The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Manor House School
    
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: The Manor House School

Author: Angela Brazil

Illustrator: Arthur A. Dixon

Release date: May 26, 2009 [eBook #28974]
                Most recently updated: January 5, 2021

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Suzanne Shell and the Online Distributed
        Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MANOR HOUSE SCHOOL ***




Produced by Suzanne Shell and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net






[Illustration: GLORIOUS NEWS!]




The Manor House School

BY

ANGELA BRAZIL

Author of "The Nicest Girl in the School" "The Third Class at Miss
Kaye's" "The Fortunes of Philippa" &c.

_ILLUSTRATED BY A. A. DIXON_

BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY




Contents

  CHAP.                                                             Page

  I. NORA'S NEWS                                                       9

  II. AN INTERESTING STRANGER                                         22

  III. A STRONG SUSPICION                                             36

  IV. HAVERSLEIGH                                                     50

  V. AN UNEXPECTED DEVELOPMENT                                        67

  VI. MONICA                                                          80

  VII. LINDSAY'S LUCK                                                 94

  VIII. PENDLE TOR                                                   111

  IX. THE PLOT THICKENS                                              127

  X. UNDER THE HAWTHORN TREE                                         143

  XI. SIR MERVYN'S TOWER                                             161

  XII. AN ENIGMA                                                     178

  XIII. LINDSAY MAKES A RESOLVE                                      189

  XIV. THE LANTERN ROOM                                              202

  XV. HIDE-AND-SEEK                                                  215

  XVI. A SURPRISE                                                    229

  XVII. GOOD-BYE TO THE MANOR                                        243




Illustrations

                                                                    Page

  GLORIOUS NEWS!                                      _Frontispiece_ 239

  "SHE OPENED THE DOOR CAUTIOUSLY"                                    35

  "I KNOW WHAT MONICA WAS GOING TO SAY"                               93

  AN UNFORTUNATE ACCIDENT                                            139

  THE SECRET DOOR                                                    202




CHAPTER I

Nora's News


It was the first week of the summer term at Winterburn Lodge. Afternoon
preparation was over, and most of the girls had left the classroom for a
chat and a stroll round the playground until the tea-bell should ring.
From the tennis court came the sounds of the soft thud of balls and a
few excited voices recording the score; while through the open windows
of the house floated the strains of three pianos, on which three
separate pieces were being practised in three different keys, the
mingled result forming a particularly inharmonious jangle.

On a bench in the corner by the swing two yellow heads and a brown one
might be seen bent in close proximity over a rather dilapidated atlas.
Their respective owners were apparently making a half-hearted endeavour
to hunt out a list of towns upon the map of England, and were amusing
themselves between whiles with the pleasant, though somewhat
unprofitable pastime of grumbling.

"I hate geography!" declared Lindsay Hepburn. "If we could be taken a
picnic to each of the places, there'd be some sense in it; but to have
to reel off a string of tiresome names that don't mean anything at all
to you--I call it stupid!"

"It's such a fearfully long lesson, too!" agreed Cicely Chalmers
dolefully. "Miss Frazer might have set us a shorter one for the first!
It's really too bad of her to make us begin with two pages and a half in
a new book! I'm sure I shall never get it into my head, if I try till
midnight."

"I wonder why things always seem so much harder to learn when one's just
come back after the holidays?" propounded Marjorie Butler with a
melancholy yawn.

"I don't know. I suppose because it all feels so horrid. It's perfectly
dreadful to think what a huge time it is until we can go home again."

"Thirteen whole weeks! And every one of them will be exactly the same:
lessons with Miss Frazer or Mademoiselle, an hour's practising, a walk
in the park or along the Surrey Road, and a game of tennis when you can
manage to get hold of the court. There's never anything different,
unless Miss Russell takes us to a museum or a concert, and that doesn't
happen often, worse luck!"

Lindsay's picture of the forthcoming term certainly did not seem a
remarkably enlivening one, and the other two groaned at the prospect.

"I wish one wasn't obliged to go to a boarding school," said Cicely in
an injured tone.

"Girls! Girls!" cried a fourth voice, breaking abruptly into the
conversation, "I've been hunting for you everywhere. I thought you were
in the house or the gymnasium. Oh! I've such a piece of news to tell
you!"

"What's the matter, Nora?" enquired Marjorie, for the newcomer was out
of breath, and looked as excited as if it were breaking-up day.

"Come here and sit between us," added Lindsay, pushing the others
farther along the seat to make room.

"Is it anything really nice?" asked Cicely.

"It depends on what you call 'nice'. I'll give you each six guesses, and
even then I don't believe one of you'll be right."

"Miss Frazer doesn't mean to take geography to-morrow?"

"Absolutely wrong, though I wish she wouldn't."

"Somebody has broken another window with a tennis ball?"

"Don't be silly! It's much more interesting than that."

"Miss Russell's going to give us a holiday?"

"You're getting warm! Try again."

"Oh, we can't!"

"We give it up!"

"Go on and tell!"

"Do you remember that just before Easter a gentleman came with Dr.
Redford, and they both went over the school, peeping and poking about in
such a mysterious manner?"

"Yes, we wondered what they were doing."

"Well, it turns out that he's a sanitary inspector, and he's sent a
report to Miss Russell to say that the drains are wrong, and must be
taken up immediately."

"Is that your grand news?"

"No, it's only the first part of it. Let me finish, and then you'll see.
Dr. Redford says the drains can't possibly be touched while we're all in
the house, and yet they must be opened at once. Can't you guess now?"

"Miss Russell never means to send us home when we've only just come
back?" gasped Lindsay hopefully.

"No, not that, though it's nearly as jolly. She's taken a beautiful old
manor house in the country, and it's to be our school for the whole of
the summer term. We're to go there in a body--girls, and teachers, and
servants, and everyone."

If Nora had hoped to astonish her companions she had certainly
succeeded. They were wild with curiosity, and fired off questions all
three together.

"Where is it?"

"When are we going?"

"How did you get to know?"

"One at a time, please," said Nora, enjoying her importance. "I met
Mildred Roper in the hall just now. Miss Russell has been explaining it
to the monitresses, and said they might tell us as soon as they liked.
It's a lovely Elizabethan house, at a place called Haversleigh, a long
way from here. We're to start next Tuesday."

Such a tremendous event as the removal of the school from town to
country was without precedent in the annals of Winterburn Lodge.

"It's almost too good to be true," cried Cicely rapturously.

"It will be like the last day and setting off for the seaside both
together," declared Lindsay, waltzing round the seat in the exuberance
of her spirits.

"Not quite, because we shall have lessons when we get there," corrected
Nora.

"Well, at any rate it'll be ever so much nicer than being in London."

"Hurrah for the old Manor!" shouted Marjorie Butler, clapping her hands.

Miss Russell had indeed been much alarmed by the sanitary inspector's
report. She was determined to make the change without delay, and hurried
on the preparation as speedily as possible.

Boxes were brought down from the attic, and teachers and monitresses
were kept busy superintending the packing of clothes, linen,
schoolbooks, and numberless other articles. For the few days that
remained work was relaxed, the headmistress's chief anxiety seeming to
be the health of the girls, and her one object to take them away before
any sign of illness should break out amongst them.

"Miss Russell looked so worried when I told her my head ached," said
Nora Proctor. "She asked every one of us afterwards if we had sore
throats."

"I was silly enough to say I thought mine felt a little scrapy," said
Lindsay ruefully. "I soon wished I hadn't, because she gave me a
horribly nasty disinfectant lozenge, and told me to suck it slowly until
I'd finished it. Ugh! I can taste it yet!"

"I'm absolutely sick of the smell of carbolic. There's a jar full in
every room," said Cicely.

"Never mind! You'll only have to endure it for one day more. We're
actually off to-morrow."

Those in authority might certainly be excused if they looked worried,
for it was no light task to accomplish so much in such a short space of
time. By Tuesday morning, however, the final arrangements were
completed; the rows of boxes were locked, strapped, and piled on railway
carts; while the girls, an excited, chattering crew, were ready and
waiting for the omnibuses which were to take them to the station.

"Good-bye to poor old Winterburn Lodge!" said Cicely, giving a last peep
into the familiar classroom. "We shan't see these maps and desks again
until next September."

"I wonder how many things will have happened before we come back here?"
said Lindsay thoughtfully.

It was a long journey into Somerset, but Miss Russell had engaged saloon
carriages, and taken large baskets of lunch; so, in the opinion of her
thirty pupils at least, the expedition felt like a picnic.

"How I wish we could go every year, or that Miss Russell would remove
into the country altogether," said Beryl Austen, who had secured a
corner seat, and was in raptures over the view.

"Then it wouldn't be town, and we shouldn't be able to have visiting
masters," said Mildred Roper, one of the monitresses.

"Who wants them? I'm sure I should be only too delighted never to see
any of them again!"

Mildred smiled.

"I suppose, after all, we're sent to school to learn something," she
remarked dryly. "I'm afraid you'll find Miss Frazer will give you plenty
of work to make up for the loss of Herr Hoffmann and Monsieur Guizet."

"I don't care a scrap, so long as there's fun when lessons are over.
We're going to have a glorious time, and I mean to thoroughly enjoy
myself."

Beryl only expressed the sentiments of the rest of the girls, most of
whom regarded the coming term in the light of a holiday. As the train
steamed through green meadows and woods just breaking into leaf, it
indeed seemed as if London and professors had been effectually left
behind, and their spirits rose higher with every mile.

By afternoon they were all impatience to arrive. For fully an hour
before they reached their destination they kept enquiring whether they
must get out at the next station, and were sure that each ancient house
visible from the carriage windows could not fail to be the Manor.

"Here we are at last!" announced Miss Russell, when, after many false
alarms, the welcome word "Haversleigh" made its appearance in plain
letters, and a porter's voice was heard pronouncing something which bore
a faint resemblance to the name. "Steady, girls! Steady! Remember each
is to take her own bag, and file out in proper order. Nobody is to move
until I say 'March!'"

Miss Russell first held a review on the platform, to make sure that none
of her pupils or their belongings had gone astray.

"I am quite relieved we have all arrived safely," she said. "I think we
may congratulate ourselves that not even an umbrella is missing. It is
only half a mile from here to the house, quite an easy walk, so we will
start at once, and leave our luggage to follow."

In a few minutes more they had passed the ticket collector, and found
themselves on the leafy high road. It seemed as different from London as
a fairy tale from a Latin grammar. There had been a slight shower of
rain, which had brought out the scent of growing grass and budding
leaves; the ground was white with the fallen blossom of blackthorn
hedges; and a thrush, seated on the summit of an apple tree, was pouring
forth a volume of song that sounded almost like a welcome to the
country.

With so many new sights to gaze at, it was difficult to walk primly two
and two, and the line proved a straggling one, in spite of Miss Frazer's
efforts in the rear. At a pair of great iron gates Miss Russell stopped
and turned to her girls.

"This is our first glimpse of the Manor," she said, with a touch of
pride in her voice. "I want you to take a good look at your new school."

It was nicer even than they had expected--a glorious old place, built
partly in Tudor fashion of grey stone, and partly of black and white
timbers. There were latticed windows, and a porch ornamented with stone
balls, and curious twisted chimneys, and picturesque gables at odd
angles.

"It's like a house out of one of Sir Walter Scott's novels," said
Marjorie Butler.

"It looks as if one might have all kinds of adventures there," added
Lindsay Hepburn gleefully.

The inside proved just as satisfactory as the outside. It was delightful
to sit down to tea in a great dining-hall, with a carved roof, and walls
hung with spears, shields, and stags' antlers.

"I feel we oughtn't to be drinking tea," said Cicely Chalmers. "I'm sure
they didn't have it in Queen Elizabeth's times. It was tankards of ale
or mead in those days."

"Don't finish your cup, then, if you wish to imagine yourself entirely
in the past," said Mildred Roper. "I'm afraid you'll have to leave the
marmalade too. That's quite a modern invention, and so are the Bath
buns."

"Don't be horrid!" said Cicely. "It really is an old-fashioned place.
Lindsay and I have got the quaintest panelled bedroom you could possibly
imagine. There's a great four-post bed, with yellow brocaded curtains;
it's big enough to hold six, instead of only two."

"And there's a lovely library, and a picture gallery, and ever so many
queer rooms and long passages upstairs," put in Nora Proctor. "I got
quite lost, and couldn't find my way down at first."

"So did I," said Beryl Austen. "I tried to explore a little, but it
looked so dim and dark I didn't dare to go alone, so I turned back. I
thought I might meet a Cavalier or a Roundhead on the landing!"

Beryl was not the only one to whom their new quarters seemed rather
weird and strange on this first evening of their arrival. After being
accustomed to electric light and modern bedrooms, it was a great change
to walk upstairs with candles to antique chambers that might have
belonged to the Middle Ages.

"Don't be silly, girls!" exclaimed Miss Russell indignantly, as they
scurried past the suits of armour in the picture gallery. "I shall not
allow any absurd nonsense of this kind. You have no more to be afraid of
here than you had at Winterburn Lodge. I will take you over the house
to-morrow and show you everything, and when you study the real history
of the place you won't want to concern yourselves with silly
superstitions."

Though the old Manor might look ghostly by night, it wore a bright and
cheerful aspect in the sunshine of next morning, and not even the most
ardent of Cockneys would have wished herself back among streets and
squares. It certainly seemed more interesting to learn lessons sitting
on tall-backed oak chairs at a carved table, than at desks in an
ordinary schoolroom, furnished with maps and blackboard. The teachers
enjoyed it as much as the girls, and everybody had a delightfully
romantic feeling of being transferred to the reign of Queen Elizabeth.

"We oughtn't to have science, or physiology, or anything up-to-date
here," said Cicely, as, in company with the rest of the third form, she
took possession of the panelled parlour that was to be their temporary
classroom.

"No, indeed," said Lindsay. "Girls in those days didn't have half our
work."

"You forget Lady Jane Grey," said Miss Frazer. "In the matter of
knowledge she would easily have put you to shame. If you want her
sixteenth-century studies you will have to begin Greek as well as Latin,
French, Italian, and some Hebrew and Arabic!"

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Lindsay, aghast at such a list of accomplishments.
"I'd rather stick to our own century."

"I thought ladies did nothing but go hunting and hawking then," said
Marjorie Butler. "Did they all know Greek and Latin?"

"Probably not, but they could make preserves, and perfumes, and other
secrets of the still-room; and they embroidered the most beautiful
tapestries, if we are to judge from the specimens in the big
drawing-room. Young people were very severely brought up. They might
never sit without permission in the presence of their parents or
teachers, and they were beaten for the slightest offences. Don't you
remember that even poor Lady Jane Grey was punished with 'nips, bobs,
and pinches'; and little Edward VI had his whipping-boy, to receive the
blows which it was not considered seemly to bestow upon his own princely
person!"

"Had the other boy to be whipped for what the king had done? How
horribly unfair!" said Beryl Austen.

"Yes, their ideas of justice were rather different from ours. They would
have thought present-day children absolutely spoilt. The girls who
perhaps may have done lessons in this room three hundred years ago would
not learn them so easily and pleasantly as you are going to do this
morning. Fetch the geology books, Beryl. We must go on with modern work,
in spite of our ancient surroundings."




CHAPTER II

An Interesting Stranger


Among all Miss Russell's thirty pupils you could not have found two
stancher friends than Lindsay Hepburn and Cicely Chalmers, both of whom
were members of the third, or lowest, class.

Lindsay was a short, plump, fair, jolly-looking girl of twelve, with a
very energetic disposition; apt, according to Miss Frazer, to be
inconveniently lively and irrepressible in school, but a general
favourite in the playground.

Cicely, six months younger, was much more quiet and steady on the
surface, though her twinkling brown eyes belied her demurer manners, and
proclaimed her ready for anything in the shape of fun. She admired
Lindsay immensely, and copied her absolutely, being generally ready to
follow her through thick and thin, whatever scrapes might be the
consequence.

The pair shared a bedroom, and were so inseparable that Cicely was often
called Lindsay's shadow. That was an injustice, however; she had a
character of her own, though she might choose to merge it in her
friend's stronger personality. It is with these two, and their strange
experiences at the Manor, that my tale is chiefly concerned, for if it
had not been for Lindsay's enquiring mind, backed by Cicely's persistent
efforts, there might have been no story to tell.

This is how it all began.

On the second morning after their instalment at Haversleigh the whole
school was assembled ready for a history class in the big dining-hall.
Miss Russell, for a wonder, was late, and when she entered at last she
brought with her a new pupil. The stranger was about sixteen, a pretty,
graceful girl, with hazel eyes, long chestnut hair, and a rather
distinguished air. She was given a seat in the first form, and replied
to the few questions asked her in a quiet voice; then, at the close of
the lecture, she took her books and went away alone, without waiting to
join in the next lesson.

Naturally her sudden appearance and departure excited much curiosity.
The moment work was over, Lindsay and Cicely seized upon Kathleen
Crawford, who was rather a friend of theirs among the monitresses.

"Who's the new girl?" they asked. "We hadn't heard anybody was coming."

"She's only a day pupil for a few classes," answered Kathleen. "Her
name's Monica Courtenay. She lives here, but of course not just now."

"What do you mean?" enquired Cicely.

"Why, surely you knew Miss Russell has taken the Manor for the summer
from Mrs. Courtenay?"

"I never thought about whom it belonged to," confessed Lindsay.

"Well, at any rate, Mrs. Courtenay and Monica are staying in rooms in
the village while their house is let, and Monica is to come three times
a week for French and history."

"So this is really her home?"

"Yes, and I heard someone say it is all her own. She's an only child,
and her father is dead."

"It must seem funny for her to see a whole school here!"

"I expect it does. I shouldn't like it if the place were mine."

"Is she nice?"

"How can I tell? I saw no more of her than you did yourselves."

Everybody was greatly interested in the newcomer, and ready, at the end
of a week's acquaintance, to decide heartily in her favour. Monica was
rather dignified and reserved in her manners, and evidently not much
accustomed to mix with companions of her own age; but when her shyness
began to wear off she proved most attractive.

"She's not at all conceited, although she's mistress of the Manor," said
Lindsay.

"No, I can't say she gives herself airs in the least," agreed Cicely.

"I think she behaves beautifully," said Mildred Roper. "She never so
much as hints that it's her own house, or tries to take the lead, as
some girls would certainly have done. She doesn't go anywhere without
leave, nor even stop to play tennis unless she's asked. I heard her
apologizing to Miss Russell yesterday for giving an order to the
gardener. Mademoiselle says she is 'bien elevée' and 'très gentille',
and that's a great compliment, for she doesn't admire English girls as a
rule."

"No one could help liking Monica," said Kathleen Crawford. "She's
charming. I call her one of the nicest girls I've ever met. And she's
had such hard luck! I've just been hearing all about her from Irene
Spencer."

"How does Irene know?" asked Lindsay.

"She stays sometimes with an uncle who is vicar of the next parish, and
her cousins are friends of Monica's. It's a most extraordinary story--it
might have come out of a book."

"Oh, do tell us!" said the others eagerly.

Kathleen's tale was in scraps, and missed out several points of which
she was not aware at the time, so it will be better to set it down here
as the girls learnt it more fully afterwards, for it was of great
importance, and formed the basis of much that was to follow.

The Courtenays, it appeared, were a very ancient family, and had
inherited the Manor from an ancestor who had fought bravely on the
Yorkist side in the days of the Wars of the Roses. In the present
generation there was no male heir, and Monica was the last of her race.

Until a few years ago the old house had been in the possession of her
great-uncle, Sir Giles Courtenay, a most eccentric man, so odd and
peculiar, indeed, that many people had considered him to be out of his
mind. He was reputed to be extremely wealthy, yet lived in a miserly
fashion, entertaining no visitors, and never spending a penny which it
was possible for him to save. He never married, but passed his days as a
recluse, shut up among the books in his library, seeing only a few old
servants whose services he had retained. Sometimes in the early morning
he would wander about the woods and fields in the neighbourhood, seeking
for wild flowers, but on such occasions he seemed much annoyed if spoken
to, and evidently preferred to take his rambles unnoticed.

At his death he left everything to his great-niece, Monica.

"Both the Manor", so ran the will, "and all that it may contain,
especially commending to her the volumes in my library, and advising her
to pursue the study of botany, which has ever been a solace and a
distraction to me amidst the various ills and disappointments of life."

At first it was supposed that Monica must be a great heiress, but when
Sir Giles's legacy came to be investigated nothing could be found beyond
the ordinary furniture in the house and a few pounds in the local bank.
No one knew anything about his affairs, and neither papers nor documents
were forthcoming to give the slightest indication as to what had become
of the fortune he was known to have inherited.

Not only was all trace of the money lost, but the valuable silver plate
and jewellery that had been handed down from generation to generation of
the Courtenays were also missing, and there was no clue to their
whereabouts. It was generally believed that Sir Giles must have
concealed the whole of his wealth somewhere in the old house, but,
though a minute search had been made from cellar to garret, the
hiding-place had not yet come to light.

Instead, therefore, of owning a fortune, Monica had received nothing but
the Manor, in itself a very barren heritage. She and her mother had
taken up their residence there, but they possessed only a small income,
quite insufficient to maintain the former traditions of the family. It
was on this account that they had been glad to let the house to Miss
Russell for the summer, and to retire themselves into quiet lodgings
close by.

"Hasn't Monica ever tried to hunt for the treasure?" asked Lindsay, when
Kathleen had finished her narrative.

"Oh, yes--often! I believe she has gone systematically through each
room, but it's so well hidden that it seems quite impossible to find
it."

"Yet it must be there!"

"No doubt. It may never turn up, though, until the place is pulled down.
The whole thing is a complete mystery, and so far nobody has been able
to solve it."

"Have you asked Monica where she has looked?"

"Certainly not. Irene says she's very sensitive about it, and can't bear
to hear it spoken of. Naturally it must have been a most terrible
disappointment. I don't wonder she avoids the subject. Please be careful
never to mention it to her, or you'll offend her dreadfully, and I shall
be sorry I told you."

"I'm sure both Lindsay and Cicely would have too nice feeling to
question Monica on such a personal matter," said Mildred Roper.

"Of course we shan't say anything--we wouldn't for worlds," promised the
two younger girls.

That Monica should be the heroine of so romantic a story made her doubly
interesting in the eyes of Lindsay and Cicely. They were much impressed
by Kathleen's account, and retired to the privacy of the summer-house to
talk it over together.

"It must be dreadful to be so poor when you know you ought to be so
rich!" said Lindsay.

"And so tantalizing, when perhaps the fortune is actually in the house,"
said Cicely.

"I could never be happy for thinking about it."

"No more could I."

"Look here! Why shouldn't you and I set to work? So long as this
treasure is hidden away somewhere, I suppose it's possible to find it."

"Oh, don't I wish we could!" cried Cicely, her eyes round at the idea.

"Well, I can't see why we shouldn't have as good a chance as anybody
else. I expect it's chiefly a matter of careful hunting."

"How splendid it would be if Monica really turned out an heiress after
all!"

"Glorious! It's worth trying for. Those panelled walls might be full of
hiding-places. We don't know what we may discover when once we begin."

"We shan't have to let Miss Frazer catch us looking about."

"Rather not! Nobody must know what we intend to do."

"Not even Marjorie Butler?" pleaded Cicely.

"No," said Lindsay firmly. "Marjorie couldn't help whispering it to
Nora, and then it would be all over the school. The big girls would make
dreadful fun of us, I'm sure. They'd call us 'The Gold Seekers', or some
other stupid name, simply for the sake of teasing. Besides, if it were
talked about among the rest, it would be sure to get to Monica's ears,
and we particularly don't want that."

"No, she mustn't hear a word of it."

"Very well, then, we had better keep it to ourselves. Will you promise
faithfully that it shall be a dead secret just between you and me?"

"Absolutely dead!" agreed Cicely.

The two girls were determined to institute a thorough search for the
lost legacy, but they foresaw many difficulties in the way. In the first
place, it was hard even to make a start without letting anybody suspect
what they were doing. Although the term at the Manor seemed like a
holiday, it was nevertheless school: there was a certain amount of
supervision by the mistresses, and there were rules and regulations to
be obeyed, the same as at Winterburn Lodge. The girls were not allowed
to wander about alone exactly when and where they wished, and even
during recreation time they were expected to play games in the garden.

One of the greatest hindrances to their plan was Mrs. Wilson, an elderly
servant who had been left in charge by Mrs. Courtenay, and who seemed to
consider herself responsible for her mistress's property. She evidently
much resented the presence of thirty schoolgirls in the Manor, and kept
a keen eye upon them to see that they did no damage. She was continually
watching to satisfy herself that they were not scratching the furniture,
nor spilling candle-grease upon the stairs; and was loud in her
complaints to Miss Russell over the most absurd trifles.

If she had had sufficient authority, I believe she would have limited
the girls entirely to their bedrooms and schoolrooms, but as that was
impossible, she did her best to frighten them away from the rest of the
house by being as disagreeable as she could. As a natural consequence
they detested her. They nicknamed her "The Griffin", and took a naughty
pleasure in defying her as far as they dared.

"She's as sour as a green gooseberry!" grumbled Effie Hargreaves. "If we
only take a stroll along the portrait gallery, she thinks we're going to
knock down the armour, or poke our fingers through the pictures."

"Yes, she seems to imagine we can't look at a thing without breaking it.
It's perfectly ridiculous!" declared Beryl Austen.

"She's an absolute nuisance. It's a pity she was left behind," said Nora
Proctor; and that was the general verdict in the old housekeeper's
disfavour.

With such a dragon continually on the alert, it was almost impossible
for Lindsay and Cicely to find the slightest opportunity of beginning
their treasure hunt, and they were reduced to very low spirits on the
subject. One half-holiday afternoon, however, Lindsay reported that Mrs.
Wilson, dressed in black bonnet and mantle, had been seen to leave the
back door and walk away in the direction of the village.

"Now is our chance!" she assured Cicely. "Miss Russell is lying down in
her bedroom with a bad headache, Miss Frazer is playing tennis, and
Mademoiselle is sitting reading in the arbour. Everyone else is in the
garden, and if we run indoors at once nobody will notice, and we shall
have the place practically to ourselves."

Could anything have been more fortunate? They lost no time in hurrying
into the Manor, feeling almost as desperate conspirators as Guy Fawkes
and his confederates; and commenced immediately to make a careful tour
of investigation. They stole round the hall, the dining-room, and the
library, scrutinizing every nook and corner, tapping the panels to hear
if they sounded hollow, and peeping up the old wide chimneys, but all
with no success.

"I'm afraid we shan't find anything down here," said Lindsay at last. "I
expect people made hiding-places where they wouldn't be so easy to get
at. Let us go and explore the attics. We've never been up there yet."

They reached the top storey without encountering even a servant. Somehow
it felt a little eerie to hear nothing but the echo of their own
footsteps, and to find themselves quite alone in such an out-of-the-way
part of the house. The Manor was very large, and nearly the whole of the
left wing was unoccupied. They passed door after door, all leading to
more and more empty rooms, till Lindsay began to grow almost dismayed at
the bigness of their undertaking.

"I didn't know the place was so huge!" she sighed. "I'm afraid one might
spend years looking round and examining it thoroughly. I don't wonder
Monica lost heart. There isn't the faintest clue to go upon, either, to
give one a hint where to hunt."

"Hadn't we better be turning back?"

Cicely was growing rather tired of the fruitless attempt.

"In a minute. Let us go to the end of this landing."

The passage in itself was like the others, but it differed in one
particular, for it terminated in a narrow, winding staircase. This
looked tempting--just the sort of thing, in fact, that they felt ought
to lead to somewhere interesting and important.

"It's like the way to the turret chamber where Sir Walter was
imprisoned, in _Tales of the Middle Ages_," said Lindsay.

"Or where Katherine was dragged when Sir Gilbert found she had overheard
the secret plot," said Cicely.

They scrambled almost on hands and knees up sixteen steep steps. At the
top was a small landing, and exactly facing them, up three steps more,
stood a closed door. The girls paused for a moment to consider what to
do next.

"Listen!" said Cicely suddenly. "I thought I heard a queer noise."

There certainly was a most extraordinary sound issuing from the room
opposite. It resembled somebody groaning, or giving long-drawn, sighing
breaths. It went on for a few moments and then stopped, then commenced
louder than before, and finally died away altogether.

"What is it?" whispered Cicely, rather nervously.

"I don't know, but I'm going to look and see."

"Oh! Dare you? I hope it's nothing that will bounce out!"

[Illustration: "SHE OPENED THE DOOR CAUTIOUSLY"]

"Nonsense! Why should it?"

"It might. Do be careful!"

"Don't be silly!" said Lindsay. "We came up here on purpose to discover
things, and help Monica. If there's a noise in that room, we certainly
ought to find out what's making it."

And with this plausible excuse for satisfying her curiosity, she opened
the door cautiously, and peeped inside.




CHAPTER III

A Strong Suspicion


If Lindsay and Cicely had counted upon finding something interesting
behind the closed door, they were much disappointed. The room was
absolutely bare and unfurnished. It was not panelled, as mysterious
rooms ought to be, but had an old-fashioned and rather ugly wallpaper,
adorned with big bunches of grapes and flowers; and there was a plain,
whitewashed ceiling. At one side a window overlooked the garden, and at
the other was a shallow store cupboard, the open door of which revealed
rows of empty shelves, probably intended for jam or linen.

There was nothing to give the least suggestion of romance, or the
possibility of any concealed hiding-place. There was no carved
overmantel nor four-post bed; in fact, the only article of any
description to be seen was a large horn lantern that hung from a hook in
the ceiling. The curious noise had ceased, and although the girls looked
round most carefully, they were not able to find anything which would
account for it.

"There isn't a corner that even a cat might hide in," said Lindsay. "It
was so loud, too! I can't understand it in the least."

"I call it rather uncanny. Let us go!" said Cicely.

She was stepping down on to the little landing again, when, to her
dismay, she almost ran into the arms of Mrs. Wilson, who, still in black
bonnet and mantle, had returned from the village sooner than they
anticipated, and must have come unheard up the winding staircase.

"The Griffin's" surprise at seeing them seemed as great as their own.
She gave a gasp of consternation, peeped hastily inside the empty room,
then turned to Lindsay and Cicely with a look of mingled relief and
wrath.

"What were you doing in the lantern room?" she asked sharply. "You know
perfectly well you've no right to be up here. You must mind your own
business, and keep to your own places, instead of poking and ferreting
about into matters that don't concern you. I can't have you rambling
about wherever you please, and the sooner you understand that the
better. It was sorely against my advice that the Manor was let for a
school!"

She spoke rudely, and seemed more upset and annoyed than the occasion
warranted. She swept the two girls downstairs before her, muttering
angrily as she went, and did not let them out of her sight until she
had watched them safely into the garden.

"How horrid she was!" exclaimed Cicely, when they were alone, and able
to talk things over. "Miss Russell never said we weren't to go on to
that top landing."

"What was Mrs. Wilson doing there herself--in an empty room, in such a
deserted part of the house?" asked Lindsay meditatively.

"I don't know. She looked quite aghast at seeing us."

"I believe there's something about it we don't understand. Perhaps she
has some reason beyond mere fussiness and nastiness for wanting to keep
us away from that particular room."

"What kind of a reason?"

"Well, suppose she had discovered the hiding-place?"

"Wouldn't she tell Monica?"

"She might intend to take some of the money."

