lost, but for the
help of an Alexandrian gentleman.

Carmel brought out her speech of thanks with much unction.

    "_Praxinoë._ Both this year and for ever may all be well with you, my
     dear sir, for your care of us. A good kind man! We're letting Eunoë
     get squeezed--come, wretched girl, push your way through."

And Nesta, as the courteous stranger, responded with a bow which, if not
absolutely historically correct for the period, was certainly a
combination of the good manners of all the ages.

As it was difficult to find enough items for an entirely classical
program, the second half of the entertainment was to be miscellaneous,
and during the short interval a delegate from the "Waifs and Strays
Society" was to give a short address explaining the work of the Homes.

Now Carmel was down in Part II to dance the Pastorale, and she ran into
the house to change her Greek chiton for the dress of a Sicilian
peasant. She went through the veranda and the open French window, and
straight upstairs to her bedroom. She had brought nobody with her,
because, for one thing, she needed no help, and for another she was hot
and excited, and felt that she would like a few minutes' rest quite to
herself. There was no great hurry, so she leisurely put on the pretty
scarlet and white-striped skirt, the velvet apron, the white bodice and
laced corsage, clasped the necklace round her throat, and twisted the
gay silk handkerchief as a head-dress on her dark hair. It was a
prettier and more effective costume even than the Greek one. There was
an Eastern variety of color in it that suited her better than the
simplicity of the chiton. She had completed it, from the gold bangles on
her wrists to the scarlet stockings and neat shoes, and was just turning
to run downstairs again, when she suddenly stopped and listened.

Carmel's little bedroom was really a dressing-room, and possessed two
doors. One led into the passage, and the other communicated with the
Blue bedroom. This latter door was ajar just a couple of inches, and
through the opening came the sound of a drawer pulled out. For a moment
Carmel thought that Dulcie and Bertha must have come upstairs, and she
was on the point of calling to them, when some strong and mysterious
instinct restrained her. Instead, she walked softly across the floor,
and peeped through the chink. It was no cousin or schoolfellow who was
in the next room, but a slight fair man--an utter stranger--who was
hastily turning over the contents of the drawer, and slipping something
into his pocket.

For a moment Carmel's heart stood still. She realized instantly that she
was in the immediate vicinity of a burglar. Seeing the entertainment
advertised by a placard on the gate, he must have entered the garden and
waited his opportunity to slip into the house while everybody was
outside watching the performance. He was apparently laying light fingers
upon any article which took his fancy.

Carmel's first and most natural impulse was to tear downstairs and give
warning of what was happening. Then it occurred to her that while she
did so the thief would very possibly make his escape. If only she could
trap him. But how? Her fertile brain thought for a second or two, then
evolved a plan.

Very quietly she withdrew the key from the door which led out of her
bedroom to the passage, and locked it on the outside. So far, so good:
if Mr. Burglar went into the dressing-room he could not escape. Now she
must be prepared to take a great risk. The key of the Blue bedroom was
on the inside; she must open the door, withdraw it, and lock it on the
outside before the thief could stop her. It was possible that he had
calculated on the double exit, and that, hearing a noise behind him, he
would make a dash for the dressing-room.

With shaking legs, and something going round and round like a wheel
inside her chest, she approached the Blue bedroom door, and opened it
softly. As she had anticipated, the intruder had probably laid his
plans, for at the first sound he turned his head, then slipped like a
rabbit into the dressing-room. No doubt an unpleasant surprise awaited
him there, for as Carmel's trembling fingers drew out the key, and
locked the door from the passage side she could hear the handle of her
own bedroom door moving.

"He's probably got skeleton keys, or a jemmy, or something like they use
on the cinema, and will be out in a minute, but I'll get a start of
him!" she thought, and tearing down stairs like the wind, she literally
flew into the garden, and gasped forth the thrilling news.

"It's the Blue bedroom--watch the window or he may jump out!" she added
quickly.

There was an instant rush towards the house; Miss Walters, with Milner
and four other chauffeurs to support her, dashed up stairs, Mr. Bowden
and a crowd of visitors took their stand under the windows. Shouts from
the bedroom presently announced that the burglar had been secured, and
after a while he was led down stairs with his wrists fastened together
by a piece of clothes line, and guarded on each side by two determined
looking men, who hustled him into a car, and drove him off at once to
the police station at Glazebrook.

The excitement at Chilcombe Hall was tremendous. It was of course
impossible to go on with the entertainment. Mistresses, girls, and
guests could do nothing but talk about the occurrence. Carmel was
questioned, and gave as minute and accurate an account as she could of
exactly what had happened. She was much congratulated by everybody on
her presence of mind.

"I don't know how you dared do it!" shivered Dulcie. "He might have shot
you with a revolver!"

"You're a brave girl!" said Miss Walters approvingly. "If it hadn't been
for your prompt action, in all probability he would have got away."

"I didn't feel brave. I was scared to death!" admitted Carmel.

Although she would not acknowledge any particular credit in her
achievement, Carmel was necessarily the heroine of the hour. Miss
Walters, feeling that everybody must be in need of refreshment after
such an event, ordered tea to be served immediately, and soon the urns
were carried out into the garden, where tables had already been set with
cups and saucers and plates of sandwiches and cakes.

After a short time Mr. Bowden, who had accompanied the burglar to the
police station, returned to report that their prisoner was safely
quartered in a cell, and a formal charge had been lodged against him,
which in due course of law would lead to his trial for house-breaking.

"The police think he is not an old offender, but some cyclist who was
passing, and probably yielded to a sudden temptation," he explained.
"Nevertheless, he'll get a sharp sentence, for there has been too much
of this sort of thing going on lately, and the judges are inclined to be
very severe on it, and rightly too, or nobody's home would be safe.
Thank you, Carmel! Yes, I'll take another cup of tea, please! And then I
want to see you do that Sicilian dance before I set off on my travels
again. Oh yes! I'm not going away without!"

Poor Carmel was still feeling too much upset to relish dancing, but Mr.
Bowden pressed the point, and other guests joined their persuasions, so
finally it was decided to give at least a portion of the second part of
the program, and the audience again took their seats on the lawn,
leaving several people, however, to guard the house.

"It's not likely there'll be another burglar on the same afternoon;
still, he might have accomplices about," said Miss Walters. "I shall
never feel really safe again, I'm afraid. We shall all be horribly
nervous for a long time."

Only the most striking items in Part II were selected for performance,
as it was growing late, and most of the guests would soon have to take
their leave. There was an affecting tableau of the parting of the
widowed Queen of Edward IV from her little son, Richard, Duke of York; a
charming pageant of the old street cries of London, in which dainty
maidens in eighteenth-century costumes appeared with bunches of "Sweet
Lavender," and baskets of "Cherry Ripe," and, after singing the
appropriate songs, went the round of the audience and sold their wares.

Noreen, who was the star of the elocution class, recited a poem
describing the sad experience of a typical little waif, and his
reception in the Home. It was a pretty piece, and had been composed
expressly for the Society by a lady who often wrote for magazines.

Then, last of all, came Carmel's Sicilian dance. Miss Lowe had
fortunately been able to obtain the score of the Pastorale, and with
music and costume complete the performance was an even greater success
than it had been on the terrace at Bradstone. People clapped the little
figure, partly for her charming dancing and partly for her pluck in
trapping the burglar, so that altogether she received quite an ovation.

"We shan't forget the 'Waifs and Strays' afternoon in a hurry," said
Lilias, as she tidied her possessions afterwards, for it was _her_
drawer that the burglar had turned upside down in his search for
valuables. "I feel I want to sleep with a revolver under my pillow!"

"If you did, I'd be far more afraid of you than of the burglar!"
protested Bertha. "I know you'd let it off at the wrong person. I don't
suppose anybody else is likely to come burgling here, so you needn't
alarm yourself!"

"But if they do, Miss Wiseacre?"

"Then I should turn them over into the dressing-room, to be dealt with
at her discretion by Princess Carmel!" laughed Bertha. "I believe she's
equal to catching one of them in a mousetrap if she gets the
opportunity!"



CHAPTER IX

The Open Road


It was fortunate for Carmel that her first experience of England should
come in the spring and early summer. Had she arrived straight from sunny
Sicily to face autumn rains or winter snows, I verily believe her
courage would have failed, and she would have written an urgent and
imploring appeal to be fetched home. For the white, vine-covered house
that looked over the blue waters of the Mediterranean was still
essentially "home" to Carmel. She had been born and bred in the south,
and though one half of her was purely English, there was another side
that was strongly Italian. She was deeply attached to all her relations
and friends in Sicily, and from her point of view it was exile to live
so far away from them. The fact that she was owner of the Chase was, in
her estimation, no compensation whatever for her banishment from "Casa
Bianca." She made a very sweet and gentle little heiress, however. As
yet she was mistress only in name, for during her minority everything
was left in the hands of Mr. Bowden and a certain Canon Lowe, who were
guardians to all Mr. Ingleton's grandchildren, and kept the Chase open
as a home for them. The three girls returned there from Chilcombe Hall
at the end of the term, and were joined by the younger boys from their
preparatory school.

For a week or two they enjoyed themselves in the grounds and the park.
There was much to show Carmel, and she was happy sitting in the garden
or wandering in the woods. She soon made friends with the people on the
estate. The gamekeeper's children would come running out to meet her,
and stand round smiling while she hunted in her pocket for chocolates;
Milner's little girl adored her, and even the shy baby at the lodge
waxed friendly. Carmel was intensely fond of children, and the affection
which she had bestowed on younger brothers and sisters at home cropped
out on every occasion where her life touched that of smaller people. To
Roland, Bevis, and Clifford she was a charming companion. She would go
walks with them in the woods, help them to arrange their various
collections of butterflies, foreign stamps, and picture post cards, and
play endless games of draughts, halma, or bagatelle.

"You slave after those boys as if you were their nursery governess!"
remarked Lilias one day, just a little nettled that Clifford ran
instinctively to Carmel for sympathy instead of to his sister. "I
promised to help them with those caterpillar boxes to-morrow, and so I
will, if you'll leave them. I really can't be bothered to-day."

Carmel yielded instantly. Part of her intense charm was the ready tact
with which she was careful never to usurp the place of any one else. She
put aside the muslin that was to form covers for the boxes, and slipped
her scissors back into the case.

Clifford, however, who was a budding naturalist, and most keen on
collecting, was highly disgusted.

"I want my boxes to-day!" he wailed. "I've no place to put my
caterpillars when I find them. They crawl out of the old boxes. Why
shouldn't Carmel make me some? I know hers would be beauties."

"Lilias will make you some nicer ones to-morrow," urged his cousin.
"Suppose we take our butterfly nets on to the heath to-day, and try to
find some 'blues.' You haven't a really nice specimen, you know. And I
think we might find some moths on the trees in the wood, if we look
about carefully. It's worth trying, isn't it?"

"Oh yes! Do let us! Shall we start now?" agreed Clifford, much
mollified.

On the whole the three girls got along excellently, but if there was any
hint at disturbance it generally arose from Lilias, whose pride would
be up in arms at the most absurd trifles. She was annoyed that Carmel
was asked to give away the prizes at the village sports, and showed her
dissatisfaction so plainly that her sweet-tempered cousin, rather than
have any fuss, solved the situation by asking Cousin Clare to perform
the ceremony instead, considerably to the disappointment of the
committee, who had thought the new heiress was the appropriate
patroness.

Lilias and Dulcie took diametrically opposite views about the Chase. The
former stuck firmly to her opinion that it ought to have been Everard's,
that her brother was an ill-used outcast, and that it was only sisterly
feeling to resent seeing anybody else in his place. Her attitude to
Carmel was almost as strong as that of King Robert of Sicily in
Longfellow's _Tales of a Wayside Inn_ towards the angel who had
temporarily usurped his throne.

Dulcie, on the contrary, had always chafed against Everard's assumption
of superiority and authority. He had been left the same generous legacy
as the rest of the family, and had only to come back and claim his
portion when he wished. If anybody was to have the Chase, she really
preferred that it should belong to Carmel, who never obtruded her
rights, and seemed ready for her cousins to enjoy the property on an
exact equality with herself. The two girls were great friends: they
would go out riding together while Lilias went shopping in the car with
Cousin Clare; they practised duets, and both made crude attempts at
sketching the house. Their tastes in books and fancy-work were somewhat
similar, and they would sit in the shade in the afternoons stitching at
embroidery and eating chocolates.

Three weeks of the summer holidays passed rapidly away in this fashion.
Carmel was glad to have the opportunity of getting to know the Chase,
and admitted its attractions, though her heart was still in Sicily.

Towards the end of August the party broke up and scattered. Carmel had
received an invitation from English relations of her stepfather to join
them on a motor tour; the three little boys were to be taken to rooms at
the seaside by Miss Mason, their late governess; Lilias and Dulcie went
to stay with friends, and Cousin Clare had arranged to attend a
conference. She agreed, however, that when Lilias and Dulcie returned
from their visit, they should go with her in the car for a week-end to
Tivermouth, to see how the boys were getting on.

"If you'll promise we may stay at an hotel!" stipulated Lilias. "I
wouldn't spend a week-end in rooms with those three imps for the world.
I'd like to see them, but not at too close quarters."

"It's quite improbable that their landlady would have bedrooms for us,"
said Cousin Clare. "So in any case we should be obliged to stop at an
hotel. In this crowded season I shall engage rooms beforehand."

"Hurrah!" triumphed Dulcie, who was anxious for a grown-up experience.
"I must say I hate staying with the boys near the beach; the
sitting-room's always overflowing with their seaweed and other messes."

"What a joke if _I_ were to turn up at the hotel too!" said Carmel. "I
believe the Rogers are going down to Devonshire. I shall tell them the
date you'll be at Tivermouth. They'll possibly like to meet you."

"Oh, do! It would be such fun!" agreed Dulcie. "We'd have an absolutely
topping time together. Persuade them as hard as you can!"

"I'll do my best!" agreed Carmel.

As it is impossible to follow the adventures of everybody, we will
concern ourselves particularly with the experiences of our heroine, who
was to take her first motor tour among English scenery. The party in the
comfortable Rover car consisted of Major and Mrs. Rogers, their daughter
Sheila, their guest Carmel, and a chauffeur. Major Rogers was still
suffering from the effects of wounds, and was more or less of a
semi-invalid, a condition which made him fussy at times, and too
independent at others, for directly he felt a trifle better he would
immediately begin to break all the rules that the doctors had laid down
for his treatment. He was an amusing, humorous sort of man, who would
jest between spasms of pain, and generally found something to laugh at
in the various episodes of their journey. There is a laughter, though,
that is more the expression of supreme courage than of genuine mirth,
and the drawn lines round the Major's mouth told of sleepless nights and
days of little ease, and of trouble that hurts worse even than physical
pain; for one son lay on a Belgian battle-field, another on the heights
near Salonika, with no cross to mark the grave, and a third deep under
the surging waters of the Atlantic.

Mrs. Rogers was Mr. Greville's sister, and for that reason, though she
was no real relation, Carmel called her Aunt Hilda. She had been a belle
in her youth, and she was still pretty with the pathetic beauty that
often shines in the faces of those who have suffered great loss. Her
once flaxen hair was almost entirely gray, but she had kept her delicate
complexion, and there was a gentle sweetness about her that was very
attractive.

Her daughter was an exact replica of what she herself must have been at
nineteen, though Sheila was going through an uncomfortable phase, and
affected to despise the country, to be nervous of motoring, and to long
to be back in town again. She was quite kind to Carmel, but treated her
with the distantly indulgent attitude of the lately-grown-up for the
mere schoolgirl. It was evident that she regarded the whole tour as more
or less of a nuisance, and just a means of killing time until she could
start off for Scotland to join a certain house-party to which she had
been invited, and where she would meet several of her most particular
friends.

"I'm sorry we couldn't ask one of your cousins to come with you, dear,"
said Mrs. Rogers to Carmel, "but there isn't room in the car for any one
else. It's a good opportunity for you to see something of England. It's
all very different from Sicily, isn't it? You'll feel your first winter
trying, I'm afraid; we certainly lack sunshine in this climate."

"Give me Egypt," said Major Rogers. "It's this perpetual damp in the air
that makes things melancholy over here. Why, except in the height of
summer it's hardly ever fit to sit out-of-doors. I like a place where I
need a sun helmet."

"You and Mother are salamanders, Daddy!" declared Sheila. "I believe
you'd enjoy living in a hot-house! Now, I like Scotland, with a good
sharp wind across the moors, and a touch of mist in it to cool your
face. I like either town or mountains. If I can't walk down Regent
Street, then I'd tramp over the heather, but I don't admire ordinary
English scenery. It's too tame."

"You surely don't call this tame?" replied her father, pointing at the
village through which they were motoring, "it's one of the show bits of
the Midlands, and an absolute picture. Where are your eyes, child?"

But Sheila was perverse, and refused to evince any enthusiasm, and ended
by pulling out a novel over which she chuckled, quite regardless of the
scenery, and only tore herself from the book to ask for the box of
chocolate marsh mallows that she had bought at the last town where there
was a good confectioner's.

Carmel would certainly have found Dulcie, or even Lilias, a more
congenial companion than Sheila, but she nevertheless managed to enjoy
herself. She loved the country, and was delighted with the variety of
the English landscape. Though less rich than the vineclad south, the
greenness of its fields and hedges never failed to amaze her, and she
was fascinated by the quaint villages, their thatched roofs, church
spires, and flowery gardens. They had been running through
Gloucestershire _en route_ for Somerset and Devon, and were to call a
halt at various show places on the way. Major Rogers, poring over map
and guide books, would plan out their daily route each morning at the
breakfast table in the hotel.

"With good luck and no punctures we ought to reach Exeter to-night
easily," he remarked, looking through the window of an old-fashioned
country inn into the cobbled street where their luggage was being
strapped on to the car.

"But, my dear!" remonstrated his wife. "Why in such a hurry to reach
Exeter? Let us stay the night at Wells, and look over the cathedral;
then we can spend a few hours in Bath too."

"Daddy and Johnson always like to tear along at about a hundred miles an
hour," said Sheila. "Except as a means of getting along the road, I hate
motoring! I always think Johnson is going to run into everybody. He
shaves his corners so narrowly, and doesn't give conveyances enough
room. I call him very reckless."

"Nonsense! He's an excellent driver!" declared her father. "One of the
best chauffeurs we've ever had, though he's only a young chap. He's
wonderfully intelligent too. I'd trust him with repairs as well as any
man at a garage. A civil fellow, too."

"Yes, his manners are really quite superior," agreed Mrs. Rogers,
stepping on to the balcony and watching the smart, good-looking figure
of the young chauffeur, who was opening the bonnet of the car for some
last inspection. "Personally I feel perfectly safe when Johnson is
driving me. I'm never nervous in the least!"

"And I'm in such a perpetual panic that I often read so as not to look
at the road," confessed Sheila. "I do wish you'd ask him to sound his
horn oftener in these narrow roads. The banks and hedges are so high,
you can't see anything that's coming till it's almost upon you."

"Well, it certainly might be a wise precaution," said Major Rogers. "In
motoring you have to guard against the stupidity of other people, and
that fellow in the gray two-seater nearly charged straight into us
yesterday. A regular road-hog he was!"

If Johnson had hitherto been a little slack in respect of sounding his
horn, it was the only fault of which his employers could complain. He
kept the fittings of the car at the very zenith in the matter of polish,
he was punctuality personified, and most skilful at the tedious business
of repairing or changing tires; he rarely spoke addressed, but when
questioned he seemed to have a good acquaintance with the country, knew
which were the best roads, and what sights were worth visiting in the
various places through which they passed. All of which are highly
desirable qualities in a chauffeur, and a satisfaction to all
concerned.

It was the general plan of the holiday to start about ten or eleven
o'clock, take a picnic-basket with them, lunch somewhere in the woods,
arrive at their next halting-place about three or four, and spend the
remainder of the day in sight-seeing, or in Major Rogers' case resting,
if he were suffering from a severe attack of pain.

As they motored across Somerset in the direction of Wells, they chose
for their mid-day stop a lovely place on the top of a range of low
hills. A belt of fir trees edged the roadside, and through these a gate
led into a field. As the gate was open they felt licensed to enter, and
to encamp upon a sunny bank under a hedge. One of the motor rugs was
spread for Major Rogers, and Mrs. Rogers, Sheila, and Carmel sat
severally on an air cushion, a tree-stump, and on the grass. There was a
grand view over a slope of cornfields and pastures, and though the sun
was warm there was a delicious little breeze to temper the heat. Not
that it was too hot for any one except Sheila, who panted in the shade
while the others exulted in the sunshine. Carmel, outstretched upon the
grass, basked like a true daughter of the south, throwing aside her hat,
somewhat to Mrs. Rogers' consternation.

"You'll spoil your complexion, child! I'm sure your mother never allows
you to go hatless in Sicily! Put your handkerchief over your face. Yes,
I like to feel the warmth myself, though not on my head. This is the
sort of holiday that does people good, just to sit in the open air."

"It's a rabbit holiday here," murmured the Major lazily. "Didn't you
read that supreme article in _Punch_ a while ago? Well, it was about a
doctor who invented a drug that could turn his patients into anything
they chose for the holidays. A worried mother of a family lived an
idyllic month at a farm as a hen, with six children as chickens, food
and lodging provided gratis; a portly dowager enjoyed a rest cure as a
Persian cat at a country mansion; some lively young people spent a
fortnight as sea-gulls, while the hero of the article was just about to
be changed into a rabbit when----"

"When what happened?"

"The usual thing in such stories; the maid broke the precious bottle of
medicine that was to have worked the charm, and when he hunted for the
doctor to buy another, the whole place had disappeared."

"How disappointing!"

"Yes, but a field like this, with burrows in it, is a near substitute. I
feel I could live up here. Suppose I buy a shelter and get leave to
erect it?"

"Then it would promptly rain, Daddy, and you'd be in the depths of
misery and longing for a decent hotel!" declared Sheila.

To suit Major Rogers' humor they stayed nearly two hours in the field.
The quiet was just what his doctor had ordered for him. He had spent a
restless night, and, though he could not sleep now, the air and the
sunshine calmed his nerves. He seemed better than he had been for days,
and enjoyed the run downhill into Wells.

As they were stepping out of the motor at the hotel, Carmel gave an
exclamation of concern.

"I've lost my bracelet!" she declared. "What a nuisance! Wherever can it
have gone?"

Johnson, the chauffeur, immediately searched on the floor and cushions
of the car, but without success. No bracelet was there.

"When did you have it last?" asked Mrs. Rogers.

"In the rabbit field where we had lunch. I remember clasping and
unclasping it, and I suppose it must have slipped off my wrist without
my noticing. Never mind!"

"I'm sorry, but it certainly is too far to go back and look for it,
dear," said Mrs. Rogers.

"Was it valuable?" asked Sheila.

"Oh no, not at all! Only Mother gave it to me on my last birthday. It
doesn't really matter, and of course it can't be helped now."

Carmel was vexed, nevertheless, with her own carelessness. The little
bracelet had been a favorite, and she hated to lose it. She missed the
feel of it on her wrist. Her first thought when she woke next morning
was of annoyance at the incident. As she walked down to breakfast in the
coffee-room, the chauffeur was standing by the hall door. He came up at
once, as if he had been expressly waiting for her, and handed her a
small parcel. To her utter surprise it contained the missing bracelet.

"Johnson!" she called, for he had turned quickly away. "Johnson--oh,
where did you find this? Not in the car, surely?"

"No, Miss Carmel, it was just where you thought you had left it--in the
field where you had lunch. I got up early and fetched it before
breakfast," replied Johnson pausing on the doorstep.

"You went all that way! How kind of you! Thank you ever so much!"
exclaimed Carmel, clasping her bangle on her wrist again. "I can't tell
you how pleased I am to have it!"

But Johnson, avoiding her eyes, and seeming anxious to get away from her
thanks, was already out of the front door, and half-way across the
courtyard to the garage.

"I wonder if English men-servants are always as shy as that?" thought
Carmel. "An Italian would certainly have waited to let me say 'Thank
you!'"



CHAPTER X

A Meeting


After a morning in Wells, to look at the Cathedral and other beauty
spots, the party motored on to Glastonbury, where again they called a
halt to look at the Abbey and the Museum. Major Rogers was interested in
the objects which had been excavated from the prehistoric lake dwellings
in the neighborhood, and spent so much time poring over bronze brooches,
horn weaving-combs, flint scrapers, glass rings, and fragments of
decorated pottery that Sheila lost all patience.

"Is Dad going to spend the whole day in this moldy old museum?" she
asked dramatically. "I hate anything B. C.! What does it matter to us
how people lived in pile dwellings in the middle of a lake? To judge
from those fancy pictures of them on the wall there they must have been
a set of uncouth savages. Why can't we drive on to Dawlish, or some
other decent seaside place, instead of poking about in musty cathedrals
and tiresome museums? I'm fed up!"

