Miss Gibbs was fast arriving at the disappointing conclusion that patriotism costs dearly: in other words, that if you take away eighteen girls to do strawberry picking, you cannot expect them, immediately on their return, to settle down again into ordinary routine and everyday habits. An atmosphere of camp life seemed to pervade the place, a free-and-easy, rollicking spirit that was not at all in accordance with Miss Beasley’s ideas of propriety. The Principal, who had never altogether approved of the week on the land, considered that the school was demoralized, and made a firm effort to restore discipline. The monitresses, several of whom had been guilty of whistling in the passages, were summoned separately for private interviews in the study, whence they issued somewhat subdued and abashed; and the rank and file, by means of punishment lessons and fines, were made to feel a wholesome respect for the iron hand of the law.

Miss Beasley and Miss Gibbs agreed that the Fifth Form gave the largest amount of trouble. It was here that most of the mischief fermented and fizzed out on unexpected occasions. At present the Mystic Seven, who beforetime had offered a united 174 front to the world, were suffering from a series of internal quarrels. The four who had been to camp assumed an air of superiority over the three who had not, which led to unpleasantness. Naturally it was annoying to Ardiune, Valentine, and Fauvette to hear constant allusions to people they had not met, and to thrilling experiences in which they had not participated. They sulked or flew out as the occasion might be.

“I believe you’re just making up half the things to stuff us!” sneered Ardiune.

“Indeed we’re not!” flared Morvyth. “Every word we’ve told you is gospel truth, as you’d have found out if you’d come and done your bit for your country!”

“D’you mean to call me a slacker?”

“Certainly not, but it’s no use ostriching about things. You either went and picked strawberries, or you didn’t”

“You know I wasn’t allowed to go! You mean wretch!”

“I know nothing at all about it.”

“Well, I’ve told you a dozen times.”

“I really can’t listen, child, to all the things you tell me!”

“Then I shan’t take the trouble to speak to you again!”

With Ardiune and Morvyth on terms of distant iciness, Valentine and Katherine constantly sparring over trifles, Fauvette preserving an attitude of martyred dignity, and Aveline, out of sheer perversity, striking up a friendship with Maudie Heywood, matters were not very brisk in the Fifth.

“I’m getting just about fed up with you all!” 175 said Raymonde irritably. “I never saw such a set! How can we have any fun, when everybody’s grousing with everyone else? For goodness’ sake, buck up! I’ve a blossomy idea in my head! Yes, I have, honest!”

Signs of interest manifested themselves on the faces of her companions. Raymonde’s ideas were always worth listening to. Aveline stopped yawning, Morvyth desisted from kicking her geography book round the floor, and Fauvette snapped the clasp of her bracelet, and sat bolt upright.

“We’re hanging upon your words, if you’ll condescend to explain, O Queen!” she vouchsafed.

Raymonde bowed, with heels together and hands back, like the star of a pierrot troupe.

“Don’t mensh! Glad to do my bit!” she replied. “Well, my notion’s this. It’s the Bumble’s birthday on Friday!”

“As if every girl in the school didn’t know that!” chafed Ardiune impatiently. “Haven’t we all given our shillings towards her present ages ago? Really, Ray, what more chestnuts are you going to bring forth?”

“Don’t be in such a hurry, my good child! I haven’t finished yet. I should have thought you could have trusted your grannie by this time. My remark, though no doubt stale, was only one of those preliminary announcements with which a chairman always has to begin—like ‘Glad to see so many bright young faces collected here’, or ‘Gratified to be allowed the pleasure of saying a few words to you’. But don’t look so scared, I’m not going to prose on like a real chairman at a 176 prize-giving; I’m going to get to the point quick. Being the Bumble’s birthday—if you grin, Ardiune Coleman-Smith, I’ll pinch you!—Being, as I have observed, the Bumble’s birthday, it seems only right and fit and proper that the other bees in the hive should buzz in sympathy, and take a holiday, and go and sip nectar. Let us copy Nature’s methods!”

“Copy Nature, by all means,” sneered Ardiune, “only don’t suggest that bumble-bees live in hives, or you’ll be a little out of it!”

“Oh, you’re so literal! It’s only for the sake of the metaphor. Mayn’t I talk about ‘the busy bee’ and ‘the shining hour’?”