"Oh, how dreadful! It's quite possible, though, that she knows where it
is. She was housekeeper to old Sir Giles for ever so many years."

"It seems to me most suspicious," said Lindsay. "We must watch her, and
find out everything we can, for Monica's sake."

The idea that Mrs. Wilson was concealing the treasure for her own ends
was a thrilling one. The more they thought about it, the more probable
it appeared. Who had a better opportunity than she of searching the old
house? She might even have been present when her eccentric master stowed
his fortune so carefully away. If this were really the case, the
greatest caution was necessary, for to allow "The Griffin" to see that
they had noticed anything might entirely spoil their plans.

"We must treat her just as usual," said Lindsay, "only we must keep our
eyes and ears open, in case something should turn up to give us a hint."

For the next few days they behaved with what they considered the
greatest diplomacy. They took care not to aggravate Mrs. Wilson, nor in
any way to attract her special attention; but they looked out for the
slightest chance of following her movements, dodging round corners, and
stalking her along passages with the zeal of detectives. Unfortunately
their efforts were not so unobserved as they supposed, and drew down a
reproof from headquarters.

"Lindsay and Cicely! how is it that you are continually loitering about
the landing when you ought to be in the garden?" said Miss Russell. "I
shall have to make a new rule, that nobody is to come upstairs until ten
minutes before meals. In this lovely weather I expect you to be
out-of-doors. It is a shame to waste a minute in the house. Don't let me
find you here again during recreation time."

This was a blow, as it brought the great scheme temporarily to a
standstill. The girls could not venture to disobey openly, and judged it
wiser to let things rest for the present, until the mistress should have
forgotten the matter, and they might once more quietly begin to renew
their investigations.

"We'll play cricket hard, and put our names down for the tennis
handicap," said Lindsay. "We mustn't on any account let Miss Russell
think we'd a special motive in what we were doing."

"Rather not! We'll 'lie low and say nuffin'', like Brer Rabbit," agreed
Cicely.

There was no lack of liveliness or occupation at the Manor to justify
anybody in idling about the passages, and there were certainly many
small excitements, apart from mysterious chambers or hidden treasures.
All kinds of funny events kept occurring which had never disturbed the
prim atmosphere of Winterburn Lodge.

Nora Proctor and Marjorie Butler awoke half the school one night by loud
and repeated screams, and when Miss Frazer rushed into their room,
imagining fire or burglars, she found them cowering behind the bed
curtains, in mortal terror of a large bat that had made its way through
the open casement. Earwigs were a constant nuisance, and everyone grew
almost accustomed to catching green caterpillars, which crept in from
the roses that surrounded the windows, and would turn up in the most
undesirable spots.

Naturally so old a house was infested with rats and mice. They scuttled
inside the walls, and squeaked behind the wainscots, and seemed to hold
carnival at the back of the oak panelling, often disturbing the girls at
night with the noise. This was particularly noticeable in the room where
Lindsay and Cicely slept. They were sometimes awakened by sounds like
the rolling of barrels overhead, as if heavy objects were being clanked
about up in the ceiling.

"You've no need to be afraid of them," said Mrs. Wilson, who made light
of all complaints, "they never venture out of the walls, to my
knowledge."

The fear, however, that a rat might possibly gnaw its way into her
bedroom afflicted Cicely continually.

"If it ran across my pillow I should die of fright, I know I should!"
she wailed. "I wish Mrs. Wilson would let us have the cat to sleep with
us. I should feel far safer."

"I wish we could send for the Pied Piper, and get rid of them all. They
woke me twice last night," said Lindsay.

Poor Cicely never dared to retire without first having a thorough
examination to assure herself that no lurking rodent was lying hidden
behind the wardrobe, or in any other obscure corner. One evening she was
making her usual round, armed with a tennis racket for protection, and
was peeping under the bed, when she suddenly let the valance fall
hurriedly, and drew back with a shriek.

"There's a rat there! I saw it quite plainly; its great big eyes were
glaring at me!" she announced in a trembling voice.

"What are we to do?" exclaimed Lindsay, in equal consternation.

"Call for Miss Frazer this instant. She hasn't gone downstairs yet."

"Don't disturb it on any account!" decreed Miss Russell, who was fetched
from the drawing-room to cope with the emergency. "I shall send at once
for Scott, the gardener, and ask him to bring his terrier dog. We must
really take some measures to destroy these pests."

It was not very long before Scott arrived. He clumped solemnly up the
stairs with a thick stick in his hand, and Bill, his sharp little fox
terrier, at his heels. Mrs. Wilson accompanied him, bearing the kitchen
poker; and the parlour-maid followed, holding the yard dog by the
collar, in case Bill should miss his prey. Miss Frazer and Miss
Humphreys were there to support Miss Russell; while Mademoiselle and a
great many of the girls hovered outside in the passage, half-frightened
and half-excited over the coming fray.

"If you'll please to tell me where the young lady saw it, mum," said
Scott, "I'll let Bill on it sudden. He's death on rats."

"It was just at the foot of the bed," quavered Cicely. Scott stooped,
and raised the valance with the greatest precaution. Bill sniffed
eagerly, but he did not pounce upon any concealed victim.

"There's nothing there, mum--leastways no rat," said Scott,
straightening his back.

"Are you sure?" gasped Miss Russell. "It couldn't possibly have
escaped."

"I think it's been a little mistake of the young lady's, mum," said
Scott, suppressing a grin. "If you'll kindly take a look under the bed,
you'll see for yourself."

Miss Russell hastened to comply, and, bending down, gave an exclamation
as she drew out one of Lindsay's best Sunday gloves.

"What an extraordinary illusion!" she cried. "I don't wonder Cicely took
it for a rat. The soft doeskin is exactly the same colour, and the
buttons were gleaming just like two bright eyes. I never saw a more
perfect resemblance. I should certainly have been deceived. Well, I'm
glad our chase has been a case of much ado about nothing. I think you
may go to bed with easy minds to-night, girls. If we have any more
alarms, we must send for Bill to protect us. Good dog! Can you find
some scraps for him in the kitchen, Mrs. Wilson?"

Cicely's rat was of course a great joke in the school, and a subject of
teasing for several days afterwards.

"You'll imagine your dressing-gown is a tiger next," said Effie
Hargreaves.

"Some people scream at nothing. I'd have been sure about it first,
before making such a fuss," said Beryl Austen.

  "She thought it was a wily rat, and watched to see it move,
  She looked again, and saw that it was nothing but a glove!"

improvised Nora Proctor, who was fond of _Alice_, and had rather a taste
for parody.

"It was such a disappointment to us, when we were waiting to hear the
scuffle," said Marjorie Butler.

"We shan't believe in your scares next time," said Effie.

"It's all very well, but I'm sure you'd have been just as frightened
yourselves," retorted Cicely. "You've no need to make so much fun of
me."

"It's too bad. I vote we pay them out, and have the laugh on our side,"
sympathized Lindsay, leading her friend away. "I've thought of such a
capital idea. Come to the summer-house and we'll talk it over."

As the result of Lindsay's cogitations, the two girls went boldly to
Mrs. Wilson, and begged an old cardboard box.

"It's half to pieces," said "The Griffin", quite amiably, for a wonder.
"It's not much good you'll do with it, I'm afraid."

"Never mind, it's enough for what we want, thank you. We're not going to
put anything very heavy in it, are we, Cicely?"

Cicely's reply was such a wildly hysterical giggle that Mrs. Wilson
stared at her in offended surprise.

"She's only silly!" explained Lindsay hurriedly. "Please, could you let
us have some scraps of dark cloth? Perhaps there'd be something in the
rag bag. Be quiet, you stupid!"

The last remark was aside to the irrepressible Cicely, who straightened
her face with an effort. "We're going to do some sewing," she
volunteered, choking back her mirth.

"You're not generally so industrious," said Mrs. Wilson grimly. "I
should be glad to see you using your needle for once. It seems all
tennis and croquet with you young ladies."

She produced the rag bag, however, and allowed the girls to take their
choice of the various odds and ends which it contained. They selected a
piece of rough, hair-brown serge; then, fetching their work-baskets,
they retired to a remote part of the garden, where they were not likely
to be disturbed. If Mrs. Wilson had imagined they were about to engage
in some fine and delicate needlework, she was much mistaken. They
confined themselves to cutting and snipping, and to a few big, cobbling
stitches that would have caused her to exclaim in righteous horror.

At the end of half an hour all was finished, and Lindsay proudly held up
the result of their labours. It really was not a bad imitation of a rat.
It had a nice round, plump body, four squat legs, a pointed nose, and a
long, thin tail.

"We can't make whiskers," said Lindsay, "but that doesn't matter in the
least. They wouldn't notice them. What a good thing it's light until so
late now! They'll be able to see it perfectly well."

"We couldn't manage if the bed weren't a four-poster," said Cicely,
chuckling in anticipation of the fun to come.

Beryl Austen and Effie Hargreaves slept in a room almost opposite to
Lindsay's and Cicely's. Before eight o'clock arrived the two latter
contrived to make an excuse to go upstairs, and hastily completed their
preparations. The arrangements were ingenious. They fastened their rat
very lightly by two pieces of thin sewing cotton to the middle of the
piece of tapestry that formed the roof of the great four-post bed. To
the cotton was attached a long strand of string, which passed through
the curtains and out at the door (conveniently near the bed), the end
being hidden under the mat on the landing.

"You'll see, when we jerk the string, the cotton will break, then down
will plump the rat right on to their chests," said Lindsay, justly proud
of her inventive powers. "Poke the box under the valance, Cicely, quick!
I thought I heard someone coming."

The cardboard box contained a bobbin, to which a second string was tied,
and concealed in the same manner as the first.

"I don't believe they'll suspect anything," said Cicely. "Won't it be
lovely to give them a scare!"

At bedtime the conspirators retired innocently as usual, having wished
Beryl and Effie good night in the passage.

"I nearly said I hoped nothing would disturb them," laughed Lindsay,
"but I thought it would be wiser not. How long must we leave them to go
to sleep?"

"About half an hour, I should think. Let us get up as soon as we hear
the clock in the picture gallery striking nine."

The twilight lasted long, so it was still quite possible to distinguish
objects as two nightgowned, barefooted figures stole gently across the
landing. Fortunately everything was perfectly quiet in the upper
portion of the house. The younger girls were in bed, and the elder ones
were with the teachers downstairs.

"We must be sure to work the right strings," breathed Lindsay. "Have you
got yours? This was mine, with a knot at the end."

She gave a smart pull, and the bobbin rattled loudly inside the box.
They could hear it plainly, even through the closed door.

"What is that?"

The question came in an anxious and wideawake tone from within the room.

"I don't know. Oh, there it is again!"

The voice this time was Effie's.

"It sounds as if it were under the bed!"

"Oh, surely it's not a rat!"

"Now for it!" whispered Cicely, pulling the second string.

The result was all they could have desired. A series of yells proceeded
from the four-post bed, sufficient not only to rouse the occupants of
the other rooms on the landing, but to bring Miss Frazer hurrying up
from the library. Lindsay and Cicely dropped their strings and fled, not
a second too soon. They could hear Miss Frazer striking a match to light
the candle, and her exclamation when she discovered the cause of the
uproar.

"All the girls have turned out to see what's the matter," said Cicely.
"If you and I don't go too, they'll know who's done it."

"I think we shall have to own up, in any case," replied Lindsay.

"It was worth the scolding," she declared afterwards, when Miss Frazer
had administered a due homily on the danger of practical jokes. "I only
wish I could have seen their faces when the rat plumped on to them. They
needn't talk of screaming at nothing, and if they ever begin to tease us
about anything again--well, we'll just say 'Rats!'"




CHAPTER IV

Haversleigh


There never was such a glorious place as the Manor. Upon that point the
whole school perfectly agreed. The garden was as fascinating as the
house, and proved an absolute dream of delight, with its smooth
bowling-green, its winding paths, its charming little arbours overgrown
with creepers, its clipped yew hedges, and its unexpected flights of
steps. It might have been designed as a kind of terrestrial paradise for
girls. The big lawns afforded space for so many tennis courts that there
was no need for the younger ones to hover about, waiting enviously until
their elders had finished before they could get a chance of a game; and
there was plenty of room left for croquet and clock golf. The shrubbery
and the plantation were ideal spots for hide-and-seek (almost too good,
Lindsay said, because it was so very difficult to find anybody); while
the various rustic seats scattered under the trees made sewing and
reading a luxury on hot days, when no one felt inclined for violent
exercise. A stone-flagged terrace ran the entire length of the front of
the Manor, proving an invaluable playground when the grass was too wet
for games in the garden; and a roomy summer-house stood near the
bowling-green, so big that it was capable of sheltering all the school
during a thunder shower.

Beyond the avenue, and at the farther side of the shrubbery, was a maze.
Marvellous little narrow, twisting paths, with high hedges of clipped
box, wound round and round in an utterly bewildering manner, most of
them either ending blindly or turning back to the original entrance, and
only one of the number leading to the arbour in the centre. For a long
time the girls amused themselves with trying to discover the proper
clue. Cicely, like Hansel, dropped pebbles to show which paths she had
already traced; Lindsay essayed to cut the Gordian knot by creeping
through the hedge; and it was only after many and repeated trials that
they were at last able to solve the puzzle.

In the midst of one of the lawns grew a grand old yew tree, the lower
branches of which were easy to climb. It was a favourite haunt of the
younger girls, each having her special seat, and here they might often
be seen perched like birds, and certainly chattering enough to suggest a
flock of magpies. A stalwart oak close by supported a swing that was far
more romantic than the swing in the playground at Winterburn Lodge,
because a strong push would send the happy occupant high up among the
green leaves, and give her a flying peep into a missel-thrush's nest on
the topmost bough, where four gaping yellow mouths were clamouring for
food. In a corner, down a flight of steps, there was a pond where grew
marsh marigolds, and irises, and forget-me-nots, and other water-loving
plants. A pair of ducks lived here in a wooden hutch, and would come
waddling up to be fed with bread, which the girls saved from breakfast
for them. Great was the delight of the whole school when one morning a
brood of seven small ducklings appeared on the water, each as yellow as
a canary, and seemingly quite at home already in its native element.

Then there was the rose garden, where every variety of the queen of
flowers seemed to flourish, from the delicate Maréchal Niel to the
sweet, oldfashioned, striped York and Lancaster. Archways and pillars
were covered with climbers and ramblers, a little untrained, but hanging
down in such glorious profusion that one almost approved of the neglect.
Round this garden was a high hedge of clipped holly, so that it was
sheltered from every wind, and the roses bloomed as if in a greenhouse.
Nor must we forget the peacocks, which were as much a feature of the old
house as the twisted chimneys, or the stone balls on the porch. There
were six of them, and the gorgeous sheen of their feathers as they
spread their tails in the sunshine was a sight worth remembering. In
fact, as Miss Russell often remarked, they gave a finishing touch to the
whole scene, and made the Manor look more than ever like a medieval
picture.

The village of Haversleigh was only ten minutes' walk from the lodge
gates. It consisted of one long row of quaint black-and-white cottages,
with thatched roofs, and gardens so gay with flowers that they seemed to
be overflowing into the road, and pinks and pansies were coming up
between the cobblestones of the street. At the end stood the beautiful
ancient church, built in days when each artisan was a master of his
craft, and made his work a labour of love. Strangers often came from a
distance to admire the delicate tracery of the windows, the exquisite
carving of the pillars, and the splendid old oak choir stalls that had
formed part of a tenth-century abbey. At the west end hung a collection
of banners, won by Monica's ancestors in many a hard-fought battle, and,
all tattered and faded as they were, still bearing tribute to the
glories of the past. There were monuments, too, in memory of the
Courtenays: stone effigies of knights in armour, lying under carved
canopies emblazoned with their coats-of-arms; stiff ladies and gentlemen
of Tudor times, with starched ruffs and buckled shoes; and one lovely
marble figure, by a forgotten sculptor, of a young daughter of the house
who had perished during the Great Plague. The ruthless hands that had
chipped and spoiled many of the other monuments had spared this one, and
the beautiful, calm face seemed to be resting in tranquil sleep,
patiently waiting for the summons to arise to immortality.

The Manor pew, though large, could not accommodate the school. The girls
sat in the left aisle, and made quite an important addition to the
little congregation of villagers. They certainly helped to swell the
singing, and I think even the most thoughtless among them learned to
love that dear old church, and carried its remembrance into after years.

The Rectory marked the last boundary of the village, then the road
passed over a bridge straight into the open country. The scenery was
pretty without being grand. Picturesque farmhouses stood in the midst of
rich pastures, behind which rose wooded slopes leading to a higher peak,
called Pendle Tor, that stood out as a landmark for the district.
Naturally the girls were very anxious to explore the neighbourhood, and
delighted when Miss Russell allowed walks on half-holidays. The whole
school was not often sent out together, but each form would go in turn,
separately, with its own teacher--an arrangement that all much
preferred, as they could then ramble about in an informal manner,
instead of keeping to the prim file which was the general rule.

One Wednesday afternoon, at the end of May, it was the turn of the third
class, and its six members were standing by the gate, impatiently
awaiting the arrival of Miss Frazer, who, to do her justice, was not
often at fault in the matter of punctuality.

"I hope she isn't telling Miss Russell what bad marks I got this
morning," said Effie Hargreaves dismally. "She threatened last week to
report me if I had another cross for history, and I missed five times,
and four times in literature, and all my problems were wrong in
arithmetic too."

"I believe they're planning to hire another piano," said Beryl Austen,
"so that we can all get in the same amount of practising as we did at
Winterburn Lodge."

"Oh, what a shame! I'm sure half an hour a day is enough for anybody,"
came in a chorus from the others.

"Especially now, when we haven't a music master," added Cicely.

"That's the very reason," explained Beryl. "Miss Russell says she wants
us to keep up what we've learnt, so that we won't seem to have fallen
back when we begin with Mr. Nelson again."

"Don't talk of Mr. Nelson! We shan't see him for ages."

"You will, in September."

"Well, it's not September yet, it's only May, and in the meantime we're
learning from Miss Frazer. Here she is, by the by, hurrying down the
drive as fast as she can."

"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, girls," said the teacher, "but Miss
Russell has been giving me a commission to transact while we are out.
She wants us to go to Monkend, a farm about a mile and a half from
here."

"A new walk?" asked Beryl.

"Yes, we have never been there before, but I don't think we can miss the
way."

A perfectly fresh walk was a pleasant prospect. Everyone set off,
therefore, in the best of spirits. It was a beautiful afternoon, one of
those glorious days when summer seems to clasp hands with spring and
join the delights of both seasons. The newly unfolded leaves were still
a tender green, and the sycamores were covered with pendent blossoms, in
the golden pollen of which the bees revelled like drunkards. The larches
had opened all their tassels, and the young cones on the firs glowed
with such a pink hue that they resembled candles on a Christmas tree.
The hawthorns were almost over, but here and there a crab apple showed a
mass of pink bloom, or a guelder rose made a white patch in the hedge;
and all the stretches of grass by the roadsides were carpeted with
bluebells and starry stitchwort.

Miss Frazer was indulgent, and would wait for a few minutes while the
girls gathered handfuls of flowers, or climbed up to the top of a bank
to admire the view. She was as interested as they were in the finding of
a robin's nest; and quite as excited when a hawk swooped suddenly into a
bush, and flew away with a young thrush in its claws. The cuckoos were
calling persistently from the woods, the larks were singing up in the
air above, and all the hedgerows seemed to teem with busy bird life.

Their way soon left the high road, and, striking across a field, led
them through a copse where there was an interesting pond, swarming with
tadpoles. The girls would have lingered here, trying to catch the funny,
wriggling, little black objects, but Miss Frazer's patience gave way at
last, and she hurried them on, declaring that if they were not quick
they would never get to the farm and back before tea-time.

Monkend was a quaint old house, built in the midst of cherry orchards.
Its timbered walls were grey and weather-stained, and its tiled roof
yellowed with lichens. By the side of the open barn door the cows were
standing lowing to be milked, and the dairymaid, a rosy-faced young
woman in a blue apron, was coming from the kitchen, singing as she swung
her bright pails. She stopped in astonishment at the unwonted sight of
visitors to the farm, and ran to call her mistress to the scene.

"You may wait for me here, girls, while I do my business with Mrs.
Brand," said Miss Frazer; "or if you like you may walk back to the
stile, and I will overtake you in the wood."

Mrs. Brand insisted that Miss Frazer should come into the best parlour
to transact her errand, so, left alone, the girls began slowly to
retrace their steps towards the copse.

"I wonder how long she'll be," said Lindsay, who with Cicely had
lingered a little behind.

"I believe she has to pay a bill and order more butter and eggs and
things, so I don't expect we shall see her for five or ten minutes at
least," replied Cicely.

"Then there'll be just time to run round the farm. I want to peep inside
those barns, and see what is at the other side of those haystacks. It
looks interesting. Come along! The dairymaid is busy milking, and
won't see us, and I don't suppose it matters if she does. We'll soon run
after the others."

Feeling rather adventurous, the pair fled away down the yard, and dived
through an open doorway into the depths of a big barn. How fragrant it
smelled--such a delicious, sweet scent was in the air! Surely it must
come from that great heap of hay in the corner. The girls ran across,
and jumping on to the pile, were soon burying each other with armfuls
of the hay, and scooping out nests to sit in. It was dark inside the
barn--the beautiful brown gloom that one sees only in old castles or
churches, or ancient buildings, and is quite different from the black of
ordinary darkness. Through the open door came just one shaft of
sunshine, in which the specks of dust seemed to float and flutter like
living things. Overhead the great beams of the roof were lost in dim
obscurity; very old and rough they were, and covered with a mass of
cobwebs, among which Cicely declared she could see bats hanging head
downwards, with folded wings, though Lindsay said it was all her
imagination.

It was so nice sitting perched on the hay that neither was in a hurry to
move. I believe they quite forgot about the time, until at last they
heard Miss Frazer's voice in the distance bidding good-bye to Mrs.
Brand.

"We shall have to go," groaned Cicely. "What a nuisance! I could stay
here for hours."

"So could I," said Lindsay, getting up with a yawn, and brushing loose
stalks from her dress. "Let us jump down on the other side of the hay."

I do not know why it should have occurred to Lindsay to get off the
stack by the back instead of the front. If they had gone out of the barn
by the way they came, they could have overtaken Miss Frazer in a
moment, and the adventure which followed would never have happened at
all. As it was, fate decreed that Lindsay, in her flying leap through
the dusk, should knock her shins against something decidedly hard. She
stood rubbing them ruefully, and put out her hand to feel what had been
the cause of her bruises. It was a ladder, standing against the wall,
and through the gloom of the barn she could just distinguish its upper
end, which seemed to communicate with a doorway in the angle of the
roof. This looked attractive. She pointed it out at once to Cicely.

"Where does it lead, do you think?" asked the latter.

"To some granary above, I expect. I wonder what's up there! Shall we go
and explore?"

Without even waiting for an answer, Lindsay had begun to ascend, and as
she was six rungs up before Cicely ventured a half-hearted remonstrance,
she did not see fit to come down again.

"Oh! we shan't be a minute," she declared. "Miss Frazer will wait for us
in the wood, and we can run all the way from the farm."

Where Lindsay went Cicely always felt bound to follow; accordingly, she
clambered up the ladder behind her friend, and in due course both
arrived at the top. As Lindsay had supposed, they found a granary
half-filled with sacks of corn and a pile of loose barley. A door at
the farther end appeared to open on to a flight of steps leading
outside, while opposite was a small lattice window overlooking the
fields.

"There's really nothing to see," said Cicely. "It was hardly worth while
coming, after all."

"We might go out through that door, instead of climbing down the ladder
again," suggested Lindsay, beginning to walk round the sacks. "Why,
look! Somebody has left his lunch here."

On the top of the barley was a tin can, and also a red cotton
pocket-handkerchief, evidently containing slices of bread. From sheer
idle curiosity Lindsay seized them, and showed them laughingly to
Cicely.

"Will you have some afternoon tea?" she exclaimed in joke.

At that moment she was startled by a low growl behind her. From a corner
of the room sprang a collie dog that, unobserved by them, had been lying
among the sacks, and keeping a watch over its master's property.

Lindsay promptly replaced the tin and the handkerchief on the barley.

"Good dog! Poor fellow!" she said encouragingly, holding out her hand.

The dog, however, did not make the least response to her friendly
advances. It came a little nearer, growling again, and showing its
teeth in an ugly fashion.

"Come here, silly fellow! Does it think I want to steal something?" said
Lindsay.

"I expect it does," replied Cicely, in rather a shaky voice. "Don't try
to touch it! It'll certainly bite you."

Even Lindsay, fond of animals as she was, could not deny that the
gleaming eyes and snarling mouth looked the reverse of friendly.

"Perhaps we'd better be going," she said, turning towards the door.

Directly she moved, the dog growled louder, and would have flown at her
if she had not instantly stopped.

"What are we to do?" she exclaimed, looking at Cicely with a terrified
face.

They were indeed in a most awkward and dangerous position. The dog,
deeming itself guardian of the granary, and doubtless considering the
two girls intruders for dishonest purposes, would let neither of them
beat a retreat. It stood looking vigilantly from one to the other,
snarling so fiercely if they stirred even an inch that they did not dare
to put its intentions to the test. Oh! why had they come? If they had
only gone back down the ladder before they had roused the dog, or if
Lindsay had not been inquisitive enough to peep inside the handkerchief,
they might have been across the yard and following Miss Frazer to the
wood. How were they ever to escape? Would they be obliged to remain
there until the dog's master returned?

"Perhaps Miss Frazer'll come to hunt for us," quavered Cicely, in a very
small voice, and with a timid eye on the collie lest it should spring.
Evidently it did not object to conversation, so long as they kept still,
for though it looked at her it did not growl. That was one comfort, at
any rate. The situation was terrible enough, but to endure it in silence
would have been ten times worse.

"I don't believe anybody knows where we are," said Lindsay. "I wonder if
the dairymaid noticed us go into the barn. They wouldn't dream of our
climbing the ladder. They'd look all round the stackyard, and perhaps
think we'd taken a short cut and gone home."

Would nobody ever arrive to release them? The minutes seemed long as
hours, and they felt as if their trembling knees could scarcely support
them. Cicely, from the place where she was standing, could fortunately
look through the window and command a view of the field below. Though
she gazed with as keen anxiety as Sister Anne in the story of Bluebeard,
she did not see anybody hurrying to their rescue. The dog apparently
grew a little tired, for it threw itself down on the floor, but without
relaxing any of its former vigilance.

"I believe it's going to stop here all night," groaned Cicely, almost in
tears.

The case was waxing desperate. So weary were the poor girls that they
were ready to drop with fatigue. Unless something happened, and that
speedily, there was bound to be a catastrophe. At the moment, however,
when Cicely felt that she simply could not endure any longer,
deliverance came. Through the little squares of the wooden lattice she
saw a figure strolling leisurely across the field. It was Monica
Courtenay, and she was walking in the direction of the farm. Cicely
shouted at the very pitch of her voice:

"Monica! Monica! Help! Oh, do come!"

Monica stopped in much astonishment, and looked round as if to ask who
was calling her by name; then, deciding that the screams came from the
direction of the granary, she hurried as fast as she could up the steps,
and opened the door. Her amazement was only equalled by her distress at
the girls' plight.

She did her best to call off the dog, but as that proved impossible she
ran to fetch the first person she could find. In less than a minute she
had returned with Mr. Brand, whose stout boot and stick soon sent the
collie yelping disconsolately into a corner, to realize that it had
exceeded its duties.

"He's a good watchdog, is Pincher," said the farmer, "but he's been a
bit too clever to-day. You silly hound! You ought to know better than to
set on two young wenches. You may well slink off! You'd better keep out
of reach of my stick, I can tell you!"

Lindsay and Cicely were much upset and shaken by their terrifying
experience. They never forgot how kindly and considerately Monica
behaved. She did not tell them it was their own fault, and that it
served them right for prying into places where they had no business (as
Mildred Roper or any of the other monitresses would certainly have
done); she only sympathized in her gentle way, and offered to escort
them to the Manor by a short cut, so that they should not be so very
late after all.

"It was a lucky thing I happened to be taking a walk this way," she
said. "It might have been hours before any of the farm people went into
the granary. I wouldn't keep such a savage dog if it were mine."

As Lindsay supposed, Miss Frazer was not aware that she had left two of
her pupils behind at Monkend, and imagined that the missing pair must
have walked home in front of the others. Their absence had only just
been discovered when they arrived to explain the cause. The teacher was
hardly so tender with them as Monica, and they received more scolding
than sympathy.

"Though it wasn't such a very dreadful crime to go into the barn," said
Lindsay afterwards to her companion in misfortune. "Miss Frazer needn't
say we are the two who are always in mischief, because it might have
happened just as easily to any of the others. I saw Beryl and Effie peep
into the cowhouse as they passed, though they didn't climb up a ladder.
Wasn't Monica nice? I believe the old farmer would have been cross with
us if she hadn't been there. He evidently knows her very well. So do all
the people in the village. She seems to know each man, woman, and child
there, and to be a favourite with everybody."




CHAPTER V

An Unexpected Development


Lindsay and Cicely had by no means forgotten either their quest for the
treasure or their curiosity about the lantern chamber. In spite of
several small efforts, nothing fresh had occurred to elucidate matters,
and they were almost beginning to despair of ever making any further
progress, when quite unexpectedly something important happened.

One afternoon, as they were sending tennis balls to each other along the
terrace, they heard a voice calling to them from overhead. They looked
up, and saw Merle Hammond, a second-form girl, leaning out of one of the
upper windows of the house and beckoning to them violently.

"Lindsay and Cicely, is that you?" she cried. "Come up here; I've made
such a discovery!"

"Where are you?" asked Cicely, for the old Manor had so many windows, it
was impossible to identify any particular one from the outside.

"In a room up a funny winding staircase, on the top landing. It's
empty, but there's a big kind of lamp hanging from the ceiling. Oh,
you'll never guess what I've seen!"

"The lantern chamber!" gasped both the girls, and, dropping their
rackets, they raced into the house in a state of the wildest excitement.

Were they actually on the brink of solving the mystery? How had Merle
found it out? It was good of her to call to them. Had she accidentally
come across the hiding-place? or was it some other secret still?

The answer to all these questions lay in that attic room, and they fled
upstairs as if their feet were wings.

They were halfway along the passage, and a few seconds more would have
seen them safely on the top landing, when (oh, the bad luck of it!) they
almost knocked down Miss Frazer, who emerged at exactly the wrong moment
from her own bedroom door.

"Gently, girls, gently!" she remonstrated. "Where are you going in such
a hurry?"

It was impossible to explain. How could they tell the teacher the nature
of their errand? They both stood still, looking very "caught" and
dismayed, and said nothing.

"As you have come indoors so early, you had better tidy your drawers,"
continued Miss Frazer dryly. "I looked at them just now, and found them
in terrible disorder. You will have nice time to do it before tea."

Could anything have been more aggravating? The poor girls were nearly
crying with vexation. There was no appeal, however. Miss Frazer escorted
them into their bedroom, and stood over them, giving directions, until
each pair of stockings or pocket-handkerchief was disposed according to
her ideas of neatness. They might chafe and fret inwardly at the delay,
but outwardly they were obliged to behave with due decorum.

The governess was certainly justified in her disapproval, for Cicely's
best coat and hat were lying jumbled together at the bottom of the
wardrobe, and Lindsay's belongings looked as if they had been stirred up
with a stick.