"Now, Sheila, don't be naughty!" whispered her mother. "I'm only too
glad to see your father take an interest in anything. I believe he's
enjoying this tour. If you're tired of the museum, go out and look at
the shops until we're ready."

"There aren't any worth looking at in a wretched little country town!"
yawned Sheila. "No, I really don't want to go over the Abbey either,
thanks! I shall sit inside the car and write, while you do the
sight-seeing."

Major Rogers never hurried himself to suit his daughter's whims, so
Sheila was left to sit in the car, addressing tragic letters and picture
post cards to her friends, and the rest of the party finished examining
the museum, and went to view the ruins of the famous Abbey.

"If Sheila prefers to stay outside, she can look after the car," said
her father, "and I shall take Johnson in with us. He's an intelligent
fellow, and I'm sure he appreciates the shows. It's rather hard on him
if he never gets the chance to see anything."

"I believe he goes sight-seeing on his own account when he has the
opportunity," replied Mrs. Rogers, "but bring him in, by all means. He
always strikes me as having very refined tastes. I should think he's
trying to educate himself. But he's so reserved, I never can get
anything out of him."

"He seems fond of books," volunteered Carmel. "He reads all the time
when he's waiting for us in the car."

Johnson accepted with alacrity the invitation to view the Abbey, and
walked round the ruins apparently much interested in what he saw,
though, following his usual custom, he spoke seldom, and then only in
brief reply to questions. Once, when Major and Mrs. Rogers were puzzling
over a Latin inscription, he seemed on the point of making a remark, but
apparently changed his mind, and walked away.

"He's almost _too_ well trained!" commented Mrs. Rogers. "Of course a
conversational chauffeur is a nuisance, but I have an impression that
Johnson could be quite interesting if he liked. Some day I shall try to
make him talk."

"Better leave him alone," said Major Rogers. "I think things do very
well as they are."

From Glastonbury they motored through the beautiful county of Somerset
into leafy Devonshire, taking easy stages so as not to overtire the
invalid, and halting at any place where the guide book pointed out
objects worthy of notice. To please Carmel, they were making in the
direction of Tivermouth, where they hoped to arrive in time to meet the
Ingletons. They had telegraphed for rooms at the Hill Crest Hotel, and,
if the place suited Major Rogers, they proposed to spend a week there.

"There may be perhaps a dance, or a tennis tournament, or something
interesting going on!" exulted Sheila, who had urged the decision. "At
any rate there'll be somebody to talk to in a decent hotel--it won't be
just all scenery! Let us spin along, Dad, and get there!"

"Hurry no man's cattle!" replied her father. "Remember, I am out for a
'rabbit' holiday, and I like long rests by the roadside. I'm looking
forward to a siesta on the grass somewhere this afternoon. The scent of
the woods does me good."

So once more the party found a picturesque spot and stopped for lunch
and an hour or two of quiet under the trees before they took again to
the open road. The spot which they chose this time was on a slope
reaching down to a river. Above was a thick belt of pines, and below the
water dashed with a pleasant murmuring sound very soothing on a warm
afternoon. It was an ideal "rabbit playground" for Major Rogers, and he
established himself comfortably with rugs and cushions after lunch,
hoping to be able to snatch some much-needed sleep. Mrs. Rogers took her
knitting from her hand-bag, and Sheila, who had a voluminous
correspondence, asked Johnson for her dispatch case and began to write
letters.

As Carmel had nothing very particular to do, and grew tired of sitting
still, she rose presently and rambled down the wood to the river-side.
It was beautiful to stand and watch the water swirling by, to gaze at
the meadow on the opposite bank, and to amuse herself by throwing little
sticks into the hurrying current. There was an old split tree-trunk that
overhung the bank, and it struck her that this would make a most
comfortable and delightful rustic seat. She climbed on to it quite
easily, crawled along, and sat at the end with her feet swinging over
the river. It was such an idyllic situation that she felt herself a
mixture of a tree nymph and a water nymph, or--to follow the Major's
humor--could almost imagine that she was taking her holiday in the shape
of a bird. If she would have been content to remain quietly seated, just
enjoying the scenery all might have been well, but unfortunately Carmel
made the discovery that by exercising a little energy she could make the
stump rock. The sensation was as pleasant as a swing. Up and down and up
and down she swayed, till the poor old split tree could bear the strain
no longer, and suddenly, with an awful crash, the part on which she
rested broke off, and precipitated her into the river. Her cry of terror
as she struck the water echoed through the wood. As she rose to the
surface she managed to clutch hold of some of the branches and support
herself, but she was in a position of great danger, for the stump was
hardly holding to the edge of the bank, and in another moment or two
would probably be whirled away by the current.

As she shouted again there was a quick dash through the undergrowth, and
Johnson the chauffeur shot down through the wood at a speed that could
almost compete with the car's. In a bound he jumped the bank, and,
plunging into the river, struggled to her help and succeeded in pulling
her back out of the current into the shallow water among the reeds at
the brink.

By this time Major and Mrs. Rogers and Sheila had all three rushed to
the spot, and were able to extend hands from the bank. Carmel and
Johnson both scrambled out of the river wet through and covered with
mud, the most wretched and dilapidated objects.

"Oh! she'll take a chill! Whatever are we to do to get her dry?" cried
Mrs. Rogers distractedly, mopping her young guest's streaming face with
a dainty lace-bordered handkerchief. "Is there a cottage anywhere near?"

"We'd better get into the car and motor along till we find one,"
suggested Major Rogers. "Johnson, you deserve a medal for this! I never
saw anything so prompt in my life. It was like a whirlwind!"

"We shall make a horrible mess of the car!" objected Carmel, trying to
wipe some of the mud from her clothes.

"Never mind; sit on this rug. You're shivering already, child! Sheila,
bring my hand-bag and your father's cushion. Now, Johnson, just
anywhere! The very first cottage that will take us in!"

Luckily they were not far from a village with a fairly comfortable inn,
where a sympathetic landlady provided bedrooms and hot water. As their
luggage was on the car, it was an easy matter to change, and before very
long both Carmel and her rescuer were in dry garments, and drinking the
hot coffee which Mrs. Rogers insisted upon as a preventive against
catching cold.

"I shall hardly dare to let you out of my sight again, Carmel!" she
said, half laughingly, yet half in earnest. "I don't want to have to
write to your mother and tell her you're drowned!"

"Nonsense!" declared the Major rather testily. "It's not a thing she's
likely to do twice! I should think she'd be frightened to go anywhere
near a river again just yet. Are those clothes dry? Well, never mind,
pack them as they are; we can't wait for them. And the rug, too, just
bundle it up and put it at the bottom of the car. Johnson can brush it
to-morrow. He's a fine chap. I shall write to the 'Humane Society'
about this business. They ought to give him a medal."

"I've tried to thank him," said Carmel, "but directly I begin he dives
away and does something at the car. He doesn't seem to want to be
thanked."

"Oh, that's just Johnson's usual way!" drawled Sheila. "I expect he's
pleased all the same. You look a little more respectable now, Carmel. I
shouldn't have liked to take you into the Hill Crest Hotel as you were
an hour ago! I expect after this stoppage we shall arrive too late to
dress comfortably for dinner, unless Johnson literally tears along, and
then I'm scared out of my wits! What a life! I'd never go motoring for
choice! It's not my idea of a holiday, I must say."

After all, though Johnson seldom exceeded the speed limit, the Rogers
arrived at Tivermouth in ample time for Sheila to don a fascinating
evening costume, and to arrange her fair hair in an elaborate coiffure.
The hotel was full of summer visitors, and in her opinion the large
dining-room with its Moorish decorations, the numerous daintily-spread
little tables, and the fashionable well-dressed crowd who flocked in at
the sounding of a gong were far more entertaining than a wood and a
picnic meal. But Sheila was not fond of "rabbit" holidays.

[Illustration: JOHNSON THE CHAUFFEUR SHOT DOWN THROUGH THE WOOD]

"It beats those old-fashioned places we stayed at in the country towns,
doesn't it?" she said to Carmel, as they sat in the lounge, waiting for
Major and Mrs. Rogers to come down stairs. "By the by, are your cousins
here? I looked in the visitors' book and couldn't find their names. What
has happened to them?"

"A letter from Dulcie was waiting for me," explained Carmel. "They
couldn't get rooms here. They were writing to the 'Eagle's Nest Hotel,'
and hoped to get taken in there. I don't know whether they've arrived or
not. Dulcie didn't say exactly which day they were starting. It's just
like Dulcie! She generally misses out the most important point!"

"Well, I suppose they'll look you up when they do arrive," said Sheila
carelessly. "Anyway, I bless them for giving us some sort of an anchor
down here. I feel I'm going to enjoy myself. I asked the manageress, and
she says there's to be a dance to-night after dinner."

Carmel, sitting on a cane chair in the palm lounge next morning, agreed
with Sheila that Hill Crest Hotel was a remarkably comfortable and
luxurious place. A fountain was splashing near her, foreign birds sang
and twittered in the aviary, and large pots of geraniums made bright
patches of color under the green of the palms. Pleasant though it was,
however, it lacked the charm of the open air, and, throwing down the
magazine she was reading, Carmel strolled through the hall and the glass
veranda on to the terrace outside. The hotel certainly had a most
beautiful situation. As its name implied, it stood on the crest of a
hill, surrounded by woods and grounds that stretched to the beach. A
little noisy Devonshire river raced past it through the glen, and behind
it lay the heathery waste of a great moorland. Below lay the gleaming
waters of the bay, with small boats bobbing about, and a distant view of
the crags and headlands of a rugged coast line. The terrace was planted
with a border of trailing pink ivy-leaved geraniums, and the bank that
sloped below was a superb mass of hydrangeas in full bloom, their
delicate shades of blue and pink looking like the hues of dawn in a
clear sky.

Carmel established herself on a seat to enjoy the prospect, and picking
up a gray Persian cat which was also sunning itself on the terrace,
fondled the pretty creature in her arms. She was seeing England to the
best advantage, for nowhere could there have been a lovelier scene than
the one which lay before her delighted eyes. Tivermouth had a reputation
as a beauty spot, and owing to its long distance from the railway was as
yet unspoilt by a too great invasion of tourists. There were other
hotels nestling among the greenery of the woods, and Carmel wondered if
the Ingletons had arrived at one of them, and at which of the white
houses on the beach the boys were staying with Miss Mason.

As she was still gazing and speculating there was a crunch of footsteps
on the gravel behind, a voice called her name, and looking round she saw
Cousin Clare, Lilias, and Dulcie, hurrying towards her. There was an
enthusiastic greeting, followed by explanations from all three.

"We'd the greatest difficulty to get rooms!"

"The whole place seems full up!"

"They couldn't take us at the 'Eagle's Nest.'"

"We've got in at the 'Victoria,' though!"

"I wish we could have been here with you!"

"Never mind, so long as we're at Tivermouth at all!"

"Isn't it just too gorgeous for words!"

"We only arrived late last night."

"There's such heaps we want to tell you!"

There was indeed much to be told on both sides. All three girls had had
numerous experiences during the short time of their parting, and they
were anxious to compare notes. Then Cousin Clare, Lilias, and Dulcie
must be introduced to the Rogers family, who were all writing letters in
a private sitting-room, but stopped their correspondence to extend a
hearty welcome and to chat with the new-comers. In a short time the
party rearranged itself, leaving Cousin Clare to talk with Major and
Mrs. Rogers, Lilias and Dulcie arm-in-arm with Carmel on the terrace,
and Sheila, who had stepped with them out at the French window, straying
away with a young Highland officer with whom she had danced the night
before.

"Never mind Sheila--she doesn't want _us_!" laughed Carmel, squeezing
both her cousins' arms, for she was in the middle. "Oh, it's nice to see
you again! Let's walk along here to the end of the terrace. I've had all
sorts of adventures since I saw you. I was nearly drowned yesterday in a
river, only Johnson, the chauffeur, fished me out. You should have seen
me all dripping and covered with mud. And Johnson was just as bad. We
made such a mess of the car with our muddy clothes. I wonder if he's got
it clean yet? By the by, I left my post cards in the side pocket. I'd
love to show them to you. Shall we go and get them? The garage is quite
close, only just down this path. Do you mind coming?"

"Go ahead; we'd like to," agreed Dulcie.

So they plunged down the hill-side on a twisting path, past the bank of
hydrangeas and through a grove of shiny-leaved escallonias to where the
garage, a large building with a corrugated-iron roof, stood on a natural
platform of rock close to the steep high road that flanked the hotel.
The yard was full of visitors' cars in process of being cleaned, and
chauffeurs were busy with hose, or polishing fittings.

"I wonder where Johnson has put ours?" said Carmel, threading her way
between an enormous Daimler and a pretty little two-seater. "Oh, there
it is! That dark-green one in the corner. Come along! There's just room
to pass here behind this coupé. I expect the post cards are all right.
Johnson would take care of them for me. I'll ask him to get them.
Johnson!"

The chauffeur, who was bending over the car, too busy with wrench and
screwdriver to notice their approach, straightened himself instantly,
and glanced at the three girls. As his eyes fell on Lilias and Dulcie,
his expression changed to one of utter consternation and amazement, and
he colored to the roots of his fair hair. They on their part gazed at
him as if they had encountered a specter.

"Everard!" gasped Dulcie.

"Everard!" faltered Lilias. "It's never _you_!"

Here indeed was a drama. Four more astonished young people it would have
been impossible to conceive. For a moment Everard seemed as if he were
going to bolt, but Carmel, whose quick mind instantly grasped the
situation, motioned him into the empty motor-shed behind, and,
following with Lilias and Dulcie, partly closed the door.

"So you're Everard, are you?" she said, looking at him hard. "Well, to
tell you the truth, I never thought your name was really Johnson! I told
Sheila I was sure you were a gentleman. Why have you been masquerading
like this? Why don't you go home to the Chase?"

"Oh, _do_ come home, Everard!" echoed Lilias entreatingly.

The ex-chauffeur shook his head. He was still almost too covered with
confusion to admit of speech.

"I didn't expect to meet you girls," he said at last. "The best thing
you can do is just to forget me, and leave me where I am. I shall
_never_ go back to the Chase! That point I've quite decided."

"But we want you there," said Carmel gently.

"You!" Everard looked frankly puzzled.

"Oh, Everard!" burst out Dulcie. "You don't understand! You ran away and
never waited to hear anything, and we couldn't write to you, because you
sent no address. You thought Grandfather had left the property to a boy
cousin--Leslie!"

"Well, didn't he?"

"Yes, and no! There is no boy cousin. This is Leslie--only she's called
Carmel--the heiress of Cheverley Chase!"

"You!" exclaimed Everard again, gazing at Carmel.

"Don't call me 'the heiress,' Dulcie," protested Carmel. "You know I've
said from the very first that I don't intend to take the Chase away from
you all. It's yours every bit as much as mine, and more so, because my
own real home is in Sicily, and I hope to go back there some day.
Everard, will you make friends with me on that understanding, and shake
hands? I don't want to turn anybody out of the Chase."

Carmel held out a slim little hand, and Everard accepted it delicately,
as if it had been that of a princess.

"I'm still stunned," he remarked. "To think I should have been driving
you all this time, and not have known you were Leslie Ingleton! I never
chanced to hear your surname. I thought you were Mrs. Rogers' niece."

"And so I am!" laughed Carmel. "At least she's my step-aunt, at any
rate. Isn't it a regular _Comedy of Errors_?"

"Everard," put in Lilias, "why did you turn chauffeur? We thought you
had run away to sea!"

"I meant to," answered her brother bitterly, "but when it came to the
point of getting employment, I found the only thing I could earn a
living at was driving a car. I don't know that I even do that very
decently, but at any rate I'm self-supporting. You'd better leave me
where I am! It's all I'm good for!"

"Not a bit of it!" answered Carmel. "I've arranged the whole thing in my
mind already. We'll make an exchange. Milner shall take charge of the
car for the Rogers until they can find another chauffeur, and you shall
drive Cousin Clare and Lilias and Dulcie and me back to the Chase. Now
don't begin to talk, for it's quite settled, and for once in my life I
declare I mean to have my own way!"



CHAPTER XI

A Secret Society


Carmel seldom asserted herself, but if she set her heart on an object
she generally managed to persuade people to her way of thinking. This
case proved no exception, and she contrived with little difficulty to
transfer the amazed but willing Milner temporarily into the service of
Major Rogers, and to instal Everard, minus his chauffeur's uniform, and
looking once more an Ingleton, to drive the Daimler car back to
Cheverley Chase. Perhaps the talk which Major Rogers had with his
one-time "Johnson" partly worked the miracle. Exactly what he said was
entirely between themselves, but Everard burst out into eulogies
regarding the Major to Lilias, who was still his chief confidante.

"One of the best chaps I've ever met! A real good sort! I shan't forget
what he said to me. I can tell you I've come to look at things in a
different light lately. I'll do anything he suggests. I'd trust his
advice sooner than that of anybody I know. I'll have a good talk with
Bowden, and see if he agrees. By Jove! I shall be a surprise packet to
him, shan't I?"

Mr. Bowden was not nearly so much astonished as Everard had anticipated.
He took his ward's return quite as a matter of course, and, lawyer-like,
at once turned to the business side of affairs. After running away and
gaining his own living for so many months, it was neither possible nor
desirable for Everard to go back to Harrow. He had broken the last link
with his school days, and must face the problem of his future career.
His grandfather had wished him to go on to Cambridge, and his guardian
also considered it would be advisable for him to take a university
degree. Meantime his studies were very much in arrears. He had never
worked hard at school, and would need considerable application to his
books before being ready to begin his terms at college. By the advice of
Major Rogers, Mr. Bowden decided to engage a tutor to coach him at the
Chase. The house would be perfectly quiet while the girls and the
younger boys were away at school, and as Everard really seemed to take
the matter seriously, he might be expected to make good progress.

In the matter of a tutor, Major Rogers was fortunately able to recommend
just the right man. Mr. Stacey had been studying for orders at Cambridge
when he was called up, and had joined the army. After serious wounds in
France he had made a slow recovery, and though perfectly able to act as
coach, he would be glad of a period of quiet in the country before
returning to Cambridge. He was a brilliant scholar and a thoroughly good
all-round fellow, who might be trusted to make the best possible
companion for Everard in the circumstances. The whole business was fixed
up at once, and he was to arrive within ten days.

"I'm sorry we shall just miss seeing him!" said Carmel to Everard, on
the evening before the girls went back to Chilcombe Hall. "But I shall
think of you studying away at your Maths. You're clever, aren't you,
Everard? I don't know much about English universities, but isn't a
Tripos what you work for at Cambridge? Suppose you came out Senior
Wrangler! We _should_ be proud of you!"

"No fear of that, I'm afraid, Carmel! I'm a long way behind and shall
have to swat like anything to get myself up to even ordinary standard.
Burn the midnight oil, and all that kind of weariness to the flesh!"

"But you'll do it!" (Carmel was looking at him critically.) "You've got
the right shape of head. Daddy and one of his friends, Signor Penati,
were fearfully keen on phrenology, and they used to make me notice the
shape of people's heads, and of the Greek and Roman busts in the
museums. It's wonderful how truly they tell character: the rules hardly
ever fail."

"What do you make of my particular phiz, then, you young Sicilian
witch?"

"Great ability if you only persevere; a noble mind and patriotism--your
forehead is just like the bust of the Emperor Augustus. You'd scorn
bribes, and speak out for the right. I prophesy that you'll some day get
into Parliament, and do splendid work for your country!"

"Whew! I'm afraid I'll never reach your expectations. It's a big order
you've laid down for me."

"You could do it, though, if you try. Oh, don't contradict me, for I
know! I haven't studied heads with Signor Penati for nothing. First
you're going to make a good master of the Chase, and then you'll help
England."

"Not of the Chase, Carmel," said Everard gently. "We've argued that
point out thoroughly, I think."

"No, no! Let me tell you once again that I don't want to be mistress
here. I only came over to England to please Mother and Daddy. I'm going
back to Sicily to live, as soon as I can choose for myself. Directly I'm
twenty-one I shall hand over the Chase to you. You're a far more
suitable owner for it than I am. I feel that strongly. It ought never to
have been left to me. But I'll put all that right again. Why can't you
take it?" she continued eagerly, as Everard shook his head. "Surely I
can give it to you if I like? Why not?"

"Why not? You're too young yet to understand. How could I be such an
utter slacker and sneak as to accept your inheritance? It's unthinkable.
Put that idea out of your little head, for it can never happen. As for
the rest of your prophecy, it's a long climb to get into Parliament. I'm
nothing like the man you think me, Carmel, though I'm going to make a
spurt now, at any rate. Don't expect to find me a Senior Wrangler by
Christmas though. Mr. Stacey will probably tell you I'm an utter
dunderhead."

"I shall quarrel with him if he does!" said Carmel decidedly.

The three girls went back to school on the following day, half regretful
to leave the Chase, but rather excited at the prospect of meeting their
companions. Now that Carmel had got over her first stage of
homesickness, she liked Chilcombe and had made many friends there. She
intended to enjoy the autumn term to the best of her ability. She had
brought the materials for pursuing several pet hobbies, and she settled
all her numerous possessions into her small bedroom with much
satisfaction. She kept the door into the Blue Grotto open, so that she
might talk during the process. Gowan, also busy unpacking, kept firing
off pieces of information, Bertha flitted in and out like a butterfly,
and girls from other dormitories paid occasional visits.

Phillida, who was a prime favorite, presently came in, and installing
herself on the end of Dulcie's bed, so that she could address the
occupants of both bedrooms, began to draw plans.

"I've got an idea!" she announced. "It's a jolly good one, too, so you
needn't smile. It's a good thing somebody does have ideas in this place,
or you'd all go to sleep! Well, it's this. I really can't stand the
swank of those girls in the Gold bedroom. They seem to imagine the
school belongs to them. They're not very much older than we are, indeed
Nona is actually six weeks younger than Lilias, and yet they give
themselves the airs of all creation. Just now Laurette said to me: 'Get
out of my way, child!' Child, indeed! I'm fifteen, and tall for my age!
I vote that we start a secret society, just among our own set, to resist
them."

"Jolly!" agreed Dulcie. "A little wholesome taking down is just what
they need. Laurette's the limit sometimes. Whom shall we ask to join?"

"Well, all of you here, and myself, and Noreen, and Prissie, and Edith.
That would make nine."

"Quite enough too," said Gowan. "A secret society's much greater fun if
it's small. Things are apt to leak out when you have too many members. I
take it we want to play an occasional rag on the Gold bedroom? Very
well, the fewer in it the better."

"What shall we call our society?" asked Dulcie.

"'The Anti-Swelled Headers' would about suit," suggested Lilias.

"No, no! That sounds as if we were afraid of getting swelled head
ourselves--at least anybody might take it that way."

"There's a big secret society in Sicily called 'The Mafia,'" vouchsafed
Carmel.

"Then let us call ours 'The Chilcombe Mafia.' No one will understand
what we mean, even if they get hold of the name. Indeed I shouldn't mind
casually mentioning it now and then, just to puzzle them. When things
get bad, 'The Mafia' will take them up."

"Strike secretly and suddenly!" agreed Dulcie with a chuckle.

"Let's sign our names at once!" declared Phillida enthusiastically.

At Carmel's suggestion, however, they made rather more of a ceremony of
the initiation of their new order. The prospective members retired into
the wood above the garden, and in strict privacy took an oath of
secrecy and service. Then, with Edith's fountain pen filled for the
occasion with red ink, they inscribed their autographs on a piece of
paper, rolled it up, placed it in a bottle, then solemnly dug a hole,
and buried the said bottle under a tree.

"It will be here for a testimony against any girl who breaks her oath!"
declared Phillida. "Carmel says the real Mafia sign their names in
blood, but I think that's horrid, and red ink will do quite as well.
Just as I was coming out now, Laurette said to me; 'Oh, don't go running
away, because I want one of you younger ones to do something for me
presently.' She said it with the air of a duchess!"

"Cheek!" agreed the others. "It's high time we made up a society against
her!"

Many and various were the offences that were laid to Laurette's score.
Lilias had a private grievance, because she fancied that Laurette had
never been so civil to herself and Dulcie since it was known that their
brother was not to inherit the Chase. Gowan, who liked plain speaking,
accused Laurette of telling "fiblets"; Bertha had had a squabble over
the bathroom, and Prissie a wrestle for the piano.

"Laurette always reminds me of that rhyme that the undergrads made up
about the Master of Balliol," said Edith.

    "'Here come I, my name is Jowett,
     All there is to know, I know it;
     I'm the head of this here College,
     What I don't know isn't knowledge!'