“For pity’s sake, don’t get flowery!” snapped Morvyth.

misquoted Aveline with a giggle.

“Stop frivolling, and let me get to my point!” commanded Raymonde. “For the third time, let me remind you that it is the Bumble’s birthday on Friday, and that it’s only decent and seemly and becoming that the school should do something to celebrate so joyous an occasion.”

“Stop a minute!” interrupted Katherine. “Are we rejoicing that she came into this world to gladden us, or are we counting one more year off towards the time when we’ll have done with her? I’m not quite clear which.”

“Whichever you like, so long as you look congratulatory and happy-in-our-school-days and love-our-teachers, and all the rest of it. What you want is to spread the butter on thick, then, when there’s an atmosphere of smiles, ask for a holiday and suggest the river. Yes, my children, I said the river. You didn’t misunderstand me; I speak quite clearly.”

“Whew! She’ll never let us! Might as well ask for the moon. Why, our river expedition was knocked off after that little business of the Zepp scare!”

“All the more reason why we should have it now.”

“Ray, you’re the limit!”

“Hope I am, if it means getting what we want. I propose a deputation to the Bumble, to state that the gratitude and devotion of the hive can only work itself off on water. Yes, Ardiune Coleman-Smith, I did say ‘the hive’, my sense of poetry being more highly developed than my love of exact science. You needn’t lift your eyebrows, it’s not a pretty habit.”

“Who’s going to make the deputation?” asked Fauvette.

“You, for one. You’re our strongest point. You look naturally affectionate and clinging and docile, and ready-to-be-taught-if-taken-the-right-way, and easily led, and all the rest of it. You’ll burble forth something pretty about wanting to have an expedition with our Principal in our midst, and mention what a wet day it was last year, and how disappointed we all were.”

“Look here, I’m not going to do all the talking, so don’t think!”

“Oh, we’ll support you! But I’m just giving you a few leading lines to work upon. We’ll take 178 Maudie Heywood with us; she got ninety-five marks out of a hundred last week, which ought to go for something!”

“Then Magsie and Muriel had better come too. It won’t do to let the Bumble think the whole idea has originated with us.”

“Right you are! The more pattern pupils we can scrape together, the better.”

At five o’clock the deputation presented itself at the door of the study, and was received graciously by the Principal, though she declined to commit herself to an immediate answer, promising to think the matter over and to let them know later on.

“Which means she daren’t say ‘yes’ till she’s asked leave from Gibbie!” declared Raymonde, when the delegates were out of ear-shot of the sanctum. “Fauvette, child, you did splendidly! I’d give five thousand pounds to have your big, pathetic, innocent blue eyes! They always bowl everybody over. I envy you at your first grown-up dance. You’ll have your programme full in five minutes, like the heroine of a novel.”

Raymonde’s supposition was not altogether mistaken, for that evening, after the school had gone to bed, Miss Beasley, Miss Gibbs, and Mademoiselle sat up talking over the proposed expedition. Miss Gibbs vetoed the idea entirely.

“The girls have not been behaving well enough to justify any such indulgence,” she maintained impressively. “Their conduct on the stairs yesterday was disgraceful. Better make them stick to their lessons.”

Mademoiselle, whose mental scales always tipped naturally towards the side of pleasure, thought it 179 was a beautiful idea of the dear girls to want to give their headmistress a fÊte on her anniversary. So sweet to go upon the water, and while the weather was so pleasant! It would be an event to be remembered for ever in their young lives, when sterner lessons might be forgotten; at which remark Miss Gibbs sniffed, but restrained herself. Miss Beasley vibrated for some minutes between the practical and the ideal aspects thus presented to her, but finally decided in favour of the latter.

“It seems ungracious to refuse when they wish it to be my birthday treat,” she said rather apologetically. “The poor children would be so disappointed. We might make a clear mark-book a necessary condition.”

“Yes,” Miss Gibbs grudgingly conceded. “They’ll miss their Latin preparation that evening,” she added.

“And their French,” sighed Mademoiselle. “But what will you?” with a little shrug. “It is not every day that our Principal makes a birthday! As for me, I am glad I bought my new sunshade.”