"If I notice any of your places in such a condition again, I shall be
obliged to give you each a punishment," she said gravely. "Wash your
hands now, and comb your hair. There's the first bell."

Would Miss Frazer never leave them alone? If only she would take her
departure at once, they could perhaps manage to rush up to the lantern
room before the second bell rang. Merle must be waiting for them, and
wondering why they did not come. And the secret was waiting too! Lindsay
looked at Cicely, almost meditating a bolt. Possibly the mistress read
her intention in her face; at any rate, she waited until both were
ready, then marched them downstairs to the dining-room like a female
policeman, without giving them the slightest chance to escape.

"Of all jolly sells this is the biggest!" whispered Cicely.

"I wish Miss Frazer had been at the bottom of the sea!" groaned Lindsay.

Merle came in rather late and took her place at table, looking a little
red and self-conscious. Lindsay tried to meet her eyes, but she avoided
the gaze, and went on stolidly with her bread and butter as if nothing
had happened. When Cicely made a like effort she fared the same. What
had Merle seen? How they longed for tea to be over, that they might hear
of her discovery! They hoped she would not reveal it to any of the other
girls first, and they looked on in quite a fever of anxiety whenever she
spoke to Elsie Ryder or Marjorie Butler, who sat one on either side of
her.

"She doesn't know what we suspect about Mrs. Wilson," whispered Lindsay.
"She may be letting out something it would be far better, for Monica's
sake, not to tell."

The moment the meal was finished the two girls followed Merle into the
garden, but, greatly to their surprise, she took no notice of them, and
began to play tennis.

"I expect she's waiting for a safer time. Of course it wouldn't do for
her to be seen talking to us so particularly. We'll stay here while she
finishes her set," said Cicely.

The game lasted until preparation, and then Merle walked away with such
an evident intention of escaping from them that the two were most
indignant.

"What does she mean?" burst out Lindsay.

"Do you think she's offended because we didn't go up at once?" returned
Cicely. "She doesn't know yet that Miss Frazer stopped us. We must
explain it as soon as we can."

They tried to get hold of Merle after supper, but she kept persistently
to Elsie Ryder's company, and would not give them any opportunity of
speaking to her in private, so they were obliged to go to bed in a
horrible state of suspense. Next morning things were just as bad. There
was no mistaking the fact that Merle wished to avoid them, and it was
only with the greatest difficulty that they succeeded at last in
catching her alone.

"What do you want?" she enquired abruptly. "Please don't go chasing me
about like this all over the school."

"We want to know what you saw in the lantern room, of course," replied
Lindsay.

"Well, I'm sorry, but I can't tell you."

"Not tell us!"

Lindsay and Cicely could scarcely believe the evidence of their own
ears.

"No, it's quite impossible."

"But why?"

"Simply that I can't."

"Were you offended, Merle, because we didn't come when you called us?"
asked Cicely.

"We were hurrying up as fast as we could, only Miss Frazer stopped us
and made us tidy our drawers. It wasn't our fault," added Lindsay
apologetically.

"No, I'm not offended in the least. I'm very glad you didn't come."

"But you shouted to us to be quick."

"I know I did."

"Was it something or somebody you saw in that room?"

"Please don't ask me."

"But look here, Merle, this is too bad," protested Lindsay. "You're
playing a very nasty trick upon us."

"It can't be helped. I've said I am sorry," returned Merle doggedly.

"Well, you are a fraud," cried Cicely. "I like people who keep their
promises."

"So do I," said Merle, in rather a significant tone. "It's exactly what
I intend doing, too."

"You don't mean to say you've promised not to tell!" exclaimed Lindsay.

"I didn't say anything at all."

"Have you told Elsie Ryder or Marjorie Butler?"

"Certainly not. I haven't mentioned the matter to anybody, and I hope
you won't either."

"But why shouldn't you whisper it just to Lindsay and me? We wouldn't
let a soul know," pleaded Cicely reproachfully.

"I can't explain why. Do let us drop the subject."

Here was indeed a deadlock. They had been afraid lest Merle should
betray her secret indiscreetly, but they had certainly never
contemplated being kept out of it themselves. The more they pressed her,
the more obstinately she refused, and neither scolding nor coaxing would
induce her to disclose even the least hint. They gave it up at last,
feeling very baffled and rather out of temper.

"We do know something about your old room, all the same," said Lindsay
crossly, as a parting shot.

"Oh, Lindsay, you don't really!"

There was an anxious note in Merle's voice.

"More than you think."

"Then, whatever it is, you had better keep it to yourselves, and not let
it go any farther."

Merle's extraordinary behaviour seemed to make the mystery even deeper
than before. She had evidently been exploring the Manor on her own
account and had made some discovery, which she undoubtedly had intended
to share with them when she called from the window. Then something must
have occurred afterwards which caused her to change her mind.

To whom had she given a promise of secrecy? Surely not to Mrs. Wilson?
That would be aiding and abetting one whom they strongly believed to be
Monica's enemy. If only Miss Frazer had not such a tiresome love of
tidiness, they might have reached the lantern room in time, and be now
in possession of the information they wanted. It was too tantalizing to
feel that they had been so near a solution of the problem, and had
missed it by a few moments.

Events never happen singly. For a whole fortnight they had been able
to find out nothing, yet on the very day following this disappointment
something occurred which seemed to add another link to their chain of
strange circumstances. They had managed to escape Miss Frazer's
vigilance, and were indulging in a surreptitious game of "tig" along the
forbidden ground of the picture gallery, when one of the bedroom doors
opened, and Mrs. Wilson appeared in the distance, carrying a pile of
clean towels in her arms.

"There's 'The Griffin'!" exclaimed Lindsay. "She mustn't catch us here,
on any account. She'll tell Miss Russell, and we shall each lose a
conduct mark. Quick! Let us hide somewhere till she's gone by."

The ancient arras seemed to offer a safe retreat. As fast as possible
they whisked behind it, and stood flattening themselves against the
wall, hoping Mrs. Wilson would notice nothing lumpy or unusual as she
passed.

At the same time came a sound of heavy tramping footsteps from the other
end of the gallery, and Cicely, peeping through a hole in the tapestry
which happened to be on a convenient level with her eyes, saw Scott, the
gardener, coming down the flight of stairs which led from the upper
landing. He met Mrs. Wilson exactly opposite the hiding-place where the
girls were concealed, and the two stopped to speak, quite unaware that
listening ears were eagerly following their conversation.

"Have you been in the lantern room?" began the old housekeeper uneasily.
"I'd no idea you were going up this afternoon."

"Thought I'd best take a look," returned Scott.

"There wasn't any need. I was there myself this morning, and things were
all right."

"I don't know what you may call all right," grunted Scott. "There was
far too much noise going on to satisfy me."

"You don't think there's any danger----?" burst out Mrs. Wilson, in an
anxious voice.

"No, no!" interrupted Scott quickly. "Not for the present, at any rate.
Don't upset yourself. Still, it needs care, especially with all this
crew in the house."

"Yes, it's that that's worrying me. I shan't breathe freely till they're
gone. And such an inquisitive, meddlesome set they are, too! You'd
scarcely believe the trouble they give me. Two of them took it into
their heads one day to go wandering on the upper landing. I actually
found them inside the lantern room!"

Scott gave an exclamation of something like alarm.

"That'll never do!" he said. "You mustn't let them go poking about
there; it would be most unsafe. Can't you lock the door?"

"No, the key's lost."

"I must try if I can find a padlock for it."

"I wish you would. It would take a load off my mind. By the by, I wanted
to warn you----"

But here one of the housemaids came along the landing, Mrs. Wilson's
voice sank to a whisper, and the only words audible were "Miss Monica",
"evening", and "wouldn't trust".

"I'll be extra careful," said Scott, as he clumped away.

Lindsay and Cicely waited several moments after the gallery was empty
before they ventured to emerge from behind the tapestry. They had the
great satisfaction of having learnt something. They now knew definitely
that there was a secret in connection with the lantern room which both
Mrs. Wilson and Scott were anxious to keep from them.

"What can it be?" speculated Cicely. "Did you notice what he said about
the noise? It must have been that dreadful groaning we heard."

"I've been thinking about that," replied Lindsay. "There may be a hidden
room, and someone shut up in it."

"As a prisoner, do you mean?"

Lindsay nodded.

"But who could it be?"

"I can't imagine, unless--could it possibly be old Sir Giles Courtenay?
Perhaps he didn't really die, after all. Don't you remember, in
_Ivanhoe_, how Athelstane of Coningsburgh was supposed to be killed, and
he was really only stunned; and the monks of St. Edmunds put an empty
coffin in the chapel, and kept him in a dungeon and pretended he was
dead, because they wanted his property? Mrs. Wilson may be doing the
same."

"How dreadful!" Cicely looked quite appalled at the idea. "I suppose she
goes up, then, to feed him. Scott must know too. I shouldn't have
thought it of Scott. I rather liked him. I expect they'll share the
money between them. I wonder what 'The Griffin' was warning him about. I
hope they're not hatching a plot against Monica!"

"It looks bad," said Lindsay, "decidedly bad. It's evidently something
shady, or they wouldn't want to keep it so quiet. It may be a very good
thing for Monica that we've taken the matter up."

"What shall we do?"

"We must stalk 'The Griffin' again, and try to follow her to that room,
and see what she does there."

"She's as wary as a weasel."

"Then we must be clever and outwit her. I'm positive she has some scheme
on hand that ought to be watched. One doesn't know how much may depend
upon it."

It was certainly very exciting to feel that dark deeds might be taking
place in the attic, and that they were the fortunate instruments
selected by fate for the purpose of bringing the wrongdoers to justice.
It gave them a delightful sense of superiority over the other girls,
whose heads were full of nothing but tennis and croquet, and who never
troubled themselves with a thought about the missing treasure.

"Merle is the only one who knows anything," said Lindsay, "and I verily
believe 'The Griffin' must have bribed her."

Mrs. Wilson evidently used the utmost precaution in her visits to the
top landing. In spite of the pains they took to watch her movements, it
was some days before they found the propitious moment. "All things come
to those who wait," says the old proverb, however, and it proved true in
this case.

One afternoon, through the chink of the bathroom door, they saw her walk
into the gallery as if she were going to the upper story. As stealthily
as Indians they crept after her. They tiptoed along the passages, and
just caught a glimpse of the tail of her skirts as she passed up the
winding staircase and entered the lantern room. Very quietly they
followed on to the little landing, and listened for a moment outside the
closed door.

"What is she doing?" whispered Cicely.

"That's what I want to find out."

They both tried to peep through the keyhole, and bumped their heads
together in the attempt.

"I can hear her moving!"

There was a slight noise inside, almost like the clicking of a latch,
then all was perfectly silent.

Lindsay could bear it no longer.

"Here goes!" she cried boldly, and flung open the door. To her utter
amazement, the room was absolutely empty. Mrs. Wilson had vanished as
completely as if she had been a ghost.




CHAPTER VI

Monica


The two girls rushed into the empty room and examined every corner
minutely. There was not a trace of any secret exit to be found. The
opening through which Mrs. Wilson must have disappeared was evidently
marvellously well concealed.

"Where can she be? It's like magic!" whispered Cicely.

"Wherever she's gone, I suppose she'll have to come back," replied
Lindsay.

"Listen!" said Cicely, with a start.

It was the same strange sound again which they had heard on their former
expedition--a low, long-drawn-out moaning, as of someone in pain, feeble
at first, then growing louder, and suddenly ceasing.

"Oh! I wonder if she's hurting anybody?" cried Cicely, shuddering with
horror.

"I'd give a great deal to find out what's going on. I'm afraid it's
something that won't bear the light of day," said Lindsay uneasily.

"Dare we wait till she comes out of her hiding-place?"

"Yes, but we mustn't stay here. It would spoil everything if she caught
us. Let us go outside and close the door again, and watch through the
keyhole; then, if we see her coming, we can rush."

Mrs. Wilson's errand was evidently a long one. Though they relieved each
other more than once in mounting guard over the keyhole, she did not
return.

"Perhaps she knows we're here, and won't come out till we've gone,"
suggested Lindsay at last.

"How could she know?"

"She may have been looking at us all the time through some little spy
place."

"Oh, how horrid! It makes me feel quite creepy to think of it."

The fact that they were doing exactly the same did not strike either of
the girls. Circumstances alter cases, and they considered they were
justified in their plan of action. They grew extremely tired of waiting,
but they were determined not to give in.

"There's that noise again!" said Cicely. "She must have a prisoner shut
up there; I'm perfectly certain about it."

Both put their ears to the door, and were so absorbed in listening to
the queer sounds inside the room that they did not hear footsteps
sounding up the winding staircase. An exclamation behind them caused
them to turn hastily round.

There was Monica!--the last person in the world whom they had expected
to see, and who was looking as astonished as themselves at the meeting.
Lindsay and Cicely felt decidedly embarrassed. Monica must have seen
them peeping through the keyhole, and they knew they had been discovered
in a somewhat doubtful and discreditable occupation. They could not
possibly begin to explain that it was entirely on her account and for
her benefit, so they simply turned very red and said nothing. It was a
most uncomfortable situation.

There was a painful pause, and then Monica recovered her presence of
mind.

"Why, Lindsay and Cicely, I thought you were with the others in the
garden!" she said.

"We were only exploring the house a little," replied Lindsay, trying to
pass the matter off carelessly. "Miss Russell said there were
interesting things all over it."

"I'm afraid you won't find much to interest you among empty bedrooms,"
said Monica, in her calm, quiet voice. "If you like to come downstairs
with me I'll show you some of the curiosities in my cabinet. I've a
great many old coins and a few daggers that were dug up when the moat
was drained."

Looking rather shamefaced, the pair went with Monica to the library,
where she unlocked an oak cupboard, and spent quite twenty minutes in
explaining her various treasures. She was most kind, and spared no
trouble, but the others could not get over their confusion. They had the
guilty sensation that they had been caught like naughty children, and
were being amused to keep them out of the way.

"Why was Monica going into the lantern room?" demanded Lindsay, the
moment they were alone.

"Does she know the secret?" ventured Cicely.

"Either she knows, or she's trying to find out. Perhaps she's stalking
Mrs. Wilson too!"

This was a new idea, and required consideration.

"Then that would perhaps be what 'The Griffin' was warning Scott about,"
said Cicely reflectively. "Ought we to tell Monica?"

"Not yet--not till we've something more definite to go upon. We've only
suspicions at present, and one can hardly speak about those. She might
be offended, and think us meddlesome, especially as she doesn't like to
talk of her affairs."

"I'm afraid she'll think us sneaky and underhand, in any case. I'm so
sorry she saw us spying like that."

"Well, we couldn't help it, and we can't explain."

"Mightn't we just say why----?"

"It's no use," interrupted Lindsay decidedly. "We'd better not breathe a
word."

And Cicely, as usual, gave way.

It was gratifying to feel that they were Monica's champions, though she
might not yet be aware of what she owed them. They must be content to be
misunderstood for a little while; afterwards she would appreciate what
they had been doing for her, and would thank them accordingly. They
often looked at her in school with the satisfactory sensation that they
knew something of which everyone else, even Miss Russell, was ignorant.

I fear the lessons suffered sometimes while they indulged in day-dreams,
for it was hard to recall such mundane matters as the capital of Mexico,
or the date of Magna Charta, when their thoughts were far away in the
lantern room, busy with concealed prisoners or supposed plots.

"You're the two most inattentive girls in the class!" cried Miss Frazer
indignantly one day, after a specially bad lapse of memory. "You both
did far better at Winterburn Lodge. I cannot understand why your work
should have fallen off so much lately. This is the third time this week
you have had bad marks. If it occurs again, I shall be obliged to report
you to Miss Russell."

Apart from their interest in her as the owner of the hidden treasure,
Lindsay and Cicely regarded Monica with the worship which schoolgirls
are sometimes fond of bestowing upon a companion who happens specially
to attract them. They admired the shape of her nose and her long
chestnut hair, and considered her dignified manner absolute perfection.
They used to follow her about at a respectful distance, longing to
improve the acquaintance; but they received so many snubs from the elder
girls, who also wished to monopolize her, that matters did not advance
much further than an occasional "Good morning" or "Good afternoon".

"The big ones are so jealous, they like to keep her all to themselves,"
grumbled Cicely. "Eleanor Wright was quite rude when I offered to lend
Monica a pencil yesterday. She said I was 'officious'."

"They're horribly mean," agreed Lindsay.

Monica had certainly become a great favourite at the Manor with both
teachers and pupils, and, had she been of a less steady disposition,
might have run considerable danger of being spoilt. She took her sudden
popularity, however, very serenely, and scarcely seemed to notice that
her schoolfellows were quarrelling over who should sit next her in
class, or take part with her in a game of tennis.

"She always seems so calm and superior, like a nightingale among
sparrows," remarked Irene Spencer sentimentally.

"Or a swan among a flock of geese," laughed Mildred Roper. "You've all
grown really quite silly over Monica. I admire her very much myself,
but I don't go and kiss her jacket when it's hanging in the vestibule,
or beg her old torn exercises for keepsakes."

"Oh, well, you're a monitress!"

"I've got a little common sense left, I'm thankful to say."

The pretty rose-covered cottage where Monica and her mother had
established themselves for the summer was only a few minutes' walk away
from the Manor. One afternoon Miss Russell, happening to meet Lindsay
and Cicely in the hall, gave them a note, and told them to take it at
once to Mrs. Courtenay, and bring back an answer.

The two girls ran off in high glee, delighted to have this opportunity
of seeing their idol in private. They found Monica preparing her French
lesson in the small strip of front garden, but she put her books aside
as they opened the gate.

"Come to Mother," she said, when they had explained their errand,
leading the way through a French window into a low, old-fashioned
sitting-room.

Mrs. Courtenay was a sweet, delicate-looking lady, with a gentle,
refined face, and hair slightly streaked with grey. She did not rise
from her sofa when they entered, but held out her hand instead, and
asked them to come and speak to her.

"I am somewhat of an invalid, you see," she said. "The doctor is very
strict, and has told me to lie still. It's rather hard, but I am trying
to obey. So you are two of Monica's little friends? Well, now you are
here, you had better stay for tea. The letter? Oh, I'll send Jenny, our
maid, with the answer, and she shall tell Miss Russell that I'm keeping
you. We'll take care that you go back in plenty of time for
preparation."

This was indeed a most unexpected treat. Both Lindsay and Cicely beamed
with smiles. They were the only girls in the school who had been thus
favoured, and they felt that their present enjoyment would be equalled
by the envy which they would excite among the others on their return.

"I am glad to hear you are all so happy at the Manor," continued Mrs.
Courtenay. "Isn't it a dear, interesting old place? I expect Monica will
have told you most of the legends. No! Why, Monica, what have you been
thinking of? Do you mean to say they haven't heard yet about your
ancestress and Sir Humphrey Warden in the rose avenue?"

"There really hasn't been any time for telling stories, Mother,"
declared Monica, "we've been so busy playing tennis when we were not at
lessons. I'm never very good at remembering them, either--not like you
are."

"I suppose I must consider myself the family chronicler," said Mrs.
Courtenay. "We certainly ought to let Lindsay and Cicely hear the tale
of the picture. Ah, here comes tea! Monica, you must look after our
guests."

Monica evidently loved to be her mother's nurse. She placed a small
table by the side of the sofa, and busied herself in arranging cushions
and seeing that everything was placed for the invalid's greatest
comfort. She did not neglect the visitors either, and brought out a jar
of honey for their special benefit.

"I know you'll like it, because you were so interested in the bees," she
said. "Do you remember the day when you went too close to the hives, and
nearly got stung?"

"Yes; we had to run the whole length of the walk where the roses grow. I
shan't forget it in a hurry," answered Cicely.

"That is the rose avenue where my namesake outwitted Sir Humphrey
Warden. I wish you would tell them the story, Mother."

"Oh, do, please," pleaded Lindsay and Cicely; "we'd like so immensely to
hear it!"

"I believe I shall just have time while we finish tea," said Mrs.
Courtenay. "I suppose you need not be back in school until half-past
five? Have you been in the long gallery at the Manor, and looked at the
pictures?"

"Yes, often," said Cicely.

"Then you will remember one, at the far end, of a girl in a white
dress, holding a bunch of roses in her hand?"

"Yes; it's the prettiest of them all. We always say it's the exact image
of Monica."

"It is the portrait of a Monica Courtenay who lived here in the time of
the Civil War. Her father was killed fighting for the king at Marston
Moor, and her only brother, Sir Piers, was also one of the hottest
supporters of the crown. When Cromwell came into power, Sir Piers had to
flee for his life. He was chased from one hiding-place to another.
Sometimes, like Prince Charles, he had to clamber up a tree until the
soldiers had passed by, and once he spent a night in a fox's hole.

"At length, one summer evening, hunted almost to desperation, he
returned to his old home. He met his sister in the garden, and though
she exclaimed with joy at seeing him, she immediately made a sign for
silence, and motioned him to conceal himself under a large box tree
which stood near.

"It was not safe, so she whispered, to go to the Manor. There were spies
about, and Sir Humphrey Warden, the most zealous Roundhead in the
district, had set a watch upon the house. At any moment they expected he
might arrive with a troop of soldiers. Piers must stay where he was, and
she would run and bring him the key of the boathouse; then, under cover
of the darkness, he might creep away to the river, get out the boat, and
drop with the current until he reached the sea, where possibly he might
find a ship to take him over to France.

"She hurried indoors at once to fetch the small key that unlocked the
boathouse, but as she was returning down the avenue she found she was
just too late. There was a tramp of horses' hoofs, and Sir Humphrey
Warden came riding up at the head of a band of men.

"'Good even, fair neighbour,' he said. 'I must needs make an inspection
of your house, and with your permission I will give myself the honour of
supping with you to-night. What brings you hither?'

"'I do but take the air, and pluck a few of these fragrant blossoms,'
replied Monica hastily. 'I will presently conduct you to the Manor
myself, and entertain you.'

"She was in a desperate strait. How could she manage to save her
brother? Now that Sir Humphrey had come, she knew her every movement
would be watched. No one could be trusted, for the servants (so she
feared) had all been bribed. Gathering a bunch of roses, she contrived
unnoticed to slip her little key inside the heart of one of them.

"'I would fain crave the favour of a flower, madam,' said Sir Humphrey,
who was an admirer of fair dames, in spite of his Puritan dress.

"'Take your choice, sir,' replied Monica, boldly holding out her bunch.
'Nay, not this red one; it is overblown, and will fall directly. 'Tis
but fit to be flung away. This pink hath the sweeter scent, an you will
wear it for me.'

"As she spoke she tossed the rose containing the key with apparent
carelessness over the hedge to the foot of the box tree where her
brother was lying concealed; then, leading her unwelcome guest to the
house, she gave orders for his due entertainment.

"Sir Humphrey and his men searched the Manor in vain, but they never
thought of looking in the garden, where the fugitive was waiting till
the darkness should be black enough to hide him. Sir Piers got safely
away to France, and returned in triumph to his estates when Charles II
came to his own again. As a remembrance of his wonderful escape, he
caused his sister's portrait to be painted, with the bunch of roses in
her hand. Ever since the Courtenays have had an almost superstitious
reverence for the picture. There is an old saying that it guards the
safety and fortunes of the family."

"And what became of Monica?" asked Lindsay, who had been deeply
interested in the story.

"She married a cavalier friend of her brother's, and went to live in
Devonshire. I believe she kept one of the roses treasured away in a box,
and it was buried with her when she died."

"I suppose Monica was christened after her?" said Cicely.

"Yes; that has always been a favourite name with the Courtenays, though
I do not think any of them can have more closely resembled the
portrait."

"How can the picture guard your fortunes?" enquired Lindsay.

"I don't know. It is one of those quaint ideas that sometimes linger in
families. Of course it is only a tale, and I am afraid I have been a
long while in telling it. Monica, dear, it is twenty minutes past five.
Lindsay and Cicely must hurry back to school at once, if they are to be
in time for preparation. We shall get into sad disgrace with Miss
Russell if we allow them to be late."

"I think your mother is perfectly sweet," said Lindsay, as Monica walked
with them along the road to the Manor gates.

[Illustration: "I KNOW WHAT MONICA WAS GOING TO SAY"]

"She's just everything in the whole world to me," replied Monica. "I
wish she were stronger, though. She has been ill for such a long time.
The doctor says it would do her good to spend next winter in the south
of Italy, but that, I'm afraid, will be quite impossible. She ought
to go, it might make all the difference," she continued, almost as if
talking to herself; "yet we can't manage it, however much we try,
unless, indeed----"

But here she seemed to recollect the presence of her companions, and
wishing them a hasty good-bye, she turned back to the cottage.

"I know what Monica was going to say," remarked Cicely, as they walked
up the drive.

"She meant her mother would be able to go away if the treasure were
found," replied Lindsay. "Oh! it does seem hard, when they need it so
badly, that it should be shut up somewhere, and doing no good to anybody
at all."

"I think Monica is frightened lest Mrs. Courtenay should grow worse and
die, if they have to stay in England for the winter. I don't believe she
would enjoy a penny of her fortune if it were to come too late for her
to share it with her mother."




CHAPTER VII

Lindsay's Luck


One day, shortly before Whitsuntide, Irene Spencer walked into the
third-class schoolroom with a letter in her hand, and a look on her face
which proclaimed news of some importance.

"I don't believe any of you will ever guess what I've come to tell you,"
she announced. "I've heard this morning from my aunt at Linforth
Vicarage. She writes asking me to spend a few days there at Whitsuntide
(we are to have a short holiday, you know), and she says: 'We have asked
Monica Courtenay, and we should be very pleased if Miss Russell would
also allow you to bring one of your younger schoolfellows who would
prove a nice companion for Rhoda.' My cousin Rhoda is twelve, so I have
to pick out one from among you six. Whichever it is will have an
uncommonly jolly visit, because we always have glorious times at
Linforth."

"How delightful! Oh, do take me!" exclaimed the six in chorus, each
enchanted with such a tempting prospect, and anxious to be the chosen
favourite.

"I wish I could take you all," replied Irene, "but unfortunately the
invitation is only for one. Miss Russell says this will be the best way
to arrange it. The girl who is nearest to Rhoda's age must go. Will you
each tell me the date of your birthday, and then I shall be able to
decide. Rhoda's is on the twentieth of March."

It certainly seemed the fairest way of settling the question, and one
against which there could be no appeal.

"Miss Russell is a modern Solomon," declared Cicely. "I'm afraid I
haven't the slightest chance, because I'm only eleven and a half, and so
is Nora."

"I'm almost thirteen," wailed Beryl. "I wish I were a few months
younger. Effie, I shall be horribly jealous if the chance falls to you."

"No such luck! I am a Christmas child," returned Effie. "I believe
Marjorie is nearer."

"The twenty-seventh of February. Can anybody do better than that?" asked
Marjorie hopefully.

"Mine is the sixth of April," said Lindsay.

"About as much after Rhoda's as Marjorie's is before," said Irene. "We
must count it up exactly. Somebody give me a pencil and a piece of
paper. Let me see, the twenty-seventh of February to the twentieth of
March is twenty-one days, and the twentieth of March to the sixth of
April is only seventeen. Then Lindsay is nearer by four days."

"Hurrah!" cried Lindsay, clapping her hands, "I'm glad I wasn't born a
week later. How dreadfully sorry I am for you all, especially Marjorie!"

"My aunt says she will send the trap for us on Friday afternoon,"
continued Irene. "And we are to stay until Tuesday morning, so that will
give us three whole days at Linforth. I'm sure you'll like Rhoda, and my
other cousins too. There are eight of them altogether. Meta, the eldest,
is seventeen; she's going to study music in Germany next September.
Ralph and Leonard are fifteen and fourteen; they go to the Appleford
Grammar School, and ride there every day on their bicycles. Then comes
Rhoda, and there are four little ones. They do lessons with a governess,
but perhaps some time Rhoda is to be sent to Winterburn Lodge. Aunt
Esther says she shan't treat us as visitors; we must make ourselves at
home amongst the others."

The visit seemed an event worth looking forward to, not only on its own
account, but because Monica was to be one of the party. Lindsay could
hardly believe her good fortune, and rejoiced again and again over the
happy date of her birthday. She was in a state of great excitement on
the Friday afternoon, when the phaeton arrived with Monica already
installed on the front seat. To drive away in such company was indeed a
matter for congratulation, and she felt much sympathy for the
disconsolate five who were perforce left behind, especially for poor
Cicely, who would miss her more than anybody, and whose eyes were full
of tears at the parting.

"Never mind," she whispered to the latter, "perhaps it will be your turn
next time for something nice. At any rate, I shall have heaps to tell
you when I come back."

Linforth Vicarage was a long, rambling stone house, the flagged roof and
mullioned windows of which proclaimed it as belonging, equally with the
Manor, to a period of the past. It was a delightful, roomy, almost
medieval kind of a place, so picturesque, in its old-world fashion, that
one could forgive the lowness of the rooms, the narrowness of the
passages, the steepness of the stairs, and the inconvenience of the fact
that the front door opened directly into the dining-room, and the
bedrooms nearly all led into one another. None of these drawbacks seemed
to distress the young Greenwoods, who thought their home the nicest spot
in the world. They were a particularly jolly, merry, happy-go-lucky
family, full of jokes and noise. Rhoda, for whose benefit Lindsay had
been invited, received her visitor with enthusiasm.

"I'm so glad Miss Russell let you come!" she said. "You see, Meta will
monopolize Irene and Monica, and I should have been left out altogether.
I'm delighted to have someone of my own age."

Monica was a great favourite in the household, and held in request by
all, from Mr. and Mrs. Greenwood to Cyril, the baby. As Rhoda had
prophesied, however, she disappeared after tea with Meta and Irene, the
three elder girls evidently wishing to have a chat in private. Rhoda
made an effort to secure Lindsay to herself, but the four little
ones--Wilfred, Alwyn, Joan, and Cyril--begged so piteously not to be
banished from the society of the interesting visitor that in the end she
yielded, and allowed them to help to exhibit the various treasures in
the garden which she wished to show to her new friend.

The Greenwoods had quite a menagerie in the way of pets. They kept them
in a disused stable, in neat cages with wire fronts, most of which had
been made by Ralph and Leonard. There were silky-haired, lop-eared
rabbits, that could be hugged in small arms without offering any
remonstrances; bright-eyed little guinea-pigs, which often caused
exciting chases by escaping from their owners' embraces and hiding away
behind the cages; a family of piebald mice, consisting of a mother and
five young ones, which generally went to bed in the daytime, and had to
be poked out of their sleeping quarters with a lead pencil to make them
show themselves; a morose-looking tortoise that would allow Wilfred to
scratch its head, but spat indignantly at the others; and a whole box
full of silkworms in various stages, from tiny, wriggling black threads
to chrysalids in cocoons. The children were accompanied to the stable by
a sharp little black Pomeranian; but they were obliged to leave him
outside in case he might hurt the rabbits, and he sat howling dolefully
on the doorstep until they came out again. He escorted them into the
garden afterwards, however, and so did a large nondescript kind of yard
dog, which was called Bootles, and which allowed itself to be harnessed
to a mail-cart, and drew Cyril up and down the path.

"I want to show you our fruit trees," said Rhoda, leading the way to the
orchard. "We each have one of our very own, planted as soon as we were
born. Meta, Ralph, and Leonard have apples, Wilfred and Alwyn pears,
mine is a Victoria plum, Joan has a greengage, and Cyril a black cherry.
You see, they stand in a row, away from the other trees, so we call this
our part of the orchard."