That's Laurette's attitude exactly. She's so superior to everybody!"

"We'll take her down, don't worry yourself!" smiled Dulcie. "We must
just wait for a good opportunity, and then----"

"The secret hand will smite!" laughed Carmel, who enjoyed the fun as
much as anybody.

Laurette's aggravatingly superior pose was especially apparent in her
attitude towards the mistresses. She monopolized Miss Herbert, treated
her almost like a friend, wrote notes to her, left flowers in her
bedroom, and walked arm-in-arm with her in the garden. Perhaps the
mistress was lonely, possibly she was flattered by receiving so much
attention, at any rate she allowed Laurette to be on terms of great
intimacy, and gave her a far larger share of her confidence than was at
all wise. Laurette, after a hot affection lasting three weeks, got tired
of Miss Herbert, and suddenly cooled off. Gowan and Carmel, going into
the sitting-room one day, found her discussing her former idol with a
group of her chums.

"Do you call her pretty? Well, now, I _don't_!" she was saying
emphatically. "She may have been pretty once, but now she's getting
decidedly _passée_. I can't say I admire faded sentimental people!"

"Sentimental?" said Truie. "I shouldn't call her sentimental at all.
She's only too horribly practical, in my opinion!"

"You don't know her as I do! My dear! The things she's told me! The love
affairs she's been through! I had the whole history of them. And she
used to blush, and look most romantic. It was all I could do not to
burst out laughing. You'd scream if I were to tell you! First there was
a clergyman----"

"Here, stop!" interrupted Gowan, breaking abruptly into the
conversation, and turning two blazing blue eyes on Laurette. "Anything
Miss Herbert may have told you was certainly in confidence, and to go
and blab it over the school seems to me the meanest, sneakiest trick
I've ever heard of! You're an absolute blighter, Laurette!"

"Well, I'm sure! What business is it of yours, Gowan Barbour, or of
Carmel Ingleton's either? Cheek!"

"It _is_ our business!" flared Carmel, as indignant as Gowan. "It's
horribly mean to make friends with any one, and hear all her secrets,
and then go and make fun of them!"

"It's playing it low!" added Gowan, determined to speak her mind for
once. "And I hope somebody will make fun of _you_ some day just to
serve you right! Some day _you'll_ be _faded_ and _passée_, and people
will giggle and say you haven't 'got off' in spite of all your efforts,
and they wonder how old you really are, and they remember when you came
out, and you can't be a chicken, and they don't like to see 'mutton
dressed like lamb,' and all the rest of the kind pleasant things that
people of your type find to say. _I_ know! Well, I shan't be in the
least sorry for you! It will be a judgment!"

Laurette had made a desperate attempt to interrupt Gowan's flow of
words, but she might as well have tried to stop the brook. When Gowan
began, she never even paused for breath. Her wrath was like a whirlwind.
Laurette's three chums had turned away as if rather ashamed, and began
hastily to get out books and writing-materials. They pretended not to
notice when Laurette looked at them for support.

"Yes, you needn't think Truie and Hester and Muriel will back you up!"
continued Gowan. "Unless they're as mean as you are. There! I've
finished now, so you needn't butt in! You know exactly what I think of
you. Come along, Carmel!"

The two immediate results of this episode were a bitter feud between
Laurette and Gowan, and a sympathetic interest in Miss Herbert by all
the members of the Mafia. They felt that her confidence had been
betrayed, and they would have liked somehow to make it up to her. They
brought so many floral offerings to her bedroom that her vases were
almost inconveniently crowded.

Carmel, hearing that she was collecting post cards, sent home for some
special ones of Sicily; Dulcie tendered chocolates; Lilias crocheted her
a pincushion cover, and Bertha painted her a hair-tidy. She accepted
their little kindnesses with mild astonishment, but not a hint of the
real reason of their sudden advances flashed across her mind.

"We mustn't let her suspect!" said Dulcie.

"Rather not!" agreed Carmel.

"Not for worlds!" said Gowan emphatically.



CHAPTER XII

White Magic


October passed by with flaming crimson and gold on the trees, and orange
and mauve toadstools among the moss of the woods, and squirrels
scampering up the Scotch pines at the top of the garden, laying by their
winter store of nuts; and flocks of migrating birds twittering in the
fields, and hosts of glittering red hips and haws in the hedges, and
shrouds of fairy gossamer over the blackberry bushes. It was Carmel's
first autumn in England, and, though her artistic temperament revelled
in the beauty of the tints, the falling leaves filled her with
consternation.

"It is so sad to see them all come down," she declared. "Why the trees
will soon be quite bare! Nothing but branches left!"

"What else do you expect?" asked Gowan. "They won't keep green all the
winter."

"I suppose not. But in Sicily we have so many evergreens and shrubs that
flower all the winter. The oranges and lemons begin to get ripe soon
after Christmas, and we have agaves and prickly pears everywhere. I
can't imagine a landscape without any leaves!"

"Wait till you see the snow! It's prime then!"

"There's generally snow on Etna, but I haven't been up so high. It
doesn't fall where we live."

"Girl alive! Have you never made a snowball?"

"Never."

"Then it's a treat in store for you. I sincerely hope we shall have a
hard winter."

"We ought to, by the number of berries in the hedges," put in Bertha.
"It's an old saying that they foretell frost.

    "'Bushes red with hip and haw,
     Weeks of frost without a thaw.'

I don't know whether it always comes true, though."

"I'm a believer in superstitions," declared Gowan. "Scotch people
generally are, I think. My great-grandmother used to have second sight.
By the by; it's Hallowe'en on Friday! I vote we rummage up all the old
charms we can, and try them. It would be ever such fun."

"Topping! Only let us keep it to the Mafia, and not let the others
know."

"_Ra_ther! We don't want Laurette and Co. butting in."

The remaining members of the Mafia, when consulted, received the idea
with enthusiasm. There is a vein of superstition at the bottom of the
most practical among us, and all of them were well accustomed to
practise such rites as throwing spilt salt over the left shoulder,
curtseying to the new moon, and turning their money when they heard the
cuckoo.

"Not, of course, that it always follows," said Prissie. "On Easter
holidays a bird used to come and tap constantly at our drawing-room
window at home. It was always doing it. Of course that means 'a death in
the family,' but we all kept absolutely hearty and well. Not even a
third cousin once removed has died, and it's more than two years ago.
Mother says it was probably catching insects on the glass. She laughs at
omens!"

"I always double my thumb inside my fist if I walk under a ladder,"
volunteered Noreen.

"Well, it _is_ unlucky to go under a ladder," declared Phillida. "You
may get a pot of paint dropped on your head! I saw that happen once to a
poor lady: it simply turned upside down on her, and deluged her hat and
face and everything with dark green paint. She had to go into a shop to
be wiped. It must have been awful for her, and for her clothes as well.
I've never forgotten it."

"What could we do on Hallowe'en?" asked Edith.

"Well, we must try to think it out, and make some plans."

From the recesses of their memories the girls raked up every
superstition of which they had ever heard. These had to be divided into
the possible and the impossible. There are limits of liberty in a girls'
school, and it was manifestly infeasible, as well as very chilly, to
attempt to stray out alone at the stroke of twelve, robed merely in a
nightgown, and fetch three pails of water to place by one's bedside.
Gowan's north country recipe for divination was equally
impracticable--to go out at midnight, and "dip your smock in a
south-running spring where the lairds' lands meet," then hang it to dry
before the fire. They discussed it quite seriously, however, in all its
various aspects.

"To begin with, what exactly is a smock?" asked Carmel.

Everybody had a hazy notion, but nobody was quite sure about it.

"Usen't farm laborers to wear them once?" suggested Lilias.

"But Shakespeare says,

    "'When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,
     And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks,
     When ring the woods with rooks and daws,
     And maidens bleach their summer smocks,'"

objected Prissie.

"Was it an upper or an under garment?" questioned Noreen.

"I'm sure I don't know. I don't fancy we any of us possess 'smocks'!"

"Then we certainly can't go and soak them in a spring!"

"And there is no 'laird' here, and even if you count an ordinary owner
of property as a 'laird,' you don't know where the boundaries are!"

"No, that floors us completely!"

An expedition to the cellar for apples would be an equally hopeless
quest, for all the harvest of the orchard had been stored in the loft,
and was under lock and key. Some minor experiments, however, might be
tried with apple skins, so they determined to pocket their next dessert,
and keep it till the magic hour of divination arrived. Hot chestnuts
would be a distinct possibility, and a little coaxing at head-quarters
would doubtless result in Jones the gardener bringing a bag full for
them from Glazebrook.

They felt quite excited when the fateful day arrived. Miss Walters had
made no objection to an order for chestnuts, and had even allowed a
modicum of toffee to be added to the list. She did not refer to the
subject of Hallowe'en, for she had some years ago suppressed the custom
of bobbing for apples, finding that the girls invariably got their hair
wet, and had colds in their heads in consequence.

The members of the Mafia, well stocked therefore with the apples and
chestnuts necessary for divination, remained in their schoolroom after
evening preparation, so as to have a gay time all to themselves. To make
matters more thrillsome they turned out the light, and sat in the
flickering glow of the fire. Gowan, having the largest acquaintance with
the occult, not to speak of having possessed a great-grandmother endowed
with second sight, was universally acknowledged priestess of the
ceremonies.

"Shall we begin with apples or chestnuts?" she asked seriously.

As some said one thing and some another, she held a specimen of each
behind her back, and commanded Carmel to choose right hand or left. The
lot fell upon chestnuts, and these were placed neatly in pairs along the
bars of the grate.

"You name them after yourself and your sweetheart," explained Gowan. "If
he pops first, he'll ask you to marry him."

"And suppose the other pops first?" asked Carmel.

"Then you won't marry him!"

"Doesn't it mean that it may be Leap Year, and the girl will 'pop the
question'?" asked Dulcie, still giggling.

"No, it doesn't."

"Suppose they neither of them pop?" said Prissie.

"It's a sign that neither cares, but it's not very likely to
happen--they nearly always pop."

"I pricked mine with my penknife, though."

"The more goose you! Take them back and try two fresh ones."

It is rather a delicate and finger-scorching process to balance
chestnuts on the bars, and as a matter of fact Prissie's tumbled into
the fire, and could not be rescued. The party was obliged to watch them
burn. They helped her to place another in position, then sat round,
keeping careful eyes on their particular representatives. It was
forbidden to reveal names, so each kept the identity of her favored
swain locked in her breast. It seemed a long time before those chestnuts
were ready! Love's delays are notoriously hard to bear. Never were omens
watched so anxiously. Slap! Bang! Pop! at last came from Carmel's
particular corner, and fragments flew about indiscriminately on to
hearth and fire.

"It's 'him'!" cried Gowan ungrammatically. "He's done it most thoroughly
too! Carmel, you'll be married the first of any of us! You'll ask us to
the wedding, won't you?"

At that moment a chorus of pops came from the grate, causing much
rejoicing or dismay from the various owners of the chestnuts, according
to the fate meted out to them by the omens. On the whole Cupid was kind,
though Lilias and Gowan were left in the lurch.

"I don't care!" said Gowan sturdily. "I've another in my mind, and
perhaps I shall get him in the apple-peels."

"And if you don't?"

"I'll meet somebody else later on."

Having eaten more or less charred pieces of chestnut, the girls produced
their apples, and once more set to work to try magic. The apple had to
be peeled entirely in one long piece, which must then be slung backwards
over the left shoulder on to the floor, where it would form the initial
of the future lover. It was a matter for skilful manipulation of
penknives, not at all easy to manage, so difficult in fact, that Noreen
and Dulcie each made a slip, and chopped their precious pieces of peel
in the middle, thus rendering them useless for purposes of divination.
Lilias, who made the first essay, was completely puzzled by the result,
which did not resemble any known letter in the alphabet, though Gowan,
anxious to interpret the oracles, construed it into a W. Edith's long
thin piece of peel made a plain C, a fact which seemed to cause her much
satisfaction, though she would betray no names. Prissie broke her luck
in half in the very act of flinging it, but insisted that the two
separate portions each formed an O.

It was Carmel's turn next, and her rather broad piece of peel twisted
itself into a most palpable E. She looked at it for a moment as if
rather taken aback, then her face cleared.

"There are quite a number of names that begin with E," she remarked
enigmatically.

Now it was all very well to sit in the sanctuary of their schoolroom
trying such mild magic as divination through chestnuts and apple skins.
Gowan's northern blood yearned after more subtle witchcraft.

"I shan't be content till I've pulled a cabbage stalk!" she declared. "I
don't see why we need wait till midnight! Hallowe'en is Hallowe'en as
soon as it's dark, I should think. Who's game to fly up the
kitchen-garden?"

"What? Now?"

"Why not? We should only be gone a few minutes and Miss Hardy would
never find out."

"It really would be a frolicsome joke!"

"There's a moon, too!"

"I vote we risk it!"

"Come along!"

Nine giggling girls therefore stole cautiously downstairs, a little
delayed by Prissie, who, with a most unusual concern for her health,
insisted on fetching a wrap. They opened the side door, and peeped out
into the night. It was quite fine, with a clear full moon, and clouds
drifting high in the sky. The vegetable garden was so near that the
ceremony could be very quickly performed. It was, of course, breaking
rules to leave the house after dark, but not one of them could resist
the temptation, so out they sped to the cabbage patch.

Now when Prissie ran to her bedroom, ostensibly to get a wrap, she had
really gone with quite other intentions. She had certainly put on a long
dark coat and a soft felt hat, but the whole gist of the matter lay in
something that she slipped into her pocket. It was a black mustache that
she had brought to school for use in theatricals, and lay handy in her
top drawer. She had hastily smeared the under side of it with soap, so
that it would adhere to her lip, and once out in the garden, she fell
behind the others and fixed it in position. Then she made a _détour_
behind some bushes, so as to conceal herself from the party.

Presently, under the bright moon and scudding clouds, eight
much-thrilled girls were hurriedly pulling away at cabbage stalks, and
estimating, by the amount of earth that came up with them, the wealth of
their future husbands. The general surroundings and the associations of
the evening were sufficient to send shivers down their spines. Gowan,
looking up suddenly, saw standing among the bushes a dark figure with a
heavy black mustache, and she caught her breath with a gasp, and
clutched at Carmel's arm. For an instant eight horrified faces stared at
the apparition, then Dulcie made a dive in its direction, and dragged
forth Prissie.

"You wretch!"

"What a mean trick to play!"

"You didn't take _me_ in!"

"It was very clever, though!"

"You really looked just like a spook!"

"Take it off now!"

"No, _no_!" said Prissie. "Leave me alone! I haven't finished. Hush! I
believe somebody else is coming to try the ordeal. Slip behind that
cucumber-frame and hide, and let us see who it is. Quick! You'll be
caught!"

The girls made a swift, but silent, dash for the shadow of the
cucumber-frame, and concealed themselves only just in time. They were
barely hidden when footsteps resounded on the gravel, and a figure
advanced from the direction of the house. It came alone, and it carried
something in its hand. In the clear beams of the moonlight, the Mafia
had no difficulty in recognizing Laurette, and could see that what she
bore was her bedroom mirror. They chuckled inwardly. Most evidently she
had sallied forth to try the white magic of Hallowe'en, and to make the
spell work more securely had come alone to consult the cabbage oracle.

First she placed her mirror on the ground, and tilted its swing glass to
a convenient angle at which to catch reflections. Then she pulled hard
at a stalk, looked with apparent satisfaction at the decidedly thick
lumps of earth that adhered (which, if the magic were to be trusted,
must represent a considerable fortune); then, clasping her cabbage in
her hand, knelt down in front of the looking-glass, and began to mutter
something to herself in a low voice. Her back was towards the
cucumber-frame and the bushes, and her eyes were fixed on her mirror.

Prissie, looking on, realized that it was the chance of a lifetime. She
stole on tiptoe from her retreat, and peeped over Laurette's shoulder so
that her reflection should be displayed in the glass. Laurette, seeing
suddenly a most unexpected vision of a dark mustache, literally yelled
with fright, sprang up, and turned round to face her "spook," then with
a further blood-curdling scream, dashed down the garden towards the
house. The Mafia, rising from the shadow of the cucumber-frame, laughed
long, though with caution.

"What an absolutely topping joke!" whispered Dulcie.

[Illustration: SHE PEEPED OVER LAURETTE'S SHOULDER]

"And on Laurette, of all people in this wide world!" rejoiced Bertha.

"Congrats., Prissie!"

"You _did_ play up no end!"

"I flatter myself I made her squeal and run!" smirked Prissie. "It just
serves her right! I was longing for a chance to get even with her!"

"What about the looking-glass?" asked Carmel. "Won't some of them be
coming out to fetch it?"

"Yes, of course they will! We must take it in at once. Let us scoot
round the other way, and go in by the back door before Laurette and Co.
catch us!"

Prissie seized the mirror, and the nine girls fled by another path to
the door near the kitchen, where by great good luck they avoided meeting
any of the servants, and were able to bolt upstairs unseen. The Gold
bedroom was empty--no doubt its occupants were shivering at the side
door--so they were able to restore the looking-glass to its place on the
dressing-table as a surprise for Laurette when she returned. Whether she
suspected them or not, it was impossible to tell, for she kept her own
counsel, and, though next day they referred casually to Hallowe'en
observances, she only glanced at them with half-closed eyelids, and
remarked that _she_ was quite above such silly superstitions.

"Which is more than a fiblet, and about the biggest whopper that Miss
Laurette Aitken has ever told in her life!" declared Prissie, still
chuckling gleefully at the remembrance of the startled figure fleeing
down the garden.



CHAPTER XIII

The Money-makers


"All Saints'" brought a brief spell of golden weather, a snatch of
Indian summer, as if Persephone, loth to go down into the Underworld,
had managed to steal a few days' extra leave from Pluto, and had
remained to scatter some last flowers on earth before her long
banishment from the sunshine. Under the sheltered brick wall in the
kitchen-garden Czar violets were blooming, sweet and fragrant as those
of spring; the rose trees had burst out into a second crop, and the
chrysanthemums were such a special show that Miss Walters almost shook
hands with Jones the gardener over them. Little wild flowers blossomed
on in quiet nooks at the edge of the shrubbery, and butterflies, brought
out by the bright days, made a last flutter in the sunshine. The leaves,
which Carmel had grieved so much to see fall, lay crisp and golden on
the ground, but the bare boughs of the trees, somewhat to her surprise,
held a beauty of form and tint quite their own.

"They are all sorts of lovely soft delicate colors," she remarked.
"Quite different from trees in Sicily. I think it must be the damp in
the air here that does it; everything seems seen through a blue haze--a
kind of fairy glamour that makes them different from what they are!"

"Wait till you see them on a sousing wet December morning!" declared
Gowan. "You won't find much romance about them then!"

"But in the meantime we'll enjoy them!" said Miss Walters, who happened
to overhear. "Who votes for a walk this afternoon? Anybody who prefers
to stop at home and write French translation may do so!"

The girls grinned. Miss Walters did not often give them an unexpected
holiday, so such treats were appreciated when they came. Twenty-one
enthusiasts donned strong boots, jerseys, and tam-o'-shanters, and
started forth for a ramble on the hill-side. They had climbed through
the wood, and were walking along the upper road that led to the hamlet
of Five Stone Bridge, when they came face to face with a very curious
little cavalcade. Two large soap boxes, knocked together, had been
placed on old perambulator wheels, and in this roughly fashioned
chariot, on a bundle of straw and an old shawl, reclined a little, thin,
white-faced girl. One sturdy boy of ten was pushing the queer
conveyance, while a younger pulled it by a piece of rope, and the small
occupant, her lap full of flowers, smiled as proudly as a queen on
coronation day. Against the background of green hedgerow and red village
roofs, the happy children made a charming picture; they had not noticed
the approach of the school, and were laughing together in absolute
unconsciousness. The sight of them at that particular moment was one of
those brief glimpses into the heart of other folks' lives that only come
to us on chance occasions, when by some accident we peep over the wall
of human reserve into the inner circle of thought and feeling. Almost
with one accord the girls stopped and smiled.

"I wish I'd brought my camera!" murmured Dulcie.

"They're too sweet for words!" agreed Prissie.

Miss Walters spoke to the children, asked their names, and ascertained
that the little girl had been ill for a long time, and could not walk.
They were shy, however, and all the spontaneous gladness that had made
the first snapshot view of them so charming faded away in the presence
of strangers. They accepted some pieces of chocolate, and remained by
the hedge bank staring with solemn eyes as the line of the school filed
away. The chance meeting was no doubt an event on both sides: the
children would tell their mother about the ladies who had spoken to
them, and the girls, on their part, could not forget the pretty episode.
They urged Miss Walters to make some inquiries about the family, and
found that little Phyllis was suffering from hip disease, and had been
for a short time in the local hospital. Then an idea sprang up amongst
the girls. It was impossible to say quite where it originated, for at
least five girls claimed the honor of it, but it was neither more nor
less than that Chilcombe School should raise a subscription and buy an
adequate carriage for the small invalid.

"That terrible box must shake her to pieces, poor kid!"

"It had no springs!"

"She looked so sweet!"

"But as white as a daisy!"

"Wouldn't she be proud of a real, proper carriage?"

"Can't we write off and order one at once?"

"What would it cost?"

"Let's get up a concert or something for it."

"Oh, yes! That would be ever such sport!"

Miss Walters, on being appealed to, was cautious--caution was one of her
strong characteristics--and would not commit herself to any reply until
she had consulted the doctor who attended the child, the clergyman of
the parish, and the local schoolmaster. Armed with this accumulated
information, she visited the mother, then gave a report of her
interview.

"They're not well off, but we mustn't on any account pauperize them,"
was her verdict. "Dr. Cranley says an invalid carriage would be a great
boon to the child, but suggests that the parents should pay half the
expense. They would value it far more if they did so, than if it were
entirely a gift. He knows of a second-hand wicker carriage that could
be had cheap. It belongs to another patient of his, and he saw it at
their house only the other day. If you girls can manage to raise about
£2, 10s., the parents would do the rest. He was mentioning the subject
of a carriage to them a short time ago, and they said they could afford
something, but not the full price. He thinks this would settle the
matter to everybody's satisfaction."

Dr. Cranley's proposal suited the girls, for £2, 10s. was a sum that
seemed quite feasible to collect among themselves. They determined,
however, to get as much fun out of the business as possible.

"Don't let's have a horrid subscription list!" urged Lilias. "It's so
unutterably dull just to put down your name for half a crown. I hoped we
were going to give a concert."

"What I vote," said Gowan, "is that each bedroom should have a show of
its own, ask the others to come as audience, charge admission, and
wangle the cash that way."

"There'd be some sport in that!" agreed Lilias.

"It's great!" declared Dulcie.

"You bet it will catch on!" purred Prissie.

Gowan's scheme undoubtedly caught on. It was so attractive that there
was no resisting it. Even the occupants of the Gold bedroom, who as a
rule were not too ready to receive suggestions from the Blue Grotto,
could not find a single fault, and plumped solidly for a dramatic
performance. Each dormitory was to give any entertainment it chose, and
while the Brown room decided on Nigger Minstrels, and the Green room on
a general variety program, the Blue, Gold and Rose were keen on acting.
Miss Walters, who, of course, had to be consulted, not only gave a
smiling permission, but seemed on the very verge of suggesting a
personal attendance, then, noticing the look of polite agony which swept
over the faces of the deputation, kindly backed out from such an
evidently embarrassing proposal, and declared that she and the
mistresses would be too busy to come, and must leave the girls to manage
by themselves.

"Thank goodness!" exclaimed Gowan, when they were safely out of earshot
of the study door. "I never dreamt of such an awful thing as Miss
Walters offering to turn up! Why, we couldn't have had any fun at all!"

"We'd have had to act Shakespeare, or something stilted out of a book!"
shuddered Edith.

"I should simply shut up if any of the mistresses were looking on,"
protested Dulcie.

"And I should shut down, and crawl under a bed, I think," laughed
Noreen. "I say, I hope Miss Walters wasn't offended. We certainly looked
very blank when she began asking us the price of 'stalls.' I suppose it
wasn't exactly what you'd call polite!"

"Perhaps it wasn't, but it can't be helped," groaned Gowan. "It would
wreck everything to have an audience of mistresses. I feel we've escaped
a great danger. We must warn the others not to be too encouraging, or
give the mistresses any loophole of an excuse to butt in. This
particular show is to be private and confidential."

It was decided to hold each performance on a separate day, during the
evening recreation time.

"_Matinées_ are no good!" decreed Prissie. "Everybody feels perfectly
cold in the afternoon. It's impossible to get up any proper enthusiasm
until the lamps are lighted."

"I feel a perfect stick at 4 P. M.," admitted Carmel.

"What will you feel later on?"

"A sort of combination of Mary Pickford and Charlie Chaplin thrown
together, I hope!" twinkled Carmel. "It depends whether you put me on a
comic turn or a romantic scene."

"I vote we have a little bit of both," said Gowan. "We'll harrow their
feelings first, and end in comedy."

The five bedrooms drew lots for the order of their performances, and the
honor of "first night" fell to the Blue Grotto. Its occupants (including
Carmel, whose dressing-room was considered an annex) held a rejoicing
committee to plan out their play. Squatting on Gowan's bed, they each
contributed portions of the plot.

"Shall we write it out and learn our parts?" asked Lilias.

"Certainly not. It would quite spoil it if you were just reeling off
speeches by heart, with one ear open to the prompter. I know you! I
shall never forget Lilias when we did 'The Vanity Bag.' She said her
bits as if she were repeating a lesson, and Bertha----"

"Are we to say anything we like, then?" interrupted Carmel, for Gowan's
reminiscences were becoming rather too personal for purposes of harmony.

"We'll map the whole thing out beforehand, of course, but you must just
say what comes into your head at the moment. It will be ever so much
fresher and funnier. All you've got to do is to get into the right
spirit and play up!"

"All serene! As long as no mistresses are sitting looking on, I don't
mind."

The Blue Grotto, being the first on the list of performances, was
determined to do the thing in style. Bertha and Carmel between them
evolved a poster. It was painted in sepia on the back of one of Dulcie's
school drawings, sacrificed for the purpose. It represented the profile
of a rather pert looking young person with a tip-tilted nose and an eye
several sizes larger than was consistent with the usual anatomy of the
human countenance. Lower down, in somewhat shaky lettering, was set
forth the following announcement:

[Illustration:

Come to the blue Grotto!

GRAND DRAMA

"THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE"

·FEATURING·

THE SISTERS INGLETON..........The Cheverley Favourites

SIGNORINA CARMEL LESLIE....The famous Sicilian Comedienne

MISS GOWAN BARBOUR..............The Daisy of Chilcombe

MISS BERTHA CHESTERS...................(Our Bert)

Have half an hour of Fun and Pathos
It will do you good to laugh and cry

SILVER COLLECTION]

This they placed temporarily in the passage, but when the girls had
giggled over it sufficiently they removed it, for fear its attractions
might tempt some of the mistresses into asking permission to attend, a
fatality which must at all costs be avoided.

The performers spent a hectic day making arrangements. The time allowed
in their dormitory was necessarily limited, so preparations were a
scramble. The four beds were moved and placed as seats, and one corner
of the room was reserved as the stage. Carmel's dressing-room made an
excellent "green room," and gave the Blue Grotto a substantial
theatrical lift over other dormitories.

Ten minutes before the hour, five distracted actresses were struggling
to complete their impromptu toilets.

"I'm so rocky, I know I shan't be able to say anything at all!"
fluttered Dulcie.

"Nonsense! Pull yourself together, child!" urged Gowan. "Get some
stiffening into you, can't you?"

"I'm going to have umpteen dozen fits!"

"You've got to reckon with me if you spoil the play, so there! Don't be
a silly cockchafer!"

"Are we downhearted?" twittered Bertha.

"No!" answered a stalwart chorus of three, hauling up Dulcie, who was
sitting on a chair shivering in the agonies of an acute attack of stage
fright.

By this time the audience was trooping in, and seating itself upon the
beds, and by frantic clapping clamored for the entertainment to begin.
Gowan opened the show, and took the stage in the character of Miss
Monica Morton, an elderly spinster. Her make-up was very good,
considering the limited resources of the company. Some cotton wool did
service for white hair neatly arranged under a boudoir cap; her dress
(borrowed from Noreen, who was a head taller than Gowan) fell to her
ankles; she wore spectacles, and wrinkles had been carefully painted
across her forehead. Bertha, a forward chit of a maidservant (servants
on the stage invariably assume a cheekiness of manner that would never
be tolerated by any employer in private life), bounced in and handed her
a letter, and stood making grimaces to the audience while her
mistress--very foolishly--read its contents aloud. It ran thus:

         "11 PARK LANE,
             "MAYFAIR.

    "DEAREST MONICA,

    "We are sending Dorothea down to you by the first train in the
     morning, and we beg you will keep a strict eye on her. An
     individual named Montague Ponsonby has been paying her great
     attentions, and we wish to break off the attachment. He is well
     born, but absolutely penniless, and as Dorothea will some day
     be an heiress, we do not wish her to throw herself away upon
     him. Please do your best to prevent any such folly.

    "Your affectionate sister,
         "ELIZABETH STRONG."

Miss Morton, on grasping the drift of this epistle, exhibited symptoms
of distress. She flung out her arms in a dramatic attitude, and confided
to the audience her disinclination to take over the unwelcome task of
becoming duenna to her niece. There was no other course open to her,
apparently; the idea of sending the girl home by the next train, or of
hastily packing her own box and departing somewhere on urgent business
did not seem to occur to her. She grumbled, but accepted the
responsibility, and Jemima, the pert maidservant, made faces behind her
back, till summoned by a violent knocking, when she flew to the door and
admitted Dorothea, with bag and baggage.

Lilias, as the fashionable niece, was "got up regardless." Her hair was
done in a Grecian knot, a veil was twisted round her picture hat, and
she sailed into the room with the assurance of a Society beauty.

Aunt Monica, suppressing the letter of warning, gave the customary
greetings, then--with the imprudence characteristic of a stage
aunt--announced her intention of going out to do shopping while her
niece unpacked her possessions.

Instead of doing anything so sensible as to unpack, Dorothea sank into a
chair, and in an attitude of great languor and despair confided her love
affairs to the sympathetic and interested servant, who swore fealty and
offered all possible assistance. Her kind intentions were put at once to
the test, for immediately another violent knocking was heard, she flung
open the door, and after a whispered colloquy announced "Mr. Montague
Ponsonby."

The entrance of Carmel, as hero of the drama, created quite a sensation.
Materials for masculine attire were scanty at Chilcombe Hall, and, as
the girls felt rather mean for not having invited the mistresses to
their performance, they had not dared to ask for the loan of any
theatrical properties, and had been obliged to concoct costumes from
anything that came to hand. Carmel had put her feet through the sleeves
of her brown knitted jumper, and drawn it up so that the cuffs fitted
just below her knees, and made a really striking resemblance to a pair
of gentleman's sporting breeches. A coat covered any deficiencies at the
waist, a paper collar and a scarlet tie encircled her throat,
india-rubber waders did service for top-boots, her hair was tucked under
a felt hat (with the trimming wrenched off), and last, but not least,
her lip was adorned with the black mustache which Prissie had used on
Hallowe'en. She looked such a magnificent and sporting object, that it
was no wonder the fashionable Dorothea fell into her arms.

It is perhaps unusual for a gentleman to conduct his love-making with
his hat on, but the audience was not "viper-critical" and allowed some
latitude to Mr. Montague Ponsonby. They admired the ardor with which he
pressed his suit, the fervor of his protestations of fidelity, the
dramatic roll of his dark eyes, and the tender tone of his voice. His
entrance was considered a very brisk bit of acting, and when he paused
for breath, in a graceful stage attitude, sixteen pairs of hands gave a
hearty clap.

The lovers, possibly a little sated with the ecstacies of their
affection, turned to the sordid details of life, and sitting hand in
hand upon the sofa (improvised out of four bedroom chairs and an
eiderdown) planned an immediate elopement. They had decided to hire a
car and make for Scotland, and were discussing which hotel to stay at,
and what they should order for dinner, when the inevitable happened. The
pert maidservant rushed in, and in a voice squeaky with tragedy, warned
them of the immediate approach of Miss Monica Morton.

Of course, they ought to have expected it. Nobody except two utter
idiots would have sat philandering upon the sofa in what might be termed
"the lion's den," knowing that "the lion" might at any moment walk in
with her shopping-basket and catch them. The surprise and horror
depicted on their countenances would have commanded a good salary at a
cinema studio. Mr. Montague Ponsonby was for bluffing it, but Dorothea's
astute female brains seized a readier way out of the situation. She laid
her lover flat upon the sofa, and covered him hastily with her traveling
rug, then, opening her suitcase, flung its contents on the floor, and
knelt down in the midst of a muddle of shoes, nightdresses, and other
paraphernalia.

Aunt Monica exhibited a natural amazement at finding her niece
conducting her unpacking in the sitting-room, instead of upstairs, but
accepted her explanations with wonderful indulgence. She professed
herself tired with shopping, and moved towards the sofa to rest.

Dorothea, with sudden solicitude, sprang up to offer her a chair, and
made every human effort to lead her away from the couch. She was a
persistent, not to say obstinate, old lady, however, and she meant to
have her own way in her own house. Waving her niece aside, and
proclaiming her weariness, she sank down heavily upon the sofa. The
result was tragic, for a stifled groan resounded through the room, and
the top-boots of the luckless Montague Ponsonby kicked wildly in the
air. Miss Morton, naturally alarmed, and instantly jumping to the
conclusion that he was a burglar, screamed loudly for assistance, and a
passing policeman hastened to her call.

It is wonderful how efficient and handy the police always are on the
stage. They are invariably at the right place at the right moment, and
always step in just in time to stop a murder, prevent an explosion, or
rescue the heroine. Dulcie, who in a long blue coat, with a paper helmet
and a strap under her chin, represented the majesty of the law, hauled
the squirming Montague from the couch, and secured his wrists tightly
with a piece of clothes line supplied by the pert servant, who ought to
have been ashamed of herself for going back on her promise to help the
lovers, but probably felt a deeper obligation to the policeman, who was,
no doubt, her sweetheart, which accounted for his very convenient
presence on the doorstep.

"I arrest you in the King's name!" declared that officer, when the
clothes line was sufficiently knotted, and Montague had ceased
struggling. "You will be brought up on trial before the court, and
charged with house-breaking and resisting the police."

It was only then that the wretched man began to protest his innocence,
and that Dorothea, falling on her knees, explained his name, errand, and
intentions, and entreated her aunt to overlook the matter.

Miss Morton wavered visibly. It was evident that her natural kindness of
heart gave her a bias towards the lovers--she had, perhaps, been through
an affair of the same sort herself in her youth--yet on the other hand
her duty to her sister urged her to take stern measures. She drew the
letter from her pocket with the seeming intention of strengthening her
resolution against the hopes of Montague, and was shaking her head
sadly over it, when the obstreperous servant, who had rushed for no
apparent reason, except habit, to the door, bounded back, waving a
yellow envelope. A well-trained maid usually presents a telegram upon a
tray, but Miss Morton must have been accustomed to Jemima's rough ways,
or was too agitated to rebuke her; she tore open the missive, glanced at
its contents, and with a scream of joy sank fainting into her domestic's
faithful arms.

Of course, somebody had to read the telegram aloud. The policeman seemed
to think it was his business. He picked it up, and proclaimed it in the
manner of a town crier. It was short, but much to the point.

    "Please encourage Montague Ponsonby. Uncle has died and
     left him vast fortune.
         "ELIZABETH."

Everybody recovered at the good news. Miss Morton rose from the arms of
Jemima, apologized to Mr. Ponsonby for having mistaken him for a
burglar, and invited him to stay to lunch. He begged her not to mention
the matter, and as soon as his wrists had been released by the
policeman, he shook hands cordially with his prospective aunt, and made
a pretty speech expressing his desire to become a member of the family.

This was undoubtedly the moment for the curtain to descend, but as that
most useful of stage adjuncts was conspicuous by its absence, the actors
lined up instead, and made their parting bows with much éclat, Dorothea
leaning elegantly upon her lover's shoulder, Aunt Monica holding aloft
the telegram, the policeman saluting, and the maidservant blowing
kisses.

The applause was so thunderous that the performers were obliged to beg
the audience to use self-restraint and limit the noise, for fear one of
the mistresses should feel in duty bound to pay a surprise visit, and be
scandalized at the costumes. Moreover, a clanging bell warned them that
the recreation hour was over, so there was a hasty exit and a quick
change into normal garments. Miss Hardy was kind that evening, and
turned a blind eye to deficiencies of order. She was seen
surreptitiously reading the program, and it was the general opinion in
the dormitory that she and the other mistresses were much disappointed
at having been excluded from the entertainment.

"It did seem rather mean not to ask them," said Gowan,
self-reproachfully, "though they'd have spoilt the whole show. I vote we
give another some time--a prunes and prism affair without any lovers in
it--and let them all come."

"Right you are! But it will be a tame business after this!" agreed
Bertha.



CHAPTER XIV

All in a Mist


The Blue Grotto entertainment was very successfully emulated by the
occupants of the Gold, Green, Rose, and Brown bedrooms, and quite a
sufficient sum of money was raised in the various collections to pay
half the expense of the little wicker carriage for the invalid child.
The school took a special walk one day to Five Stone Bridge, to see her
take an airing in her new chariot, and though they agreed that it did
not look nearly so picturesque as the wooden box, it was undoubtedly far
more comfortable, and more suitable for one suffering from her
complaint. She smiled shyly at the long line of girls, whispered a
bashful "Thank you" for the chocolates they gave her, and appeared
scared to the verge of tears when they spoke to her.

"I don't blame her, poor kid!" said Gowan, as the school marched on,
slightly disappointed. "I shouldn't like to be made a show of myself,
and be stared at by everybody. She looked as if she wished us far
enough. Never mind! She'll eat the chocs. and enjoy herself now we've
gone. She's rather a sweet little morsel, isn't she, after all?"

Christmas was drawing near, and the school turned from schemes of
general philanthropy to the more pressing business of making presents
for immediate relatives and friends. Various pieces of sewing, which had
languished all the term, were taken out and worked at feverishly; there
was quite an epidemic of needlecraft, and a wet day was almost welcomed
as affording an opportunity for getting on with the gifts. Everybody
seemed suddenly in need of embroidery silks, transfers, beads, wools,
crochet needles, and other such articles, and a special deputation
waited on Miss Walters asking permission to go a shopping expedition to
Glazebrook to purchase these indispensables. Miss Walters, who always
had an eye to school discipline, made the matter a question of marks,
and granted the privilege only to those whose exercise books showed a
certain standard of proficiency. Hester, Ida, Noreen, Joyce, Bertha,
Carmel, and Doris were the only ones who reached the required totals, so
under charge of Miss Herbert they were sent off one afternoon to the
town, armed with a long list of commissions from the luckless ones who
remained behind.

Chilcombe Hall was four and a half miles from Glazebrook, and there was
no motor omnibus service. It was arranged, therefore, for the party to
walk on the outward journey, and to return with all their parcels in a
couple of taxicabs. They started after an extremely early lunch, in
order to do the important business of matching embroidery silks by
daylight. It had been quite a fine sunny morning, but clouded over at
noon, and although no rain fell the sky was gray and cheerless.

The girls did not much mind the condition of the weather so long as they
could see to make their purchases. They spent a considerable time in the
principal fancy-work shop of the town, and tried the patience of the
assistants by demanding articles that were quite unobtainable. A visit
to a stationer's and a confectioner's almost completed their list of
requirements, and only a few extras remained to be bought. Some of the
party were standing in the entrance of a big general store, waiting
while Miss Herbert executed commissions for Miss Walters, when Joyce was
suddenly greeted by a friend, a lady who was just about to step into her
motor.

"Why, Joyce!" she exclaimed. "Have you been shopping here? So have
I--look at my pile of parcels! Have you finished? Are you going straight
back to school? I shall pass Chilcombe on my way home, and can take you
in the car if you like, and some of your schoolfellows too. There's
room for four if you don't mind squeezing!"

It seemed much too good an offer to be refused. Joyce suggested, indeed,
that she ought to consult Miss Herbert, who was in an upper department
of the shop, but Mrs. Baldwin declared she could not wait.

"I don't see that Miss Herbert can mind. We're quite ready to go, and it
will save one taxi," urged Bertha.

So it was hastily decided for Joyce, Bertha, Doris, and Carmel to go in
the car, and Noreen ran upstairs to tell Miss Herbert of the
arrangement. The latter, with Hester and Ida, was choosing lamp-shades
and fancy candlesticks. It was only when Noreen had gone that Carmel
remembered suddenly that she had never bought the packet of chocolates
which she had promised to bring back for Dulcie. She stopped with her
foot on the step of the car, and excused herself.

"There's something I still have to do!" she explained. "I must come back
in the taxi with the others after all! I'm so sorry!"

Mrs. Baldwin had an appointment at home, and was impatient to start, so
the door was slammed on Joyce, Bertha, and Doris, and they drove away
all smiles, and waving a good-by through the window. There was a sweets
department close at hand in the Stores, and Carmel bought a present of
chocolate for Dulcie and of butterscotch for Lilias, then went upstairs
to the lamp-shade counter to rejoin Miss Herbert and the other girls. To
her surprise she found they had gone. She searched for them all round
the upper story of the shop, but did not see them anywhere. She had kept
a watchful eye on the stairs when buying the sweets, and was quite sure
that they had not passed down while she was there. She returned to the
lamp-shade counter and questioned the assistant, who told her that she
had noticed the lady and the three girls in school hats walk down
another staircase which led to a side door of the stores. In much alarm,
Carmel hurried that way into the street, but not a trace of them was to
be seen. She walked as far as the railway station, hoping to catch them
there engaging a taxi, but not a solitary conveyance of any description
was on the stand. She was indeed in a fix. She saw clearly that, of
course, they all supposed she had gone with Mrs. Baldwin in the car, and
by this time they were probably on the road to Chilcombe without her. It
was nobody's fault but her own.

The feeling that she had only herself to blame did not make the
situation any less unpleasant. She was four and a half miles away from
school, and unless she could secure a taxi, she would be obliged to walk
back. She inquired from a porter, but he shook his head, and said it
was unlikely there would be any cabs at the station till the express
came in at six o'clock.

Carmel thanked him, and turned away with her eyes full of tears. Owing
to her Sicilian education she was not accustomed to going about by
herself. England was still more or less of a strange country to her, and
she did not know the ways of the land. Lilias, in her place, would have
gone to the principal hotel, explained who she was, and asked the
manager to find some sort of carriage to convey her back to school. Such
a course never occurred to Carmel, however; instead, she tied her
numerous parcels together, blinked back her tears, set her teeth, and
started forth to walk.

Fortunately, there was no mistaking the high road, and it was still
comparatively early. If she put her best foot foremost she might
reasonably expect to reach Chilcombe before dark. She had soon left the
houses of Glazebrook behind, and was passing between hedges and fields.
For the first mile and a half all went well; she was a little tired, but
rather pleased with her own pluck. According to Sicilian customs, which
are almost eastern in their guardianship of signorinas, it was an
unheard-of thing for a young lady in her position to take a country walk
without an escort. The remembrance of the beggars and footpads that
lurked about Sicilian roads gave her uneasy twinges, and though she had
been told of the comparative safety of British highways, her heart beat
considerably when she passed anybody, and she scurried along in a
flutter lest some ill-intentioned person should stop and speak to her.
The farther she went from the town the fewer people were on the road,
and for quite half a mile she had met nobody at all. She had been going
steadily down a steep hill, and at the bottom she stepped suddenly into
a great belt of fog that lay like a white wall in front of her. It was
as if she had passed into a country of dreams. She could scarcely see
the hedges, and all round was a dense mass of mist, clammy and cold and
difficult to breathe. It was silent, too, for no sound seemed to travel
through it, not a bird twittered, and no animal stirred in the fields.
Carmel felt as utterly alone as if she were on the surface of the moon.
All the familiar objects of the landscape were blotted out. It was still
light, but this white thick mist was worse than darkness. She stamped
along for the sake of hearing her own footsteps. She wished she had a
dog with her. She kept to the left-hand side of the road, and followed
the hedge, hoping that the fog was only in the valley, and that she
would soon pass out of it. On and on it stretched, however, till she
must have been walking through it for quite twenty minutes. Then she
began to grow uneasy. There was a border of grass under the hedge bank
wider than she remembered noticing on the road, and the suspicion
assailed her that all unknowingly she must have turned down a side lane
and have lost her way.

She went forward now with doubting footsteps. Where was the path leading
her? If she could only find some cottage, she could inquire. But there
was no human habitation, nothing but the endless hedges and an
occasional gate into a field. What was that in front of her? She
stopped, and drew back with a cry of fear. Across her track gleamed
water. She had almost stepped into it. Whether it was stream, pond, or
river the thick mist did not reveal, but it certainly barred her
footpath. She shivered, and turning round, walked back in the direction
from which she had come, hoping to regain the high road.

Then a wonderful atmospheric effect was displayed. A breeze sprang up
and blew aside some of the fog, and the rising moon shone down on a land
of white shadows. It was impossible to tell what was real and what was
unreal. On the other side of the lane stretched what appeared to be a
vast lake, but might only be mist on the meadows; cloud-like masses
shaped themselves into spectral forms and rolled away into the dim and
nebulous distance, where they settled into weird domes and towers and
walls, a veritable elf king's castle. It was so uncanny and silent and
strange that Carmel was far more frightened than she had felt before.
Old fairy tales of her childhood crowded into her mind, memories of
phantoms and ghosts and goblins, the legends of Undine and the water
sprites, the ballad of the Erl-King in the haunted forest. She had
learnt the poem once, and she found herself repeating the words:

    "'Why trembles my darling? Why shrinks he with fear?'
     'Oh Father, my Father! the Erl-King is near!
     The Erl-King with his crown and his beard long and white!'
     'Oh! your eyes are deceived by the vapours of night!'

       *       *       *       *       *

    "'I love thee, I dote on thy face so divine!
     I must and will have thee, and force makes thee mine!'
     'My Father! My Father! Oh hold me now fast!
     He pulls me, he hurts, and will have me at last!'"

And as if that were not bad enough, the ballad of Lenore recurred
to her:

    "How swift the flood, the mead, the wood,
         Aright, aleft are gone!
     The bridges thunder as they pass,
         But earthly sound is none.

    "Tramp, tramp, across the land they speed,
         Splash, splash, across the sea;
     'Hurrah! the dead can ride apace,
         Dost fear to ride with me?'"

By this time Carmel, alone among the magic mist and moonlight, had
reached a state of fear bordering on panic. She longed for anything
human, and would have embraced a cow if she had met one. Through the fog
in front of her suddenly loomed something dark, and the sound of horse's
hoofs rang on the road. A wild vision of Lenore's spectral bridegroom
presented itself to her overwrought imagination, and she shrieked in
genuine terror, and shrank trembling against the hedge. The rider of the
horse dismounted, and slipping his wrist through the bridle, came
towards her.

"What's the matter?" he asked. "Are you hurt? Why, great Scott! It's
never Carmel!"

"Everard! Everard!" gasped Carmel, clinging desperately to his arm. "Oh!
Thank Heaven it's you! I'm lost!"

Everard comforted her for a while without asking any questions; then,
when she had recovered calmness, he naturally wished to know why his
pretty cousin was wandering in the country lanes by herself on a
winter's evening. Man-like, he blamed the school instead of Carmel.

"They ought to have taken better care of you!" he murmured. "Why didn't
the mistress hold a roll-call, and count you all?"

"It wasn't her fault. It was my own mistake!"

"Well, whoever's fault it was, the fact remains the same. You'd better
get on Rajah, and I'll take you back to Chilcombe."

"Oh! that would be lovely. I'm so tired."

Perched on Rajah's back, with Everard walking by her side, life seemed a
very different affair from what it had been five minutes before. Carmel
enjoyed the ride, and was almost sorry when they reached the great iron
gates of the Hall.

"Won't you come in and see Lilias and Dulcie?" she asked, as Everard
helped her to dismount at the door.

"I haven't time to-night. I must get home in a hurry. I've an
appointment with Mr. Bowden, and he'll be waiting for me."

"And I've kept you from it! Oh, I'm so sorry, Everard!"

"I'm not. Look here, if you're ever in any trouble again anywhere, you
come to me, and I'll take care of you. Don't forget that, will you?"

"I'll remember!" said Carmel, waving her hand to him as she watched him
ride away down the drive. Then she turned into the house to set at rest
the panic of anxiety which had arisen over her non-appearance with the
other members of the shopping party.