"Whose is the ninth?" enquired Lindsay, looking at a fine pear tree
which headed the line.

"That belonged to our eldest brother," said Rhoda. "He died before I
can remember, but we still call it 'Herbert's tree'. The pears are
always ripe every year on his birthday, so we pick them all and pack
them carefully in a box, and send them to a children's hospital in
London. Mother sends the money she would have spent on his birthday
present too. They're the most beautiful pears, the best we have, and we
thought that was the nicest thing we could do with them."

The Greenwoods' little gardens were as interesting as their fruit trees.
Each child appeared to have been trying a different experiment. Wilfred
had made a pond in his by sinking an old wooden tub in the ground, and
was trying to persuade a water-lily to grow in it. He had planted a
clump of iris and some forget-me-nots at the edge, which hung over
rather gracefully, and really looked quite pretty. He kept several frogs
to swim about in the water, though the constant catching of these rather
interfered with the wellbeing of the struggling lily. Alwyn had built a
miniature house in her plot out of old bricks and stones, and had
thatched it neatly with straw. She had made a gravel path up to the
front door, and had sown grass to represent lawns, and cut a round
flower bed in the middle of each. Joan's garden was subject to violent
changes. Last year it had been a potato patch, but as she dug up those
useful vegetables every day to see how they were sprouting, it was not
surprising that they refused to make much growth. Lately she had
converted the whole into a dolls' cemetery, and, with Cyril's aid,
keenly enjoyed conducting the funerals of various headless favourites,
waxing so enthusiastic over the obsequies that she even buried several
quite respectable wax babies, though, regretting their loss afterwards,
she was eventually forced to dig them up again. She put tombstones at
the heads of the graves, made of slates from the roof of a tumble-down
shed, and carefully wrote names, dates, and epitaphs upon them in slate
pencil, being greatly distressed when the inscriptions were invariably
obliterated by every fresh shower of rain.

Cyril had sown the letters of his name in mustard and cress, which were
just coming up fresh and green, and would soon be ready to cut. He also
had some bulbs under pieces of glass in a corner which he called his
hothouse. Ralph and Leonard were so busy at school that their gardens
appeared to be mostly cared for by Rhoda, who had a very ambitious
scheme for her own.

"I want to make a floral clock," she explained. "You see, I've dug a
round face and marked it out into twelve parts, and I'm going to put
each figure in different-coloured flowers. Then I thought if I could fix
a pole in the middle it ought to cast a shadow, and tell the time like a
sundial. I've made it north, south, east, and west by my compass, and
it will be most delightful if I can only get it to work."

Rhoda had almost as much to show Lindsay in the house as out-of-doors.
There was her bedroom, a tiny sanctum where she kept all her special
treasures out of the way of the children's meddlesome fingers. It was a
very old-fashioned little room, with a low, black-beamed ceiling, and a
window that opened on to a small balcony, where she could grow
nasturtiums and other trailing plants in pots. The walls were covered
with pictures in home-made frames, wonderful arrangements of corks,
acorns, shells, or plaited straw; and there were quite a nice
writing-table and some wonderful bookcases.

"The boys made these out of old boxes," said Rhoda. "They learn how in
their carpentry class at school, and they did them to surprise me on my
birthday. I keep all my books here. Father is giving me the poets now as
Christmas presents. I have Longfellow and Shakespeare and Wordsworth,
and I expect it will be either Cowper or Goldsmith next time. This is my
paint-box. I daren't leave it in the schoolroom for fear of the little
ones getting hold of it. Isn't it a beauty? Miss Johnson, our governess,
gave it to me as a prize for passing the Trinity College exam. in piano
and theory."

"Do you like music?" asked Lindsay.

"Yes, I think I'm rather fond of it. Miss Johnson wanted me to go in for
this exam.; she said it would be something to practise for. We had to go
to Bridgend to take it. It was rather fun, for we were the whole day in
getting there and back, and luckily I wasn't a scrap nervous. Do you
play?"

"A little," replied Lindsay. "I'm learning the violin, but I can't have
any lessons at the Manor."

"I wish you could come over and help us at one of our temperance
concerts."

"Oh, I should be much too frightened!" exclaimed Lindsay, in horror.

"You needn't mind in a little village like this," declared Rhoda. "The
people would think whatever you did was splendid. They clap at
everything, even when Ralph gives nigger songs; and he's got no voice,
and the banjo's generally out of tune, so that he's singing away in one
key and playing in another."

"I don't know whether I could promise to keep in tune," laughed Lindsay.
"Do you play at these concerts?"

"Yes, nearly always. It was a little awkward last time, because
something had gone wrong with the keys of the piano. They stuck down,
and I had to get Wilfred to sit underneath and keep poking them up as
fast as I played on them, or else half the notes wouldn't sound; and it
seemed so queer to only get part of a chord, and to miss the middle of
a run. It quite put me out. I suppose it was the damp that caused it. We
must get a tuner to come and see to it."

"Did the people applaud?"

"Yes, tremendously. I think it amused them to see Wilfred sitting
underneath. They simply roared every time he pushed up the keys. It was
as good as a comic song. It really is tiresome, though, to have a piano
like that at the school. John Crosby, the stonemason's little boy, sings
very nicely, and I went so wrong in playing his accompaniment, through
losing so many of the notes, that he finished half a verse ahead of me.
I apologized to him afterwards, but he said he didn't think anyone had
noticed it!"

Lindsay found it quite a novel and entertaining experience to stay in
the midst of such a large, enterprising, lively family as the
Greenwoods. From Meta, the eldest, to Cyril, the baby, hardly out of
petticoats, all had very decided opinions of their own, which they urged
and argued with considerable force of character, but an amount of good
temper which spoke well for their training. Mrs. Greenwood, who thought
quarrelling greatly a matter of habit, insisted upon a certain standard
of home politeness being maintained, and would tolerate neither
domineering in the elder ones nor whining amongst the younger.

"You can discuss a subject perfectly well without being rude to each
other when you differ," she declared. "You must take it in turns to have
your own way. It is not fair that the eldest should always arrange
everything, but on the other hand Joan and Alwyn will get nothing at all
if they begin to wail and complain in that most grumbling and unpleasant
tone of voice. I think it is a disgrace if you're all so selfish that
you can't agree. You must each be prepared to give up a certain amount,
for among eight children it is quite impossible for every one to be
first and foremost."

Irene, being the Greenwoods' cousin, was accustomed to their tempestuous
ways, and ready to hold her own amongst them; while Monica looked on
with an amused smile, without taking part in any arguments or disputes.
There was certainly plenty to do at the Vicarage, and none of the three
guests could complain that the holiday was dull.

On Saturday afternoon Meta, Rhoda, and the two eldest boys arranged that
they should make an expedition to a large lake about a couple of miles
away. They had been promised the loan of a boat there, and they proposed
to take their visitors for a trip on the water. They started off with
baskets of provisions, intending to land and have a picnic tea, if they
could find sufficient dry sticks upon the banks to light a fire and boil
their kettle. Both Meta and her brothers could row well, so the boat
was soon skimming over the lake in a delightfully smooth and
satisfactory fashion.

"We daren't anchor anywhere near the woods," declared Meta, "Sir Percy
Harwood, the owner, is so very strict about trespassing."

"Yes, the keepers are down on you if you even go a few yards into the
preserves," agreed Ralph. "Look here! What do you say to camping out on
that little island? There can't be any pheasants there to scare, and we
ought to get plenty of sticks."

The island in question was a small, green-looking collection of hazel
bushes and birch trees, well out in the middle of the lake. It had an
attractive appearance, so they rowed through the quiet stretch of water
that separated them from it, and ran the boat in among the reeds that
grew at the edge.

"It seems rather jolly," said Rhoda. "Suppose we leave the baskets here,
and go and explore first to find a good place?"

"It's quite romantic," declared Irene, "like Ellen's Isle in the _Lady
of the Lake_. We ought to find a hunting-lodge among the trees, and an
interesting outlaw living there."

"More likely to find a poacher!" laughed Ralph; "though there'd be
nothing for him to trap here, unless he kept a boat stowed away in the
reeds, and took midnight excursions into the woods."

"I think it's the kind of place for a hermit," said Monica. "He could
have had a little cell and told his beads without being disturbed by
anybody, except an occasional knight-errant who would blow a horn from
the opposite bank. I wonder if one ever lived here?"

"The landlords couldn't have been so particular about trespassing in
those days, then, if he did," replied Leonard. "I don't believe Sir
Percy Harwood would let anybody settle so near his pheasants; he'd
suspect steel traps or wire snares under the cassock, and expect to hear
a shot in the woods instead of a vesper bell."

"We'll tie the boat to this old stump," said Ralph. "Be careful where
you step in getting off--the ground seems fearfully soppy. Perhaps it
may be better higher up. Let us come on a little. I say, there's
something rather queer about it, isn't there?"

There certainly was something decidedly queer. The green mossy earth
under their feet gave way as if they were treading upon a feather bed.
At each step it sank with a curious squelching sound, and rose behind
with the elasticity of a cork, so that as they sprang here and there the
whole of the little island appeared to be bounding up and down beneath
them, as Leonard expressed it, "just like a spring mattress when you
jump on it".

"The ground is so funny, too," said Meta, poking about with a stick; "it
doesn't seem proper soil, only roots and moss and grass growing through
it. Why, this stick goes down ever such a long way, and there's actually
water coming up!"

The others all came to investigate, and standing close together began to
dig their sticks into the curious heaving surface. It bore their
combined weight for a moment or two, then sinking suddenly, like a
punctured indiarubber ball, it collapsed, and they found themselves
struggling nearly up to their waists in water. Luckily they were able to
clutch at the hazel bushes above, and, by swinging themselves along the
branches, to arrive at a firmer foothold, though even there the ground
felt very insecure and spongy, and little dark pools came oozing up with
every step.

"We must keep as far apart from each other as we can," shouted Ralph;
"the wretched place has no solid foundation, it's only a collection of
sticks and leaves. Cling to the trees, and try to get back to the boat
before you go in any deeper. Don't put your weight on it! It's like
walking on thin ice."

Very wet and muddy, and somewhat frightened, the explorers picked their
way carefully back, treading as much as possible on the roots of the
trees, and never letting go their hold of the boughs. They scrambled
into the boat again with considerable relief, and held a review of
their damaged garments.

"I'm soaked to the skin!" declared Rhoda. "It's a horrible nuisance.
Look at Lindsay!"

"I don't mind my clothes so much, if it weren't so uncomfortable. My
dress will wash," said Lindsay.

"Mine won't though, I'm sorry to say!" groaned Irene.

"I was carrying the cakes, and they're wet through, and not fit to eat,"
announced Leonard.

"The island is a perfect trap," said Meta, trying to squeeze the muddy
water from her own dress and Monica's. "I believe it's nothing but a
kind of raft, made out of all the dead wood and rubbish that have
accumulated in the lake. I expect seeds have blown on to it, and then
trees and bushes have sprung up. Now I think of it, I don't believe it
was in the same place last year, so it must be able to float. We shall
have to go home; we can't stop and picnic when we're drenched like
this."

"I wonder how the hermit managed, if he ever lived there?" said Monica.

"It must have been an excellent penance, with a chance of martyrdom at
the end of it," returned Ralph. "Well, I must say we have given our
visitors a pleasant afternoon! They won't want to take this as a
specimen of our picnics. No good offering tea and cake in this
condition!"

"I'd rather have a cake of soap and a can of hot water!" said Irene.

"Never mind!" said Leonard consolingly. "I vote we go up Pendle Tor on
Monday. We can boil a kettle there, and have no end of fun. If you've
never been before, I expect you'll say it makes up for this."




CHAPTER VIII

Pendle Tor


It was with much pleasurable anticipation that the picnic party set out
on Whit Monday for Pendle Tor. The four younger Greenwoods were left at
home, as the walk would be too far for them, but they announced their
intention of climbing a small hill behind the Vicarage in the afternoon,
and having an alfresco tea on their own account, which was to be equal,
if not superior, to that enjoyed by their elders--"because Mary will
just have finished baking, and she has promised to bring us some buns
straight out of the oven, and you certainly won't get those on Pendle
Tor," said Joan.

Although they might be debarred from the pleasure of hot tea-cakes, the
mountaineers nevertheless did not mean to starve on their journey, to
judge from the baskets full of provisions which they bore with them.
Leonard had taken a milk-can that would serve to boil the water in
instead of a kettle, it being lighter to carry, and having the added
advantage that they could pack the teacups inside.

"You see, an iron kettle is such a weight", he explained, "and the last
time we took one of those rubbishy sixpence-halfpenny tin ones the
solder all melted directly we put it on to the fire, and the spout
dropped off. We can sling the milk-can on a stick and prop it over the
fire, and it does splendidly."

"Mind you don't break the cups!" said Irene, expecting to hear a smash
after the reckless way in which the can was being swung about.

"Couldn't do it if I tried; they're all enamel ones. The Mater wouldn't
trust us with her best china, I assure you."

"There are ever so many trout up in the stream by Inglemere," remarked
Ralph. "If we could manage to tickle a few, we might fry them in the lid
of the milk-can."

"It's rank poaching!" declared Meta.

"I don't care in the least," returned Ralph. "If Sir Percy complains
that any are missing, you can give him the bones, with my compliments."


"I don't think he would mind your catching one or two," said Monica. "I
know Sir Percy rather well, and it is only real poachers that he's so
hard on, and excursionists who come sometimes and try to fish. You see,
as he says, if everyone were allowed to take fish, there would soon be
none left, and people would begin to do it for the sake of selling them,
and not for the sport. He allowed Mr. Cross's nephews to fish last
summer when they were staying at the Rectory, and he said I might too,
if I ever felt inclined."

"I've never seen trout tickled," said Lindsay.

"It will be a case of 'First catch your fish, then cook it'," laughed
Rhoda. "It isn't at all easy to whisk them out--they're the most
slippery things you can imagine. I'm glad we don't have to depend on
Ralph's skill for our dinner. I was hoping we might find some mushrooms,
and stew them in part of the milk we've brought. We could put the can
down among the ashes of the fire, and they'd be cooking while we ate the
first course."

"Well, it is certainly a case of 'First pick your mushrooms', for you
don't even know whether there'll be any," retorted Ralph. "The trout are
always there, at any rate."

It was a long walk to Pendle Tor, and appetites, sharpened by the fresh
air of the hills, began to grow rather keen; but as they had all
resolved not to have their picnic before they had reached the summit,
they staved off the edge of their hunger with a few biscuits, and,
trudging on, covered the last mile in such quick time that Leonard
declared it reminded him of a paper-chase. It was rather a steep pull to
gain the highest point, yet they were well rewarded when they reached it
by the bird's-eye view of the landscape around them, farms, churches,
and distant village looking like so many toys, and the fields like the
divisions in a map.

"I hope it doesn't mean to rain," said Monica, pointing to some rather
threatening clouds that were rolling up from the west.

"We shall get a nice wetting if it does, for we haven't an umbrella
amongst us!" returned Irene.

"Rain? Not it! Don't distress yourself; the glass was up to 'Fair' this
morning. It's only a little scrap of mist blowing over. I don't mind
giving you a butter-scotch in exchange for every drop of rain you get on
your hat to-day," declared Ralph, whose prophecies were generally in
exact accordance with his hopes, and who was apt to shut his eyes to
unwelcome truths.

"Better not promise too much, old chap, or you may have to pay up," said
Leonard. "I don't like the look of the sky myself. But what's the odds?
It won't be the first time we've been wet through, by a long way, and I
suppose we shan't melt."

"What about the lunch?" asked Rhoda. "I'm getting so famished, I can't
wait much longer."

It was decided that the extreme top of the Tor was hardly a suitable
place--the wind was strong, and no water was available; so they climbed
some little distance down the cliff on the farther side, and at last hit
upon a sheltered spot among the rocks, where a small surface spring,
bubbling up from the ground, enabled them to fill the milk-can which was
to serve as a kettle. The boys cut large bundles of dry heather, and,
stacking it well together, soon had a good fire burning. They found it
after all impossible to suspend the can, for the flames burnt directly
through any stick that they tried to hang over the blaze; so they were
obliged to set it securely on an arrangement of stones, and rake the
fire round it. They had brought the tea in a muslin bag, which they
dropped into the can, to save a teapot; and though pouring out was
rather difficult, owing to the tin being so extremely hot, Meta managed
to dispense the cups without burning her fingers.

"You haven't provided the fish course yet," said Rhoda to Ralph. "I
thought we were to have fried trout as part of the feast."

"And I thought you were to give us mushrooms," retorted Ralph.

"Shouldn't care to wait while she cooked them," declared Leonard. "Ham
sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs are quite good enough for me. Did you
bring any salt? Another cup of tea, please, and don't be stingy with
the sugar, Meta. I like three lumps."

"I wonder why things always taste so different out-of-doors," said
Lindsay, looking reflectively at the three-cornered strawberry jam
pastry she was eating.

"Why, I saw you swallow an ant on your tart just now," said Ralph, "so
perhaps that has given it a flavour. Oh, you needn't distress yourself!
Ants are quite wholesome, I assure you. There are a frightful lot of
them crawling about here, though. I think we shall have to move on a
stave."

"Ugh! Yes. They're stinging me already!" agreed Lindsay.

They were all a little tired after their long walk, so they were glad to
sit and rest after lunch, asking riddles, cracking jokes, and listening
to the boys' school tales of exciting cricket matches, private feuds,
combats between class champions, and the punishments that had been meted
out to certain sneaks and bullies--accounts which were as thrilling in
their way as the doughty deeds of mail-clad knights of old, the warlike
sentiments being just the same, though the setting of the century might
differ. It was so interesting that nobody gave a thought to the time, or
remembered the ominous clouds that had been stretching themselves out
like long ribbons over the moor.

"Why, where's the view gone to?" cried Monica at last. "I thought we
could see Linforth and the lake from here, and the tower of Haversleigh
Church."

She might well exclaim in astonishment. Instead of the landscape which
had met their eyes before, there was nothing to be seen but a great
white wall of mist that seemed to close them in on every side, as if
some giant hand had suddenly drawn down a blind between them and the
distance.

"Whew!" exclaimed Ralph, starting to his feet, and indulging in a
long-drawn-out whistle. "This is a nice fix! We're in the middle of a
cloud. I never saw it coming up. It will be uncommonly awkward to get
out of it. What a shame of old Pendle Tor to play us such a trick!"

"Will it soon blow over, do you think?" asked Irene.

"I don't know," replied Meta rather gravely. "Sometimes the clouds stay
on these moors for days and days together. I wish we had noticed it
sooner, and gone down to the road again before we were surrounded. I'm
afraid it may be very difficult to find our way now."

"I don't think it's any use waiting," said Leonard, "it mayn't clear for
hours. We'd better pack up our traps, and make the best push we can to
try to strike the path."

"We must all stick close together," remarked Ralph. "It won't do to get
divided, or we might never find each other again. We'd better keep well
to the right; there's an old quarry on the left, and it wouldn't be
exactly pleasant to walk into it. Luckily I've a pocket compass on my
watch chain."

Very much sobered in spirits, the picnic party hastily packed up the
baskets, and, choosing Ralph as guide, set off down the hillside, hoping
to find some track that would lead eventually into the road below. It
was a strange walk, groping their way through what Monica described as
"white darkness". The heavy mist hung in the air like a blanket, so
completely shutting them in that they could scarcely see each other at a
distance of even a few feet, and it was only by keeping near enough to
touch one another that they managed to avoid being separated. Though
they had some general idea of their direction, they did not really know
where they were walking, and stumbled blindly on through heather and
bilberry bushes, over stones and rocks, only feeling that they were
going downhill. It was very slow progress. Ralph stopped continually to
consult his compass, and occasionally gave a loud "cooee", in case they
might find some wandering shepherd or countryman who would be able to
help them. There was no answer to his calls, however--only the
occasional bleat of a sheep that sounded far off and muffled through
the mist. They knew there was neither cottage nor farm within hail, and
unless they could strike the road they might wander on hour after hour
over the moors, only getting farther and farther out of their way. Tired
out with the rough trudge, the girls at last declared they must sit
still for a few minutes and rest.

"I'm awfully sorry to have landed you in such a hole," said Ralph, "but
who would have thought those innocent-looking clouds would have come
down on us like feather beds? You really never know what to expect on
these hills."

"I wonder what we'd better do?" said Monica.

"Stay where we are," suggested Irene.

"It would be too cold to spend the night here," replied Meta.

"We haven't even our jackets with us," added Lindsay.

"Unless we're quite dead beat, we'd better push on," said Leonard. "I'm
hoping we may come to the stream, because we could find our way along
the banks to Whitcombe, at any rate. I've been listening for it all the
time, but I haven't heard a sound."

"I wish we had a divining rod!" groaned Rhoda. "That would tell us in
what direction the water lay. We've been going south-east all the time,
haven't we?"

"Yes, I believe the stream lay due south from where we started,"
answered Ralph, "but I didn't dare to turn that way, because of the
quarry. Perhaps we may strike it higher up. If you're rested, girls,
we'll be going."

The damp, clinging clouds appeared to have settled down to stay. The
wind that had been blowing earlier in the day, when they ascended Pendle
Tor, had ceased, and there was not even the breath of a breeze to blow
away the clammy mist that was already drenching their clothes with a
chilly dew. It was now half-past five o'clock, and they had been
wandering for more than an hour.

"I haven't an idea where we are, nor how far we've come," said Ralph. "I
only know I've been steering east by the compass. Of course we've been
going very slowly, but I think we shouldn't be far from the brook. If we
could find that, it would be an enormous help."

"I believe I hear water now," said Rhoda, pausing a moment. "I'm sure I
do: to our left. Listen!"

All stood still, with every sense on the alert, straining their ears
intently for the faintest murmur. In the far distance it seemed to them
that they could certainly catch the unmistakable rush of a stream
flowing swiftly over a rough, stony bed. Guided by the sound, they
stumbled on, till at length, after climbing over a number of rocks,
they reached the welcome brook that was to be their path to home and
safety.

"I'm uncommonly glad to see it!" said Ralph, stooping to take a drink.
"I began to think we should never get back again. If we follow it down,
it will lead us straight into Whitcombe. Of course, that's far enough
out of our way, but we might get a trap there, and drive home."

It was a most terrible scramble down the bed of the stream, over jagged
rocks, among briers and bushes, and through rushes and reeds. The mist
still wrapped them round, and they did not dare to venture away from the
water to find smoother walking. The three visitors, who were not
accustomed to such exploits, were nearly exhausted, while even sturdy
Meta and Rhoda showed signs of giving in.

"We're at the old bridge now," said Ralph, trying to encourage them. "We
can climb up and get on to the road. It's only about three miles farther
to Whitcombe village. We're bound to find a trap of some sort there, and
then you'll be all right."

"I think the mist is lifting a little," said Leonard; "it isn't half as
thick as it was. Look at the sun trying to get through!"

"I believe we're walking straight out of the edge of the clouds. That's
what it is!" declared Ralph. "I begin to see the trees. Hurrah! It's
clearing ever so. We'll scramble up the bank, and we shall get along
much faster on the road than down here on these wretched stones. Cheer
up, girls! You'll soon be in Whitcombe now."

An hour afterwards, very footsore and weary, the party limped into
Whitcombe, a small hamlet consisting of a wayside inn and a handful of
cottages. It was eight o'clock, and the sun, behind long bars of crimson
and grey, had already begun to sink below the horizon. They were nine
miles away from home, as the stream had led them in quite a different
direction from Linforth, and, as Leonard expressed it, they had
"altogether landed themselves in a jolly pickle". Just at present tea
seemed the most pressing necessity, so a council of war was held to see
what funds could be mustered for the purpose. These did not amount to
very much. Lindsay and Rhoda were penniless, Monica also had left her
purse at the Vicarage. Irene and Meta mustered a shilling between them.
Ralph had a sixpence, while the contents of Leonard's pockets proved to
be exactly those of the traditional schoolboy's, twopence-halfpenny and
an old knife.

"I'm afraid it won't go very far," said Ralph. "We shall have to ask
them to give us tick. Come along! We'll try the inn, and see what they
will do for us."

"We must tell them who we are," added Meta, "and say Father will pay
afterwards."

The sight of seven such _bona fide_ travellers appeared to occasion much
surprise, to both the good woman at the bar and the few villagers who,
with pipes and glasses, were sitting discussing local politics and the
chances of the harvest. Tea at the unwonted hour of eight seemed an
unprecedented request, and the landlady was not content until she had
satisfied her curiosity as to who her guests were, where they came from,
and what they wanted at Whitcombe at that time in the evening.

"What we want is some tea," said Ralph, after a brief explanation of
their adventure, "and anything in the shape of a conveyance that can
take us back to Linforth to-night. We've only one and
eightpence-halfpenny amongst us, but my father will pay the rest when we
get home. If you like, I'll leave you my watch and chain."

"You've no need to do that!" laughed the landlady. "I'm sure I can trust
you. Come into the little parlour, and have your teas there. The young
ladies look ready to drop, and this is no fit place for them to sit down
in. Those mists be nasty things up Pendle Tor. It's a mercy as you've
got down at all. There was a gentleman from London caught there last
autumn, and he wandered round and round in a circle for two days before
it cleared and they found him. He was nigh dead, too, with the cold and
the damp. My son Albert shall put the horse in the trap and drive you
home. I dare say you'll manage to cram in somehow."

No tea was ever so acceptable as the large, steaming cups which they
drank in the stuffy little parlour, and no carriage and pair could have
been more welcome than the old market cart that came round to the door
afterwards. It was rather a problem how to pack themselves and the
driver into it, but Lindsay sat on Meta's knee, and Rhoda squeezed
herself between her two brothers on the front seat. The horse walked up
and down hill, and only rose to a measured trot on level ground, so it
took a considerable time to accomplish the nine-mile journey, and it was
nearly eleven o'clock before they reached the Vicarage. Very tired and
cold and cramped, they rushed into the house, where Mrs. Greenwood, in
an agony of suspense, had been imagining all the accidents which could
possibly have happened to them, and was preparing herself for the worst.
The Vicar and some of the neighbours, it appeared, were out searching
for them with lanterns, so a messenger was quickly sent through the
village to spread the good news of their safe arrival.

"You can't complain you've had no excitement here," said Ralph to the
three guests. "We almost drowned you on Saturday, and to-day we nearly
lost you on the moors. You're going to-morrow, or we might have had some
more hairbreadth escapes. At any rate, I don't think you'll forget
Pendle Tor in a hurry!"

Lindsay had certainly plenty of news to relate when she returned to the
Manor. Her classmates were quite envious, and poor Cicely was a little
wistful lest Rhoda should have usurped her place in her friend's
affections. Of that, however, she need not have been afraid. Lindsay was
faithful to her chosen chum, and had so many things to ask about, as
well as adventures to tell, that the two were soon chattering as fast as
usual. Cicely had made no further important discoveries during the few
days, though she had kept a careful watch on Mrs. Wilson, and had once
noticed her go up to the lantern room carrying a jug in her hand. Scott
had not been in the house again, but he had been seen talking earnestly
with "The Griffin" in the garden. He had gone hastily away when Cicely
approached, so he evidently did not wish the conversation to be
overheard. Whether it had anything to do with the mystery or not, it was
of course impossible to say.

"I'm rather glad, on the whole, that nothing particular happened while
you were away," said Cicely. "I should have wanted so dreadfully to
tell somebody, I'm afraid Marjorie Butler might have wormed it out of
me. As it is, they none of them know, and we still have the secret to
ourselves."




CHAPTER IX

The Plot Thickens


After hearing the story of Monica Courtenay, their friend's ancestress,
Lindsay and Cicely felt a special interest in her portrait. They
strolled one afternoon along the picture gallery to take another look at
it. There were the pretty smiling face--so like Monica's--and the bunch
of red roses that had saved the life of Sir Piers Courtenay. Was all the
good fortune of the race to be hers, and would none of it descend to the
namesake who so closely resembled her?

"If she could only come back and be of some use again!" sighed Lindsay.
"She ought to know every secret of this house."

"I wish we could make her speak and tell us," said Cicely.

At that moment a distant door banged, and a great gust of wind blew
along the gallery. Cicely started violently.

"Lindsay, did you see?" she exclaimed. "The picture moved in its
frame!"

"Nonsense! How could it?" said Lindsay, who had been looking the other
way.

"I tell you it did!"

"You must have imagined it."

It certainly seemed rather improbable. The portraits were all firmly
fixed in the panelled walls, and no breath of air could be expected to
penetrate behind them.

"It's almost as if she were alive," continued Cicely, "and just when we
were wishing she could talk! No wonder people make up tales about her. I
don't think I quite like it."

"How silly you are!" said Lindsay scornfully. "You might have seen a
ghost!"

"Well, it is queer! You needn't laugh at me so. I'm not going to stay
here any longer; I vote we go out into the garden."

Pictures that moved were rather more than Cicely had bargained for.
Mysteries were all very well in their way, but she began to feel it was
possible to have too much of a good thing. It was a distinct relief to
her to leave the gloomy old gallery, with its armour and tapestry, and
walk out into the fresh air and sunshine. There was still half an hour
to be disposed of before tea, and the two girls sauntered leisurely in
the direction of the kitchen-garden.

"I wish I knew where the boathouse used to be that Sir Piers wanted the
key for," said Lindsay.

"It was not very far away, I dare say. The river runs somewhere at the
bottom of those fields."

"I wonder if there's a path."

"I believe there's one at the end of the orchard. I saw Scott walking
down there once."

"Shall we go and see?"

"All right!"

The orchard was forbidden ground. Perhaps, though, the fact that they
risked a scolding, or even a mark for bad conduct, only made the
adventure more interesting. They ascertained first that Scott was safely
attending to his tomatoes in the greenhouse, then they dived hastily
between the rows of young apple trees. Cicely was right. At the far end
there was a small gate that led into a meadow.

"The river must be over there, hidden by those willows," said Lindsay.

"I hope we shan't meet a bull," said Cicely, looking nervously at a
group of cattle in the distance.

"Oh, come along! You're surely not afraid of cows!"

They had soon crossed the field and reached the shade of the willows by
the water's edge. The low bank was covered with reeds and rushes. Tall
purple flowers were growing on a green, boggy island close by. It was a
very pleasant place, just the kind of spot to choose on a hot summer's
afternoon.

"Far nicer than the garden, because we have it all to ourselves,"
declared Cicely.

"Oh, look what I've found!" exclaimed Lindsay ecstatically.

She had been poking about among the reeds, and now pointed in triumph
under the branches of a big willow to a smooth little pool, where there
actually floated a punt, anchored by a long chain to the trunk of the
tree.

It was a most attractive-looking boat, nicely polished, and with the
name _Heatherbell_ painted in neat white letters on the prow. It came
quite easily to the edge of the bank when Lindsay pulled the chain, and
seemed deliberately to invite them to step into it. Such a temptation
was not to be resisted. In a moment they were both inside.

"If I can manage to untie it, I'm sure I could punt us out on to the
river," said Lindsay.

"Oh, do! And then perhaps we could find some water-lilies," agreed her
ever-willing friend.

Lindsay leaned over to reach the chain. It was wound tightly round the
tree, and was very difficult to unfasten.

"I'll come and help you!" cried Cicely, and without a thought of the
consequences she bounced up, and stepped to the other end of the boat.