CHAPTER XV

On the High Seas


There was quite a merry gathering at Cheverley Chase that Christmas. All
the Ingleton children were at home, and with Cousin Clare and Mr.
Stacey, they made a jolly party of nine, a satisfactory number, large
enough to act charades, play round games, and even to dance in the
evenings if they felt inclined. Without exception everybody voted Mr.
Stacey "an absolute sport." He seemed to know a little about everything,
and could help Bevis to arrange his stamp collection, or Clifford his
moths and butterflies; he could name Roland's fossils, give Dulcie tips
for the development of her photos, and teach Lilias to use the
typewriter. He was so cheery and good-tempered over it, too, and so
amusing, and full of fun and jokes, that the young Ingletons buzzed
round him like flies round a honey-pot. There are some people in the
world whose mental atmosphere appears to act like genial sunshine.
Because their uplifting personality demands the best in others' natures,
the best is offered to them. Mr. Stacey's lovable, joyous, enthusiastic
temperament made a wonderful difference at Cheverley Chase. The constant
squabbles and rivalries that had been wont to crop up seemed to melt
away in his presence. Never had there been such harmonious holidays, or
such pleasant ones. It was his idea to take advantage of a brief frost
and flood the lawn, so that the family could enjoy skating there, though
the ponds in the neighborhood were still unsafe. It was Carmel's first
experience of ice, and she struggled along, held up by her cousins,
feeling very helpless at first, but gradually learning to make her
strokes, and enjoying herself immensely. Then there was scouting in the
woods, and there were various expeditions to hunt for fossils in road
heaps and quarries, or to explore hitherto unvisited parts of the
district. There was no doubt that Mr. Stacey had a born knack with young
folks, and as a leader of Christmas fun he was quite unrivaled.

Among the changes for the better at Cheverley Chase there was perhaps
none so great as the marked difference in Everard. Nobody could fail to
notice it. Mr. Bowden considered that the six months spent as a
chauffeur had "knocked the nonsense out of the lad, and done him a world
of good." Cousin Clare said he had grown up, and the younger boys, while
not exactly analyzing the altered attitude, admitted that their eldest
brother was "a good sort" these holidays.

"Everard always so loved to be 'top dog' before," Dulcie confided to
Lilias. "I used to hate the way he bossed us all and arranged
everything. He's far nicer now he doesn't pose as 'the young squire.'
Even when he used to tell us what he'd do for us when he owned the
estate, it was in such a grand patronizing manner that it made me feel
all bristles. I didn't want to be helped like that!"

"He is indeed very different!" agreed Lilias thoughtfully.

The only person who did not notice any change in Everard was Carmel, but
she had never known him in the old days, so fixed him at the standard at
which she had found him. The two were excellent friends. Under her
cousin's teaching, Carmel learnt much of English country life; she had
the makings of a plucky little horsewoman, and could soon take a fence
and ride to hounds. She was very much interested in the gamekeeper's
reports, in various experiments in forestry that were being tried, and
in motor plows and other up-to-date agricultural implements that she saw
in use on the farms.

"It's all different from Sicily," she said one day.

"Yes. You see I'm training you to play your part as an English
landowner," replied Everard. "You ought to know something about your
estate."

Carmel shook her head emphatically.

"Don't call it _my_ estate, please! I've told you again and again that I
don't mean to take it from you. How could a girl like I am manage it
properly? You know all about it, and I don't. People can't be made to
take things they don't want. As soon as I'm twenty-one, I shall hand it
straight over to you. I'd like to see you master of the Chase!"

It was Everard's turn to shake his head.

"That can never be, Carmel! Please let us consider that matter perfectly
settled, and don't let us open the question again. It's an utter
impossibility for me ever to be master of the Chase. That's final! I may
have my faults, but I'm not a sneak or a fortune-hunter."

"You're not cross with me, Everard?" Carmel was looking at him
anxiously.

"No, dear, but you're such a child! You can't understand things properly
yet. You will when you're older."

"Then what are you going to do, Everard, after you leave college?"

"Study for the Bar, I hope. It's the kind of career that would suit me,
I think."

Carmel's dark eyes shone.

"Then I shall come to court, and hear you plead a case! And when you get
into Parliament--oh yes! you _are_ going to get into Parliament, I
_know_ you are!--I shall sit in the Ladies' Gallery and listen to your
first speech. If you won't be Squire of Cheverley, you must become
famous in some other way! In Sicily we think a tremendous amount about
being the head of the family. You'll be the head of the Ingletons, and
you've got to make a name for the sake of the others."

"I know I ought to take my father's place to the younger ones," answered
Everard gravely. "I'll do what I can in that line, though I'm not much
to boast of myself, I'm afraid. I'm not the good sort you think me,
Carmel. But there, you little witch, you've cast your glamour over me,
somehow! I suppose I've got to try to be all you want me. Princess
Carmel gives her orders here, it seems!"

"Yes, and in things like this she expects to be obeyed!" laughed Carmel.
"I told you once before that you hadn't got the same shape of forehead
as the Emperor Augustus for nothing!"

It was after the girls had returned to school, during some bitter
weather at the end of January, that Lilias caught a severe cold, and was
kept in bed. Dr. Martin, sent for from Glazebrook, took a serious view
of the case, and asked to consult with Dr. Hill of Balderton, the
family physician at Cheverley Chase. They sounded the patient's chest,
examined the temperature charts kept by Miss Walters, and decided that
the climate of Chilcombe was too damp for her at present, and that she
would benefit by spending the trying spring months in a warmer and drier
atmosphere. The result of this ultimatum was a large amount of writing
and telegraphing between England and Sicily, several confabulations
among Mr. Bowden, Cousin Clare, Mr. Stacey, and Miss Walters, and then
the remarkable and delightful announcement that the invalid, escorted by
a detachment of her family, was to be taken to Casa Bianca at Montalesso
on a visit to Mr. and Mrs. Greville.

It was, of course, Carmel who had engineered the whole business.

"It's nearly a year since I left home," she explained, "so it's time
they let me go and see them. I couldn't take Lilias without Dulcie, it
wouldn't be kind, and even Miss Walters saw that, though she held out at
first. Then Everard has been working very hard, and needs a change, but,
if Mr. Stacey goes with us, they can use Daddy's gun-room for a study,
and read for three or four hours every morning. And Cousin Clare must
come too, to take care of us all; we couldn't leave her behind. Mother
loved her when she came over to fetch me last year. I don't believe
she'd have let anybody else take me away. Oh, how I want to show Sicily
to you all! Won't we have absolutely the time of our lives? To think of
going home and taking you with me!"

It was wonderful how Princess Carmel seemed to manage to get her own
way. Mr. Bowden and Miss Walters, who were the natural obstacles to the
plan, yielded quite amicably after only a short opposition. Cousin Clare
had encouraged the scheme from the first, and Mr. Stacey and Everard
were all enthusiasm.

"You'll need us men to look after the luggage," declared Everard,
oblivious of the fact that Cousin Clare had successfully piloted Carmel
and her boxes across the continent without any masculine assistance, and
was quite capable of traveling round the world on her own account.

As Mr. Greville was one of the directors of a line of Mediterranean
steamers running from Liverpool to Alexandria, it was decided that the
party should book passages in the _Clytie_, and go by sea as far as
Malta, crossing from there in a local vessel to Sicily. The doctors
thought that a sea voyage would be better for Lilias than a long tiring
train journey across France and Italy, and as it was a novel experience,
the idea was attractive to most of the party. Fortunately they were
able to engage the accommodation they needed, and set out without
further loss of time.

I will not describe the journey to Liverpool, or the wearisome drive
through drab streets and along miles of docks till they reached the
_Clytie_. She was a steamer of about 6,000 tons, and, considering the
crowded condition of all sea traffic at the time, they might think
themselves very lucky to be able to secure cabins without waiting months
for the privilege. It was indeed only owing to Mr. Greville's influence
that they had been able to do so. With much curiosity they looked round
the floating castle which was to be their home for perhaps a fortnight.
All seemed new and strange to their wondering eyes--the dining-saloon,
with its long table and fixed, crimson plush-covered chairs, that
swivelled round like music-stools to allow their owners to sit down on
them; the small saloon, with mirrors, piano, and books, specially
reserved for the ladies instead of a drawing-room; the smoke-room for
the gentlemen, and the steward's pantry. The cramped sleeping
accommodation rather appalled the girls, though Cousin Clare, who was a
seasoned traveler, assured them it was far more roomy than that given on
many other vessels. As a matter of fact, the captain had turned out of
his own cabin for them, and was sleeping next to the chart-house on the
bridge, so that at any rate they had the best accommodation which the
_Clytie_ afforded. Four berths in a space about nine feet square
certainly does not allow much elbow room; the girls planned to go to bed
in relays, and wondered how they could possibly have managed in the
still smaller quarters at which Cousin Clare had hinted. Neatness and
order seemed an absolute essential. There was no place except their
berths on which to lay anything down, and their possessions had to
remain inside their cabin trunks. Each had brought a linen case with
pockets, and tacked it on to the wall beside her berth, to hold
hairbrush, comb, handkerchiefs, and a few other immediate necessities,
but when anything else was wanted, the trunks must be pulled from under
the bunks and their contents turned over.

They had hardly arranged their luggage in their cabin, when Everard came
in to tell them that the vessel was getting under way, and they all
rushed on deck to witness the start. Out from the dock they steamed into
the wide estuary of the Mersey, where ships of many nations might be
seen, and the pale February sunshine was gleaming upon the gray tidal
waters that lay in front, and on the roofs and chimneys of the great
city they were leaving behind.

"I can understand emigrants feeling it a wrench to say good-by to
England!" said Dulcie, leaning on the rail and fluttering her
handkerchief as a parting tribute to her country. "I'd be sorry if I
were never coming back any more! Home's home!"

"Yes, and Sicily is mine!" said Carmel with shining eyes. "I can't
forget that every day is taking me nearer to Mother! Only a fortnight
more, and we shall be at Casa Bianca! How I hope we shall have a smooth
voyage, and perhaps we shall get there even sooner. Now we have once
started off, I feel as if I can't wait! I didn't know till to-day that I
was so homesick!"

The first twenty-four hours on board the _Clytie_ passed very
successfully. The Ingletons dined, spent an evening in the saloon, made
the acquaintance of other passengers, and next morning amused themselves
with deck games. They began to congratulate the captain on the calmness
of the passage, but he laughed and told them not to count up their
blessings too soon.

"In February we may expect anything in the way of weather," he remarked.

And he was right. Directly they entered the Bay of Biscay they
encountered a storm. At first the girls thought it rather fun to feel
the vessel heaving its way through the water, to have to hold on to the
chairs as they crossed the saloon, and to be nearly jerked off the
stairs when they went on deck. But as evening came on, one by one they
began to feel the effects of _mal de mer_, and long before the
dinner-gong sounded had retired thankfully to their berths. The time
that followed was an absolute nightmare. The heavy seas dashed the
_Clytie_ about like a match-box. She pitched and tossed, and rolled, so
that one moment the girls, lying on their backs, would find their heels
higher than their heads, and the next instant the position would be
reversed. The violence of the rolling almost flung them out on to the
floor, and they were obliged to cling to the wooden edges of their
berths. All their possessions were rolling about the cabin, the linen
tidies had tumbled down, and hairbrushes, shoes, sponges, clothing, and
trunks spun round and round in confusion. The noise was terrific, the
wind blew a hurricane, and great waves broke over the deck with
tremendous force. To add to the danger, the cargo in the hold shifted,
and an enormous fly-wheel, which, with some other machinery was being
taken to Alexandria, broke loose from the chains that held it, and
dashed about smashing all with which it came in contact.

Even when morning dawned, the storm did not abate. The girls heard
afterwards that the men on the look-out were obliged to be lashed to the
rail with ropes, that the captain never left the bridge for twenty-four
hours, and that the hatches had been battened down to prevent any
passengers from venturing on deck. At the time they were far too ill to
care about any such details; Lilias and Dulcie would thankfully have
gone to the bottom, and though Carmel and Cousin Clare were more
cheerful, the physical discomfort troubled them decidedly more than the
danger. The stewardess, who, poor woman, was herself ill, managed to
struggle into their cabin, and holding on tightly to the berths, would
pass them drinks of tea in cups that could only be filled a quarter full
for fear of spilling.

All through that horrible day they lay still, for the violence of the
storm made it quite impossible to get up and dress. Towards evening,
Carmel, who began to feel better, turned to thoughts of food, and after
nibbling a biscuit, begged for something more. Now, when the _Clytie_
was pitching and tossing and generally misbehaving herself, it was
manifestly impossible to sit up and wield a knife and fork, for the
whole contents of the plate would be whirled away at the next sudden
lurch. The stewardess did her best, however, by bringing potatoes baked
in their skins, and pears, at both of which delicacies it was possible
to nibble while still lying flat, and holding with one hand to the side
of the berth. The humor of the situation appealed to Carmel so much that
she burst out laughing, and then Cousin Clare, and even Lilias and
Dulcie laughed, and were persuaded each to try a potato, too. They
snatched intervals of sleep during the night, and woke much refreshed.

Morning found the _Clytie_ off the coast of Portugal, and in
comparatively calm waters. Feeling very shaky, the Ingletons managed to
dress, and tottered on deck. Everard and Mr. Stacey, both looking pale,
though they assured every one that they were all right, found
comfortable chairs for the ladies, and tucked them up snugly with rugs.
After the long hours in the stuffy cabin it was delightful to sit in the
sunshine and watch the gray, racing water. Here and there in the
distance could occasionally be seen the funnels of far-away steamers,
and then there was much excitement and focussing of opera-glasses and
telescopes. They wondered if other vessels had been caught in the same
storm, and how they had fared, and Dulcie even hoped they might
encounter a wreck, and have the privilege of rescuing passengers from
open boats. She was quite disappointed when nothing so romantic
happened.

It was interesting to go down to lunch in the saloon, and find the
"fiddles" still on the table--long racks with holes in which the dishes
and plates exactly fit, so that they cannot be shaken about. There was
naturally much conversation among the passengers in relation to the
storm, and it was passed round the table as a joke that the captain
himself had been seasick, though he would not for a moment admit that he
was capable of such a landlubber's weakness.

"If I had known what it was going to be like, I would never have come by
sea!" declared Lilias, whose symptoms had been more acute than those of
any one else in the party.

"That's what everybody says at first, young lady," returned Captain
Porter. "Wait till you get seasoned a little, then you'll find out the
charms of Father Neptune's kingdom. I don't mind betting that by the
time we get to Malta, you'll have fallen in love with the Mediterranean,
and won't want to leave the vessel and will be begging me to take you on
to Alexandria!"

"And leave the others to go to Sicily? No, thanks!" laughed Lilias.



CHAPTER XVI

The Casa Bianca


On the following morning the passengers of the _Clytie_ woke to find
themselves steaming into the port of Tangiers. They scrambled through
their toilets and hurried on deck, in raptures over the view of the old
Moorish town against a background of green trees, and the blue waters of
the bay in front. As some cargo was to be shipped, there would be time
to go on shore, and a party was made up under the escort of Captain
Porter and of the Greek agent who had arrived on board with the pilot.
Donkeys were hired for the ladies, and a cavalcade set forth to view the
Kasbah, or native market, and some beautiful gardens outside the city
walls. It was strange to the girls to be in Morocco, with black faces
all round them, and to catch glimpses through open doorways of Moorish
courtyards, of marble fountains, or of little Arab children chanting the
Koran. They were glad indeed of a masculine escort, for their
donkey-boys looked such a wild crew that would have been frightened to
be left alone with them, and the eastern aspect and general dirt of the
place, though picturesque, made them thankful when they were safely back
again on board ship.

To their intense interest, part of the cargo consisted of Mohammedan
pilgrims for Mecca. The rank and file of these encamped on the lower
deck, where they sat, ate, slept, and cooked their food over charcoal
braziers, filling up their time by reciting the Koran in a monotonous
chant. A wealthy merchant from Morocco was also traveling to Alexandria
with his wife and family, and had engaged all the second-class quarters
of the _Clytie_ for his exclusive occupation. His lady was brought on
board closely veiled, and made no further appearance, but Dulcie and
Carmel, standing one day on the upper deck, could see down to the
second-class deck, and noticed three small children run out to play. The
boys were each clothed in a white garment with a gaily colored striped
sash, but the beautiful little girl wore a dress of palest blue velvet,
exquisitely embroidered with roses. Carmel, who adored children, could
not resist the temptation to call to them and throw them each an orange,
whereupon some warning voice summoned them inside the cabin, and after
that, though the boys occasionally played on the deck, the girl was
never again allowed to expose her face to the gaze of strangers.

Another brief halt was made at Algiers, a less barbaric place than
Tangiers, and quite up to date and modern in its handsome French
quarter, though picturesque in the Arab part of the city. It was
possible to get carriages here, instead of donkeys, and the passengers
went on shore for a delightful drive to the Caliph Mustapha palace,
through woods of eucalyptus, and pine, and palm, and gardens of
flowering shrubs. They would have been glad to stay longer in such a
beautiful spot, but the _Clytie_ was getting up steam, and unless they
wished to be left behind they must go on board again.

The Ingleton party agreed afterwards that their voyage down the
Mediterranean was an experience never to be forgotten. In the bright
February sunshine the blue waters deserved their reputation. It was warm
as summer, and all day the passengers lived on deck, watching the smooth
sea and distant coastline, or amusing themselves with games. Mr. Stacey,
with his jolly, hearty ways and talent for entertaining, was, of course,
the life and soul of everything. He organized various sports during the
day, and concerts and theatricals during the evening. He was great at
deck cricket, which, owing to the limitations of the vessel, is a very
different game from that on land. The balls are made of odds and ends of
rope, twisted together by the sailors, and must be hit with caution so
as not to be sent overboard. Any luckless cricketer whose ball goes
flying into the deep is immediately required, by the rules of ship's
etiquette, to buy another from the sailors who make them, so an
unaccustomed batsman may be landed in much expense. Everybody found it
great fun, however, and when they had lost the day's supply of balls,
would take to ring quoits and deck billiards instead.

But perhaps the most popular game of all was "bean-bags." For this the
passengers were divided into two teams. Each team stood in couples
facing each other at a distance of about a yard. At the top and bottom
of each column was placed a chair, and on the top chair were piled
twelve small canvas bags filled with beans. The teams waited at
attention till the umpire blew a whistle, at which signal they started
simultaneously. The player nearest the chair on the right-hand side
seized a bean-bag and flung it to his opposite neighbor, who in his turn
flung it to No. 2 on the right-hand side, who threw it back to No. 2 on
the left, and so on down the line. Meantime player No. 1 had caught up a
second, and a third bean-bag, and continued passing on others till all
the twelve were in process of motion. They were tossed backwards and
forwards till they reached the chair at the bottom of the line, and were
then returned in the same way that they had come. Whichever team
succeeded first in getting all its bean-bags back to its starting chair
was considered to have won the game. It was really a much more difficult
business than it sounds, for some of the passengers were
"butter-fingers" and would fail to catch the bags, and much valuable
time was wasted in picking them up, while others were apt to cheat, and
in order to get on quicker would throw to No. 9 instead of to No. 8, an
error which the umpire's sharp eyes would immediately detect, and he
would cause the bag to go back to the starting-point.

Among all these amusements the time on the Mediterranean passed rapidly
and pleasantly. Lilias was already wonderfully better, the mild sea
breezes had almost banished her cough, and her appetite was a source of
satisfaction to Cousin Clare.

"Casa Bianca will finish the cure!" declared Carmel. "I know what care
Mother will take of you! Only a few days more now, and we shall be
there!"

Captain Porter's laughing prophecy that Lilias would be so much in love
with voyaging that she would want to go on to Alexandria was partly
justified, for she was genuinely sorry to leave the vessel when they
arrived at Valetta, the port of Malta.

"I shall come on the _Clytie_ again some day," she assured him. "Only I
bargain that you take me all the way up the Nile to look at the pyramids
and the ruined temples!"

"Very well, if you'll undertake to dig out the Nile's basin so as to
accommodate a vessel of six thousands tons!" laughed the captain.
"Otherwise I shall have to arrange to take you in a sea-plane!"

"And we'd fly over the desert? Oh, that would be thrillsome! Please book
me a seat for next year, and I'll go!"

The _Clytie_ arrived at Malta in the morning, and, as the local steamer
did not start for Syracuse until midnight, the Ingleton party had the
whole day at Valetta on their hands. They very sensibly established
themselves at an hotel, ordered lunch and dinner there, then went out
into the town to take a walk along the ramparts and see what sights they
could. Valetta, with its streets of steps, its wonderfully fortified
harbors, its gay public gardens, its cathedral, and its armory of the
Knights of St. John, where are preserved hundreds of priceless suits of
armor belonging to the Crusaders, the famous silver bells that rang
peals from the churches, and the rare and beautiful pieces of Maltese
lace exhibited in the shop windows, had many attractions for strangers,
particularly those of British nationality. In the midst of such foreign
surroundings it was delightful to hear English spoken in the streets,
to see the familiar figure of a policeman, and to know that the great
warships in the harbor were part of the British Fleet, and were ready at
any time to protect our merchant vessels.

After a bewildering day's sight-seeing the girls sat in the lounge of
the hotel after dinner, trying to rest. They were very tired, and would
gladly have gone to bed, but the Syracuse mail-boat ran only once in
every twenty-four hours, and started at midnight, so their traveling
must perforce be continued without the longed for break. Cousin Clare
cheered them up with the thoughts of the coffee ordered for ten o'clock,
and of berths when they got on board the steamer.

"We might be far worse off," she assured them. "For at least we have a
comfortable hotel to rest in. I remember once having to spend most of
the night in a waiting-room at the station at Marseilles. Put your feet
up on the sofa, Lilias! Carmel, child, if you'd shut your eyes, I
believe you'd go to sleep. I vote we all try to doze for an hour, until
our coffee comes to wake us up."

It was quite a quaint experience to leave the hotel at eleven o'clock
and drive in carriages to the quay, then to get into small boats and be
rowed out to the mail-steamer. It was a glorious night, with a moon and
bright stars, the sky and the water looked a deep dark blue, and from
vessels here and there lights shone out that sent twisting, flickering
reflections into the harbor. Their steamer was some distance away, so it
was a long row out from the Customs House across the shimmering water.
The landlord of the hotel, Signor Giordano, who understood the dubious
ways of native boatmen, went with them to prevent extortionate demands,
and saw them safely on board.

"The blackguards would have charged us treble if we'd been alone!"
declared Mr. Stacey. "They are a set of brigands, the whole lot of them.
By daylight we might have managed, but it's difficult in the dark. I'm
thankful to see all our luggage here. I thought a hand-bag or two were
going to be lost!"

If the girls had counted upon a peaceful night, they were much
disappointed. They retired, indeed, to their berths, but not to sleep.
The short crossing between Malta and Sicily is one of the worst in the
world, and there was a swell which almost rivalled their experiences in
the Bay of Biscay. The little vessel pitched and tossed and rolled, and
caused them many hours of discomfort, till at length, at six o'clock, it
steamed into the harbor at Syracuse, and landed them on Sicilian soil. A
train journey of a few hours followed, to Targia Vecchia, which was the
nearest railway station to Montalesso, where Carmel's home was
situated.

Mr. Greville met them at Targia Vecchia, and after kissing Carmel, who
rushed straight into his arms, gave a most hearty welcome to the rest of
the party. He had two cars waiting, and after the usual preliminaries of
counting up luggage, and giving up checks and tickets, they found
themselves whisking along a good Sicilian road in the direction of Etna,
whose white, snow-covered peak was the commanding feature in the whole
of the surrounding landscape. The Casa Bianca or White House justified
its name, for it was a handsome building of white stone, encircled by a
veranda, and hung with beautiful flowering creepers. In its rich,
sub-tropical garden grew palms, aloes, bamboos, and the flaming Judas
trees, thickets of roses, and a wilderness of geraniums. The Ingletons
caught an impression of gay foreign blossoms as they motored up the
stately drive to the steps of the house. Their arrival had evidently
been watched, for on the veranda was assembled quite a big company ready
to greet them. First there was Carmel's mother, the Signora Greville, as
she was generally called, a beautiful, sweet-looking lady, with her
daughter's dark eyes, and the gracious stately manners of old Sicilian
traditions. Then there were the children, Bertram, Nina, Vincent, and
Luigia, the two first fair, like their English father, the younger ones
taking after the Italian side of the family. With them were a number of
other relations who had motored over to welcome Carmel home; her uncle,
Richard Greville, and Aunt Gabrielle, with their children, Douglas,
Aimée, Tito, and Claude; her mother's brother, Signor Bernardo Trapani,
with her cousins, Ernesto, Vittore, and Rosalia; and her mother's
sister, Signora Rosso, with pretty Berta and Gaspare, and little Pepino.

All these nineteen relations gave the Ingletons a typical Italian
greeting. They embraced Carmel with the warm-hearted demonstrative
enthusiasm characteristic of the country, and welcomed the rest of the
party with charming friendliness. Everybody chattered at once, making
kind inquiries about the journey, and the travelers were taken indoors
to change their dusty clothes before coming down to the elaborate lunch
that was spread ready in the dining-room.

The almost patriarchal hospitality of the Casa Bianca suggested the
establishment of an Arab chief, or a mediæval baron, rather than that of
an ordinary household of the twentieth century. It was the strangest
combination of north and south that could be imagined. The Grevilles and
their relatives spoke English and Italian equally well, and conversed
sometimes in one language and sometimes in the other. They had been
settled for many years at Montalesso, and had, indeed, established
quite a colony of their own there. Mr. Frank Greville and his brother,
Richard, together with Signor Trapani and Signor Rosso, were partners in
a great fruit-shipping business. Thousands of cases of beautiful
oranges, lemons, grapes, and almonds were packed at their warehouses and
sent away to England and America. They had orange and lemon groves and
vineyards inland, and employed a small army of people tending the trees,
gathering the fruit, wrapping it, and dispatching it by sea at the port
of Targia Vecchia. Being connected by marriage as well as business, they
formed a pleasant family circle, and were constantly meeting at each
other's houses. Their children grew up in the happy Italian fashion of
counting cousins almost as close as brothers and sisters.

It took the Ingletons a little while to get accustomed to the life at
Casa Bianca, but Carmel, sitting in the creeper-covered veranda,
explained many things to them.

"You mustn't think our particular ways are the ways of the country.
We're an absolute mixture of English and Italian; Aunt Gabrielle is
French, and Aunt Giulia a real Sicilian."

"What is the difference between a Sicilian and an Italian?" asked
Dulcie.

"The difference between Welsh and English. Sicily is, of course, a part
of Italy, and under the same government, just as Wales is part of Great
Britain, but its people are of separate origin from the Italians, and
speak a dialect of their own. Italian is the polite language of Sicily,
which is spoken in law courts, and shops, and among educated people, but
most of the peasants speak Sicilian amongst themselves."

"Can you speak it?"

"A little. All the words ending in 'e' are turned into 'i.' For
instance, 'latte' (milk) becomes 'latti,' and 'pesce' (fish) 'pesci,' o
changes into u, and ll into dd. 'Freddo' (cold) becomes 'friddu,' and
'gallina' (a hen) 'gaddina.'"

"How fearfully confusing! I should never learn it! The few sentences of
Italian I've managed to pick up are quite bad enough!"

"Why, I think you're getting on very well. Sareda understood you
perfectly this morning when you asked for hot milk instead of coffee."

The best of Casa Bianca was that with its ample space and its traditions
of hospitality, it seemed to absorb the Ingletons and make them feel
more members of the family than guests. Mr. Stacey and Everard were
apportioned a small sitting-room for a study, and worked hard every
morning, giving the afternoon to recreation. Lilias, who had completely
lost her cough, and looked wonderfully well, was put to rest on the
piazza in the mornings, though she protested that she was no longer an
invalid. Dulcie, radiantly happy, and enjoying her holiday to the full,
trotted about with Carmel, and made friends with the children and their
French governess. Bertram, Nina, Vincent, and baby Luigia were dear
little people, and were only too anxious to show the guest the glories
of the garden. Hand in hand with them, Dulcie inspected the marble
fountain whose basin was full of gold and silver fish, the tank where
pink water-lilies grew, and the groves of orange trees where the ripe
fruit hung like the golden apples of the Hesperides, and Parma violets
made clumps of pale purple sweetness beneath.

Remembering that it was early in March, and that bitter winds were
probably blowing over Chilcombe and Cheverley, Dulcie was amazed at the
warmth of the Sicilian sunshine and the wealth of the flowers. Pink
ivy-leaved geraniums trailed from every wall, great white arum lilies
opened their stately sheaths; marigolds, salvias, carnations, and other
summer flowers were in bloom, and little green lizards basked on the
stones, whisking away in great alarm, however, if they were approached.

The general mental atmosphere of the place was genial and restful. Mr.
Greville was kindness itself to his young guests, and they had all
fallen in love with Carmel's mother. Her charming manners and gaiety
were very attractive, and the slight foreign accent with which she spoke
English was quite pretty. Lilias, who had before felt almost angry with
Carmel for feeling homesick at Cheverley, began at last to understand
some of the attractions which held her cousin's heart to Sicily.

"I'd rather have the Chase, of course," she said to Dulcie, "but on the
whole Montalesso is a very beautiful spot."

"So beautiful that I shouldn't mind living here all the rest of my
life!" said Dulcie, gazing through the vine-festooned window out over
the orange groves to where the white snow-capped peak of Etna reared
itself against the intense blue of the Sicilian sky.



CHAPTER XVII

Sicilian Cousins


The relations, who had assembled to welcome Carmel back, came often to
the Casa Bianca, and in quite a short time they and the Ingletons were
on terms of intimacy. Ernesto Trapani, a handsome young fellow, slightly
older than Everard, was studying at the University of Palermo, in which
city Vittore was at school, and the two brothers came home from Saturday
to Monday. Douglas Greville, a tall boy of seventeen who had been at
school in Paris, also went to the Palermo University for certain classes
in chemistry, which would help him afterwards in the conduct of his
father's business. The younger children of the various families, Aimée,
Tito, and Claude Greville, Rosalia Trapani, and Berta, Gaspare, and
Pepino Rosso, had lessons with private governesses, under whose charge
they had learnt to chatter Italian, English, and French with the utmost
ease.

On the Saturday after the Ingletons' arrival all these young people came
over to Casa Bianca, and it was decided to take picnic baskets, and go
out in a body to show the guests some of the sights of the neighborhood.
So a very gay party started off from the veranda. First they went
through long groves of orange and lemon trees, where peasant women, with
bright handkerchiefs tied over their heads, were gathering the fruit and
packing it carefully in hampers.

"You must simply live on oranges here," said Dulcie, accepting the ripe
specimen offered her by Douglas. "Do you know this is the fifth I've had
this morning?"

"On the contrary, we hardly ever touch them ourselves," answered
Douglas. "I suppose we have so many that we don't care about them here.
I used to like them, though, when I was in Paris."

"It would take me a long time to get tired of them," declared Dulcie. "I
did not know before what a really ripe orange tastes like. They're
absolutely delicious. Why don't we get them like this in England?"

"They wouldn't keep if they were packed ripe, and fruit that ripens on a
tree is always much sweeter than when it has been stored."

"Yes, I know: our English apples are like that. I wish I could be here
in the autumn to see your peaches and vines! I shan't want to go away
from this ripping place. I've never seen anything so lovely in my
life!"

Montalesso was indeed in all the glory of its spring charm. Everywhere
the almond trees were in flower, and the effect of the masses of lovely
lacy blossom against the brilliant blue of the sky was a perfect
picture. With the cherry bloom of Japan the almond blossom of Sicily
holds equal rank as one of the most beautiful sights in the world. From
the height where the young people were walking they could see the sea at
Targia Vecchia, and the little red sails of fishing smacks in the
harbor, and the flat topped half Moorish houses, each with its clump of
orange trees and its veranda of vines. Beyond, a landmark for all the
district, was the great glittering peak of Etna. Its lower slopes were
clothed with vineyards, and dotted here and there with villages, a
second range was forest clad, and its dazzling summit, 10,742 feet above
sea-level, lay in the region of the eternal snows. A thin column of
smoke issued from the crater, and stretched like a gray ribbon across
the sky. Lilias viewed it with some uneasiness.

"I hope there won't be an eruption!" she said nervously.

The boys laughed.

"English people are always so scared at poor old Etna! They imagine the
crater is going to turn on fireworks for their entertainment. That smoke
is a safety valve, so don't be afraid. The observatory gives warning if
anything serious is going to take place."

"And what happens then?"

"Some of the people on the slopes run away in time, and some stay to
guard their property. We're quite safe at Montalesso, for we're fifteen
miles away, though the clear air makes the peak look so near."

They had left the lemon groves and the almond blossom behind, and were
now walking along a grassy table-land where flocks of goats were
feeding. The goatherds, picturesque little boys dressed in sheepskin
coats and soft felt hats, with brown eyes and thick brown curls, were
amusing themselves by playing on reed pipes. They recalled the Idylls of
Theocritus, and might almost have been products of the fourth century
B. C. instead of the twentieth century A. D. The wild flowers that grew
in this plain were gorgeous. There were anemones of all kinds, scarlet,
purple, pale pink, and white: irises of many colors, blue pimpernel,
yellow salvia, violet grape hyacinths, and clumps of small white
narcissus. Above all rose the splendid pale pink blossoms of the
asphodel, a striking feature of a Sicilian landscape.

The Ingletons ran about in greatest delight, picking handfuls of what
were to them beautiful garden flowers.

"It's a moot point whether Proserpine was gathering narcissus or
asphodel when Pluto ran away with her," declared Mr. Stacey, offering
Lilias a bouquet which a Greek nymph might have been pleased to accept.
"I incline to asphodel myself, because of its immortal significance. It
gives an added meaning to the myth."

"What is the story exactly?" asked Dulcie. "Do tell it, please!"

"Yes, do!" begged all the children, crowding round Mr. Stacey. "We want
to hear your English story!"

"It's not an English one, but a very old Greek one. Shall we rest on
this wall while I tell it? Luigia shall come on my knee. Yes, there's
room for Pepino too, and Gaspare and Vincent may sit next to me. Well,
in the old Golden Age, when the world was young, Ceres, the Goddess of
the Harvest, who gave all the fruits of earth to men, had a beautiful
daughter named Proserpine, or, as the Greeks called her, Persephone. She
made Sicily her place of residence, and she and her nymphs used to
delight themselves with its flowery meadows and limpid streams, and
beautiful views. One day she and her companions were wandering in the
plain of Enna, gathering flowers, when there suddenly appeared the god
Pluto, king of Hades, the regions of the dead. Falling in love with
beautiful Proserpine, he seized her, and forced her to get into his
chariot. She screamed to her maidens, but they could not help her, and
Pluto carried her off. With his trident he struck a hole in the ground,
so that chariot and horses fell through into Hades, of which place
Proserpine became the queen. Now Ceres did not know what had happened to
her daughter, and she wandered all over the earth seeking for her. At
last she found Proserpine's girdle on the surface of the waters of a
fountain where Pluto had struck his hole in the ground, and the nymph
Arethusa told her how her daughter had been stolen away. Full of
indignation, Ceres went to complain to Jupiter, who promised that
Proserpine should be restored if she had taken nothing to eat in the
realm of Hades. Unfortunately Proserpine, as she walked in the Elysian
fields, had gathered and eaten a pomegranate, which act constituted her
a subject of those regions. To pacify Ceres, Jupiter permitted that
Proserpine should spend six months of every year with Pluto in Hades,
and the other six months with her mother on earth. Each spring Ceres
went to the entrance of a great gloomy grotto to meet her daughter, and
with her return all the flowers bloomed on earth again. There is a very
celebrated picture by Sir Frederick Leighton, called 'The Return of
Persephone.' The artist has painted Ceres at the entrance of the grotto
with the sunshine behind her, holding out her arms to the lovely
daughter whom the god Mercury is bringing back to her out of the
darkness.

"The story is one of those old nature myths of which the Greeks were so
fond. The time Proserpine spent in Hades symbolized winter, when winds
blew cold, and few flowers bloomed, and her return symbolized the advent
of spring. It has a deeper meaning, also, to those who look for it,
because it is a type of the Resurrection, and shows that our dear ones
are not really taken from us, but will come again in more glorious life
and beauty. Many of the old Greek myths had this meaning hidden under
them, as if they were sent to prepare people for the truth that Christ
was to reveal more fully later on. Nearly all early religions began with
pure and beautiful conceptions of God, and then trailed down to earth,
because their followers were too ignorant to understand. The ancient
Egyptians believed in God, and said that one of His attributes was
strength. The strongest thing they knew was a bull, so they made
colossal statues of bulls in black marble, to show God's strength, but
the populace worshipped the statues instead of God himself, and became
idolaters. In the same way the ancient Greeks realized that Beauty was
part of God's scheme of work, and they came to worship Beauty quite
apart from Goodness, forgetting that the two must go together. They
imagined their gods and goddesses as magnificent men and women, with
superb bodies but no beauty of soul, and as there was nothing uplifting
in this religion, it soon died out, as all things die in time, if they
don't help us to grow nearer to God. The story of Proserpine is one of
the prettiest of the old Greek legends, and I can just imagine her
gathering these lovely flowers. I believe we're going on to see her
fountain, aren't we, Vittore? She made it with her tears when Pluto
carried her off."

The object of the expedition was indeed to see Proserpine's fountain, a
clear spring out of which flowed a small river. After walking another
mile across the meadows, the party came to this river, where they were
able to engage boats to row them up to the fount. It was a unique spot,
for the whole of the banks were bordered with an avenue of papyrus,
which grew there in greatest profusion. Legend said that it had been
planted by an Egyptian princess who brought it from the Nile, and that
it grew in no other place in Europe, a statement which was satisfactory
enough, though rather difficult to verify. There was much bargaining,
after true Sicilian fashion, with the native boatmen, who demanded at
least four times what they meant to take, protesting that they would be
ruined at the sum Ernesto named to them, and finally, when he pretended
to walk away, accepting his offer with enthusiasm. This very necessary
preliminary satisfactorily settled, the company was packed into the
small boats, about four going in each. In the distribution of the guests
occurred the first hitch in the Ingletons' visit. Mr. Stacey suggested
that it was advisable to sandwich children and grown-ups, and he and
Lilias started in the first "barca" in charge of little Luigia, Vincent,
and Pepino. Dulcie and Douglas were responsible for Gaspare, Rosalia,
and Nina, while Vittore, and Aimée, Claude, and Bertram went together.
Carmel held Tito and Berta each by a hand, and Ernesto helped them all
three into a boat. Everard was in the very act of jumping in after them,
when Ernesto stopped him.

"Excuse me, Signore, that is my place! There is plenty of room for you
in the other boat."

"And surely in this too?" said Everard, flushing with annoyance.

Ernesto shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh, no! You and I are too heavy to be together. Vittore and the others
are light; you will just make weight." And, stepping in, Ernesto took
his seat beside Carmel, and told the boatman to push off, while Everard,
with a face like a thundercloud, joined the younger children.

Up the narrow little river the light boats pushed, under an overhanging
archway of papyrus reeds, so that they seemed as if penetrating through
a green jungle. The boatmen began to sing Sicilian folk-songs, and
Vittore and Rosalia and Tito and some of the others joined in. To
everyone except Everard the excursion was delightful, but he,
considering himself treated with scant politeness, sat sulking in
Vittore's boat, and would scarcely speak to Aimée, who made a really
heroic effort to amuse him.

Proserpine's fountain, where after half an hour's rowing the boatmen
took them, was a clear deep pool reflecting the blue of the sky, and
encircled with papyrus, donax reeds, and beautiful irises. It seemed a
fit setting for the legend of antiquity, and a fertile imagination could
almost conjure up a vision of Pluto, with his chariot and black horses,
carrying off the lovely nymph from her meadows of flowers to his gloomy
realm of darkness. On the way back the second boat made a halt to cut
some pieces of papyrus reed, and Dulcie called out in much excitement to
the occupants of the other "barcas."

"Lilias! Everard! We're cutting some papyrus, and Douglas is going to
show me how to make it into parchment like the ancient Egyptians used to
write on. Won't it be gorgeous? Don't you want some too?"

"Rather!" replied Lilias, appealing to Mr. Stacey, who promptly pulled
out his penknife, and began to hack away at a stout stem on her behalf.

The lengths of papyrus which they bore off with them somewhat resembled
thick pieces of rhubarb, and how these were ever going to be turned into
writing materials was a puzzle to Dulcie, though Douglas assured her
airily that he knew all about it. The elders of the party were glad to
get the lively youngsters safely on dry land again.

"I thought Rosalia was going to turn into a water nymph," said Lilias,
comparing notes afterwards with Dulcie. "She leaned over in the most
dangerous manner, and so did Tito. If the boats hadn't been so broad,
they would have capsized."

"Then Pluto would have bagged the whole lot of us! More than he quite
bargained for, perhaps!" laughed Dulcie.

The making of the parchment was a matter of great interest to the
Ingletons. With Douglas as an instructor, they all set to work on its
manufacture. Taking ten inch lengths of the papyrus reeds, they cut them
into long, thin, vertical slices, and laid these across each other in
the form of a small mat between sheets of blotting paper. This was next
squeezed through a wringing-machine to rid it of superfluous moisture,
then placed under a heavy weight, in the manner of pressing flowers.
When at last it was dry, the alternate layers of the papyrus had
adhered together and amalgamated into a substance identical with the old
Egyptian parchment, though much coarser and rougher in quality. The
girls were delighted with it. They borrowed a book on Egypt from Mr.
Greville's library, and copied little pictures of the Sphinx, scarabs,
Ra, the Sun god, and other appropriate bits, painting them in bold
colors on their pieces of parchment, and feeling as if they had gone
back a few thousand years in history, and were dwellers in Memphis or
some other great city on the banks of the Nile. They designed special
ones for Miss Walters, Miss Hardy, and Miss Herbert, and smaller
offerings for Gowan, Bertha, Phillida, Noreen, and others of their
friends at Chilcombe Hall. Papyrus, indeed, became the rage at Casa
Bianca. All the various cousins vied with one another in making the
choicest specimens. They wrote letters to each other upon it, rolling up
the parchments and tying them with ribbons in the manner of ancient
scribes. Perhaps the whitest and best welded sheet of all was one made
by Mr. Stacey, who turned out to be so clever at the new craze that he
jokingly declared he must be a priest of some Egyptian temple come to
life again. He used a reed pen, and got some very happy effects in
hieroglyphs, puzzling out the names of each of the company in the
curious picture writing of the days of the Pharaohs who reared the
pyramids.

"Will you take us some day to see the Nile?" asked Lilias, happy in the
possession of her name neatly pictured on the specially white sheet of
papyrus, with a lotus bloom, the lily of Egypt, painted underneath. "You
know Captain Porter said we ought to go to Alexandria!"

"Nothing would please me better, if the fates willed it!" smiled Mr.
Stacey.

"We'll go in a party, and hire a boat up the Nile, and take all the
Grevilles with us, specially Douglas," declared Dulcie. "I count them my
cousins too. Don't you, Everard?"

"Right-o!" laughed Everard. "Cousins by all manner of means let them
be!" ("Though I don't bargain to include the Trapani family among our
new relations!" he added softly to himself, half under his breath).



CHAPTER XVIII

A Night of Adventure


It will be seen from the events recorded in the last chapter that
Everard, while liking the various members of the Greville family, had
taken a great prejudice against Ernesto Trapani. The fact is that
Everard, brought up with all the insular pride of birth of an English
squire, had a poor opinion of foreigners, and was unwise enough
occasionally to reveal his attitude of British superiority, and to give
himself airs. Ernesto, handsome, clever, and with a long line of Italian
ancestry at his back, considered himself in every way a match for the
young Englishman, and would argue with him on many points, often beating
him by logic, though never convincing him. It annoyed Everard to see
Ernesto on terms of great intimacy with Carmel, and to hear them talk
together in Italian, a language of which, as yet, he knew only a few
sentences.

"I wish you'd speak decent English, instead of that beastly lingo!" he
said to her one day, petulantly.

Carmel flushed crimson.

"Please don't call Italian a beastly lingo! I'm sorry if I've been rude
in speaking it, but I sometimes forget that you don't understand what
we're saying. It comes naturally to me. I'll try to remember."

"Remember you're an Ingleton, and the owner of English property," urged
Everard. "Now you're at Casa Bianca I don't believe you ever give a
thought to the Chase!"

"Yes, I do! Oftener than you suppose. I've grown to love England more
than I believed possible. In summer the country was all green and
beautiful, while here every blade of grass gets burnt up by the blazing
sun. Oh, yes! I'm really very fond of the Chase! I am indeed!"

"Then, which do you like better--England or Sicily?"

But at that question Carmel shook her head.

"My opinions are my own, and I'm not going to tell them to anybody!" she
flashed merrily. "It's a good motto to enjoy yourself wherever you may
happen to be! That's all you'll get out of me, Mr. Everard! And quite
enough, too!"

Though Everard might have private reasons of his own that marred the
pleasure of his visit to Montalesso, his sisters were having the time of
their lives. Lilias, with the help of Mr. Stacey, had taken
enthusiastically to botany, and was making a collection of pressed
Sicilian flowers. She had also begun to sketch under his tuition, and
had finished quite a pretty little water color of the house. Dulcie,
always interested in country life, was thoroughly happy on the estate.
She liked to watch the gathering of the oranges and lemons, the pruning
of the vines; to see the great white bullocks plowing in the fields or
slowly drawing the gaily painted carts. The wealth of flowers delighted
her, and much to Everard's disgust, she frankly acknowledged herself in
love with Sicily, and insisted that she would like to live there.

"I shall ask Aunt Nita to keep me instead of Carmel!" she declared. "You
may all go back to England and leave me behind!"

"What would Mr. Bowden say to that?" asked Cousin Clare. "He has
arranged for you to stay another two years at school!"

"Oh! bother Mr. Bowden! I wish he wasn't my guardian! Can't I swop him,
and have Mr. Greville instead?"

"Unfortunately people can't change their guardians!" laughed Cousin
Clare. "They have to stick to those to whom the law assigns them. Cheer
up! You might have a far sterner one than Mr. Bowden, and a much more
disagreeable school than Chilcombe. You've the summer term to look
forward to when you get back."

"Chilcombe isn't Montalesso!" persisted Dulcie, pulling a face. "No, you
dinky, deary Cousin Clare, you'll never persuade me to like school
again! I shall catch a cold on purpose as soon as I go back, and then
you'll have to bring me over here for the sake of a warmer climate. I'll
bribe the old doctor!"

"Who'll probably send you to Switzerland for open-air treatment among
the snow!" said Cousin Clare, who generally managed to get the last
word.

The Ingletons had now been some weeks at the Casa Bianca, and were
beginning to grow more accustomed to Sicilian ways. In Mr. Greville's
car they had been taken to many of the principal places of interest in
the neighborhood; they had seen the Castello, the old ruined tower which
in bygone days had been the stronghold of brigands, the ancient Greek
amphitheater, with its marble seats still bearing the names of owners
who sat and watched the chariot races in the fourth century B. C., the
beautiful Temple of Neptune, and the Palazzo Salvatore, with its museum
of priceless treasures. There was one local gathering, however, which
Carmel declared they must not on any account miss.

"I'm so glad you will here for the fair at Targia Vecchia!" she said.
"It's really the event of the whole year. You'll see more Sicilian
customs there than anywhere else I know. The peasants come down from the
mountains for miles round. You'll just love it!"

Such a spectacle was, of course, a great attraction to the Ingletons, so
a select party was made up to visit the famous fair. Signora Greville,
nervous about infection, would not allow her younger children to go, for
fear they might catch measles among the motley crowd, and the same
cautious care was extended over the children of the other families, but
Douglas and Aimée joined the expedition, and Ernesto and Vittore,
somewhat to Everard's disgust, had a special holiday from Palermo in
order to be present. They all set off on foot, and followed the winding
road that led down the hill-side from Montalesso to the little harbor of
Targia Vecchia.

For once the country-side seemed alive with people. Down every mountain
path descended donkeys, on which were seated girls or women in their
best gala garments, striped skirts, bright aprons, lace on their velvet
bodices, gay kerchiefs on their heads, and large gold ear-rings in their
ears. The men who led the donkeys were dressed in equally picturesque
fashion. Many wore black velvet jackets and scarlet Neapolitan caps, or
long brown cloaks with hoods over their heads; their legs bound with
rough puttees, and their feet thrust into sandals of hide with the hair
left on. Everybody seemed to carry a large cotton umbrella, either of
bright green or magenta.

"They think it looks grand," explained Carmel. "Every peasant brings his
umbrella to the fair, to show that he has one!"

"Except the brigands," added Vittore. "You can always tell a brigand
because he never carries an umbrella."

"Are there any brigands?" asked Dulcie anxiously.

"Oh, yes!" replied Vittore, winking secretly at Ernesto. "There are
quite a number still in the neighborhood."

"I was talking to one only the other day!" admitted Ernesto.

"Not really?"

"It's quite a profession still in Sicily."

"Do they catch people and hold them to ransom?" Dulcie's face was a
study.

"Certainly they do, and chop their fingers off if their relations don't
pay up. It's quite an ordinary little trick of theirs."

"O-o-oh! Is it safe to go to the fair, do you think? That man in front
hasn't any umbrella!"

"Don't be a scared rabbit, Dulcie! You little silly, can't you see
they're ragging you?" put in Everard impatiently. "There are no brigands
left in Sicily now!"

"Aren't there, indeed?" said Ernesto. "Ah! That shows how much you know
about it! Only last week the Count Rozallo was taken prisoner on the
road to Catania, and carried off into the mountains. He's there yet,
till he pays a ransom of 25,000 lire."