Her sudden change of position utterly upset the balance of their small
craft. There was a splash, a succession of squeals, and both girls were
floundering in the water. Luckily the pool was shallow, and they were in
no danger of drowning; but by the time they reached the bank they were
wet through, and in an extremely draggled condition.

"What are we to do?" said Cicely blankly, trying to wring the water out
of her skirts.

"Go back, I suppose, and put on dry things," replied Lindsay. "We shall
get into a fearful scrape, I expect."

"Yes! What will Miss Frazer say?"

Miss Frazer was on the point of collecting her flock in preparation for
tea, when two dejected, dripping figures came creeping along the
terrace. If they had hoped to reach the side door unobserved, they were
soon undeceived; the governess's sharp eyes spied them at once.

"Lindsay and Cicely!" she burst out wrathfully. "You naughty girls!
Where have you been? Come at once into the house and change your
clothes. You give more trouble than all the rest of the class put
together. Miss Russell will have to be told about this."

Miss Russell was angry--really angry. She lectured them both severely,
and stopped their recreation for the whole of the next day. This seemed
only a very small circumstance in itself, but strangely enough it led
indirectly to something of much more consequence.

The two delinquents looked decidedly rueful when, instead of going into
the garden as usual, they were obliged to sit in the classroom, and copy
out a passage from "Lycidas" in their best handwriting. It was trying,
certainly, particularly as the other girls were playing a tennis
handicap, and they could hear the soft thud of balls, and the cries of
"'Vantage!" or "Game!" It was possible to see a few heads bobbing over
the wall, but they could not gather how the tournament was progressing,
nor which was the winning side.

Long before tea-time they had finished their allotted portions, and
going to the window they leaned out, to try to catch a glimpse of what
was happening on the lawn. The classroom was at the back of the house,
and overlooked a small paved courtyard. Below, on a wooden bench in the
sunshine, sat Scott, leisurely blacking boots, and humming to himself in
a voice that had little tune in it. The cat, purring loudly, was rubbing
herself vigorously against his trousers.

The girls were just going to call to him, and beg him to peep through
the door in the wall and give them some news of the tennis players, when
they suddenly changed their intention. Mrs. Wilson had appeared in the
porch. She brought out a flower vase, flung the stale water away, and
refilled it from one of the butts that stood near.

Scott had evidently seen her too, for he gave a short whistle to attract
her attention, then, throwing down his blacking brush, he crossed the
courtyard to speak to her. In spite of his lowered tone, his voice rose
up clearly to the classroom window above.

"About what we were talking of this morning," he began. "It had best be
done as soon as possible. I'll do it to-night."

"I've marked the place," replied Mrs. Wilson, "but I'll come with you to
make sure. You'll want a helping hand. It's too much for one."

"You can hold the lantern, at any rate. It's a job that will need some
caution. We mustn't attempt it till it's quite dark."

"No, not till everything's quiet," said Mrs. Wilson, as she re-entered
the house.

Lindsay drew Cicely back quickly into the room, as Scott returned to his
rows of boots on the bench. She did not wish him, at any cost, to see
them at the window, or to know that they had overheard the conversation.

"What are they going to do?" asked Cicely breathlessly.

"I don't know. It must be something dreadful if they want to keep it so
quiet."

"And do it in the dark, too!"

"I'm afraid both Mrs. Wilson and Scott are bad characters," said Lindsay
in an impressive voice. "I expect they've stolen the treasure, and
they're going to hide it in the garden. Perhaps even it may have
something to do with the prisoner in the lantern room."

"You don't think they've killed him?" gasped Cicely.

"I can't tell. I believe they're capable of anything. I'm quite uneasy
for fear they intend to harm Monica. We'll watch to-night, and find out
what they're about. I shouldn't wonder if we're on the verge of a great
discovery. It was most fortunate we were kept in this afternoon; if we
hadn't happened to be at the window just then, we shouldn't have heard
their plans."

Cicely's face had lengthened considerably at the idea of the black
doings which it was evidently their duty to investigate.

"I don't know how we're to follow them in the dark," she said, after a
moment's hesitation.

"We must," declared Lindsay emphatically. "I feel it all depends on us.
Monica may be in the greatest danger, and we are the only ones who know
anything about the matter, and can save her."

The tea-bell ringing at that moment sent them down to the dining-hall.
The meal had been delayed half an hour on account of the tournament, so
preparation followed immediately afterwards, and Lindsay and Cicely were
obliged, with their thoughts still running on possible tragedies, to
endeavour to apply their minds to the unromantic details of parsing.

It seemed of such minor importance whether a verb were transitive or
intransitive, weak or strong, compared with whether Mrs. Wilson and
Scott were really going to meet in the garden to carry out some fell
intention. The time seemed endless until the books were at last put
away, and they could snatch a few moments for private talk.

"There's one comfort," said Lindsay, "they won't begin until it's dark,
so they can't have been doing anything while we've been in prep."

"It's generally light for quite half an hour after we're in bed," said
Cicely. "I don't see yet how we're to know when they're starting."

"We shall find out," returned Lindsay confidently. "I have a kind of
feeling that something is going to happen to-night."

"What are you two whispering about?" asked Nora Proctor curiously.

"Oh, only a joke of our own!"

"You've got some secret, I'm sure," said Beryl Austen; "you're always
looking at each other and making signs. I noticed you yesterday during
arithmetic."

"Do tell us, Cicely," begged Marjorie Butler. "You and I used to be
friends, but we never have a secret together now."

"There's really nothing worth telling," declared Cicely, much
embarrassed.

"We shall have to be careful though," said Lindsay afterwards. "We don't
want the others to hear, and then go poking about and making
discoveries."

"Certainly not; if there's anything to be found out, I'd rather we found
it out ourselves."

Cicely was tired when bedtime arrived, and ready to curl herself up and
forget what might be happening outside. Lindsay, on the contrary, lay
with wide-open eyes, watching the room grow darker and darker. When the
wardrobe and the chest of drawers and the washstand had at last all
merged together into one deep mass of shadow, she got up and peeped
through the open window. What she saw there caused her to run hurriedly
and shake her sleepy companion.

"Cicely! Do wake up! There's a light moving in the garden."

It took a second or two for Cicely to recover her senses, but when she
realized the nature of the news, she hopped out of bed in frantic
excitement.

"Is it Mrs. Wilson and Scott?" she asked eagerly.

"I expect so, but of course I can't tell. Be quick! We must go at once
and see what they're doing."

The two girls hastily scrambled into their clothes, and tiptoed
downstairs to the side door. The servants had not yet locked up, so it
was still standing ajar.

"Suppose we were to meet Miss Russell or Miss Frazer!" shivered Cicely,
with a nervous glance down the corridor.

"Don't think about it. They're both safe in the drawing-room."

In another minute they had closed the door gently behind them, and were
running softly across the lawn. It was a cloudy night, with neither moon
nor stars in the sky. The outlines of the trees and shrubs were just
visible, but it was very dark indeed under their shade.

"The light seemed to be going through the shrubbery towards the arbour,"
said Lindsay, feeling her way along the rose avenue.

"There it is!" replied Cicely, as a faint gleam shone in the distance.

"We must be very, very careful," said Lindsay, "not to disturb them on
any account. We must stop somewhere near, and just look and listen."

As quietly as ghosts they stole down the path, trying not to rustle so
much as a leaf. They were close now to the lantern. They could see it
quite clearly, set on the ground, and two figures bending over it.

Skirting round under the bushes, they reached the shelter of an oak tree
that grew on the side of a bank, and peeped cautiously round the trunk.
Yes, it was certainly Scott and Mrs. Wilson who were in the shrubbery
below. Every now and then a glint of light revealed their faces
unmistakably. They were talking together in low tones, unfortunately too
low for their conversation to be overheard. Scott held a spade in his
hand, and was stooping to watch Mrs. Wilson, who, kneeling on the grass,
was fumbling inside a large sack.

"Can you see if she's counting money?" breathed Cicely into Lindsay's
ear. "I believe they're going to bury it."

"It looks like something bigger and heavier," whispered Lindsay, trying
to crane her neck farther forward.

"Is it silver plate?"

"It might be anything in that huge sack."

"Oh! Not a body!"

I believe Cicely would have fled precipitately if Lindsay had not held
her tightly by the hand. The fear that old Sir Giles Courtenay was being
finally disposed of oppressed her like a nightmare.

"No! I expect it's the treasure. We must notice exactly where they're
putting it."

[Illustration: AN UNFORTUNATE ACCIDENT]

Lindsay took a step nearer, to gain a better view of the proceedings,
but as she did so her foot trod noisily on a dead twig.

"What's that?"

The question was in "The Griffin's" well-known voice.

There was a growl in reply from Scott.

"Best take a look, anyhow," came from Mrs. Wilson.

Scott seized the lantern, and began to flash it round in every
direction. Then, oh horrors! he walked straight towards the oak where
the two girls were hiding. Nearly paralysed with fear, they did not dare
to run away, and could only hope that, after all, under cover of the
darkness, he might chance to overlook them.

In her desperation, Lindsay tried to draw farther behind the trunk of
the tree. To do so she perforce pushed Cicely back. The latter was not
quite prepared for the sudden movement, the ground was uneven, she
swayed, clutched violently at her companion to save herself, and over
they both rolled down the bank, almost to the very feet of Scott
himself.

As Lindsay and Cicely came crashing down the bank, Scott uttered a cry
of consternation. In the suddenness of his dismay, the lantern dropped
from his hand, extinguishing the light in its fall.

Instantly the two girls were on their feet, and rushed helter-skelter
across the garden through the darkness. They plunged anyhow through
bushes and over flower-beds, scratching their faces on overhanging
boughs, and tearing their dresses on thorns, their one fear lest Scott
should be pursuing them, and their one anxiety to gain the safe shelter
of the house.

They reached the side entrance without hearing any footsteps behind
them. If Scott had tried to follow them, they had evidently managed to
elude him, and he must have given up the chase. The door was still
unbolted, and they hurried breathlessly upstairs, luckily meeting nobody
on the way. What a harbour of refuge it seemed to be, back in their own
room! Without daring to light the candle, they went back to bed again
with all possible speed.

"Well, we have had an adventure!" began Lindsay, when they were once
more comfortably ensconced between the sheets.

"Do you think Scott noticed who we were?" whispered Cicely.

"I can't tell. He had just time to catch a glimpse of our faces before
the lantern went out."

"I'm sure they were doing something dreadful that they wanted to keep
secret, he looked so utterly horror-stricken at seeing us."

"There's no doubt about it. The unfortunate part is that now they find
they've been discovered, they'll bury the treasure somewhere else
instead."

"What a pity we fell just at that moment!"

Cicely's voice was very doleful.

"It will have aroused their suspicions, too, and will make them extra
careful," lamented Lindsay. "If Scott recognized us, he and Mrs. Wilson
will know we're watching them. They'll owe us a grudge. 'The Griffin'
was bad enough before, but she'll be worse than ever now."

They scanned the old housekeeper's face narrowly next morning, as she
carried the coffee into the dining-room, but her countenance wore its
accustomed aspect of grim inscrutability. If she connected them with
last night's happenings, she certainly did not betray the knowledge; it
was impossible to tell whether she mistrusted them or not, or what
feelings lay concealed under her forbidding exterior.

The moment breakfast was over, they rushed into the garden to renew
their acquaintance with the scene of their adventure. Somebody had
plainly been digging in the bank, though the traces had evidently been
tidied carefully up, and the sods replaced.

"Do you think there could be anything here?" said Cicely wistfully,
poking a stick into the loosened soil.

"Oh, dear me, no!" replied Lindsay. "Why, the first thing they'd do
would be to rush off with that sack to some safer spot. Even the very
stupidest persons wouldn't have gone on burying valuables in a place
where they knew they'd been watched. 'The Griffin' and Scott are
certainly not idiots!"

"If we could only guess where they'd put it!" sighed Cicely.

For the present they had had such a fright that, though neither would
confess it, both were a little inclined to let the matter rest in
abeyance. It needed courage to risk the anger of Mrs. Wilson and Scott
if they were once more caught meddling. It had seemed pleasant enough to
search for the treasure themselves in the house, but the affair was now
beginning to assume a graver aspect.

"I sometimes wonder if we ought to tell Monica or Miss Russell," said
Cicely, who occasionally had uneasy scruples as to the wisdom of their
plan of secrecy.

"It wouldn't be of the slightest use," declared Lindsay. "'The Griffin'
and Scott would simply deny everything. They'd make out it was all
nonsense on our part, like grown-up people generally do. And how could
we prove we were right? Miss Russell would tell us to mind our own
business, and we should only get into a scrape for our pains. No, we
shall just have to let things take their course, and trust to luck."




CHAPTER X

Under the Hawthorn Tree


It was high summer at Haversleigh. The trees, now in full leaf, cast
rich shadows over the landscape, the wild roses were in bloom on the
hedgerows, and tall foxgloves stood like crimson sentinels at the
margins of the woods. The fields were white with moon-daisies, growing
among the long, lush grass; and all the roadsides were a tangle of
vetches, campion, bugle, trefoil and speedwells. The wind was fragrant
with the scent of newly turned hay; everywhere the mowers were busy, and
the daisies were falling fast beneath the swinging scythe or the blades
of the reaping-machine. In the Manor garden the roses had reached
perfection, and the flower-beds were a mass of colour. The girls spent
every available moment out-of-doors, making the most of the bright days,
and enjoying their country visit to the full.

One blazing half-holiday afternoon Lindsay and Cicely, allowed for once
in the select company of a few of the elder girls, were lounging
blissfully under the shade of a big hawthorn tree. The air seemed
dancing for very heat; the grasshoppers were chirping away at the edge
of the lawn, a lizard lay basking on the stones of the terrace wall, and
the sparrows for once were silent.

"It's far too hot to play tennis," said Irene Spencer. "One just wants
to sit somewhere where it's green and cool."

"I'm glad we're here, then, instead of at Winterburn Lodge," said Mary
Parkinson.

"So am I; and yet Winterburn Lodge is nicer than many other schools,"
remarked Mildred Roper.

"It's not half bad," assented Mary. "I like it better, at any rate, than
the French school I was at in Brussels."

"I didn't know you'd ever been in France," said Lindsay, idly picking a
dandelion clock and blowing it to find out the time.

"No more I have, goosey."

"Then why did you say you'd been at a French school? You're telling
fibs."

"No, I'm not, because Brussels doesn't happen to be in France--it's in
Belgium."

"I thought you were supposed to learn geography in the third class,"
laughed Irene Spencer.

"She said a French school, not a Belgian one," objected Lindsay.

"Well, everybody speaks French in Brussels."

"Don't they speak Flemish?"

"Only the poor people, and even they can generally talk French as well."

"How long were you there, Mary?" put in Mildred Roper.

"Only one term. I got ill, and had to come home."

"Was it nice?"

"Oh, just tolerable!"

"Had you to talk French all the time?"

"I had to try, because none of the girls knew anything else. They used
to laugh at me if I spoke English."

"How nasty! I shouldn't have cared to be you," said Cicely.

"Yes, it was horrid, when I was sure they were saying things about me
and I couldn't understand them. I used to get quite cross, and that made
my head ache."

"Was the school in the country?" asked Lindsay.

"No, I've told you already it was in Brussels, and that's a big city. It
was a large building, with a great high wall all round it, with spikes
on the top, as if it were a prison. Inside there was a courtyard where
we used to play games. It had orange trees and oleanders in big green
tubs, but no grass nor flowers. You couldn't possibly have called it a
garden. We hardly ever went out for proper walks. Sometimes we were
taken to the park, but even there we had to go very primly, two and two,
with the teachers looking after us most sharply."

"Were the teachers nice?"

"Yes, pretty well. I liked them better than the girls, at any rate.
There were two sisters in my class, called Marie and Sophie Beauvais,
who were always making fun of me because I was English. I had a horrid
time until a German girl came to the school, and then they teased her
instead of me. The best thing of all was the coffee. It was perfectly
delicious--nicer than any I've ever tasted in England."

"Why didn't you stay in Brussels?"

"I was ill, and my mother had to come and fetch me. She declared she
would never let me go so far away from home again; so she sent me to
Winterburn Lodge instead. Miss Russell is very kind if one's not well,
and Mother said she would rather have me properly looked after, even if
I didn't learn French."

"Yes, Miss Russell does take care of us," said Irene. "I used to be at
another school, and the teachers never noticed if we had headaches, or
couldn't eat our meals. We had to work most fearfully hard for exams,
too. The headmistress made a point of getting a certain number of passes
each year, and one was obliged to prepare and go in whether one was
clever or not. Give me good old Winterburn Lodge!--especially when one's
at the Manor instead. By the by, there's Monica. She's surely not come
to play tennis? It's too hot."

"Fifteen degrees too hot," agreed Monica, throwing herself down on the
grass beside the others and fanning herself with her hat. "Out on the
road the heat's at simmering-point. I came to bring a message to Miss
Russell, and I hear she's gone to Linforth and won't be back until
half-past four. I think I shall wait for her."

"Oh, do!" cried the others. "We'll have a 'palaver' here under the
trees."

"What's a 'palaver', please? I hope it's something cool and fizzy to
drink."

"No, it's nothing of the sort. It's a kind of meeting, where everybody
has to tell a story in turn."

"But I'm rigidly truthful!" objected Monica, with a twinkle in her eye.

"You naughty girl! You know we don't mean telling falsehoods. It's
telling tales," said Irene.

"I'm no tell-tale either!"

"Don't be too funny. Your story will have to be longer than anyone
else's to make up for this. Mildred, you explain, as I don't seem able
to express myself properly."

"It can either be a story you have read, or one of something that has
happened to yourself," said Mildred. "We prefer people's own adventures
if we can get them."

"So few people have any adventures in real life!" said Monica.

"Then you can tell something out of a book."

"Suppose I can't remember anything?"

"You must. It needn't be grand; we're not a critical audience."

"I'm very stupid at telling things," said Monica; "might I read you
something instead?"

"If you've got it here."

"As it happens, I have," replied Monica, opening a bound volume of a
magazine which she held in her hand. "I brought this book to lend to
Miss Russell, as I knew it would interest her. It has a story about the
old Manor in the times of the Wars of the Roses, and how Sir Roger
Courtenay came to win it for his own. I dare say you might like to hear
it."

"If it's about the Manor I'm sure we shall," said Irene. "Who wrote the
tale?"

"A gentleman who stayed in the village a year or two ago. He was very
enthusiastic about Haversleigh. I suppose he made it up from the short
account in the guide-book. All the facts are quite true, though he must
have used his imagination for the details. The worst of it is that it's
a fairly long story, and if I read it I'm afraid there won't be any time
left for you to tell yours."

"Oh, we don't mind that!"

"So much the better!"

"Fire away!"

"Do go on!"

Thus encouraged, Monica found her place and, the girls having clustered
round her in a close circle so as to hear the better, she began her
tale:


SIR MERVYN'S WARD

The middle of the fifteenth century was one of the most stormy periods
that the pages of English history have ever recorded. The rival claims
of the houses of York and Lancaster had led to those disastrous Wars of
the Roses that wiped away the flower of chivalry and made the fair land
one bloody battlefield. In the autumn of 1470 Edward IV had been driven
from his throne by the powerful Earl of Warwick, known as the Kingmaker,
and Henry VI had been once more restored to power, though for how long a
period none could venture to guess. They were hard times to live
through, especially for those lesser gentry and yeomen who had not
placed themselves definitely under the protection of any of the greater
barons, and still strove to keep their estates in peace and quiet. The
turmoil of the great struggle had not spared even the obscure village of
Haversleigh. The inhabitants went about their tasks with an air of
unrest. It seemed scarcely worth while to plough the fields, and sow
corn which might be trampled underfoot by the soldiery before there was
a chance to reap it. There were loud and deep murmurs among the
villagers at the many exactions and tyrannies of Sir Mervyn Stamford,
the then occupant of the Manor, the estates of which he administered on
behalf of his ward, Catharine Mowbray. Catharine's father, Sir John
Mowbray, had fallen in battle on the side of the Yorkists, but with the
return of Henry VI to power, Sir Mervyn, a stanch Lancastrian, had
bought the rights of her guardianship from the half-imbecile king, and
had not only assumed control of her property, but had announced his
intention of wedding the maiden, either with or without her consent.

This was a state of affairs which, however satisfactory to Sir Mervyn
himself, was by no means pleasing either to Catharine or to her lover,
Roger de Courtenay, a young gentleman of high lineage though broken
fortunes. Sir Mervyn was indeed a man whom any girl might have dreaded.
Dark, stern, and forbidding, his face seamed with scars, he was a harsh
master, a relentless foe, and a cruel tyrant to any who dared not resist
his authority. He was cordially hated in Haversleigh, the inhabitants of
which were Yorkists to a man, but he had garrisoned himself so strongly
in the Manor, with so formidable a band of retainers, that the wretched
villagers could do no more than groan under his oppressions, and bewail
the advent of the day when, by his marriage with the unwilling
Catharine, he would become their legal lord.

Matters were at this crisis one April morning in the year 1471 when
Diccon of the Moat Farm came slowly down a path through the forest from
Torton. He led a horse laden with a sack of flour, which he had taken to
be ground at the mill of the convent of St. Agatha, to avoid the heavy
dues imposed by Sir Mervyn on every sack ground within the jurisdiction
of the Manor. In consequence he looked warily about him, since, should
he chance to meet any of Sir Mervyn's retainers, not only would his
flour be confiscated, but his own back would receive such a cudgelling
as would lay him up for a month or more. For this reason he had avoided
the main road, and chosen a little-used bridle path; and he glanced
cautiously up and down each green alley, and listened for every sound
that might give a hint of approaching footsteps. It was with a sense of
swift alarm, therefore, that he saw a figure suddenly step out from
behind the shelter of an oak in front, and heard himself challenged by
name. The newcomer was a young man, tall and of fine build, and his
commanding presence belied the shabbiness of his poor and travel-stained
attire.

"I am an honest man minding mine own business, and sith ye are the same,
seek not to hinder me," replied the owner of the Moat Farm.

"Nay, Diccon! Hast thou forgot thine old friend? Come hither, I pray
thee, for in good sooth I have tidings of great import."

So saying, the stranger dropped the cloak with which he had so far
partly concealed his face, and showed his features more fully.

"Master Roger!" gasped Diccon. "This is indeed a rash venture. An Sir
Mervyn find you within a five mile of the Manor there will be an arrow
through you ere nightfall."

"I am more like to send an arrow through him," replied Roger fiercely.
"He hath done me ill enough already, and now to crown it all he purposes
to wed my betrothed. Catharine is mine, not only by her choice, but by
the law of the land. She was affianced to me by King Edward himself.
Have her I will, or leave my body for the crows!"

"Brave words, Master Roger, brave words!" said Diccon, shaking his head.
"'Twill need more than a single sword to cross Sir Mervyn in the
matter."

"Where a sword can naught avail, craft and guile must find a way,"
returned Roger. "List you, I have brought tidings. Edward has come to
his own again. But two days since did his arms meet those of Lancaster
at Barnet. The Red Rose is trampled under foot, and Warwick and Montague
lie dead upon the field."

"In sooth if this be true it were news of great import."

"I met one who carried a letter from my lord of Gloucester. He rode to
gather the supporters of York in the West. Margaret the Queen hath
landed at Weymouth, and is calling the men of Devon and Cornwall to the
standard of the red rose. I hied me in all haste to my lord of Norfolk,
and he hath given me a band of stout fellows that are even now hid under
the brushwood yonder. An I can surprise Sir Mervyn ere he hears that the
emblem of Lancaster is raised in the west it will strike a blow for York
in Somerset, and moreover I shall win me my bride. I must myself to the
Manor. I would see how it is garrisoned, and convey a message to
Catharine alone."

"You are a dead man first!" exclaimed Diccon. "This were folly, Master
Roger. A lion's den were safer than the Manor."

"None shall pierce my disguise if you, good Diccon, will but aid to
trick me out for the part I fain would play. I wot I could count on your
faith!"

"To the last drop of my blood. Yet it is a rash venture, and one that
ill pleases me," replied the old man sadly.

Late that same afternoon the golden shafts of the warm spring sunshine
were finding their way through the narrow windows of an upper room in
the Manor. The house in those days was but a quarter of its present
size; it was strongly fortified, and bore more resemblance to a medieval
keep than to the Tudor mansion of later times. Strength and defence had
been considered before beauty and elegance, and there was little even of
comfort to be found inside the stern, forbidding walls. In the apartment
in question some rude attempt had been made to render things more
habitable than in the rest of the grim establishment. A few pieces of
tapestry covered the rough masonry, and the floor was strewn with fresh
rushes. On a carved wooden bench by the window sat a fair and beautiful
girl of seventeen, who was occupying herself with a piece of needlework,
and talking earnestly meanwhile to her attendant, a maiden of her own
age, busy also with her tambour frame.

"I tell thee, Anne, I will not wed him--not if he drag me by force to
the altar! Verily, it is a pretty case. Here be I a prisoner in mine own
manor, my estates squandered, my tenants oppressed and robbed, my
retainers dismissed, save only thee, my poor faithful Anne; and in
return I am to wed him to boot! Nay! Rather will I take the veil and
give all my goods to the convent of St. Agatha at Torton; though thou
knowest I have scant mind to be a nun."

"It wants but five morns now to the bridal day," sighed Anne. "If I
mistake not, lady, Sir Mervyn will wed you even against your will and
despite the convent."

"Then I will die first! Oh, Roger, Roger!" she added softly to herself,
"only a year agone, and I was thy betrothed! It is six months since I
had tidings of thee, and whether thou art alive or dead I know not."

"Nay, weep not, sweet lady--weeping cures no ills," said Anne; then,
wishful to divert her mistress's sad thoughts, she directed her
attention to a commotion which was going on in the courtyard below.
"Some stranger hath arrived. If I mistake not, 'tis a huckster come to
spread out his wares. An it be your pleasure, I will hie me down and
bring you tidings of what he hath."

Receiving a half-hearted consent, she hurried to the great courtyard,
where many of the servants and retainers were already gathered to look
at the contents of the pedlar's pack. At that period the arrival of a
travelling merchant was an event at a remote country house, and even Sir
Mervyn himself did not disdain to examine the cloths and buy an ell or
two of velvet for a doublet. The pedlar, a white-haired man, much bent,
and with a strange hood of foreign fashion drawn over his face, was
proclaiming the virtues of his goods in a lusty voice.

"What do ye lack? What do ye lack?" he cried. "I have here hosen, shoon,
caps, gloves, girdles, such as ye never might see out of London town.
Here be beside cloth of silk and damask fit for the Queen. Is there no
worshipful lady of this noble lord before whom I might spread forth my
choicer wares?"

"My mistress would gladly have silk for a kirtle, an I may summon her to
the courtyard," Anne ventured to whisper to Sir Mervyn.

Receiving a grudging permission, she hurried panting up the stairs with
her tidings. Catharine at first would hardly be persuaded to descend
from her chamber into the hated presence of Sir Mervyn, and it was
finally more to please her maid than herself that she assented.

"Fair apparel is of scant use to one who hath a mind to wed the Church,"
she said, "but thou shalt have a riband for thyself, Anne, and a silk
girdle withal."

No one remarked the swift, eager glance that the pedlar bestowed upon
Catharine as she appeared in the doorway, nor how his hand shook as he
untied his second pack. With apparent lack of intention he managed
skilfully to draw her a few steps away from the rest, under pretence of
exhibiting his silks in the best light; then, whispering: "Keep secret!
Betray not that you receive this!" he rapidly thrust a small piece of
parchment into her hand. Full of surprise, Catharine yet had the
presence of mind to utter no exclamation, and to conceal the parchment
in the folds of her gown. Hastily completing her purchases, she retired
again to her chamber, where, dismissing Anne, she was able to examine
the letter in private. It contained but a few lines:

       "Right dear and well beloved,

     "The White Rose musters again in the west, and I have hope of your
     release. Ope the west postern ere sunrise. Till then God keep ye.

     "Written in great haste this eve of St. Withold by the hand of him
     who would remain ever yours,

                          "ROGER COURTENAY."



Catharine's wild excitement on the perusal of this missive can be more
readily imagined than described.

"He is alive! He comes to my rescue!" she exclaimed. "Perchance it was
even Roger himself disguised as the pedlar. He was ever one to venture a
bold deed. Alack! that I should have been so near, and not have known
him!"

She did not dare to confide her secret even to her faithful maid, Anne,
but retiring as usual at nightfall she lay awake, waiting in burning
anxiety for the earliest peep of dawn. When the first faint glimmer of
light stole into her room she rose and crept softly down the stairs. She
was obliged to make her way through the great hall, where the
men-at-arms lay sleeping on the rushes. A dog sprang up and growled, but
she managed to quiet it with a caress, and passed on without disturbing
the sleepers. The little west postern door was heavily barred, and it
took all the strength of her white hands to pull back the bolts.
Cautiously she peered out into the half-darkness. At the same moment a
tall figure stepped from the shadow and clasped her in his arms.

"Sweet, you must fly! This is no place for ye now," whispered Roger.
"Diccon waits with a trusty steed to conduct ye to Covebury. Take
sanctuary at the convent of the Franciscans till I come to claim ye. I
have stern work to do here."

Wrapping her hastily in a cloak, and helping her to mount, Roger waited
till he judged the fugitives to be at a safe distance; then, giving the
word of command to his followers, he commenced his attack on the Manor.
Sir Mervyn and his retainers, surprised in their sleep, nevertheless
offered a determined resistance. A fierce combat was waged in the great
hall and in the courtyard, till, pressed from one point of vantage to
another, the defenders made a desperate sally, and rushing
helter-skelter down the village sought refuge inside the ancient church.
It was of no avail; the villagers, hastily armed with swords and pikes,
had joined in the fray. Determined to avenge themselves upon Sir Mervyn
for his many acts of tyranny and injustice, they set upon him without
mercy, and without respect even for the sacredness of the edifice.
Chased from the choir to the Lady Chapel, and from the Lady Chapel to
the tower, he fled up the narrow steps to the belfry, where he turned at
bay, and held the staircase with the courage of despair. Driven from
this last standpoint, he climbed yet higher to the rafters where hung
the bell, and slew six men in succession before he fell, at length,
shouting curses upon his foes.

Roger Courtenay had scant time to enjoy his triumph. The Yorkist army
was mustering for a great struggle; so, having left a small garrison in
charge of the Manor, he rode away immediately with the rest of his
followers to join the adherents of the White Rose. The result of the
battle of Tewkesbury is a matter of history. The unfortunate remnant of
Lancaster took to flight, and York gained a final and triumphant
victory. Roger, whose bravery was conspicuous throughout the day,
worthily won his spurs, and was knighted on the field by Richard of
Gloucester. His forfeited estate was restored to him, and King Edward
himself forwarded his union with Catharine Mowbray, so that before the
summer was over the ancient parish church of Haversleigh, which but
lately had rung to the clash of arms, now echoed instead to the merry
peal of wedding bells.




CHAPTER XI

Sir Mervyn's Tower


"Is that all?" asked the girls, as Monica finished her story and closed
the book.

"Why, yes. It's a fairly long tale, I think."

"Not long enough. I want to know so much more about them," said Irene.

"Is it perfectly and absolutely true?" enquired Cicely.