"Pooh! I expect he's done it to evade his creditors, if the story is
true. I'll believe in brigands when I meet them, and not before!"
scoffed Everard.

"And I shall be frightened of every man who doesn't carry a big red or
green umbrella!" declared Dulcie, hanging on to the arm which Douglas
gallantly offered for her protection. "What do you think about it,
Carmel?"

"I think I'm quite safe, for the brigands are generally very chivalrous
to women, and only run away with gentlemen and chop off their fingers!"
laughed Carmel.

By this time they had descended the road, and were entering the
picturesque little town. Generally Targia Vecchia was the quietest of
places, but to-day it was _en fête_. The fair was held all along the
main street, in a large square opposite the church, and also on the
beach. Everywhere there were stalls, selling every commodity that can be
imagined. On the sweet-stall was sugared bread in the shape of hearts or
rings, covered with gold and silver tinsel; there were sugar images,
fruits, little baskets, carriages, birds, animals, all made in sugar,
and apparently much in request among the juvenile population. There were
cheap toys, bright handkerchiefs, Venetian shoes, tambourines, lengths
of gay dress materials, dates, figs, and oranges, and the inevitable red
and green cotton umbrellas. The small shops, following an ancient custom
which dates back so many centuries B. C., had hung out signs to signify
the nature of their wares to those peasants who could not read. Over the
baker's doorway dangled a loaf, the shoemaker had a large boot, and the
wine shops still showed the garlands of ivy once dedicated to Bacchus. A
gaily-garbed chattering crew of people moved from stall to stall,
laughing, gesticulating, and bargaining, and evidently enjoying
themselves. A pretty girl was trying ear-rings, and looking at the
effect in a mirror held by the vendor, while older folks flocked round a
quack medicine dealer, who was loudly proclaiming the virtues of the
various bottles.

The scene on the shore was even more picturesque than that in the town.
The beach, which was covered with pebbly sand, commanded a beautiful
view of hills clad with prickly pear, of the bright blue sea, the
distant Calabrian coast, and mountains tipped with snow. Gaudily painted
carts were drawn up, while their owners bought and sold, and rows of
donkeys, with smart trappings and saddle-bags, were tied to posts. On
the sand were numbers of animals for sale--oxen, cows, calves, goats,
kids, great black hogs covered with bristles like wild boars, and tiny
pigs which, when bought, were popped into bags with their heads and the
two front feet peeping out. The noise was indescribable. Cattle lowed,
pigs squealed and grunted, men shouted, children cried, and musicians
sang and rattled tambourines. Beggars of all descriptions, the blind,
the halt, and the maimed were there, clamoring for alms, and calling
attention to their deficiencies, often thrusting a withered hand or the
stump of an arm under the very noses of strangers, to demand sympathy
and money from them.

Lilias and Dulcie began to understand why Signora Greville had not
allowed the younger children to come to the fair. They were almost
frightened by the dirt and impudence of the beggars, and each clung to
the arm of a masculine protector to pilot her through the crowd. They
were, indeed, glad to move away from the rather rough element on the
beach, and turn back through the town, where the peasants were now
taking lunch of maccaroni and omelettes at tables spread in the streets.
They bought a few curiosities and souvenirs at the stalls, stopped to
listen to a band of musicians, then turned up the hill-side again, and
made their way back to Montalesso, leaving Targia Vecchia to continue
its merry-making.

"I should think the fair must be a wonderful sight at night!" said
Everard that afternoon at the Casa Bianca.

"Rather," agreed Ernesto. "The people will be dancing down the streets
by torch light and singing at the pitch of their voices."

"I'd give anything to see it!"

"I shouldn't go, my boy, if I were you," put in Mr. Greville quietly.
"You'd find it a rowdy place, and not at all to your liking. The wine
shops will have been very busy all day."

"And the people aren't over gentle with strangers when their blood's
up," added Vittore. "They've no use for a nice young Englishman down in
Targia Vecchia! Best stay safe at home."

Vittore, who had waited till his uncle was out of earshot, spoke
tauntingly. Everard colored crimson.

"I'm not afraid of a few Sicilian peasants!" he remarked.

Vittore's sneer had aroused his opposition, and made him determined to
go, more particularly as Carmel had expressed great regret at not having
bought a certain necklace which she had seen on a stall, and wished to
add to a collection she was making of Sicilian peasant jewelry. It
would be a triumph to walk down alone to the fair, buy the necklace, and
show these young foreigners that Englishmen knew how to take care of
themselves. He did not mention his intention to Mr. Stacey or to Mr.
Greville, but waiting till it was almost dark he avoided the family,
dashed into the garden, and set off along the road to Targia Vecchia.

As Mr. Greville had prophesied, he found the little town in a decidedly
lively condition. Barrels of wine were being broached in the streets by
the light of flaring torches, and most of the men were in an excited
condition. The Cheap Jacks were still doing a brisk trade, and at the
jewelry stall Everard was able to buy the souvenir he wanted for Carmel.
It was the last of the sort left, so he considered himself in luck. He
put the small parcel in his pocket and turned away, rather disgusted
with the riot of the town, and glad to leave the noise and glare behind
him. He tramped up the steep country road with a sense of relief.

It was a beautiful calm night, and a half moon hung silver in the sky.
The stars, far brighter than they ever appear in England, twinkled in
the blue firmament, behind the mighty peak of Etna. It was not really
dark, and it was quite possible to see the main outlines of most of the
features of the landscape. Everard walked along cheerily. So far he had
met with no hindrance. The people at the fair had indeed looked at him
with much curiosity, and had even spoken to him, but certainly nobody
had offered in any way to molest him. The dangers of Targia Vecchia at
nightfall had evidently been grossly exaggerated. So confident was
Everard that he even whistled a tune as he walked, and planned how he
would stroll into the drawing-room on his return to Casa Bianca, slip
the necklace from his pocket, and casually mention where he had been. In
his preoccupation he did not give any particular heed to the road, or
see movement among the dark shadows of a group of prickly pears that
overhung a sharp corner.

Without the slightest warning a pistol shot suddenly rang out, and three
figures, springing from the shelter of the prickly pears, flung
themselves upon him. For a second he had a vision of cloaks and masked
faces, and hit out pluckily, but they were three to one, and in a few
moments they had secured him, bound his hands behind his back, and tied
a bandage over his eyes. Almost stunned at first by the suddenness of
the attack, Everard, as soon as he recovered his speech, protested
indignantly, and demanded of his assailants what they wanted. They spoke
together in rapid Italian, which he did not understand, then one of
them replied in very broken English:

"Signore, it is our order to take you to our captain."

"And who is your captain?"

"That I not tell."

"And what does your captain want with me?"

"He ask ransom. You rich Inglese. Property in your own country. You give
many thousand lire ransom."

"Indeed I can't!" protested Everard. "You've made a big mistake. I don't
own any property, and I'm not rich at all. You'd better let me go, or
there'll be trouble in store for you when my friends hear of it."

The brigands, if such they were, made no reply. Possibly they did not
understand him. They were busy, moreover, searching his pockets, and
were appropriating his watch, money, and other valuables with short
grunts of satisfaction. Bound hand and foot, Everard could offer no
physical resistance, though his bold spirit was raging. At length his
captors, having rifled all they wanted, untied his legs, and, taking him
by the arms, hauled him along between them. Blindfold as he was, he had
no notion in what direction he was going, though they seemed to leave
the main road, and to be taking a cross-country journey over fields and
rough ground. Were they taking him to the Castello, he wondered? It had
been a noted haunt of brigands in bygone days, and its inaccessible
position would make it a safe hiding-place. He asked himself what was
going to happen. How soon would he be missed at the Casa Bianca? Would a
search be made for him, and with what success? These fellows were often
very crafty in their places of concealment, and had evidently got hold
of some false idea of his rank and fortune. In that half-hour, Everard
went through very severe mental as well as physical discomfort. His
captors were not too gentle, and hurried him along anyhow. They refused
to answer any more of his questions, and, except for an occasional
hoarse remark to one another in Italian, kept a rigid silence.

After what seemed to him an interminable distance, they apparently
reached their destination, for he was dragged up a flight of steps into
some building, whether prison, castle, or private dwelling he was unable
to guess. A door was flung open, for a moment he heard an echo of
voices, then all was silent.

He was alone, though in what sort of apartment he had no means of
judging. The floor felt smooth to his feet, as if made of tiles, and the
walls also were smooth. His captors had not untied his hands, but he
kept straining at the rope in the hope of freeing himself. Escape was
the uppermost notion in his mind. He had indeed so far succeeded in
loosening his bonds that he could almost slip one hand out. At that
crisis, however, the door opened, and he was once more led forth.

"Where are you taking me now?" he demanded angrily.

"To our captain," replied the same foreign voice which had given him his
former information, while two strong pairs of arms pushed him along.

Though his bandage was very thick, he could tell that he was passing
from comparative darkness into a brilliantly lighted room. He had a
strong sense that it was full of people. He even thought he heard a
murmur of sympathy, which was, however, instantly suppressed. Everard's
was not a nature to be cowed by any circumstances, however appalling. He
meant to show this rascally crew that an Englishman never loses his
pluck, and, in spite of the ropes that bound him, he stepped forward
with all the courage and pride of a true Ingleton.

"Am I speaking to the captain?" he said in a calm clear tone. "Then,
Signore, I wish to inform you that you have made a mistake. I am no
wealthy English landowner, as you can very soon find out for yourselves,
and I may add that, if I were, I'd stay here to all eternity sooner than
give you a penny of ransom!"

"Hurrah!" came from a voice close behind him, a voice which sounded so
familiar that Everard, forgetting his bandage, turned in much
perplexity.

"The Signore Inglese had better humble himself to our captain," murmured
his guide. "Remember that here he has the power of life and death!"

"I'll humble myself to nobody!" thundered Everard, as angry as a lion at
bay. "Untie my hands, you cowards, and I'll fight for my life! If you've
an ounce of pluck among you, you'll give me a sporting chance!"

"Ecco! E giusto!" said a fresh voice, presumably that of the captain.
"Signore, you shall have your will!"

At this a knife was passed rapidly through the ropes that bound him, and
at the same moment a hand snatched the bandage from his eyes. Dazed with
the sudden light, Everard stared round as one in a dream. He had
expected to find himself in some rough hall surrounded by brigands, and,
lo and behold, he was in the drawing-room at the Casa Bianca, in the
midst of the united family!

"Forgive our rough joke, Everard!" exclaimed Mr. Greville, clapping him
heartily on the shoulder. "I had never intended to let it go so far. I
thought a fight on the road would do you no harm, for there _are_
dangers in Sicily to reckless young strangers who like to run risks,
and you might easily have found yourself in greater trouble than you
imagine at Targia Vecchia, if I had not sent Tomaso to shadow you. The
people down there know his reputation with a revolver, and don't care to
interfere. Never mind, lad! You came very well out of it! You certainly
showed us what you were made of, just now. On the whole, I think you
turned the tables on us!"

Everard was still standing gazing round the room, at Ernesto and
Vittore, who had been his captors, at Mr. Greville, at Aimée and
Rosalia, who were laughing at the joke. He turned white and red with
passion, and for the moment looked capable of knocking down Ernesto as
he had threatened to treat the supposed brigands. A glance from Mr.
Stacey, however, steadied him. Above everything Everard was a gentleman.
By a supreme effort he controlled himself.

"I think it's an abominable shame!" declared Carmel, turning upon
Ernesto with blazing eyes. "Daddy never meant you to bind him and bring
him up here like that--only to frighten him for a minute on the road.
You know he did! I'll never forgive you, Ernesto! _Never!_ If this is a
specimen of our Sicilian hospitality, Everard won't want to come to the
Casa Bianca again! My cousins didn't treat me to practical jokes at the
Chase! They gave me an English welcome!"

"Let me make peace!" said Signora Greville, coming forward and taking
Everard's hand in her pretty Italian fashion. "Our guest knows, I hope,
that we meant no discourtesy to him. For all he has suffered we claim
his pardon. Is it not so, Ernesto and Vittore? He has, indeed, shown us
how a brave Englishman can behave in a position of danger, and we admire
his courage. I think we ought to congratulate him on the splendid way he
has taken a joke which certainly went much farther than was intended."

At that, everybody crowded round Everard, making pretty speeches, for
all realized that the mock adventure had been real enough to him at the
time.

"I should faint if I thought I were taken by a brigand!" shivered Aimée.

"I should die outright!" declared Rosalia.

"Your property is back in your pocket with my sincere apologies,"
murmured Vittore, restoring the watch and other valuables.

It was not until the next morning that Everard had an opportunity to
give Carmel the peasant necklace for which he had ventured down to
Targia Vecchia. Her delight was immense.

"Why, it's the very one I wanted!" she exclaimed. "It will be the gem of
my whole collection. I shall always call it the Brigand Necklace, after
this. You went through a great deal to bring it back, Everard!"

"Oh, never mind! That's all over and finished with now. I'm going to
forget it!"

"You may forget it, but I shan't! I shall always remember how you called
them cowards, and asked for a sporting chance. I must say I like men to
be able to take care of themselves. As for Signor Ernesto, I haven't
forgiven him yet, and on the whole I'm not altogether quite sure that I
ever shall!"



CHAPTER XIX

At Palermo


It was perhaps to atone for the indignities which Everard had suffered
at the hands of Ernesto and Vittore, in the practical joke that they had
played upon him, that Signor Trapani proposed to take the Ingletons for
a few days' trip to Palermo. He declared he could not allow them to
leave Sicily without a peep at the famous capital city, and that in
motoring there they could also see some of the sights upon the way.
Though they were perfectly happy at Casa Bianca, a visit to Palermo was
of course a great attraction, and the party, including Cousin Clare and
Mr. Stacey, were all excitement and smiles.

"We're to stay at an hotel," announced Carmel, "and Ernesto and Vittore
are to have dinner with us."

"And Douglas, too," added Dulcie, with satisfaction. "I heard your uncle
say he had asked him."

"Oh, did he? I'm so glad. Now we shall have plenty of cavaliers to take
us about. What fun it will be! You'll just love Palermo. I always sing
a jubilee when Mother has a shopping expedition there and wants me to go
with her."

"Hurrah for to-morrow, then!" proclaimed Dulcie.

Taking only a little light luggage the lucky travelers packed themselves
into two cars and set off on their pleasure-jaunt. Leaving the sea they
turned inland to the mountain region, and with a short stop at
Centuripe, to get the magnificent view of Etna, they motored on to
Castrogiovanni, a wonderful old town set, like an eagle's nest, on the
very crest of a high hill, and full of relics of Greeks, Carthaginians,
Romans, Saracens, and Normans, who had held its fortress in turns. It
looked the real brigand stronghold of old stories, as impregnable as
some of our Scottish castles and a fit subject for legend.

One feature of the Sicilian landscape greatly struck the Ingletons.

"There are no cottages scattered about like we have in England,"
remarked Lilias. "Do the people who work in the fields all live in these
little towns on the tops of hills? Why don't they have their homes close
to their work?"

"It's an old Sicilian custom," explained Signor Trapani. "In former days
there were so many robbers that nobody would have dared to live alone in
a cottage in the open country; even now it would scarcely be thought
wise, and the peasants feel far safer at night in a town, with their
neighbors to help to protect them and their valuables. A Sicilian
peasant would rather walk many miles to his fields than run the risk of
brigands stealing his savings. Nearly everybody keeps a few goats, and
each morning the goatherd blows a horn and leads the flock of the whole
town out to pasture. He keeps guard over them all day and brings them
back in the evening, when each trots home to its own stable to be
milked. The children often wait at the city gate to welcome the goats
back, and you can see quite affectionate little meetings between them."

"Kids welcoming kids!" murmured Dulcie, who clung to schoolgirl slang,
rather to the consternation of Signor Trapani, who did not always
understand it, and much to the indignation of Cousin Clare, who was
continually urging her to speak pure English.

From Castrogiovanni the way lay down hill to Palermo, which they reached
in the evening, just when a golden sunset was lighting up its
eastern-looking houses, its beautiful gardens, and magnificent harbor.
Ernesto, Vittore, and Douglas were waiting for them at the hotel, so
they made a jolly party of ten at dinner, and had a round table all to
themselves in the _salle à manger_. Signor Trapani, in his enthusiasm as
host, even suggested the theater afterwards, but Cousin Clare said
"No," after such a long motor run, and sent the girls off to bed.

"They may go and see an Italian play to-morrow evening, if you don't
work them too hard at sight-seeing during the day," she relented, "but
remember, I want to keep the roses in their cheeks, and Lilias, at any
rate, must not get overdone. I'm the stern chaperon, you know."

"So I understand," laughed Signor Trapani, "though such a charming lady
cannot make a very terrible duenna, and we are not at all frightened of
you," he added, finishing, like every true Italian, with a compliment.

Lilias, Dulcie, and Carmel had three small beds in a room that led out
of Cousin Clare's. Though they had pretended to be disappointed at not
being allowed to go to the theater, in reality they were all extremely
tired and glad to rest. Dulcie in particular snuggled down on her pillow
and was asleep even before Lilias turned off the electric light. The
others were not long in following suit, and in a short time all were in
the land of dreams.

It was perhaps two o'clock in the morning when Lilias awoke in the
darkness with a start. Her bed was shaking violently under her, as it
had done once long ago, when Everard in his school-days had played a
trick upon her. There was a loud rumbling noise, like the passing of a
gigantic motor-lorry or a railway train, the jugs and basins were
rattling, and a glass of water, placed on the edge of the table, fell to
the ground with a smash.

"What is it? Oh, what's the matter?" cried Lilias, terribly scared.

She put out her hand and tried to turn on the electric light, but she
moved the switch in vain, Carmel, who had groped for the matches,
lighted a candle, and by the time the welcome little yellow flame showed
itself, the shaking and rumbling had entirely ceased. Lilias looked
anxiously round the room.

"What's the matter?" she asked again.

"Only an earthquake!" said Carmel calmly. "It's over now."

"An _earthquake_!" Lilias's voice was tragic.

"Just a slight shock. We often have them."

"O-o-h! Will the walls tumble down?"

"Certainly not--it only makes the china rattle."

By this time Cousin Clare, also unaccustomed to earthquakes and almost
as alarmed as Lilias, came into the room. Carmel pacified them both,
assuring them that such tremors were of quite common occurrence, and
that people in Sicily thought little about them unless they were severe
enough to do damage.

All this time Dulcie's pink cheek was buried in the pillow, and her
breath came as quietly and evenly as that of a baby.

"I'm glad she didn't wake. She was very tired, poor child," commented
Cousin Clare, after a glance at the bed in the corner.

Dulcie was, of course, unmercifully teased next morning for having slept
through an earthquake.

"If Etna shot its cone off during the night I don't believe it would
wake you!" laughed Everard. "The Seven Sleepers are nothing to you."

"Go on! Rag me as much as you like. I don't care," declared Dulcie
sturdily. "I think I had far the best of it. You were all awake and
scared, while I was snug and comfy. I shall sleep through the next if we
have one. Ashamed of myself? Not a bit of it! I tell you I'm _proud_."

Everybody was looking forward to a day's sight-seeing in Palermo, and as
soon as breakfast was over the party started out to view the cathedral,
the beautiful Palatine chapel, with its Saracen arches and priceless
mosaics, and the ancient oriental-looking Norman church of S. Giovanni
degli Eremite. Dulcie, who had been learning Longfellow's _Robert of
Sicily_ for her last recitation in the elocution class at school, was
much thrilled, and wanted to know in which of the churches he had made
his famous defiance of Heaven, and had been turned from his throne by
the angel, who temporarily took his place as king till he repented of
his vain glory. Nobody could tell her, however, and the guide-book gave
no information on the subject, though Douglas obligingly searched its
pages. Knowing she loved old legends about the places, he found another
item of interest for her in connection with one of the ancient towers of
S. Giovanni degli Eremite. It was from there that in the Middle Ages,
when the French ruled the island, a vesper bell had tolled the signal
for the inhabitants to rise and fall upon their cruel masters in a
massacre that was known ever afterwards as "The Sicilian Vespers."

"Bells have never been rung in Sicily since," said Douglas, then as
Dulcie's eyebrows went up in amazed contradiction he explained: "They
are never really _rung_ here. In most countries the bells swing
backwards and forwards, but in our churches they are quite steady, and
only the clapper moves about inside the bell."

"Oh, that's why they sound so frightfully clangy, then; we noticed the
difference at once when we came over from Malta."

"Yes, you would. The church bells of Malta are the most beautiful in the
world. They're partly made of silver, and they swing properly in the
belfries."

"I love to see really Sicilian things."

"Then you shall," put in Signor Trapani. "We'll try and show you the
local color of Palermo to-day."

"Oh, please do! I like to watch how the people live."

In order to keep his promise to Dulcie, Signor Trapani took his guests
to have lunch at a restaurant near the harbor, where, instead of the
usual French menu which obtained at all the hotels, purely Sicilian
dishes were served. First came a species of marine soup, that consisted
of tiny star-fish and cuttle-fish stewed till they were very tender,
then smothered in white sauce. Slices of tunny fish followed, almost as
substantial as beefsteak, then some goats flesh, that closely resembled
mutton, and with it a vegetable called fennel, which is rather like
celery with a dash of aniseed about it. The salad, chiefly of endive,
was smothered in Lucca oil and Tarragon vinegar, and there was an entrée
that seemed made mostly of butter and cheese.

Dulcie, daunted by nothing, ate each new dish and said she enjoyed it,
though Lilias and Cousin Clare could not be induced even to taste the
unaccustomed food, and lunched on omelettes which were ordered specially
for their benefit. Mr. Stacey and Everard, however, were hearty converts
to Sicilian cookery, and declared they would like some of the courses
introduced at the Chase when they returned to England.

As good luck would have it Dulcie was just stepping out of the
restaurant when she heard a familiar, squeaking voice, and on the other
side of the road saw a Sicilian Punch and Judy show.

Naturally she demanded to stop and witness the representation. Mr.
Punchinello, though his speeches were in Italian, went through the same
series of wicked deeds as in England, and little dog Toby, with a frill
round his neck, assisted in the performance. Dulcie was delighted, and
was persuaded to get into the waiting motor only by bribes of seeing
even more interesting sights.

The lovely public gardens, the shops, the market, the university where
Ernesto, Vittore, and Douglas were studying, the museum, and various
beautiful spots in the neighborhood of the city were all visited during
the Ingletons' brief stay at Palermo, and they celebrated the last
evening by a visit to the theater, where, if they could not understand
the words of the play, the dramatic foreign acting spoke for itself.

"Has my little English signorina enjoyed her trip?" asked Signor Trapani
kindly, as Dulcie, sitting by his side in the car, waved an enthusiastic
good-by to Palermo.

"Enjoyed it! _Ra_ther? It's the loveliest place on earth, and beats
London hollow in my opinion. But I _do_ love everything Sicilian _so_
much! Thanks just immensely for giving me such a perfectly delicious
time!" declared Dulcie, screwing her neck round to catch a last glimpse
of Ernesto, Vittore, and Douglas, who stood by the roadside fluttering
handkerchiefs as a signal of farewell.



CHAPTER XX

Old England


The holiday in Sicily, like all pleasant things, came to an end at last,
and the Ingleton family, leaving the Casa Bianca with many regrets,
returned to their own country in time to welcome Roland, Bevis, and
Clifford back from school for Easter. Carmel, who had seemed keenly to
feel the parting from her mother, and who had been so quiet on the
journey that her cousins suspected a bad attack of homesickness, cheered
up when they were once more settled at the Chase. The beauties of the
English country-side, with plum-blossom, primroses, cowslips, green
meadows, and budding woodlands, compared very favorably with even the
lovely Sicilian landscape, and Carmel acknowledged frankly that
Cheverley had a charm all of its own.

"I never knew how much I loved it till I left it, and then saw it
again!" she declared. "There's something about the place that grips."

"Your Ingleton blood showing, of course," remarked Everard. "All your
ancestors have lived at the Chase, and it would be queer if you hadn't
some sort of a natural feeling for it. People mostly have for the place
where their ancestors were born."

"Indeed! I believe my ancestors were all of them born in bed, so no
doubt that's why I have such a natural feeling for bed, and don't want
to get up in the mornings!" piped Dulcie, who never could resist a quip
at Everard. "I don't despise Old England, but Sicily's the land for me,
and I'm going back to Montalesso some day. Aunt Nita says so! Lilias can
please herself, but, as soon as Mr. Bowden lets me leave school, I shall
say 'Ta-ta! I'm off to the land of oranges and lemons!'"

"And in the meantime you'll have to make up at school for this long
holiday," reminded Cousin Clare. "I'm afraid you'll find yourself
terribly behindhand when you get back to Chilcombe!"

The occupants of the Blue Grotto had much to talk about when they met
again.