"Yes, it is quite true. It was Sir Roger Courtenay who began to build
the Manor as it stands to-day. All the central portion was put up in his
time, and the coats of arms over the porch are those of himself and his
wife, Catharine Mowbray. Their tomb is in the church too--that big
carved monument in the side chapel. They had seven children--five sons
and two daughters. The eldest son, Sir Godfrey Courtenay, married a
relation of Sir Thomas More. Her name is mentioned in one of the Paston
Letters."

"Was it really in Haversleigh Church that Sir Mervyn climbed into the
belfry and was killed?"

"Or did the writer make that up?"

"No, that is true too," replied Monica. "The tower is still called 'Sir
Mervyn's Tower', and it is said there is the stain of his blood on the
great bell, and that nothing can ever take it off."

"Have you seen it?"

"Yes, once. It's only a patch of rust."

"Was Sir Mervyn buried in the church too?"

"There's no monument to him, and no record in the old church documents
of his grave. I should think it was much more likely that his followers
were allowed to carry him to his own estate near Appleford, and bury him
in the church there. The story runs that his ghost haunts Haversleigh
Tower and walks up the belfry stairs, but of course that's nothing but
superstition and nonsense."

"Don't you believe in ghosts?" asked Cicely, who was sometimes a little
afraid of the dark passages at the Manor.

"No: when people are dead, I think if they were good they are either
resting until the resurrection, or have something so much better and
nobler to do in another world that they could not revisit this, any more
than a butterfly could turn again into a chrysalis; and if they were
bad, I am sure they would not be allowed to come back simply to terrify
the living."

"Quite right," agreed Mildred. "In most of the stories one reads about
ghosts, they never return for any useful purpose, only to make silly
people run and scream."

"There was one thing that didn't seem perfectly clear in the story,"
said Lindsay. "Was it really Roger who came to the Manor disguised as an
old pedlar?"

"Evidently it was. He couldn't trust anyone else to give the letter to
Catharine, and he wanted to see for himself how Sir Mervyn was prepared
to defend the Manor. There is still part of a ruin left of the old
Franciscan Convent near Covebury, where Catharine took sanctuary. It's
not much though--only a few pillars and a tumble-down wall."

"Why didn't she go to the Convent of St. Agatha at Torton? It was so
much nearer to ride."

"Because the nuns there wished to persuade her to take the veil, and she
wanted to marry Roger."

"Were they very angry with her?"

"How can I tell, Cicely? You must ask the writer of the romance; he has
a better imagination than I have. I wonder if Miss Russell has come back
yet? I'm going indoors to see. By the by, I want to ask a favour. I
practise the organ every Wednesday evening at the church, and to-night
Judson, the old clerk, will be too busy to blow for me as usual. Would
anybody be charitable enough to volunteer? And would Miss Russell allow
it, do you think?"

"I expect Miss Russell wouldn't mind," said Mildred. "I'd go with
pleasure if I could, but I have an hour's practising to do myself
to-night, as well as preparation, and so have Irene and Mary."

"Oh, Monica, could we blow the organ?" cried Lindsay. "Cicely and I have
both finished our practising, and if we were to learn our French at
once, before tea, I believe Miss Frazer could be persuaded to excuse us
from prep. We'd simply love to come."

"Thank you, Lindsay. I'll ask Miss Russell. If she says 'Yes', will you
meet me at the church at seven?"

Miss Russell was lenient enough to give the required permission, having
ascertained that all lessons for next day were duly prepared; so Lindsay
and Cicely, much envied by the rest of their class, betook themselves
with zeal to try their 'prentice hands at the task of organ blowing. The
church was open, and Monica was already waiting for them in the porch.
She soon showed them how to work the bellows, and after telling them to
stop and rest as soon as they were tired, seated herself at the keyboard
and began her practice. Both the younger girls felt it a decidedly novel
and interesting experience to be in the little space behind the pipes,
working away at a long handle. As they took it in turns they were able
to keep the organ going fairly steadily, and only once left Monica
without wind in the middle of a piece. As a reward she allowed them to
try the instrument before she locked it up, showing them the various
stops and pedals, and how they were to be used.

"It's much more difficult than the piano," sighed Cicely, after a rather
unsuccessful attempt, "and yet it's simply grand to hear the lovely big
notes sounding through the church. I should like to learn myself
sometime when I'm older."

"Saint Cecilia was the patroness of music, and is always represented
playing the organ, so you might very well justify your name by following
in her footsteps," said Monica. "Now I simply must go, because my mother
will be wanting me. I've been far longer than usual to-night."

"It's our fault, I'm afraid," said Lindsay. "We kept making you pull out
the stops."

"No, you were dears to come. Perhaps Miss Russell will let you blow for
me some other evening; then we'll start earlier, and I shall have time
to let you both try again."

They had passed under the old yew trees of the churchyard and out
through the lich-gate into the road, when Monica suddenly looked over
her music and exclaimed:

"How stupid! I've left my little copy of _Lux Benigna_ behind. It
doesn't really matter much, only I don't care to get my pieces mixed up
with the organist's, and he will be there at a choir practice
to-morrow."

"Shall we go back?" suggested Cicely.

"No, I'm in too great a hurry. I want to get home at once."

"Then we'll fetch it for you," said Lindsay.

"Oh, thanks so much! Will you take it to school, please, and give it to
me to-morrow, so that I needn't wait now? Good-bye!" and Monica hastened
away as fast as possible in the direction of the cottage.

Lindsay and Cicely walked leisurely into the church again, and found the
missing piece of music lying on a seat near the organ. They were
returning down the aisle when Cicely said:

"Which is the tomb of Sir Roger Courtenay and Catharine Mowbray?"

"Monica said it was the one in the small side chapel," replied Lindsay.
"Shall we go and look at it?"

What an old monument it was! Four centuries had passed away since it was
placed over those who slept beneath. The carving was chipped and the
marble scratched; part of Sir Roger's head was broken away, and one of
poor Dame Catharine's clasped hands; and the letters of the inscription
were so worn and effaced that it was with difficulty the girls could
make out even a few words.

"It's in Latin, so we couldn't have understood it in any case," said
Lindsay.

"How funny her costume is!" said Cicely. "She has a coif on her head,
and very long sleeves; and he is in full armour. It makes them seem much
more real people when we know their story."

"Can you imagine them living at the Manor?"

"I can hardly believe there was ever a fight going on inside this
church."

"And people killing one another!"

"I suppose Sir Mervyn ran through this door up into the tower."

"I wonder if the stain is still on the bell?" said Lindsay.

"The story was that nothing could ever take it off."

"Shall we go up and see if it's really there?"

"What! Up into the belfry?"

"Yes. Why not?"

"Well, isn't it getting too late, and a little dark?"

"Not yet."

"All right, then," assented Cicely, agreeing as usual with Lindsay's
proposal.

The small, nail-studded oak door leading to the tower stood open, and
they could see that there was a winding staircase inside. There was
nobody to forbid them to explore, and though they knew they were due
back at the Manor they considered they might allow themselves a little
latitude in the way of time. It was rather dark up the corkscrew stairs,
though there was a slit every now and then in the wall to admit air and
light. At the top they found themselves in a square room, where the
clerk evidently pulled the bell on Sundays, for the rope was hanging
within easy reach. The roof was made of enormous oak rafters, and
through it ran a ladder reaching higher than they could see.

"That will be the way up to the bell," said Lindsay.

"What a horrible place for Sir Mervyn to climb!" commented Cicely. "I
can imagine him rushing up with a dagger in his hand, and the others
swarming after him. I'm almost sorry they killed him. He was very brave,
although he was so bad. You go first, Lindsay."

Up and up they toiled, till they thought they should never reach the
top.

"The bell's hung very high," panted Cicely.

"We're nearly there now," replied Lindsay.

The ladder ended in a rough platform which was built round the bell,
probably to allow workmen to attend to it now and then in case it were
not hanging safely. It looked a great mass of metal, so large and heavy
that even the clapper must be an enormous weight.

"There's a very queer mark on it here," said Cicely, in rather an awed
voice.

Lindsay walked round to the other side of the platform. There was a most
curious stain running along a portion of the bottom of the bell--a dull,
irregular mark that might well have had its origin in some dark and
dreadful deed. Cicely touched it cautiously, and then looked at her
finger as if she expected to find the traces red on her hand.

"I think we'd better go down again," she said, with a shiver.

"All right, only I want to look out of the window first. Oh, what a
glorious view!"

There was indeed a splendid prospect to be seen from the old church
tower--a vista of village roofs, and tree tops, and fields, and winding
high road, and distant woods and hills, all bathed in the beautiful,
rosy light of sunset. It was so lovely that the girls stood for some
time watching the sky turn from pink to crimson, and great bands of
dappled clouds catch the reflection from the glow beneath. They quite
forgot that supper would probably be over at the Manor, and that Miss
Russell would be wondering why Monica had kept them so long, and wishing
she had not allowed them to go without Miss Frazer or one of the
monitresses to escort them back.

At last they tore themselves reluctantly away. It was much harder to
come down the ladder than it had been to climb up. Cicely turned quite
giddy, and they were both glad when they reached the square room where
the bell rope was hanging. It was very dark on the winding staircase;
they had to feel their steps most carefully, and keep a hand on the wall
as they went. The church looked dim and gloomy as they found themselves
once more in the nave. Cicely turned her back upon the monuments. She
did not want to give even a glance in their direction just then. Perhaps
Lindsay felt the same, for she also hurried quickly towards the door. To
their utter amazement it was closed, shut tight and firm; and though
they lifted the latch, and tugged and rattled and pulled with all their
might, they could not open it. They stared at each other with blank,
horror-stricken faces. They were locked up alone in the empty church!

"Let us call," quavered Cicely.

"Perhaps someone may be in the churchyard. I can't believe they've
really left us shut up here. Somebody must be coming back," said
Lindsay.

She knew in her heart of hearts all the same that it was a forlorn hope.
The old sexton had probably seen Monica walk through the village, and
had come to lock the church as usual after her practice, quite unaware
that anyone was exploring the belfry. By this time he would be at home
again, with the keys in his pocket. The two girls shouted themselves
hoarse, and kicked and beat against the door, but there was no reply
except hollow echoes that resounded from the vaulted roof. The church
was just out of earshot from either the village on one side or the
rectory on the other, and it did not seem likely that anybody would
happen to pass through the churchyard at that hour in the evening. No
doubt they would soon be missed at the Manor, but Miss Russell would be
sure to go first to Monica to enquire about their absence, and it might
therefore be some little time before anyone came to look for them inside
the church.

"What are we going to do?" asked Cicely.

"We must get out somehow," replied Lindsay desperately. "Let us walk all
round, and see if there is any window it would be possible to climb
through."

They went up the aisle, looking carefully at the windows; but all were
equally impracticable, being built high up in the walls, and the only
panes that opened were at the top.

"There may be a lower one in the vestry," said Lindsay, after they had
examined the side chapels and transepts. "Here's the door, and
fortunately it's not locked."

Again they were doomed to disappointment. The vestry was one of the
oldest portions of the building, and the tiny diamond-paned casement was
fully ten feet above their heads. Plainly it was useless to think of
escape there.

"We'd better go back to the door," said Cicely, "just in case anyone
should be coming down the road, and might hear us."

The light was rapidly growing dimmer and dimmer, the pillars cast long
shadows, and the corners were already wrapt in darkness, through which
here and there a figure on a monument stood out white against the gloomy
background. Once more the girls thumped at the door and shouted, though
they feared it would be of no avail.

"There's only one thing left to be done, Cicely," said Lindsay at last.

"And what's that?"

"Go up into the belfry again and ring the bell. Everybody in the village
would hear that, and Judson would come to see what was the matter."

"Yes," replied Cicely with some hesitation, "I suppose we must--but----"

"But what?"

"We should have to walk up the belfry stairs."

"Well?"

"Oh, Lindsay, Sir Mervyn! Suppose we were to meet him on the staircase?
The village people say he walks!"

"And Monica said it was nothing but nonsense and superstition."

Lindsay tried to sound brave, but she held Cicely's arm tightly
notwithstanding.

Poor Cicely felt "'twixt Scylla and Charybdis". To toll the bell seemed
their only chance of escape, and to do so they must certainly mount into
the square room where the rope was hanging. On the one hand was the
prospect of spending some time in a building which was rapidly growing
darker and darker, and on the other, there was a quick dash up the
winding staircase, which was the centre of all her nervous fears.

"We must do it," urged Lindsay. "Come along! Let us go now, before you
think about it any more."

It was very dark when they went through the small door and began groping
their way up the narrow steps. There was not room for both to walk
abreast, so Lindsay went first and Cicely clung tightly on to her skirt
behind, ready to turn and flee precipitately if she heard the slightest
sound from above. The stairs seemed twice as long as when they had
mounted them before, and far narrower and steeper.

"Here we are!" exclaimed Lindsay, when at last they found their feet on
the flooring of the tower room. There was just light enough to faintly
distinguish objects, and they were making straight for the bell rope
when Cicely grasped Lindsay's arm in a panic of fear.

"What's that noise?" she whispered breathlessly.

"Where?"

"There! Up the ladder in the roof!"

Both girls listened, their hearts beating in great thumps. Cicely was
not mistaken. There was a faint rustling, as if someone were moving
softly about in the tower above. Too terrified even to run away, they
stood with their eyes fixed on the open trapdoor that led up to the
bell.

"He's coming!" shrieked Cicely, as something large and white appeared
silently through the aperture and glided down into the room. There was a
sudden weird, uncanny cry, like a mournful, despairing wail, and a large
pair of wings flapped through the open lattice that served for a window
out into the thickness of the yew trees beyond.

"It's an owl--a big white owl! That's your ghost, Cicely!" cried
Lindsay, with intense relief.

"It's gone, at any rate. Oh, what a fright it gave me! I thought it was
Sir Mervyn himself."

"I expect it sleeps up there during the day, and then goes out hunting
at night for birds and mice. What a fearful screech it gave!"

"Let us go and ring the bell before we have any more scares."

They dashed across the room and seized the rope. Surely since the day it
was first hung the poor old bell had never been tolled with such
frantic, hurried jerks. It was like an alarm of war or fire as the
swift, short strokes went echoing from the tower. The girls pulled and
pulled until they were both nearly exhausted.

"Somebody must have heard us by this time," said Lindsay. "Let us go
down into the church and wait by the door."

"I don't feel so afraid of Sir Mervyn now I know he's only a white owl,"
declared Cicely.

They stumbled down the stairs and across the dark nave, then stood
waiting anxiously for some sign of coming relief. Was that a distant
footstep? Yes; they heard the creaking of the lich-gate, the sound of
voices, and the crunching of boots on the gravel path. They sprang at
the door, knocking and shouting for help with all their might. In
another moment the great key turned in the lock. It was Judson, the
sexton, who stood outside, with quite a number of people from the
cottages behind him. All the village had been roused by the tolling of
the bell, and everyone expected to find either a gang of thieves at work
or the building on fire, instead of only two frightened little
schoolgirls from the Manor.

At that moment both Miss Russell and Monica came hurrying up, the latter
reproaching herself keenly for not having seen her companions safely
home, and the former very angry at their escapade. As Lindsay had
supposed, they had been expected back more than an hour ago, but Miss
Russell thought Monica must have had an unusually long practice. When
their bedtime arrived, and still they were missing, the headmistress had
grown uneasy, and started in search of them. She had gone first to the
church and found the door locked (it must have been while they were in
the vestry), so concluded that they had returned with Monica to the
cottage. She had been seriously alarmed to find they were not there, and
her anxiety was shared by the Courtenays; and both she and Monica were
on the point of rousing the whole village to aid in discovering their
whereabouts when the sudden clanging of the bell made them hasten to the
church. The girls gave a brief account of their adventure in reply to
the many enquiries of their rescuers.

"I thought I could have trusted you to return straight home," said Miss
Russell reproachfully. "No, Monica, it is not in any way your fault.
Lindsay and Cicely knew perfectly well they had no right to linger
behind, nor to enter the tower. I am disappointed in them, for I
certainly should not have allowed them to go and blow the organ if I
had believed there was the slightest opportunity for such behaviour.
They have only themselves to blame, and I consider they thoroughly
deserved the fright they have had."




CHAPTER XII

An Enigma


Though most of the delights of the summer term at the Manor consisted of
outdoor amusements, other interests were not entirely lacking. In a
magazine which Miss Russell took in for the school library there was an
announcement of a competition which offered a prize to children under
thirteen for the largest number of poetical quotations descriptive of
wild flowers. Both Lindsay and Cicely were anxious to try, and ransacked
all the volumes of poetry they could get hold of for suitable extracts.

"I think it's too much bother," said Nora Proctor. "It means looking
through such a heap of books, and then copying out the pieces so neatly
afterwards. It would take one's whole recreation time."

"And probably one wouldn't get anything for it in the end," said
Marjorie Butler.

"I began," said Effie Hargreaves, "but, as Nora says, it's far too great
a fag. I got ten quotations from Shakespeare, and six from Tennyson.
I'll give them to you, Cicely, if you like."

"Oh, thanks, if they're not the same as I have already!"

"I tried for a prize once in a magazine," said Beryl Austen, "but I only
got highly commended. I'm afraid my writing wasn't good enough."

Though the other girls did not care to compete themselves, they were
interested in Lindsay's and Cicely's lists, and gave them any assistance
they could in hunting out fresh quotations.

"I'll tell you what," said Beryl, "you ought to ask Monica. She reads a
great deal, and I believe she's rather clever at botany. I heard her
talking about the wild flowers of the neighbourhood to Miss Russell."

"Yes, I believe she has a nice pressed collection," said Effie. "She
promised to show it to us some day."

Lindsay and Cicely took Beryl's advice, and waylaid Monica as she came
to the French class next morning.

"I'm glad you asked me," she replied. "I've no doubt I shall be able to
help you; I have a good many beautiful books on botany in the library.
I'll bring the key this afternoon, and unlock the case for you."

Monica always kept her promises. She arrived about four o'clock, and
opened the large glass doors that preserved the handsome calf-bound
volumes from dust and dirt.

"Here they are," she said. "Some are very dry and scientific, and some
are popular, and have coloured pictures. There are catalogues of plants,
and schedules of species, and old herbals, and every kind of book you
can imagine that has a bearing on the subject. Some are about British
flowers and some about foreign ones, and there are others on mosses and
ferns and fungi. They used to belong to my uncle; he was extremely fond
of botany."

"Have you read them all?" asked Cicely.

"No, I'm afraid I have rather neglected them. You see, I have had so
many lessons to learn. One can't study everything at once, and Mother
particularly wants me to work hard at French. Perhaps some day I may
attack the natural orders. It will take you a long time to look through
every one of these books. I'll leave the case unlocked, so that you can
get them out when you like. I know I can trust you not to spoil the
covers, and to put each back in its proper place."

"We'll be very, very careful of them," Lindsay assured her. "We won't
carry them into the garden. We'll sit and read them here at the table."

"That will be all right, then," said Monica. "I feel they are rather a
particular charge, because they were left to me as a special legacy. I
believe my uncle valued them more than anything else in the world. I
often think I don't appreciate them as much as I ought."

As Monica had said, it took considerable labour to thoroughly examine
all the books and search for extracts. Some merely contained long lists
of Latin names, and others were far too learned and scientific to
interest schoolgirls. A few, however, treated the subject from its
romantic side, and quoted passages of poetry such as they wanted. Miss
Russell, who had encouraged them to try for the prize, gave them
permission to use the library when they pleased; so for the next few
days they spent most of their spare time there.

It was a pleasant occupation, and one that seemed to bring them into
touch with the old poets who had loved Nature so dearly, and sung so
charmingly about her blossoms. It was quite wonderful to think that
nearly six hundred years ago Chaucer had noticed and recorded the little
golden heart and white crown of the daisy; and that King James I of
Scotland, while pining as Henry IV's prisoner in Windsor Castle, could
remember and write of--

  "The sharpë, greenë, sweetë juniper,
  Growing so fair with branches here and there".

The competition proved most interesting, and, as it happened, was to be
connected with unforeseen occurrences.

One afternoon, Cicely, who was trying to work her way systematically
along the shelves, brought down a thick, bulky volume, bound in brown
leather, with metal corners, and entitled _Floral Calendar_.

"This must be an old one," she remarked. "Look how yellow the paper is,
and there are actually long S's. Someone has scribbled notes all round
the edges of the pages."

"I wonder if it was Sir Giles Courtenay?" said Lindsay.

Cicely turned to the flyleaf at the beginning. Yes, in exactly the same
rather straggling hand was the inscription:

  "GILES PEMBERTON COURTENAY,
  HAVERSLEIGH MANOR,
  SOMERSET."

"He seems to have been fond of writing in his books," said Lindsay.
"What's this opposite his name?"

On the inside of the cover quite a long piece of poetry had been copied.
It appeared to be something in the nature of an acrostic or charade, and
it ran thus:--


ENIGMA

  My _First_, among flowers you can't find a better,
  'T was used by a king for securing a letter.
  My _Second_, whose blossoms of yellow soon fade,
  Comes out every night in the calm evening shade.
  My _Third_, oft called Iris, is much in demand,
  It grows on an island named Van Diemen's Land.
  My _Fourth_, a wild flower with sweet golden eye,
  Is more blessing than "torment" to all who pass by.
  My _Fifth_, with great trusses of lavender hue,
  Is the sweetest of shrubs that the spring brings to view.
  My _Sixth_, an old blossom in medicine once famed,
  Was good for the eyesight, and thus it was named.
  Now if you have guessed all these flowers that I prize,
  Please take my initials and finals likewise:
  The former you'll find to be hiding the latter;
  If you've solved the enigma you'll see 'tis a matter
  Perchance may provide you with just a lost link,
  And bring you a greater reward than you think.

  G. P. C.

Both Lindsay and Cicely were particularly fond of any kind of riddle.
They seized upon this floral enigma with delight, and began to puzzle it
out with the help of the illustrated catalogue of plants given in the
old volume.

"How funny of Sir Giles Courtenay to have written it inside a botany
book!" said Cicely.

"I suppose he was quite mad," replied Lindsay.

"He must have made it up himself, as it's signed with his initials,"
continued Cicely. "It was rather clever of him, wasn't it?--especially
if he was mad. I'm sure I couldn't invent verses, however hard I tried."

"'My _First_, used by a king for securing a letter', is evidently
'Solomon's Seal'," said Lindsay. "Give me that spare piece of paper, and
I'll put it down."

"'My _Second'_ must be 'Evening Primrose'," said Cicely. "I can't think
of any other yellow flower that comes out at night."

The third for a long time baffled the efforts of both girls to discover
it. They searched through the lists of wild and garden flowers in vain.

"Irises are sometimes called 'flags'," ventured Cicely at last, turning
to the page of 'F' in the index. "Why, here are quite a number. There
are Asiatic flag, and corn flag, and dwarf flag, and Florentine flag,
and German flag. Oh! and a heap more, too--golden flag, and Iberian
flag, and Japanese, and Persian, and Missouri, and Tasmanian."

"That's the one!" said Lindsay. "Van Diemen's Land is the old name for
Tasmania. 'My _Third_' must be Tasmanian flag."

"Why, of course. We're getting on, aren't we?"

The fourth, as it was stated to be a wild flower, was sought for in the
list at the end of _British Flora_. It did not take a very large amount
of penetration to fix it as 'tormentilla', especially as they could
identify its golden eye in the coloured picture.

"The great trusses of lavender hue, growing on a shrub in spring, will
mean lilac. I'm getting quite proud of our guessing," declared Lindsay.

"We've only one more left now," said Cicely.

The last proved the most difficult of all. I doubt if they would have
been able to solve it, had not Lindsay chanced to take down an ancient
herbal, and found a list of plants once employed for medicine.

"Amid all herbes that do grow, and are of greatest comfort and solace to
mankind," so ran the passage, "a foremost place hath the euphrasy.
Though it be but an humble plant scarce an inch in height, yet it maketh
an ointment very precious for to cure dimness of sight. Thence it hath
been called in the vulgar tongue 'eye-bright', nevertheless its true
name is euphrasy, and thus it is known among apothecaries."

"It must be right," said Lindsay. "It's the only one that is said to do
any good to the eyesight. The others seem to be for toothaches or
agues."

"Or to heal wounds or sores," said Cicely. "People must have been
continually hurting themselves in those days, if they needed so many
'salves' and 'unguents'."

They had now discovered all the six flowers, and wrote the result neatly
down on a piece of paper.

  S olomon's Sea    L
  E vening Primros  E
  T asmanian Fla    G
  T ormentill       A
  L ila             C
  E uphras          Y

"The initials read 'settle' and the finals 'legacy'," said Cicely. "How
very queer! That hasn't anything to do with flowers."

"Let us look at the end lines again," said Lindsay, and she read aloud:

  Please take my initials and finals likewise:
  The former you'll find to be hiding the latter;
  If you've solved the enigma you'll see 'tis a matter
  Perchance may provide you with just a lost link,
  And bring you a greater reward than you think.

"The initials hide the finals. 'Settle' hides 'Legacy'," repeated Cicely
meditatively.

"Why, I see it now!" burst out Lindsay suddenly. "Oh, Cicely, I believe
it means a great deal more than an ordinary riddle! It has something to
do with the lost treasure. Don't you understand? The settle is hiding
the legacy--Monica's legacy!"

"Oh, surely not!" exclaimed Cicely, bouncing up in great excitement.

"But I really think so. The poetry says the enigma is 'to provide the
lost link' and 'bring a greater reward than you think'. This is indeed a
discovery! It's evidently intended to tell Monica where her money is to
be found."

"Can we be quite, quite certain?" hesitated Cicely.

"Well, everything seems to point to it. Don't you recollect Irene
Spencer said that in old Sir Giles' will he left 'the Manor and all that
it may contain to my great-niece Monica, especially commending to her
the volumes in my library, and advising her to pursue the study of
botany'? I remember those were the exact words. This must have been the
reason. He had written the secret of the hiding-place inside the _Floral
Calendar_, and he thought she would find it there. Perhaps he wasn't so
very mad after all."

"I wonder if Monica has seen it and puzzled it out?"

"I don't know. She said she didn't often trouble about the books."

"Then is the treasure hidden inside some old settle in the house?"

"It seems likely."

"In that case we must be wrong about the lantern room."

"Perhaps we are. Well, at any rate this throws new light on the subject,
and gives us a clue as to where to hunt. We'll go over the Manor again,
and look carefully at every settle."

"I hope we're really on the right track at last," sighed Cicely. "What a
glorious day it would be if we could actually say to Monica: 'Here's
your fortune!'"




CHAPTER XIII

Lindsay Makes a Resolve


Lindsay and Cicely thought they understood what a settle was, but, to
avoid the possibility of any mistake, they looked the word up in the
dictionary. "Settle--a long bench, with high back, for sitting on," was
the explanation given by that authority.

"So it 'settles' the matter," said Cicely, trying to make a pun.

"Well, it shows us it's not a chest, anyhow," replied Lindsay, "though
the oak bench in the passage near the top of the stairs has a kind of
box under it. The seat lifts up like a lid."

There were four pieces of old furniture in the Manor which might claim
to answer to the description given in the dictionary. Two were in the
dining-room, one in the picture gallery, and another, as Lindsay had
said, at the head of the stairs. The girls made a most lengthy and
careful inspection of them all, but without the slightest result.
Neither their backs nor their seats were hollow, or capable of
containing anything. Three of them stood upon carved oak legs, like
chairs, and though the last was made in the fashion of a chest, it
proved on investigation to be absolutely empty. It was a bitter
disappointment.

"Can we have been mistaken about the enigma?" said Cicely, almost in
tears.

"I don't believe so. What I think is, that Mrs. Wilson and Scott have
been clever enough to find the money and carry it off. Perhaps there was
another settle somewhere in the house, and they took it bodily away."

"Wouldn't Monica have missed it?"

"It may have been done just after Sir Giles died, and before she came to
the Manor."

"Where would they put it?"

"Possibly in the lantern room, inside some hiding-place they know of."

"Then, until we can find out the secret of the lantern room, it seems to
me we can't get any farther."

"And we don't even know that the treasure is still there, because it may
be buried in the garden," groaned Lindsay.

The whole affair of the lost legacy was most aggravating and
tantalizing. They seemed so continually on the point of unravelling the
mystery, only to find themselves again defeated and baffled. Cicely was
tempted to throw it up altogether in despair, but Lindsay had a native
obstinacy of disposition that could not bear to be beaten.

"I shall go on trying as long as we're at Haversleigh, on that I'm
entirely resolved," she declared. "I don't mean to give up until we're
actually on our way to the station on breaking-up day."

"And that's only three weeks off now," said Cicely.

The summer term at the Manor had proved so enjoyable that the girls were
not nearly so enthusiastic as usual for the advent of the holidays. Most
of them felt a keen regret at leaving the beautiful old place, and
bewailed the fact that the alterations at Winterburn Lodge were reported
to be progressing favourably, and that the drains there would be in
perfect order long before they need return in September.

"Couldn't we have school here always instead of in London?" they
suggested hopefully to Miss Russell.

"No," said the headmistress; "there are many considerations which would
make it impossible. Mrs. Courtenay and Monica will want to live in their
own home again, and Haversleigh is too inconvenient a place for a
permanency. We have managed wonderfully well for a few months with only
Mademoiselle, but we certainly miss Herr Hoffmann's and Monsieur
Guizet's classes, to say nothing of drawing and dancing lessons.
Visiting masters cannot arrange to come so far away from town. There are
no proper educational advantages to be had in the depths of the
country."

"We shall be sorry when it comes to good-bye," declared the girls.

"We must make the most of our remaining time here then," said Miss
Russell, "and try to see all we can in the neighbourhood before we go."

The mistress's birthday, falling on the following Wednesday, offered a
propitious opportunity for an excursion such as she suggested. The girls
were accustomed to celebrate the occasion with some little festivity,
and were delighted when it was arranged that they should visit the town
of Appleford, about ten miles away.

"There is the Dripping Well to see, and a fine old church," said Miss
Russell. "I am sure we shall be able to spend a very pleasant afternoon
there. We must ask Monica to come with us."

There was some doubt at first as to whether Monica would be able to
accept the invitation. She had missed her French lesson one day, and
arrived at school late on the next, looking pale and upset. Mrs.
Courtenay had been very ill, so she explained. The doctor had been sent
for, and had given an unfavourable report. Naturally extra care and
attention were needful, and who could give these so well as her own
daughter?

On the day of the picnic Monica turned up with rather an anxious face.

"I scarcely like to leave Mother," she said, "but she wants me so much
to have this treat that she would not rest content until she had seen me
put on my hat and start off. Fortunately Jenny is a good nurse, and will
look after her nicely. Still, I always feel uneasy when I am long away
from her."

The girls were to drive the whole distance to Appleford, and the
prospect was so exhilarating that everyone was at the high-water mark of
enjoyment. Even poor Monica caught the prevailing spirit, and for the
moment, at least, began to forget her cares. There was just room to pack
both teachers and pupils into the four wagonettes which arrived from the
George Inn, but nobody seemed to mind crushing, and even Mademoiselle
was in a good temper.

"I smile because I shall again see shops and streets," she declared.

"I believe Mademoiselle will be delighted to go back to Winterburn
Lodge," said Marjorie Butler, who was in another wagonette, but
overheard the remark.

"Yes, I think she's absolutely yearning for pavements and lamp-posts,"
said Cicely. "She'll weep with joy at the sight of a tramcar. She says
it is terribly 'triste' here."

"Mademoiselle is French," observed Effie Hargreaves scornfully.

"What a very original remark! You didn't suppose we took her for a
German?"

"Well, I mean she's a foreigner at any rate, so we can't expect her to
like the country," replied Effie, with true British prejudice.

There were several small excitements on the journey. Beryl's hat was
blown by a sudden puff of wind over a bridge, and was in great peril of
descending into the river when it was rescued by the driver; the door of
the second wagonette burst suddenly open, and nearly precipitated Irene
Spencer into the road; while the whole cavalcade was brought to a
standstill at a narrow turning by finding a broken-down motor-car
blocking up the way.

Appleford proved to be a delightfully quaint old country town, with
twisting streets and black-and-white houses.

"I'm afraid Mademoiselle will be very disappointed with the fashions.
She certainly won't find Paris modes here," laughed Marjorie Butler,
looking at the one row of small shop windows that appeared to satisfy
the wants of the population.

"I'm glad there's a confectioner's, anyhow," said Effie Hargreaves, who
was burning to spend her pocket-money on chocolates.

"And a place for picture postcards," added Nora Proctor; "I can see a
whole tray full of them standing outside that door."

The arrival of four wagonettes containing so many schoolgirls evidently
caused quite an excitement in the usually quiet street. Heads were
popped out of windows, shopkeepers came to their doors, and people began
to collect at corners and stare.

"Almost as if we were a wild-beast show!" said Cicely.

"I believe they hope we're going to march in procession round the market
square and sing, or play as a band," declared Nora Proctor.

"Come along, girls! I am afraid we are attracting too much attention,"
said Miss Russell. "Let us set off for the Dripping Well as fast as we
can. You must make any purchases you want when we return; I cannot let
you wait now."

Effie Hargreaves had already dived into the toffee shop, and issued with
several paper packages in her hand; so she went on her way rejoicing
that she had seized the opportunity while there was yet time.
Fortunately for the others, she was of a generous disposition, and ready
to share her sweets.

"We'll pay you back when we get some of our own," said Marjorie Butler,
blissfully sucking a caramel.

The Dripping Well was situated in a wood, about a mile from the town,
and was, as the guide-book described it, "a most curious natural
phenomenon". The water trickled slowly over a large rock, and was so
charged with lime that it left a thin deposit over everything it
touched. Articles hung up there, after a short time bore the appearance
of having been turned to stone. All kinds of objects were suspended from
the rock, in the process of being encrusted by the lime--top hats,
boots, stockings, gloves, loaves of bread, and even bunches of flowers.

"It looks just as if the Gorgon had stared at them and petrified them
with a glance," said Nora.

"I wonder, if we were hung up, should we turn solid too?" said Lindsay.

The caretaker of the well had many specimens to show them which he had
polished, and was anxious to sell. There was quite a large collection in
his cottage. The girls, after hastily conferring together, bought a
stone bouquet as a birthday present for Miss Russell, an offering which
she declared should grace the school museum when they returned to
Winterburn Lodge.

"I thought she'd have put it in the drawing-room," said Beryl Austen,
rather disappointed.

"Well, of course it is more of a curiosity than an ornament," said
Mildred Roper. "It wouldn't have looked very beautiful decorating the
mantel-piece, I'm afraid--not nearly so nice as a real bunch of
flowers."

Close to the well was a cave in the cliff which a hermit had once used
for his cell--a very picturesque spot to have chosen for his
meditations, so the girls decided.

"But horribly damp; the poor man must have been racked with rheumatism,"
said Miss Frazer, who was of a practical mind.

"Perhaps, like Friar Tuck, he didn't often use it, and preferred to hunt
venison in the woods," suggested Kathleen Crawford.

"No, he was a really devout hermit, who told his beads, and lived on
bread and water," said Monica. "He dug his own grave in the rock about a
hundred yards from here. You can see it still, though his bones have
long ago been taken away for relics."

"I wonder if they petrified them first in the well," said Nora Proctor,
"and how much they sold them for? There are more than two hundred bones
in the human body, so a hermit ought to have been worth a good deal when
he was properly divided."

"You naughty, irreverent girl!" said Monica.

Tea had been prepared at the old-fashioned inn in the market square.
Afterwards they went to look through the church, where there were some
fine examples of Gothic carving, and several beautiful stained-glass
windows. One in particular, which Monica pointed out, was in memory of a
member of the Courtenay family. There was a chained Bible, besides a
black-letter Prayer Book, a pair of tongs for turning dogs out of
church, and several other curiosities shown by the old verger; so time
passed rapidly, and everyone was quite surprised when Miss Russell
looked at her watch, and announced that they must be returning home.

"Will someone fetch Monica? I believe she is in the churchyard with the
Rector's wife," she said.

Lindsay and Cicely volunteered to go, and found their friend under a big
yew tree, engaged in talking to a lady who was evidently making
enquiries about Mrs. Courtenay. Not liking to intrude and interrupt the
conversation, they stood waiting until they should be noticed.

"The doctor was over yesterday," Monica was saying, with a choke in her
voice. "He told me our only chance is to send to London for Sir William
Garrett. And how can we? His fee is a hundred guineas."

"That is a heavy amount."

"Impossible for us. You know how gladly I would sell even the Manor to
raise the money, but I cannot touch a penny of my property until I come
of age, and that won't be for more than four years. I try not to blame
Uncle Giles, yet sometimes----"

Here Monica broke down altogether, and wiped her eyes.

"You mustn't give up hope, my dear child," said the Rector's wife
kindly. "Perhaps your mother may be spared to you after all. Strange
things come to pass sometimes, and good can often result from evil."

"I wish I could believe so," sobbed Monica. "I don't care in the least
about the fortune for myself; I only want it when I think of what it
might do for her!"

       *       *       *       *       *

"Cicely!" said Lindsay solemnly the next morning, as she tied her hair
ribbon before the looking-glass, "we simply must have another try to
find that treasure."

Cicely paused with her brush in her hand.

"It's dreadful that Mrs. Courtenay may die because they can't scrape
together a hundred guineas," she agreed.

"And Monica is breaking her heart over it," continued Lindsay. "She goes
about looking so unhappy, it makes me quite miserable too. I'd give
everything in the world I have to help her."

"I don't know where we're to hunt next. We seem to have explored every
corner, and we never have any luck."

Cicely's voice sounded utterly despondent.

"We can only go to the lantern room again. It's the one place where
we're sure there's a secret. If Merle could discover something there,
why shouldn't we?"

It appeared a forlorn hope, but anything was better than just sitting
down and making no effort at all. Monica's troubles weighed much on
Lindsay's mind. The idea that the invalid must slip out of life for lack
of the money that might save her seemed too cruel to be endured.

"I wish I had a hundred guineas of my own to give them," she thought
sorrowfully. "Oh dear! it's such a big sum--one might as well wish for
the moon. I'm afraid there's not the slightest chance for poor Mrs.
Courtenay unless the legacy turns up."

It was in rather a dejected mood that the girls betook themselves to the
upper landing that afternoon, and once more climbed the now familiar
winding staircase. The lantern room looked exactly the same as on their
two former visits. There was nothing in it to excite interest or arouse
curiosity. A more unromantic chamber could not be conceived.

The window was closed, the rusty firegrate contained only a few ashes,
and the door of the cupboard stood open, revealing rows of empty
shelves. The one object worthy of notice was the ancient lantern, which
hung from a hook in the middle of the ceiling. That, at any rate, was
curious. It was of a quaint, medieval pattern, and the sides, instead of
being of glass, were of thin pieces of horn.

"It's a funny old thing," said Lindsay. "I suppose they used a dip
candle for it. I wonder if there's a piece left in it still?"

She stood on tiptoe, and made an effort to open the lantern, but it was
hung too high to allow her to peep inside. Reaching up as best she
could, she gave it a jerk, to try to lift it down. Quite suddenly and
unexpectedly the lantern and hook descended by a chain from the ceiling.
There was a strange grating sound, and, turning round, the girls saw a
sight which made them gasp with amazement.




CHAPTER XIV

The Lantern Room


Lindsay and Cicely might well cry out with surprise. A most peculiar
thing had happened. A part of the back of the cupboard had opened like a
door, revealing a narrow passage behind. Here at last was the
hiding-place for which they had sought so long in vain.

They had never suspected the cupboard. It looked so ordinary, with its
rows of shelves, that no one would have dreamt it concealed a secret
exit. By a clever arrangement the lantern evidently worked a spring, and
when pulled down caused the door to unclose automatically. Somebody in
days gone by had no doubt constructed it thus to form a refuge in time
of danger. The girls were in raptures of delight.

"This, of course, was where Mrs. Wilson vanished," said Lindsay.

"And what Merle saw," added Cicely.

[Illustration: THE SECRET DOOR]

It was an intense satisfaction to have found it out for themselves,
especially when they had come upstairs with such small expectation of
success. Where did the passage lead? That was naturally the first
question they asked each other.

"It looks very dark," said Cicely, peering rather nervously into the
opening.

"I wish we had a candle," said Lindsay. "There isn't even an end left
inside the lantern, and we've no matches either."

"Shall I go downstairs and fetch some?" suggested Cicely.

"No, no! You might meet 'The Griffin' on the way. We'd better explore
now, as quickly as we can, while the coast is clear."

It needed a little screwing up of courage to plunge into the dim
obscurity before them. Lindsay went first, with Cicely clinging
particularly closely on to her arm behind. The passage seemed to lead
along the inside of the wall for about two yards, then took a sharp
turn, and ended at the foot of a kind of ladder stairway.

One gleam of light fell from above, as if through some small chink in
the roof, just sufficient to allow them to distinguish their
surroundings and enable them to scramble up the rough steps. At the top
they found themselves in a huge garret, how big they could not tell, for
the corners were completely lost in black nothingness. The floor was
thick with dust (such old dust!), and was so worm-eaten and rotten that
it felt quite soft and crumbling under their feet.

They were close beneath the tiles, to judge from the rafters overhead.
The air was hot and stifling, and had that stale, mouldy smell
noticeable in places long shut up. They began to walk cautiously along,
peering on all sides as their eyes grew more accustomed to the darkness.

"It's just the place for them to have put the treasure," said Cicely.

"If we only had a light!" sighed Lindsay. "I want to go nearer the wall,
and see if I can find any heaps of money or silver tankards."

She groped her way a little more boldly across the room, and, putting
out her foot, began to feel about.

"Do be careful!" begged Cicely.

It was a most necessary warning. The ancient, rotten boards could not
stand the strain of Lindsay's weight, and down went her leg, making a
great hole in the floor. Luckily she was not seriously hurt, only
scratched and considerably frightened. With Cicely's help she managed to
extricate herself, and withdrew to the safer middle of the garret.

"The old house must be almost ready to tumble down," she declared.

"Monica said parts of the Manor were very much out of repair," replied
Cicely. "Besides, if this is a secret place, no one could ever come up
to mend it."

"I wonder where my leg went to?" said Lindsay.

"Perhaps into some room below."

"In that case Mrs. Wilson will notice a hole in the ceiling, and will
know somebody has been up here."

It was not an encouraging incident, but they were determined to venture
farther all the same.

"We couldn't think of turning back now," said Lindsay.

At the far end of the room there was a door that seemed to lead into an
attic even darker than the first.

"It's not much use going in there without a light," said Cicely.

"Just a few steps," said Lindsay.

She entered, and put up her hand to feel the height of the roof above.
Instantly there was a tremendous rushing sound around them. The air
seemed filled with flapping, shadowy forms, which brushed lightly
against their cheeks. In an agony of fear poor Cicely shrieked and
shrieked again, and clung to Lindsay desperately, as to the one
substantial and human thing in the midst of what was horrible and
unknown.

"All right, they're only bats," gasped Lindsay, in a rather quavering
voice. "We've disturbed them, I expect."

Slightly reassured, Cicely dared to raise her head from her friend's
shoulder and look round. They were surrounded by the fluttering wings
of the bats. These little denizens of the darkness must have been
hanging in numbers from the ceiling, and Lindsay's entrance had
disturbed them. With strange squeaks and hisses they flitted to and fro
for a few moments, then flew off to seek some safer retreat.

"I hope they've really gone," said Cicely, heaving a sigh of relief.
"Don't go any farther in there, Lindsay. You can't see an inch before
your face."

"But it may be the one important place," said Lindsay, yielding
reluctantly as Cicely pulled her back into the outer garret. "I'd
exchange all my next birthday presents for a candle."

"Hush! I want to listen. I thought I heard something."

"What?"

"A kind of rustling."

"I expect it was the bats, or a rat."

Cicely gave an apprehensive glance behind. Her nerves were not so strong
as Lindsay's. Though she had had time to grow accustomed to scratchings
inside the wainscots at the Manor, she could not overcome her dread of
rats. Perhaps Lindsay was less valiant in her heart of hearts than she
would have liked to confess. After all, it was little satisfaction to
explore a room where she could see nothing.

She was just deciding to go, when Cicely once more clutched her arm.

"Oh, what is it?"

The exclamation burst simultaneously from the lips of the two girls.
Close, almost, as it seemed, in their ears, echoed that horrible low
groan which had so terrified them twice before. Heard amidst such
strange and dim surroundings, it was more than flesh and blood could
stand. Without waiting to make any further investigations, they turned
and fled.

They hardly knew afterwards how they had stumbled across the rotten
floor and scrambled down the ladder. With blinking eyes they looked into
each other's scared faces as they emerged from the dark passage into the
bright daylight of the lantern room again.

"What a dreadful place!" shuddered Cicely. "I'm thankful we've got
safely away from it. I don't believe I'd venture up there again for all
the fortunes in the world."

"We must close the entrance," said Lindsay anxiously. "We must take care
to leave everything as we found it."

The secret door shut with a spring, and in a moment there was nothing to
be seen again but the innocent-looking cupboard. The lantern had
ascended to its former place in the ceiling; the chain worked on a
pulley, and, as it ran up or down, it fastened or unloosed the lock.

Cicely, at any rate, was not sorry to descend to the more civilized
portions of the house.

"I wonder if Merle explored as far as we did," she said.

"I hardly think so," returned Lindsay. "She couldn't have had time. I
believe she must have met 'The Griffin' coming out, and have been
frightened into not telling."

The more the girls talked the matter over, the more complicated seemed
the mystery. Though they had found Mrs. Wilson's hiding-place, they were
no nearer ascertaining whether the treasure was concealed there or
elsewhere. Out in the sunshine Lindsay's courage returned, and she began
to reproach herself for having given up the search so soon.

"We'll go some other day, and take two candles and a box of matches with
us," she announced.

"Is it really any good?"

Cicely's spirit quailed at the prospect of once more encountering the
unknown horrors that might be lurking in that dark attic. She could not
forget the groans she had heard there.

"Of course it is! I didn't think you'd be the one to draw back," said
Lindsay reproachfully. "We've both pledged ourselves to do everything in
our power to help Monica. It would be mean and cowardly to give in just
because we felt afraid. If you don't care to come with me, I shall have
to go alone. I'm only waiting for a good opportunity."

For several days the opportunity tarried. Mrs. Wilson was too often
about the passages to make the expedition safe. On one occasion Cicely
went to act scout, but found the housemaid sweeping the top landing, and
had to beat a hasty retreat.

They were not able to discover where Lindsay's leg had descended so
suddenly through the rotten floor, or whether any of the ceilings in the
upper rooms had suffered in consequence. If Mrs. Wilson had found out
the damage, she kept her own counsel. When at last they managed to seize
a favourable chance, and to steal up the winding staircase, a sad
checkmate awaited them. The door of the lantern room was securely
fastened with a padlock.

"Scott said he was going to put one on," said Lindsay, after staring
blankly at the unwelcome impediment. "Don't you remember, when he was
talking to 'The Griffin' in the picture gallery, and she told him we had
been here?"

"I'm certain they suspect us," returned Cicely. "Perhaps they only took
part of the silver or jewellery away in that sack, and the rest is still
up in the garret."

The sole plan of action they could think of after this last
disappointment was to keep a watch upon Scott. If he had really
concealed a portion of the treasure in the garden, he would probably go
to look at it occasionally, to make sure of its safety. At Cicely's
urgent request they had already made a careful examination, with a
trowel, of the bank where Scott had been digging when they surprised him
in the dark. It was fruitless work, however; nothing was there.

"I told you beforehand they wouldn't be so foolish," said Lindsay.

"I thought they might have dropped a piece of money, or an ear-ring
perhaps, in their hurry--just something to show us what had actually
been here," said Cicely, grubbing about in the loose soil.

"Trust Scott and Mrs. Wilson! They're an uncommonly clever couple. You
may be sure they'd take care not to leave even a sixpence behind them."

"I've heard that criminals can't keep away from a place where they've
buried anything," continued Cicely. "They always haunt the spot."

"Then we must notice where Scott goes most frequently," replied Lindsay.

For the present, Scott seemed to be particularly attracted to the
cucumber frames.

"He's there constantly," said Cicely.

"Far oftener than is necessary, I'm sure," agreed Lindsay.

"It might be a likely place, too," added Cicely meditatively.

Several small incidents seemed to confirm their surmises.

"He was so cross last night when Marjorie Butler sent her ball over the
hedge into the kitchen-garden, and went to fetch it," said Lindsay.

"Yes, he said she might have broken the glass in one of the frames; but
I don't suppose that was the real reason. She may have gone near him
just when he was putting something back."

"I heard Miss Russell asking him when the cucumbers would be ready, and
he answered in a great hurry: 'Not for ever so long yet'. And then he
said it was 'best not to be lifting the frames, and disturbing them more
than needful'."

"He was evidently afraid she was going to ask to see them."

The idea that silver cups, jewels, or spade-guineas might be lying
hidden under the glossy leaves of the cucumber plants began to obtain
possession of the girls' minds.

"If we could only manage to look while he's out of the way," suggested
Cicely eagerly.

Scott's close attention to his duties was most annoying. There really
appeared to be something in Cicely's theory of criminals haunting a
particular spot. He seemed never absent from the kitchen-garden, at any
rate when they were in its vicinity. They could hear him mowing the lawn
during lesson hours, but when recreation arrived, and they ran out
hopefully to reconnoitre, he would be weeding the strawberries, or
gathering peas within a few feet of his cherished hotbeds.

"There's only one way for it," said Lindsay. "We shall have to make a
plot. You must hide near the kitchen-garden, and I'll do something to
take him off; then, while he's gone, you must rush to the frames and
open them."

"That would be grand! What will you do?

"I shall have to think it over. I know! We'll wait till this evening,
when he's watering the cucumbers. I'll stand on the pipe of the hose;
that will stop the water, and he'll go to see what's the matter."

"Capital!" agreed Cicely.

It took a little scheming to arrange their plan satisfactorily. They
were much afraid lest Scott should do his watering earlier than usual,
and greatly relieved when they ran out after preparation to find him
only just beginning to uncoil his hose. He used a small tank on wheels,
which he generally left on the gravel walk outside the kitchen-garden,
bringing the indiarubber tubing through the hedge.

To the girls' extreme annoyance, Marjorie Butler spied them, and, coming
up, insisted upon reading aloud to them a letter she had received that
morning from a sailor cousin. Would she never go away? It was too
tiresome of her to confide in them at such an inappropriate time.

"Don't let us keep you, if you want to play tennis," begged Lindsay,
with cold politeness.

"Oh, I don't mind at all, thank you! I thought you'd be interested to
hear about Cousin Cyril," replied Marjorie.

Lindsay wished sincerely that Cousin Cyril had been at the bottom of the
sea, instead of sailing over it and writing long descriptions of its
charms. The precious moments were passing by. She could hear the gentle
swish of the water as Scott applied the hose; if they were not quick, he
would have finished, and the opportunity would be gone.

"I believe Miss Russell is coming out to play croquet to-night," she
ventured desperately.

"Is she? Oh! she promised I might be on her side next time. I wonder if
she's there yet? I must go and see at once."

"Thank goodness!" ejaculated Lindsay, as their classmate's blue-linen
dress disappeared along the avenue. "Now, I'm going to put this heavy
stone on the hose pipe, just where it goes through the hedge. Then we'll
both creep through that hole into the kitchen-garden."

Without wasting another minute, Lindsay hastily did as she had said,
concealing the stone among the long grass, after which both girls
crawled through the hedge into the midst of a bed of Jerusalem
artichokes. As they had expected, their plot answered admirably. Scott
gave a grunt of vexation, and looked at his hose. His water supply had
undoubtedly failed him. He stumped away, grumbling, to examine the tank.

"I don't believe he'll ever look amongst the grass. He'll think
something's wrong with the tap," chuckled Lindsay.

The moment Scott had vanished through the gate, they dashed (regardless
of the artichokes!) in the direction of the frames. Lindsay slid her
hands rapidly in a search under the large, vine-like leaves; and Cicely,
armed with a trowel, began to dig furiously. All in vain! Though they
prodded the soil with sticks they could not feel anything particularly
solid underneath, and there was no time to make very deep excavations.

"He's coming back!" panted Lindsay. "Smooth the earth over in that
corner, and place that leaf to hide it. Quick, or he'll catch us! Don't
go through the artichokes; we must run the other way!"




CHAPTER XV

Hide-and-Seek


The July days literally flew, and the term was drawing rapidly to a
close. Miss Russell seemed determined to make the very most of the last
weeks at the Manor, and arranged something fresh for nearly every
afternoon. On one day there was a cricket match, on another a putting
contest, and on a third a tennis tournament, all of which caused much
excitement in the small world of the school.

Both Lindsay and Cicely were fond of games, and anxious to win their
share of distinction, so by mutual consent they decided to relax their
watch on Scott until after the athletic sports. These were always
considered a great event, and this year were to be on a larger scale
than usual.

"It's so splendid to be able to have them in these lovely grounds," said
Mildred Roper. "There never seemed half enough room on the lawn at
Winterburn Lodge."

"I hear Miss Russell is going to give quite a party," volunteered Nora
Proctor. "She's invited the Rector and Mrs. Cross and all the people
who have called on her at Haversleigh, so we shall have plenty of
spectators."

"I wish Mrs. Courtenay could come," exclaimed Cicely.

"I wish indeed she could. I'm afraid she must be worse to-day, as Monica
was not at the history class," said Mildred.

All the girls were busy "getting into good form", as they expressed it.
The elder ones worked untiringly at tennis, while the younger ones
practised running with a zeal worthy of candidates for a Marathon race.

"Miss Russell says there'll be several handicaps, but she won't tell us
what they are," remarked Beryl Austen.

"Well, it's much more fun if you don't know beforehand," returned Effie
Hargreaves. "They wouldn't be handicaps if we could do them too easily."

"I found a piece of four-leaved clover yesterday," observed Cicely, "so
I ought to be lucky. I showed it to Mademoiselle, and she was quite
envious. 'Vous aurez la chance!'" she said.

"How jolly! Have you kept it?"

"Rather! I've left it to press between two pieces of blotting-paper,
under a pile of books. I'm going to have it put in a locket when I go
home."

"I don't believe in luck," declared Nora. "I'm sure all the four-leaved
clovers in the world wouldn't make Marjorie Butler win a race. She's out
of breath before she's run ten yards."

"Is Monica going to take part?" asked Beryl.

"I don't know. She said she had put her name down provisionally. If she
does, I expect she'll astonish us all. She can jump most
beautifully--she's as light as a feather."

The afternoon of the sports was brilliantly fine. By half-past two the
guests had assembled on the big lawn. They looked quite a small crowd.
The school had aroused interest in the neighbourhood, and people had
come from several miles' distance in response to Miss Russell's cards of
invitation. Irene Spencer was the only girl who could boast of having
any relations present, her uncle, aunt, and several cousins having
driven over from Linforth Vicarage. The visitors were evidently prepared
to enjoy everything.

"It is not often we have an opportunity in the country of witnessing
Olympic games. I am looking forward to seeing so many young Atalantas
run races. Where are the wreaths of laurel and parsley that are to grace
the occasion?" said Mr. Cross, the genial rector, who was fond of a
joke, and at home among schoolgirls.

"There aren't any," laughed Cicely. "Miss Russell uses the laurel leaves
to flavour the custards, and the parsley to garnish the hams."

"I'm astonished at her putting such classic plants to such ignoble
purposes. She has asked me to distribute the prizes, and I thought I
should be expected to place green chaplets upon the brows of the
victors. It's too bad, when I had composed a speech on purpose. You
suggest I should make up another? Not so easy, my dears. I shall come to
some of you for assistance. I wonder if Miss Frazer would be equal to
the occasion?"

"I'm sure she couldn't think of anything funny," declared Cicely.

"Then I shall have to trust to what I can say on the spur of the moment.
If you notice I'm breaking down, please begin to clap, and then
everybody will suppose I have finished. Here comes Miss Russell. I
believe she wants me to act umpire too. Greatness is being thrust upon
me. I hope I shan't disgrace my high position."

In spite of the Rector's mock protestations, he seemed very capable of
managing the sports, and reviewed the rows of waiting girls with the eye
of a general.

"It takes me back to my own schooldays," he said. "I used to think then
I would much rather win the long jump than be made Archbishop of
Canterbury; and I considered the captain of our cricket club a far
bigger fellow than the Prime Minister. Where's Monica? Isn't she joining
in to-day's doings?"

Monica arrived at the last moment, just when everybody had given her up,
and took her place quietly among the members of the first form.

"I was afraid I couldn't come at all," she explained; "but Mother is
asleep now, so I can leave her for an hour, at any rate. I have told
Jenny to send for me if she wakes."

The first item on the programme was a tennis contest, limited to the
elder girls. It was a hard-fought battle, as the competitors were evenly
balanced, and it ended in a victory for Mildred Roper and Kathleen
Crawford. Monica played well, but she had not been able to spend so much
time at practice as the others, and she missed several balls.

"It was very stupid of me," she apologized. "I never seem to grow
accustomed to Mildred's fast serves."

A race followed for the second class, which Irene Spencer, much cheered
by her cousins, nearly succeeded in winning, though she was beaten at
the last by Merle Hammond, who made a sudden and unexpected spurt. It
was now the turn of the third-form girls. They were to run a handicap,
and awaited particulars with much eagerness.

"Miss Russell seems to set as severe tasks as the wicked stepmother in
the fairy tales," said Mr. Cross. "She decrees that you are each to be
given a small box of peas and beans and buttons mixed together, and that
you are to sort them before you start to run the race. Will you please
all kneel on the grass with your boxes in front of you. Are you ready?
One--two--three--off!"

It was a question of deftness of fingers. Effie Hargreaves justified the
old proverb, "More haste, less speed", by upsetting her box; and
Marjorie Butler got her piles mixed in her agitation. Cicely finished
first, and was halfway across the lawn before Nora Proctor overtook her.
It was a keen struggle between these two. All the others were some
distance behind, for Lindsay was not so fleet of foot, and Beryl Austen
slipped and fell on the dry grass.

"It's Nora! No, it's Cicely!" cried the girls. "Well done, Cicely! Go
on, Nora! She's gaining! No, she isn't! Why, it's Cicely after all!" as
the latter reached the winning-post a couple of yards in advance of her
opponent.

"Well run!" said the Rector. "You got over the course like young
greyhounds. If you learn lessons at the same speed, you will turn out
prodigies. Why is Miss Russell shaking her head? She says there is no
danger of that. Really, I feel quite relieved to hear it. I was
beginning to be almost afraid of you. I believe you are expected to pick
up the beans before we continue our proceedings."

The programme was arranged so as to be as varied as possible. There were
a round at clock-golf, a skipping tournament, an egg-and-spoon race, and
an archery contest.

"It's jumping next," said Lindsay, as Miss Frazer and Miss Humphreys
came forward, carrying a rope; "the first-form girls are to begin. I
particularly want to see Monica."

Monica had taken her place modestly at the very end of the line, so that
at each trial she was the last to compete. Her movements were very light
and graceful, and the girls watched her with approval. One by one, as
the rope was raised higher, the competitors began to thin, till at
length their number was reduced to three--Kathleen Crawford, Bertha
Marston, and Monica.

All looked eagerly to see the next attempt. Kathleen just managed to
scramble over, Bertha failed utterly, but Monica took the jump with
absolute ease.

"This will be the final test, I expect," said Miss Russell, when the two
successful ones returned to the starting-point.

"I don't think they can do that!" murmured Lindsay, gazing with awe at
what was to her the impossible height required.

It was too much for Kathleen. She ran, balked, and made another vain
effort, to give it up.

"Now, Monica!"

The name was on everybody's lips.

Monica appeared to be perfectly cool, far less excited, indeed, than the
spectators.

"Rest a moment, my dear, if you are out of breath," suggested Miss
Russell.

"No, thank you. It would hardly seem fair to Kathleen. I'll try now."

"Took it like a bird!" cried the Rector, clapping his hands, as the rope
was once more successfully cleared.

The girls raised a storm of cheering, to show partly their admiration
for the skilful deed, partly their appreciation of Monica herself.

"She is a great favourite in the school," Miss Russell explained to Mr.
Cross.

"I am delighted to see her mixing with other young people," he replied;
"she has a dull time, poor child, as a rule, and has felt the
disappointment about her uncle's property more than she cares to
confess. Mrs. Courtenay's illness is very distressing. My wife was
speaking to the doctor yesterday: he considers Sir William Garrett ought
to be sent for at once; in a few weeks it may prove too late."

"You have known the family a long time?" asked Miss Russell.

"Since Monica's birth. I was as well acquainted with old Sir Giles as he
would allow anyone to be. I used to call and see him sometimes, and
discuss botany, the only subject in which he showed any interest. He
lived so penuriously that his income must have accumulated for many
years. He rarely spoke of business matters, but on one occasion he
requested me to sign my name as witness to some document, the contents
of which he did not tell me.

"He referred, however, to Monica as if she were to benefit substantially
under his will, and asked me if I considered it harmful for a girl to be
left an heiress. I assured him it would not be so in her case; both her
disposition and upbringing were such that money could not spoil her.

"'A season of adversity is often the best preparation for prosperity,'
he replied.

"I have remembered his words ever since.

"He sent for me on his deathbed, and I have sometimes wondered if there
were any secret he wished to confide to me. Most unfortunately I was
visiting a sick parishioner several miles away, and did not get the
message in time. When I arrived at the Manor he was past speech. He
tried to scrawl a few lines on a piece of paper, but the writing was
quite undecipherable. If he regretted any earthly act, it was too late
then to alter it; he was going to settle his great account."

While the Rector and the headmistress were talking, tea had been carried
into the garden, and the girls now busied themselves in attending on the
guests.

"I think the competitors must need refreshment more than we do," said
Mrs. Cross, as Cicely handed her the cream.

"They are not forgotten," said Miss Russell, "but they are only too
pleased to make themselves useful first."

Certainly the girls could not complain of being neglected; both cakes
and strawberries were waiting for them on a separate table, where Miss
Frazer was presiding.

When tea was over, the prizes were brought out, and the Rector, with a
few appropriate remarks, began to distribute the awards. Cicely went up
proudly to receive a pencil-case, and Nora Proctor, who had won the
egg-and-spoon race, was presented with a box of chocolates.

"First prize for high jump, Monica Courtenay," announced Mr. Cross.

Everyone looked round for Monica, but she was nowhere to be found.

"She was here just before tea," said Miss Humphreys.

"I saw their maid come and speak to her during the archery competition,"
said Beryl Austen. "She went away immediately."

"She was obliged to go to her mother, no doubt, and did not wish to
interrupt the shooting by saying good-bye," commented Miss Russell. "We
must keep her prize for her."