"It was hateful having the dor. all to ourselves," confided Gowan. "We
never had such a slow time in our lives. We had a fearful scare, too! We
thought Miss Walters was going to put Laurette with us! She'd had a
terrible quarrel with Truie and Hester, and things were rather hot in
the Gold bedroom. Fortunately, however, they cooled down, and patched up
their quarrels. Bertha and I were simply shaking, though. I heard Miss
Walters say to Laurette: 'There's a spare bed at present in the Blue
room,' and we thought she was moving in for the rest of the term! Think
of being boxed up with Laurette! Wouldn't it have been absolutely
grisly?"

"Nothing at all particularly exciting happened while you were away!"
groused Bertha. "We got all the drudgery, and you had all the fun!"

"But we brought you some presents! Just wait till I get to the bottom of
my box!" put in Carmel.

"Oh, have you?" cried Bertha excitedly. "What have you brought? Don't
stop to arrange those blouses! Dump your things out anyhow: I can't
wait! I've never had a foreign present in my life before. O-o-oh! What
an absolutely ducky little locket! Carmel, you're a darling! You
couldn't have given me anything in the whole of this wide world that I
should have liked better. I just love it!"

Though the Ingletons' immediate friends at Chilcombe had been rather
inclined to look with the green eyes of envy upon their long holiday in
Sicily, and consequent immunity from Easter examinations, they were
mollified by the pretty gifts which the girls had brought them, and
while they still proclaimed them "luckers out of all reason," they
forgave them their good fortune, and received them back once more into
the bosom of their special clique. The Mafia had indeed languished
considerably during their absence. Nobody had troubled very much to keep
up its activities, and it had held only one or two half-hearted
meetings. Now that its nine members were together again, however, the
secret society set to work with renewed vigor. Insensibly it had rather
altered its scope. It had begun originally for the purpose of resisting
the aggressions of Laurette, Hester, and Truie, but had grown into a
sort of confraternity for private fun. The meetings held in each other's
dormitories were of a hilarious description, and included games. At
Gowan's suggestion they even went a step farther, and produced literary
contributions--"of a sort," as she wisely qualified the rather appalling
innovation.

"I don't mean exactly Shakespeare, you know," she explained. "But you
can write poetry if you care to, or make up something funny like
_Punch_. Everybody has got to do something!"

"Not really?" objected Dulcie, wrinkling her forehead into lines of
acute distress. "Oh, Goody! It's as bad as lessons every bit. Look here,
I'm not clever, and I don't make any pretence at poetry or the rest of
it. You'll just have to leave me out."

"Pull yourself together, Dulcie, my child!" said Gowan calmly. "You'll
either be turned bodily out of the Mafia, or you'll do your bit the
same as everybody else. Don't for a moment imagine you're coming to
listen to other people's industry, and bring nothing of your own with
you! That's not the way we manage things here. If you don't show up with
a manuscript in your hand, you'll find yourself walking down the passage
with the door slammed behind you. Yes, I mean it! You're a decent enough
little person, but you're apt to be slack. You must get some stiffening
into you this time."

"Poor little me!" wailed Dulcie.

"No poorer than all the rest of us!"

"Yes, I am, for I haven't got the same thingumbobs in my brains!
Couldn't make up poetry to save my life! May I write a letter?"

"Why, yes, if you'd rather!"

"I feel it would be my most adequate form of self-expression," minced
Dulcie, mimicking Miss Walters' very best literary manner. "I trust my
contribution will be kept for publication. Later on, when I'm famous, it
may become of value. The world will never forget that I was educated at
Chilcombe Hall. A neat brass plate will some day be placed upon the door
of the Blue Grotto to mark the dormitory I slept in, and my bed will be
preserved in the local museum!"

"With you (stuffed) inside it, labeled 'Specimen of a Champion
Slacker'!" snorted Gowan. "Now, no nonsense! If you don't turn up at
the meeting with a manuscript, you won't be admitted!"

"Bow-wow! How very severe we've grown, all of a sudden!" mocked Dulcie,
as she danced away. "You take it for granted," she called over her
shoulder, "that my contribution is going to mark the literary low tide.
Perhaps, after all, it will make as big an impression as anybody else's.
There!"

On the evening fixed for the meeting, nine girls put in an appearance at
the Blue Grotto, all flaunting manuscripts in a very conspicuous
fashion. They seated themselves upon Bertha's and Dulcie's beds, and
having as a kind of foregone conclusion, elected Gowan as President of
the Ceremonies, got straight to business. Gowan was justice personified,
and fearful of even unintentional favoritism, she insisted upon the
company drawing lots for the order in which their effusions were to be
read. The Fates decided thus: Carmel, Noreen, Edith, Lilias, Gowan,
Bertha, Prissie, Phillida, Dulcie.

Carmel, hustled off the bed to be given first hearing, took the chair of
honor reserved for each literary star in turn, and having waited a
moment to allow undue giggling to subside, opened her sheets of exercise
paper and began:

    "OLD ENGLAND

    "I never can quite see why it is called 'Old' England, because I
     don't suppose it is any older than any other part of the world,
     really, but perhaps 'Old' is a term of endearment, because I notice
     when any girl likes me, she generally calls me 'old sport,' or 'old
     thing.' Well, at any rate here I am back in Old England, and it is
     a wonderfully nice sort of a country. I specially like the
     policemen, who wave their white gloves and stop all the traffic in
     the street in a second, and the railway porters who yell out the
     names of the stations, and the little boys who cry the newspapers.
     There are no beggars in Old England like there are in Sicily, and
     no mosquitoes, and no earthquakes. At least not proper ones. I
     thought we were all beggars when we tried to raise money for the
     'Waifs and Strays'; Bertha buzzes worse than any mosquito when she
     wants to borrow my penknife, and I thought there was an earthquake
     the last time Laurette danced.

    "I like all the old houses and castles and cathedrals in Old
     England, and especially the old gardens. What I don't like are my
     old lessons. Old England is a jolly, hospitable, comfortable, green
     sort of country, and I am quite at home here now, so hurrah! Old
     England for ever!"

Carmel, having read her manuscript as rapidly as possible, vacated the
chair in a breathless condition, and pushed Noreen into her place.
Noreen had been struggling with Pegasus, and had produced a spring poem.
It was short, but perhaps a trifle over-sweet.

    "TO MY DEARIE-OH!

    "Spring is comen back again,
       (Daisy buds for my dearie!)
     Gone is winter's snow and rain,
       (Cherry lips for my dearie!)
     Blossom clothes the orchards now,
       (Apple cheeks for my dearie!)
     Nests of birds on every bough,
       (And kisses for my dearie!)

"It's one of those old-fashioned sort of things--I believe you call them
madrigals," she ventured.

Nobody else knew what a madrigal was, so they took Noreen's word for it,
and allowed her to retire in favor of Edith, who had also been trying to
cultivate the muse of poetry. Her effort at verse was entitled:

    "MIRANDA'S MUSIC

    "Miranda had learnt the piano to play,
     And when seated one day on the stool,
     At her latest new piece she was strumming away,
     For old Thomas, who sweeps out the school.

    "Thought she: ''T will impress him if anything will,
     For the left hand goes over the right.
     He will surely admire my exquisite skill,
     And perhaps will express his delight.'

    "But ah! fondest hopes may be dashed to the ground,
     Despite what ambition can raise.
     Ill pleased by this banquet of beautiful sound,
     Old Thomas was scant in his praise.

    "'Ay, ay, yes, I hear. 'T is not bad, to be sure!
     They may teach you in time!' so he grumbled.
     But 'twas plain that he thought the performance but poor,
     And Miranda felt terribly humbled.

    "One morn when six months had swift glided away,
     Again at the instrument seated,
     Miranda a nocturne had just ceased to play,
     When old Thomas desired it repeated.

    "'Why, Miss,' he declared, 'I can hardly believe
     That you've made such improvement so soon!
     The last time you played, you'd to jump your hand o'er
     Before you could pick out the tune!

    "'You'd humpety lump in the treble at top,
     Then same hand would return to the bass.
     But now I can see they have taught you to keep
     Each hand in its own proper place!'

"It's a really true story!" persisted Edith, as the girls giggled. "It
happened to my sister. She always plays at the Band of Hope concerts in
our village at home, and she goes down to the school to practise her
solos on the piano there. Old Thomas is the verger, and he's such a
queer old character. He really _did_ think she didn't know how to play
properly when she crossed her hands over, and he told her so. It was a
tremendous joke in our family, because Maisie considers herself musical.
She was squashed absolutely flat!"

Neither Lilias, Gowan, Bertha, Prissie, nor Phillida had written
anything very original or outstanding in their manuscripts, so we will
pass them over, and only record that of Dulcie, who came last of all.
She took the honored seat with a great air of _empressement_, nodded
triumphantly to Gowan, cleared her throat, commanded strict silence, and
began:

         "CHILCOMBE HALL.

    "MY DEAR EVERARD,

    "I must write at once and tell you of the terrible things that have
     been happening at this school. On Monday last the cook made a
     mistake, and used a packet of rat poison instead of sugar in our
     pudding. It was the day for ginger puddings, and we all thought
     they tasted rather queer, somehow, but it is not etiquette here to
     leave anything on your plate, so we made an effort and finished our
     rations. Well, about ten minutes afterwards most of us were taken
     with umpteen fits. We writhed about the room in agony, and thought
     our last hour had come. The doctor was sent for, and he motored
     over so fast that he killed two little boys and a cow on the road,
     but he said he did not care, and it was all in the way of business.
     He stood us up in a line and gave us each an emetic of mustard and
     water which was very horrid, and felt like a poultice inside. We
     are beginning to get better now, but Carmel's legs are stiff, and
     she has a tendency to go black in the face every now and then. The
     doctor says she will do so for a fortnight, until the rat poison
     wears itself out of her system. He does not think she will be lame
     always. At least he hopes not. Lilias squints a little in
     consequence of the umpteen fits she had, which turned her eyes
     round, and my face is still swollen, and three front teeth dropped
     out, but otherwise we are quite well, and the Doctor says things
     might have been much worse, for at least our lives were spared. I
     think we ought to see a specialist, but Miss Walters won't hear of
     it.

         "Hoping you are quite well,
              "With love,
                   "Your affectionate sister
                        "DULCIE."

"Don't say I can't write fiction!" proclaimed Dulcie, making a grimace
at Gowan. "It's as good as a novel (though I say it myself) and as
interesting as anything in a newspaper. Improbable? Not at all! Cooks
make mistakes sometimes, like other people! I don't exactly know the
symptoms of rat poisoning, but I dare say they are very much what I've
described. It's thrilling reading, anyhow, and you ought to give me a
good clap for it."

"Tootle-too! Somebody has lost a trumpeter!" returned Gowan.

"I don't care! I'm sure if we took votes for the most thrills, my piece
would win. I'm going to keep it! Hand it back to me, Gowan! I want to
show it to Everard some time. He'd laugh ever so over it. He says my
home letters are tame. This would wake him up, at any rate! He'd say his
sister was breaking out into an authoress! What sport!"



CHAPTER XXI

Carmel's Kingdom


The day following the secret meeting of the Mafia was one of those
devoted to home correspondence. The girls were alloted forty minutes
during school hours: they brought their writing-cases into the
class-room, and scribbled off as many letters as possible during the
brief time allowed. On this particular Wednesday Dulcie was much in
arrears; she wrote three letters to Sicily, one to an aunt in London, a
short scrawl to Everard, and was beginning "My dear Cousin Clare," when
Miss Hardy entered the room in a hurry.

"Jones has to leave half an hour earlier," she announced, "and he wants
to take the post-bag now. Be quick, girls, and give me your letters!"

A general scramble of finishing and stamping ensued. Dulcie, who had not
addressed her envelopes, folded her loose sheets anyhow, and trusted to
luck that the foreign letters were not over-weight.

"I can't help it if they have to pay extra on them," she confided to
Carmel. "They look rather heavy, certainly, but I hadn't any thin note
paper, you see."

"Douglas will pay up cheerfully, I'm sure!"

"How do you know that his was a heavy one?"

"Oh, I can guess!"

"I was only answering a number of questions he asked me. It's very
unkind not to answer people's questions!"

"Most decidedly! I quite agree with you!" laughed Carmel.

The letters were posted in Glazebrook that evening by the factotum
Jones, and Dulcie, though her thoughts might possibly follow the
particular heavy envelope addressed to Montalesso, dismissed her other
items of correspondence completely from her mind. She was taking a run
round the garden the next morning at eleven o'clock "break," when to her
immense surprise she heard a trotting of horse's hoofs on the drive, and
who should appear but Everard, riding Rajah. The rules at Chilcombe Hall
were strict. No visits were allowed, even from brothers, without special
permission from Miss Walters. Hitherto Everard had come over only by
express invitation from the head-mistress, and this had been given
sparingly, at discreet intervals, and always for the afternoon. Surely
some most unusual circumstance must have brought him to school at the
early hour of eleven in the morning? Dulcie flew across the lawn,
calling his name. At the sight of his sister Everard dismounted, and
greeted her eagerly.

"Hello! How are you? How's Carmel?" he began. "I say, you know, this has
been a shocking business! You look better than I expected" (scanning her
face narrowly). "It's a mercy you aren't all under the daisies! Is
Carmel _really_ lame? What about those fits? I came directly I read your
letter. A specialist must be sent for at once! I can't understand Miss
Walters taking it so lightly. We ought to have been told at once,
directly it happened."

As Everard poured forth these remarks, Dulcie's expression underwent
several quick changes, and passed from astonishment to sudden
comprehension and mirth.

"We're better, thanks!" she choked. "And Carmel can hobble about quite
well on her crutches, and her face isn't _very_ black now, not like it
was at first, though of course she still has the fits pretty regularly,
and the Doctor says----"

But at that moment her mendacious statement was contradicted by Carmel
herself, who came running over the lawn with an agility that put
crutches out of all question, and a complexion that was certainly in no
way spoilt.

It was Everard's turn to look amazed. He glanced in much perplexity from
his cousin, radiant and apparently in the best of health, to his sister,
who was almost speechless with laughter.

"You never actually _believed_ my letter about the rat poison?" exploded
Dulcie. "I explained that it was written for our literary evening. I
told you, Everard, I only sent it on for you to read because it sounded
so funny, and I was rather proud of it!"

"You told me nothing of the sort!"

"Oh, but I did indeed! Unless--" (suddenly sobering down), "unless I
forgot to put my other letter into the envelope, and only sent you the
rat-poison one! I was in such a hurry! Oh, good-night! Isn't it just
like me! Poor old Everard, I never meant to give you such a scare! I'm
frightfully sorry! Umpteen apologies!"

"Then is the whole business fiction?" demanded her brother, with knitted
brows.

"Oh, Everard, don't be angry!" implored Carmel. "Dulcie didn't mean to
rag you! We were having a jolly evening, and each of us had to write
something--the funnier the better--and that was Dulcie's contribution.
She said she was going to send it to you to make you laugh, but of
course she meant to put in her other letter to explain that this was
only nonsense. But Miss Hardy came in such a hurry, and whisked all our
letters off before we had time to read them over, or hardly to put them
in the right envelopes. So you know it was just an accident."

"I rode over at once to see what was the matter!"

Everard's voice still sounded offended, though slightly mollified.

"I know you did, and it was ever so kind of you. I'm only sorry you
should have all the trouble. It's been nice to see you, though, and we
do thank you for coming."

"It must be a relief to find we don't squint or hobble on crutches,"
added Dulcie naughtily. "How _shall_ we explain to Miss Walters if she
catches you?"

"I'd better be going!" declared Everard. "Isn't that your school-bell
ringing? Well, I'm glad at any rate to find you all right. Shan't dare
to believe any of your letters in future, Dulcie!

    "'Matilda told such awful lies,
     It made you gasp and stretch your eyes.
     Her aunt, who from her earliest youth
     Had kept a strict regard for truth,
     Attempted to believe Matilda--
     The effort very nearly killed her.'

"Good-by, Carmel! Keep my bad young sister in order if you can. She
needs some one to look after her." And Everard, with a hand on Rajah's
bridle, nodded smilingly after the girls as they ran towards the house
in response to the clanging school-bell.

The rest of the summer term at Chilcombe Hall seemed to pass very
rapidly away, and the space in this book is not enough to tell all that
the girls did during those weeks of June sunshine and July heat. There
were tennis tournaments and archery contests, cricket matches, picnics
and strawberry feasts, as well as the more sober business of lessons,
examinations, and a concert to which parents were invited. To Carmel it
was the pleasantest term she had spent at school, for she had settled
down now into English ways, and did not so continually feel the call of
her Sicilian home. The "Hostage," as Dulcie still sometimes laughingly
called her, if she pined for the Casa Bianca, had contrived to make
herself happy in her northern surroundings, and had won favor with
everybody. School girls do not often make a fuss, but, when breaking-up
day arrived, and the Ingletons drove away in their car, a chorus of
cheers followed them from the doorstep, and, though the hoorays were
given to all three without discrimination, there is no doubt that they
were mainly intended for Carmel.

"She's a sport!" said Gowan, waving in reply to the white handkerchief
that fluttered a farewell. "I don't know any chum I like better. She
always plays the game somehow, doesn't she?"

"Rather!" agreed Noreen. "I think the way she's taken her place at
Cheverley Chase without cuckooing all that family out, or making them
jealous, is just marvelous. If anybody deserves her kingdom, it's
Princess Carmel; it's only one in a thousand who could have done what
she has."

Carmel, indeed, though an unacknowledged sovereign, had managed to win
all hearts at the Chase. Even Lilias did not now resent the ownership of
one who so rarely urged her own claims; insensibly she had grown fond of
her cousin, and liked her company.

The summer holiday promised to be as pleasant as that of last Christmas.
Mr. Stacey, who had taken his vacation in June and July, had returned to
Cheverley in time to greet Roland, Bevis, and Clifford, a welcome state
of affairs to Cousin Clare, for the three lively boys were almost beyond
her management, and needed the kindly authority which the tutor knew so
well how to wield without friction. All sorts of plans for enjoyment
were in the air, a visit to the sea, a motor tour, a garden party, a
tennis tournament, a cricket match, even a dance at the Chase, when one
day something quite unexpected occurred, something which changed the
entire course of events, and threw the thoughts of the holiday makers
into a new channel. Like many extraordinary happenings, it came about
in quite an ordinary way.

Carmel had left her despatch case at school--a small matter, indeed, but
fraught with big consequences. As she wanted some convenient safe spot
in which to deposit note paper, old letters, sealing wax, stamps, and
other such treasures, Cousin Clare allowed her to take possession of a
writing-desk which stood on the study table. It had belonged to old Mr.
Ingleton, and he had indeed used it till the day before his death, but
it had been emptied of its contents by Mr. Bowden, and was now placed
merely as an ornament in the window. It was a large, old-fashioned desk
of rosewood, handsomely inlaid with brass, and lined with purple velvet.
Carmel seized upon it joyfully, and began to transfer some of her many
belongings to its hospitable depths. It was well fitted, for there was
an ink-pot with a silver top, and a pen-box containing a seal and a
silver pen. Mr. Bowden had left these when he removed the papers,
probably considering them as part and parcel of the desk. Carmel lifted
out the ink-pot to admire its cover, but, though it came out fairly
easily, it was a difficult matter to fit it in again. In pushing it back
into its place she pulled heavily upon the small wooden division between
its socket and the pen-box. To her utter surprise, her action released a
spring, a long narrow panel below the pen-box fell away, and revealed a
quite unsuspected secret drawer. She opened it in much excitement.
Inside lay a folded sheet of foolscap paper. Her exclamation had called
Lilias and Dulcie from the other side of the room, and all three girls
admired and wondered at the contrivance of the secret drawer. Together
they took out the sheet of paper, unfolded it, and bent their heads over
it.

"Why, it's Grandfather's writing!" exclaimed Lilias as she read the
first words:--

"This is the last will and testament of me Leslie Ingleton of Cheverley
Chase near Balderton."

"It's surely not another will?" fluttered Dulcie.

Carmel said nothing; her eyes were devouring the contents of the paper.
She read it through carefully to the end, then she asked:

"What was the date of the will in which Grandfather left the Chase to
me? Was it not some time in January? Well, this is certainly a later
date. It must have been signed the very day before he died!"

"Does it make any difference?" inquired Dulcie breathlessly.

Carmel had taken the paper away from her cousins, and stood in the
window mastering the meaning of the legal language. She read a certain
passage over and over again carefully before she answered. Then she
looked out through the study window--that window with its wonderful
view over the whole range of the Ingleton property--she gazed at the
gardens and woods and fields that for more than a year had been hers,
and hers alone, the estate which to claim as heiress she had been
brought from her Sicilian home.

"All the difference in the world," she said quietly. "Grandfather
changed his mind at the last, and left the Chase to Everard after all!"

"To Everard?"

"Oh, Carmel!"

"Are you certain?"

"Can there be any mistake?"

"Is the will properly signed? Let me look! Yes, it seems signed and
witnessed, as far as I can tell!"

"What are you going to do?"

"Shall I ring up Mr. Bowden?"

"Not yet, please," begged Carmel. "Leave me a moment!"

She was still standing gazing out through the window over the English
woods and meadows that she had grown to love so dearly, those wide acres
of which any one might have been proud. At last she turned round and
answered:

"I am going now to tell the news to the rightful owner of the Chase."

Everard was sitting in the stone summer-house in the garden, struggling
with a difficult problem in mathematics, when suddenly through the
ivy-framed doorway danced Princess Carmel, an excited vision, with
carnation cheeks, and dark eyes twinkling like stars. She stopped on the
threshold and dropped him a pretty curtsey, then a great generous light
seemed to shine in her face as she announced:

"Signor Everard, allow me to hand you back your inheritance!"

It was the triumph of her life.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Bowden, on being sent for to examine the will, found all in perfect
order. The legacies to friends and to the other grandchildren were
exactly the same as in the former will, the only difference being that
the positions of the two cousins were reversed, Carmel receiving a
handsome sum of money, and Everard inheriting the property. There was no
doubt that the impetuous old squire had repented his hasty decision, but
not liking to confess such weakness to the family lawyer, had drawn up
his own will and hidden it in the secret drawer of his desk. Possibly he
himself was not sure which of the two documents he wished to stand, and
had kept this in reserve while he vacillated. Fate, for a year and a
half, had decided in favor of Carmel, then the eternal balance had swung
slowly back.

"It seems such a pity that the desk wasn't searched properly at first,"
said Lilias to Cousin Clare. "Think of all the trouble it would have
prevented if we had only known about that secret drawer. Poor Everard!
How much he would have been saved!"

"And how immensely much he would have lost!" said Cousin Clare. "This
testing-time of character has been Everard's salvation. He is very
different now from the thoughtless, self-important boy who looked at
everything from his own point of view. He has learnt some of life's
stern lessons, and will make a far better owner of the Chase than would
have been possible without passing through these experiences. I think he
realizes that for himself, and would not wish to change anything that
has happened."

Now that the new will was proved, and Cheverley Chase was no longer her
property, arose the immediate question of Carmel's future. She settled
it at once for herself, and in spite of all entreaties to remain in
England, decided to return to her Sicilian home.

"I told you long ago, Everard, that I would not keep your inheritance,
and I am only too glad to hand it back," she said to her cousin. "You're
going to do all the splendid things that I prophesied--take your degree,
be a model landowner, get into Parliament, and help your country!"

"But I can't do it alone! A kingdom needs a queen as well as a king,
Carmel! The Chase would simply be an empty casket without you! You're
the very heart and soul of it all. I will let you go now, dear, for I
see you're quite determined, but Carmel! Carmel! some day in the far
future, if you think I have grown into anything like what you wish me to
be, then I shall tell you that your throne is waiting for you here in
Old England--the land of primroses and sweetbriar and true hearts,
Carmel! And I shall ask you to leave your Sicilian flowers and scented
orange groves, and come back to claim your kingdom!"


THE END


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THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS IN THE MAINE WOODS; or, The Winnebagos go Camping.

THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS AT SCHOOL; or, The Wohelo Weavers.

THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS AT ONOWAY HOUSE; or, The Magic Garden.

THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS GO MOTORING; or, Along the Road That Leads the Way.

THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS' LARKS AND PRANKS; or, The House of the Open Door.

THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS ON ELLEN'S ISLE; or, The Trail of the Seven Cedars.

THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS ON THE OPEN ROAD; or, Glorify Work.

THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS DO THEIR BIT; or, Over the Top with the Winnebagos.

THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS SOLVE A MYSTERY; or, The Christmas Adventure at
Carver House.

THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS AT CAMP KEEWAYDIN; or, Down Paddles.

For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the
Publishers

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114-120 EAST 23rd STREET      NEW YORK





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