"She won't get the clapping, though," lamented Lindsay.

"I think Monica will be rather glad to avoid that," said Mildred Roper.
"She's so shy and retiring, she doesn't like to be made a public
character."

The day following the sports was hopelessly wet. Lindsay and Cicely were
awakened in the morning by the drip, drip of the rain on the ivy
outside, and the splashing of water as it fell from the spout into the
butt underneath. It was an absolutely drenching downpour, coming from a
leaden sky that showed no prospect of clearing.

The weather had been so glorious during their stay at the Manor that
they felt aggrieved at the change. It was particularly annoying, because
Irene's uncle and aunt had invited all the girls to walk over to
Linforth that afternoon, promising to show them the church, and to
regale them with cherries afterwards in the Vicarage orchard.

"Wet at seven, fine at eleven!" said the sanguine Cicely.

"Not to-day, I'm afraid," replied Lindsay. "The glass was dropping last
night. It's set in for a deluge."

The whole school seemed slightly depressed in spirits in consequence of
the rain. No doubt it was a reaction from the excitement of the
afternoon before. All their favourite occupations lay outside, and it
was so long since they had been weather-bound that they seemed scarcely
able to amuse themselves in the house. Everybody lounged about idly
during afternoon recreation, looking dismally out of the windows at the
lawns, where the markings of the tennis courts were being rapidly washed
away.

"It's no use staring at the puddles," said Lindsay. "We can't possibly
go to Linforth. It's just a piece of abominably bad luck. Everything's
horrid!"

Lessons had not been a success that morning. Perhaps Miss Frazer also
felt the influence of the gloomy day. Her pupils, at any rate, had been
unusually stupid and inattentive; Lindsay, in particular, had merited a
sharp scolding, and was dejected in consequence.

"We must do something," said Cicely. "I vote we hunt up the rest of our
class, and go upstairs and have a really good game of hide-and-seek."

As anything seemed better than sitting still, the other girls agreed
readily to come and play.

"Two can hide and four can look," said Marjorie. "Only, we'll keep on
this landing."

The old Manor offered a splendid field for the purpose; it was so full
of cupboards and crannies and odd nooks that it was quite hard to find
anybody. The dull day improved the fun, for twilight reigned in most of
the passages, and rendered many hairbreadth escapes possible. Nora
actually had her hand on Beryl's foot without discovering the fact;
Effie crept inside a suit of armour, and baffled pursuit for ever so
long; and Marjorie was almost given up, but at length was discovered
crouching in a dark angle which the others had passed several times
without noticing her.

It was now the turn of Lindsay and Cicely to hide. They were determined
to choose a specially good place, and debated the point until the latter
grew impatient.

"Do be quick!" she exclaimed. "They'll soon have finished counting a
hundred."

"I can't make up my mind whether it's better behind the tapestry or
under the ottoman," deliberated Lindsay.

"Cuckoo!" cried Beryl's voice.

"They're coming! We've no time for either. We must get into the old
box-settle."

It was the only possible retreat near at hand. Already they could hear
the girls' footsteps creaking along the oaken boards of the picture
gallery; in another moment they would have turned into the passage, and
reached the top of the stairs. Without more ado both hiders scrambled
inside the settle, and pulled down the lid over their heads.

It was a very tight fit indeed for two, and most uncomfortable.

"Could you let me have an inch more room?" begged Cicely in an agonized
whisper.

"I'll try," returned Lindsay.

It was difficult to stir in such narrow quarters. To move at all, she
was obliged to make a vigorous heave towards her end of the chest. The
effect was as unexpected as extraordinary. Lo and behold! the entire
bottom of the settle seemed to give way, and without any warning the two
girls were precipitated into some unknown place below.




CHAPTER XVI

A Surprise


So sudden was their descent that Lindsay and Cicely had no time even to
cry out. They evidently had not fallen far, and though for a moment they
both thought they were killed, they soon found that beyond a few bruises
neither was hurt. They picked themselves up in a state of bewilderment,
and stared around them as if hardly realizing yet what had happened.

They were in a little low chamber about eight feet square. The walls
were of unpolished oak timbers, roughly plastered in between, and the
floor also was of oak beams. In one corner there was a tiny window,
covered with a mass of cobwebs, through which nevertheless came
sufficient light to enable them to see their surroundings. The trapdoor
in the ceiling, through which they had dropped so unexpectedly, must
have worked on a swivel, for it had righted itself again, and was once
more closed above them.

Still half-dazed, the girls stood for a moment trying to recover their
scattered wits, too shaken and amazed even to speak.

"Well!" exclaimed Lindsay at last, with a volume of meaning in the
monosyllable.

"This is a house of surprises!" cried Cicely.

"Where are we?"

"How can I tell?"

"We seemed to tumble through the bottom of the settle."

"Yes, after you gave that great lurch to your end."

"We must be in another secret hiding-place."

"Then I vote we hunt about, and see what's in it."

One side of the small room was completely filled, as high as the
ceiling, with a pile of boxes. They seemed a very miscellaneous
collection. There were ancient hair trunks, such as were in use seventy
or eighty years ago, made of wood covered with cow hide, with the hair
left on; there were leather portmanteaux with strong brass corners, tin
trunks, and even plain wooden packing-cases. On the floor, and leaning
against the boxes, stood a row of fair-sized linen bags, and a couple of
larger sacks.

It seemed to the girls as if they must have penetrated to some forgotten
lumber room. Everything was thickly covered with the accumulated dirt
and cobwebs of years. They could have written their names in the dust.
As if she were moving in a dream, Lindsay stooped, and picked up one of
the linen bags.

"How heavy it is!" she said. "I wonder what's inside?"

"It feels like something hard," replied Cicely, pinching it critically
with her finger and thumb.

The mouth was secured by a cord, and Lindsay fumbled long trying to
untie the knot.

"Oh! don't bother over it; here's my penknife," cried Cicely, waxing
impatient.

In another moment she had cut the string, and a shower of golden
sovereigns came pouring out on to the floor. The two girls looked at
each other, with faces that were almost awe-stricken.

"Cicely!" said Lindsay solemnly. "I verily believe we have found Sir
Giles's fortune!"

A further examination established the matter beyond any doubt. The bags
were filled to the brim with gold pieces. In a state of intense
excitement the girls continued their investigations. The two large sacks
contained salvers, tankards, and goblets, dull and tarnished indeed, but
unmistakably of silver. It was difficult to get at the boxes, but they
managed to clamber up and open one at the top of the pile, disclosing
more silver articles and some ornaments of gold.

"Don't let us pull out too many things, or we shan't be able to stuff
them back again," said Cicely, trying to close the lid of the
overflowing hair trunk.

"No doubt these underneath are filled with money or jewels," said
Lindsay rapturously.

"This little box seems made of silver," remarked Cicely, taking up a
small antique casket that specially claimed her attention. Its sides
were beautifully chased in classic designs, and it bore the Courtenay
arms on the lid.

"It's full of pieces of paper, with figures on them," she continued.

"Let me look!" cried Lindsay. "Why, don't you see?--they're bank notes!"

They were certainly in the midst of treasures. The extent of Sir Giles's
hoard had evidently not been exaggerated. At the bottom of the casket
lay a letter addressed:

         "TO MY GREAT-NIECE MONICA COURTENAY."

"The writing on the envelope is exactly the same as in the _Floral
Calendar_," said Cicely. "I remember those funny flourishes, and the
'a's' not closed at the top."

"So it is; I should know the sprawling look of it anywhere."

"It's such funny, old-fashioned writing, as if it were done with a quill
pen. I think we had better put this away again."

Lindsay replaced the letter carefully with the bank notes inside the
silver box.

"Then Sir Giles did intend the enigma for a guide," she observed. "The
last lines were right.

                  '... you'll see 'tis a matter
  Perchance may provide you with just a lost link,
  And bring you a greater reward than you think.'"

"And the settle concealed the legacy after all!"

"Yes, a great deal more safely than we supposed."

"I never imagined the treasure would be in a place like this, all stowed
away in old boxes! I thought we should press a secret spring, and a
panel would fly open in the wall, and then we should see money and
jewels lying together in a big heap!"

"I don't mind how we've found it, so long as it's here."

"Still, it's a surprise!"

"It will be a splendid surprise for Monica. This is actually her very
own."

"She would have been content with a hundred guineas, and there are more
than a hundred guineas here," said Cicely, letting some of the
sovereigns slide through her fingers with a sigh of satisfaction.

"She ought to know about it at once," returned Lindsay. "If you can tear
yourself away from these money bags, we'd better be thinking of going."

"Yes, I suppose it's time we went back. By the by, how are we to get out
of this place?"

Ah! How to go back?--that was the question! The trapdoor had shut itself
high above their heads.

"I expect if we stand on one of the boxes, we can push it up!" said
Lindsay.

With much difficulty they dragged a heavy chest across the floor and
climbed upon it. It was a fruitless effort. However hard they might try,
the trapdoor would not budge an inch.

"There may be a secret spring," faltered Cicely, feeling in every
direction to find some bolt or knob, but all in vain. Then the horrible
truth broke upon them. They were locked up as securely as the legacy!

"What are we to do?"

Lindsay's pink cheeks were white with alarm.

"Let us call. Perhaps the girls are hunting for us still in the passage,
and they may hear."

Both shouted until they were hoarse, yet there was no reply. This was
indeed hide-and-seek with a vengeance. Their game had turned out more
than they had bargained for.

"I'll bang on the ceiling. It may sound louder than calling," said
Lindsay. "The girls must have given us up, and gone downstairs, for
nobody seems to hear," she continued, after belabouring the trapdoor for
several minutes.

"Perhaps they're at tea," suggested Cicely.

They examined the little window in the corner, but the fastenings were
so rusty from long disuse that, tug as they would, they could not open
it. They wiped away the dust and cobwebs from it, and peeped out.

"If it overlooks the garden, we could smash the glass and wave a
handkerchief, at any rate," proposed Lindsay. "Scott would be almost
sure to notice it, even if nobody else were out in the rain."

Alas! the window appeared to be securely hidden away among the gables,
and absolutely out of sight from below.

"Would it be possible to crawl on to the roof?"

Lindsay shook her head in reply. The frame was too small for even the
slim Cicely to squeeze through. The girls sat down and surveyed the
piles of treasure around them with dismay. If they had required a sermon
on the vanity of riches, it was there without any need of words.

"We can't eat bank notes, nor sleep on beds of sovereigns," remarked
Lindsay at last.

"We may be shut up here for days and days before they find us," said
Cicely blankly.

"They'll miss us directly, of course; but they won't know where to look.
Even if they peeped inside the settle, they wouldn't be any the wiser."

"Do you remember the piece of poetry we read last week about Ginevra?
She hid inside a chest on her wedding day, when they were playing
hide-and-seek, and the lid snapped with a spring lock. They never found
her--only her bones, years afterwards!"

"Don't talk of such horrible things."

"How long does it take people to starve?" continued Cicely in a
tremulous voice.

"About ten days, I believe. They grow gradually weaker and weaker."

Cicely groaned.

"There isn't anything to drink either, and I'm getting so thirsty," she
said, her eyes filling with tears.

"We must try again," declared Lindsay, jumping up. "Let us pull out
another trunk, and manage to lift it on to the chest. I believe if I
were nearer the ceiling I should be able to push harder."

The boxes were arranged in a rather random fashion, so that as the girls
dragged one from the bottom, the whole pile came tumbling down in
confusion. They had to jump aside to avoid being hurt. When the upset
was over, Cicely pointed silently to the wall opposite. In the part
which before had been hidden was a small, low door. Here, surely, was a
chance of escape.

They scrambled over the packing-cases and trunks without troubling to
look inside them, though some had burst open in the fall. To find a way
out seemed at present far more important than more silver tankards and
salvers.

Was this exit also secured? With trembling hands Lindsay raised the
latch. To her intense relief the door opened, showing a very narrow,
unlighted passage.

After their experience in the garret it was not encouraging to find
themselves once more obliged to explore in the dark, but there seemed
nothing else to be done.

"It must lead somewhere," said Cicely. "I'd rather go anywhere than stay
here."

"We'd better step carefully, in case the floor is as rotten as it was in
the other place," cautioned Lindsay. The passage smelled dank and close.
The air in it had probably been unstirred for many years. The faint
light which entered it from the treasure room was soon lost, and they
were obliged to grope their way by feeling along the walls. On and on
they went for what appeared to be a considerable distance, sometimes
turning sharp corners, and sometimes going up or down rickety steps.

"It must run half round the house," said Cicely. "Shall we never get to
the end?"

Suddenly Lindsay, who was walking first, came to a halt.

"I can't go any farther," she faltered; "there's a wall in front."

The poor girls were almost in despair. They had been so confident that
the passage would surely be taking them to the outer world; to find
themselves once more at a full stop was a terrible blow.

"Must we go all that dreadful long way back?" wailed Cicely.

"I expect there is some door that we've passed without knowing it,"
replied Lindsay, rather chokily.

"Then we can never find it in the dark. It's no use. We shall both
starve to death here, and they'll discover our skeletons a hundred years
afterwards."

Cicely had utterly broken down, and was sobbing bitterly.

"We won't give up too soon," said Lindsay, whose sturdy courage stood
her in good stead on this occasion.

She had been feeling about here and there on the blank wall that faced
them, and her fingers at last encountered something that seemed like a
sliding bolt. She pushed it back eagerly. A door opened outwards,
letting in a blaze of light. To their utter amazement they were gazing
down into the picture gallery!

It did not take them many seconds to spring to the floor and turn round
to look through what aperture they had made their escape. It was the
portrait of Monica Courtenay that formed the secret exit. It had swung
out, frame and all, into the gallery, and appeared to be fitted with
hinges so as to close and unclose quite easily.

"Now I see why the picture shook in its frame that day!" exclaimed
Cicely. "I wonder we never thought of this before."

"And of course that was why she was supposed to guard the fortunes of
the Courtenays. No doubt they always kept their valuables in this
hiding-place, and only the head of the family would know the way to it."

"So old sayings do generally mean something, and aren't just nonsense."

"Let us go and tell at once. Everybody'll be wondering where we are.
They must be doing prep. now, and Miss Russell will be sitting with the
first class."

The headmistress's tranquil demeanour was not usually easily ruffled,
but she sprang up in excitement as her two missing pupils burst into the
library proclaiming the glorious news.

"Lindsay and Cicely! Where have you been? I was growing most uneasy at
your absence. You say you have actually found Sir Giles's treasure? It
is hardly to be credited. Girls, girls, try to calm yourselves and give
me an intelligible account!" as first one and then the other took up the
tale in disjointed sentences.

"We played hide-and-seek--and fell through the bottom of the
settle--there were great bags of gold--and boxes of silver things and
bank notes--won't she be rich? And he'd written it in an enigma--we
thought we were going to starve there like Ginevra--and we climbed down
through the portrait--oh, may we go and tell Monica about it now?"

"This is indeed a most extraordinary discovery," said Miss Russell, when
at length she had drawn from them a more lucid statement of affairs.
"Monica must certainly know, but no one is to tell her except myself. I
will go down presently to the cottage and see her, and warn her to break
the news very gently to her mother. If Mrs. Courtenay were to hear of it
suddenly, the shock might be exceedingly dangerous, in her weak state of
health."

The news that something of great importance had happened seemed to
spread like wildfire through the school. Both teachers and pupils,
abandoning their books, came crowding into the library to hear
particulars. Even the servants hurried to the spot.

"Oh, bless you, bless you!" cried Mrs. Wilson, who had pushed her way
among the girls to the central source of information. "This is indeed a
day of rejoicing--a day to remember and give thanks for to the end of
one's life!"

Lindsay and Cicely stared at her in amazement. Was it actually "The
Griffin" who was speaking? And were those tears that were trickling down
her hard cheeks? What did it mean? Was she acting a part? Or had they
after all misjudged her? There was no time then for either surmises or
explanations. They were the heroines of the hour, and had to repeat
their story afresh to those who had not yet heard it at first hand.

"We couldn't imagine where you were hidden," said Marjorie Butler. "We
were hunting in the picture gallery for ever so long. Beryl peeped
inside the settle, and said it was empty."

"We were still more puzzled when you didn't turn up for tea," said Nora
Proctor. "Do tell us again about the bags of money!"

Miss Russell, however, thinking the excitement had lasted long enough,
interfered and put a stop to the recital.

"Everybody must go back to preparation at once," she decreed. "Lindsay
and Cicely have had no tea. Are you hungry?" she added, turning to the
adventurous pair.

"Starving," they replied laconically.

"Then I will excuse your preparation to-night, and you may come with me
to the dining-room. It would be rather hard to expect you to set to work
upon lessons immediately after such an experience."




CHAPTER XVII

Good-bye to the Manor


Monica's agitation, when she heard that her uncle's legacy had been
found, was extreme. At first she refused to believe it; but when she was
told the story of Lindsay's and Cicely's strange adventure, she began
slowly to realize that it was no fairy tale, and that the fortune, so
sorely needed and so much longed for, was lying awaiting her disposal.

"The money is there, and I can have some of it now?" she asked, still
almost incredulously. "Will there be as much as a hundred guineas?"

"Far more than that, my dear, from the girls' account."

"Then we can send for Sir William Garrett!" she said, with a sigh of
intense relief.

Miss Russell, who did not like the responsibility of being even a
temporary custodian of such riches, had informed the Rector of what had
occurred, and requested him to come to the Manor and help her to
investigate the matter. As he was Monica's guardian, he seemed the
proper person to take charge of her affairs. He arrived next morning,
and, accompanied by Miss Russell and Monica, made a careful examination
of the hiding-place and its contents. At the mistress's urgent request,
he promised to arrange that all the valuables should be removed as
speedily as possible to the bank.

"I could not sleep with them in the house, I should be so afraid of
burglars, now the news of the discovery has been spread abroad,"
declared Miss Russell.

"They were only too safe here," said Monica.

"Yes, when their whereabouts was a mystery. It is different when
everyone knows."

The wealth which old Sir Giles had stored in the secret room was
considerable. He had evidently distrusted investments, and, following
his own singular whim, had hoarded his money in gold and bank notes.
There were precious stones also, in themselves worth a small fortune,
which he must have collected, in addition to the family jewels and the
old silver plate that had been handed down through generations of
Courtenays.

After looking through some of the boxes, the Rector picked up the
casket, and made a short scrutiny of its contents.

"This envelope is addressed to you, Monica," he observed.

The girl took it hesitatingly, then passed it back to her guardian.

"It seems like a message from the dead," she said. "I think, please, I
would rather that you should read it aloud."

The letter was well in keeping with its writer's eccentric and morbid
character. It ran thus:--

       "MY DEAR MONICA,

     "Gold, silver, and precious stones are but vanity of vanities, a
     snare to many, and the root of all evil. By the time you claim
     these, I trust you will have found how easy it is to dispense with
     them, and that you will despise them as much as I do.

     "They have never brought me any happiness, and I am uncertain
     whether it is a kindness to bequeath to you what to me has been but
     an irksome encumbrance. After giving long and earnest thought to
     the matter, I have decided to leave it in the hands of destiny.

     "I shall lay by these possessions in the hidden chamber, the
     existence of which was told me by my grandfather, and now is
     unknown to any except myself. I have concealed the secret, however,
     in an enigma, which, if you have followed my advice concerning the
     study of Botany, you will have found written inside the cover of
     the _Floral Calendar_.

     "Should Heaven ordain that you are to take up this burden, then you
     will read my riddle aright. Should it be otherwise decreed, this
     message will never meet your eyes. Believe me that I have striven
     to act for your best good.

             "From your uncle and well-wisher,
                       "GILES PEMBERTON COURTENAY."



"He seemed quite afraid for me to have this money," faltered poor
Monica, on whom the letter had left a deep impression. "Shall I regret
it? Is it really such a dangerous thing?"

"Not if you make a wise use of it. In your hands I hope it may prove a
blessing instead of a curse," answered the Rector.

"It does not seem to have brought any happiness to Uncle Giles. He calls
it a burden."

"Riches can never bring happiness unless they are being employed for the
benefit of others."

"It is sad to think how long these have lain idle," remarked Miss
Russell. "Monica will be able to do much good with them."

"Then you are sure I may take them?" asked Monica, turning to her
guardian. "I didn't find out the enigma myself, you see."

"I am certain you may receive the legacy without scruple, my dear child!
Your uncle himself said he had left matters to the disposal of destiny.
It appears to me as if Lindsay and Cicely had been led just at the right
time to this happy discovery. You must accept your fortune as a special
gift of Providence. So far it has been a talent laid up in a napkin; it
can now be your care to let it yield ten talents in return."

       *       *       *       *       *

Though Lindsay and Cicely had satisfactorily accomplished their quest,
they felt there were many points in connection with their adventure at
the Manor that still puzzled them. The mystery surrounding the lantern
room had not yet been cleared up, neither had the strange behaviour of
Mrs. Wilson and Scott been accounted for.

So anxious were they to decide these perplexing points that they
determined to confide the whole affair to Monica, and see if she could
offer any explanation. A month ago it would have been impossible to get
her for half an hour to themselves, but since their finding of the
treasure the other girls were ready to allow them a special claim to her
society, and took it as a matter of course when they carried her off to
the summer house for a private chat.

Monica listened attentively to the story of their various experiences
and suspicions. At the end she laughed heartily, then suddenly looked
grave.

"You dear silly children!" she exclaimed. "It was a case of much ado
about nothing, and yet you nearly ran into such great danger that it
makes me shudder even to think about it. There certainly was a reason
for visiting the attic, though not at all of the kind you imagined. It
contains a large cistern, which supplies the water for the bath and the
kitchen boiler. This is fed by a tank on the roof that catches the rain,
and in dry weather it is apt to get out of order. If it is not working
properly, it makes a curious blowing noise."

"Like groaning?" asked Cicely.

"Yes, very like groaning, though it would need a gigantic prisoner to
utter such fearful moans of distress. No wonder you thought somebody was
being tortured!" and Monica laughed again.

"You can understand," she continued, "that with so many girls in the
house requiring baths, we were afraid lest the tank should run dry, and
were continually examining the cistern, to make sure that the water was
flowing properly. If it had stopped even for an hour, it might have
caused the kitchen boiler to burst."

"Did Mrs. Wilson go to look, then?" enquired Lindsay.

"Either Mrs. Wilson or Scott went every day. My mother was so anxious
about it that I several times ran up myself, so that I could tell her
all was perfectly safe. Mrs. Wilson was equally nervous. We had so
little rain in June that she was sure the tank must be nearly empty."

"Then that was what she and Scott meant about the noise and danger,
when they were talking in the picture gallery!" interposed Cicely.

"Yes," replied Monica. "When people try to overhear conversations, and
put two and two together for themselves, they rarely succeed in coming
to a right conclusion."

Lindsay and Cicely blushed. They had known from the first that Monica
would not approve of either eavesdropping or peeping through keyholes.
This was the part of the business of which they both felt rather
ashamed; they were conscious that there had been a great deal of
curiosity mixed up with their efforts on her behalf. Monica, however,
took no notice of their heightened colour, and went on:

"Both Scott and Mrs. Wilson were quite right in wishing to keep you away
from the attics; you will understand when I explain why. The
hiding-place in the lantern room is a relic of the times of King James
I. Have you learnt yet in your history books what severe penal laws were
made against Roman Catholics in those days? Any priest found celebrating
Mass might be executed, and often he was tortured first to make him tell
the whereabouts of his companions. Our ancestors, who lived then at the
Manor, still belonged to the old faith, and they needed some spot where
they could worship without fear of being disturbed; so they made the
secret entrance through the cupboard, and private services were held in
the great garret. Even with such precautions it was a very dangerous
thing for a priest to remain long in a country house. If his presence
were suspected, and information given, a party of soldiers would at once
come with a search warrant to hunt for him.

"Then he would have to be ready to hurry away into some safer retreat
still, in case his first place of concealment were discovered. At the
end of the farther attic there is a small cupboard most cunningly hidden
in the wall. In front of it there is a shaft, a great, horrible, yawning
chasm, several feet wide and very deep, going quite to the basement of
the house. It was intended as a trap to baffle pursuers, who would fall
down it in the dark when chasing their fugitive."

"Is the shaft still there?" asked Cicely.

"Yes, it is quite untouched and open. It is in such a far-away part of
the attic that nobody has considered it worth while to go to the trouble
of having it covered in. Now you can understand how alarmed Mrs. Wilson
was when she found that some of you had been in the lantern room. She
didn't believe you would really be able to find your way through the
cupboard; still, she was never easy when she thought of the danger you
might perhaps run into. She couldn't rest until Scott had padlocked the
door."

"We were very near it," said Cicely, with a shiver.

"It was the greatest mercy you didn't venture any farther. I can't be
too thankful that the cistern made a noise just at that moment, and
frightened you down again."

"Then you knew of this secret door, though not of the one in the picture
gallery?" said Lindsay.

"Yes; it was discovered two centuries ago, in the reign of Queen Anne, I
believe. In many old manor houses there are equally clever contrivances
for hiding-places. They are often called 'priests' holes'. I've heard of
one under the steps of the stairs, and another in a window-seat, or up a
chimney, or even behind a picture."

"Like ours," said Cicely.

"No doubt the one under the settle may have been a 'priests' hole' too,
and perhaps had the second entrance for extra security. Very sad stories
are told about some of the hiding-places. Sometimes the poor fugitive
couldn't find an opportunity to get away, and the person who knew the
secret, and should have brought him food, was killed or taken prisoner.
Then he either had to come out, and deliver himself up to the soldiers,
or to remain and die a slow, lingering death of starvation."

"I thought we were going to do that when we were locked in with the
treasure," remarked Cicely.

"How much did Merle find out in the lantern room?" interposed Lindsay.

"She happened to pull at the lantern, and had just the same surprise as
you," replied Monica. "She had gone a few steps into the passage when I
came down from looking at the cistern, and met her, much to her
astonishment. Of course I explained everything, and begged her not to
tell, because we didn't want any more schoolgirls to start exploring."

"Then it was to you she gave that mysterious promise?"

"Certainly it was to me. I'm glad to hear she kept it so well."

"But I still don't half understand," said Lindsay. "We thought Mrs.
Wilson and Scott were hiding the treasure up there. We saw them take a
sack into the garden one night and bury something."

"You managed to give poor Scott a great fright," laughed Monica. "He
told me about it the next day. He was doing nothing more dreadful than
digging out a wasps' nest. Mrs. Wilson had discovered it in the bank,
and she went with him to show him the place and help him. Of course it
could not be done by daylight, when the wasps were flying about; but at
dark, when they were all safely inside their hole, Scott burnt tobacco
to stupefy them, and then took the nest. He said two of the young
ladies had suddenly tumbled down the bank while he was at work, and
startled him terribly."

"So he and Mrs. Wilson weren't burying the treasure after all? They
didn't even try to steal it?"

"No, indeed! I feel sorry to think they should have been suspected for a
moment of such bad intentions. Mrs. Wilson may be rather gruff and blunt
in her manners, but she is a faithful old soul, and devoted to Mother
and me. I believe she would have starved rather than touch a penny that
belonged to us. And Scott too is absolutely honest. I assure you he
keeps nothing stowed away inside the cucumber frames! Naturally Mrs.
Wilson had often looked for the hiding-place, but it was all on my
behalf, and nobody rejoiced more heartily than she did when it was
found."

"We were on a completely wrong track," said Lindsay. "The only right
clue was the enigma. I'm glad we puzzled that out, though we didn't win
any prizes in the competition."

"And yet the enigma was no real use," put in Cicely. "We shouldn't have
gone through the bottom of the settle if we hadn't been playing
hide-and-seek. Isn't it queer that when we tried so hard to find the
secret room we couldn't, and then that we should come across it just by
accident?"

To Monica the affair seemed no accident, but, as the Rector had said, a
merciful arrangement of Providence. It enabled her to send for Sir
William Garrett, and the great specialist arrived in the course of the
next few days. After examining Mrs. Courtenay, he gave a more favourable
report on her case than her own physician had dared to hope.

"You have consulted me in the nick of time," was his verdict. "I trust
to be able to effect a complete cure. A winter in the south would work
wonders, and, if my treatment is thoroughly carried out, she should
return to Haversleigh in the spring with restored health."

It was an intense relief to be thus reassured. Monica felt as if a heavy
weight had been lifted from her mind. When the doctors had finally taken
their departure, she ran to share her good news with her friends at the
Manor.

"Of course," she explained, "Mother will require the greatest care, but
we can give her anything now that she needs. Sir William Garrett has
promised to send a nurse from London who understands his special
treatment, and who could go with us to Italy in the autumn. Oh, how
splendid it will be when I can bring her back absolutely strong and
well! I can hardly feel thankful enough. And it is all owing to you,"
she added, kissing Lindsay and Cicely with tears in her eyes.

It had come at length to the very end of the term; the girls were making
up their minds to bid a reluctant good-bye to the beautiful old house
where they had spent such a pleasant and eventful twelve weeks.

"If we weren't going home, I couldn't bear to leave it," said Cicely.
"I've grown so fond of everything. Our dear bedroom, with its big
four-poster (I love those yellow brocaded curtains), and the roses round
the window that smell so delicious first thing when one wakes in the
morning, and the dining-hall, and the picture gallery, and the library,
and the oak parlour where we have lessons, and, above all, the garden.
Oh dear, it makes me quite sad to think perhaps I may never see them
again! What a change to settle down at Winterburn Lodge in September!"

"I suppose life can't be all honey; we shall have to go back to plain
bread and butter now," replied Lindsay philosophically. "But I'll tell
you a secret to cheer you up. Monica says her mother has promised that
when they return from Italy she'll ask you and me to spend part of the
summer holidays at the Manor. But she doesn't wish us to let any of the
other girls know of the invitation just at present."

"How perfectly delightful!" exclaimed Cicely, with shining eyes.

"It's a whole year off yet."

"I don't mind, so long as I can think of coming here again some time,
and being Monica's visitor. It's something to look forward to."

The last day arrived, as last days invariably do, whether one is longing
for their advent or the reverse. Boxes had been brought down and packed,
and Miss Russell's linen and silver had been collected and stowed away
in great wicker baskets, which were already dispatched on their road to
London. The girls, marshalled in order on the drive, were only waiting
for the word "March!" to start for the railway station.

Monica stood on the steps to see them off, her pretty, fair face and
rich chestnut hair framed in the oak doorway.

"I shall miss you all dreadfully," she said. "It has been a great
pleasure for me to have you here. Please don't forget me."

"We're not likely to do that," replied Mildred Roper, speaking for
herself and the rest. "We've spent a glorious three months. It's been
more like holidays than school. I think every one of us, to the end of
her life, will remember this summer term at the old Manor. Good-bye!"







*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MANOR HOUSE SCHOOL ***


    

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may
do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
license, especially commercial redistribution.


START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™
electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the
Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when
you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work
on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

    This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
    other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
    whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
    of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
    at www.gutenberg.org. If you
    are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws
    of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
  
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg™ License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format
other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain
Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
provided that:

    • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
        the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method
        you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
        to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has
        agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
        within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
        legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
        payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
        Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
        Literary Archive Foundation.”
    
    • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
        you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
        does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™
        License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
        copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
        all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™
        works.
    
    • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
        any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
        electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
        receipt of the work.
    
    • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
        distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.
    

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right
of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™

Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West,
Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up
to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website
and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.