The announcement of the forthcoming water excursion was received with great rejoicings. Ever since the beginning of the term the school had thirsted to go upon the river. They had been taken for an occasional walk along its banks, and had greatly envied the young men and maidens who might be seen punting up its willowy reaches.

“That’s what I’m going to do directly I’m grown up!” Fauvette had confided to her chums. “I’ll buy a white boating costume, exactly like that girl’s with the auburn hair, and lean against blue cushions while He rows. He’ll have to have brown eyes, 180 but I’ve not quite decided yet whether he shall have a moustache or not. On the whole I think I’ll have him clean shaven.”

“And tall,” prompted Raymonde, to whom Fauvette’s prospective romances were a source of perennial interest.

“Yes, tall, of course, with several military crosses. He’s the one I’m going to like the best, though there’ll be others. They’ll all want me to go and row with them—but I shan’t. I don’t mean to flirt.”

“N—no!” conceded Raymonde a little dubiously. “Don’t you think, though, it might be rather good for him not to let him see you were too keen? Of course I don’t want you to break his heart, but––”

Fauvette shook her yellow curls.

“It’s not right to trifle with people’s hearts,” she decided, with all the authority of an experienced reader of magazine stories. “If you pretend you don’t care for them, they drive their aeroplanes recklessly and smash up, or expose themselves to the enemy’s fire, or get submarined, before you’ve had time to tell them you didn’t really mean to be cold. I’m not going in for misunderstandings.”

Raymonde glanced at her admiringly. With those blue eyes and fluffy curls it all seemed so possible. She felt that she should look forward to her chum’s inevitable engagement almost as much as Fauvette herself. It would be as good as a Shakespeare play, or one of the best pieces on the kinema. But these rosy prospects were still in the dim and distant future; the present was entirely prosaic and unromantic. Whatever punting excursions Fauvette might enjoy in years to come, this particular water party would be quite unsentimental, 181 conducted under the watchful eyes of Miss Beasley and Miss Gibbs, with boatmen well over military age to do the rowing. For the first time for four years the Principal’s birthday morning was gloriously fine. The pupils placed the usual bouquet of flowers opposite her seat at the breakfast table, together with a handsomely bound volume of Ruskin’s Stones of Venice. She thanked them with her customary surprise and gratitude, and assured them, as she did annually, what a pleasure it was to her to receive so kind a token of their esteem.

This preliminary business being over, breakfast and classes proceeded as usual, a more than ordinary atmosphere of decorum pervading the establishment, for Miss Gibbs had announced that the afternoon’s excursion depended upon the mark-book, and the girls knew that she would keep her word. The veriest slackers paid attention to lessons that morning, and even Raymonde for once did not receive an order mark.

Lunch was served early, and directly the meal was finished all the girls flew upstairs to change their attire. During hot weather the school was not kept strictly to the brown serge uniform, and the girls blossomed out into linen costumes, or white drill skirts and muslin blouses. For the credit of the Grange they made careful toilettes that afternoon; Fauvette in particular looked ravishingly pretty in a pale-blue sailor suit with a white collar and silk tie. She made quite a sensation as she came down the stairs.

The mistresses had also turned out suitably dressed for the occasion: Miss Beasley was dignified and matronly in blue voile with a motor veil; Miss 182 Gibbs, who intended to row, was in practical blouse and short skirt; while Mademoiselle was a dream of white muslin, chiffon ruffles, and pink parasol.

It was about half an hour’s walk to the river, down shady lanes and across lately cleared hayfields. There was a little landing-place close to the weir, with a boat-house, a refreshment room, and rows of benches and tables under the trees, where visitors could sit and drink tea or lemonade. Miss Beasley had engaged boats beforehand, and these were drawn up ready, with their boatmen, a rheumatic and elderly set, waiting about smoking surreptitious pipes among the willows. There was a great deal of arranging before everybody was settled, and many injunctions to sit still, and not to change places, or to grab at water-lilies, or lean too far over the side, or play any other foolish or dangerous prank likely to upset the equilibrium of the boat and endanger the lives of its occupants. At last, however, the whole party was stowed safely away, and the little procession set off up the river.

All agreed that it was quite delightful. The banks were covered with trees, and tall reeds, and masses of purple willow herb, and agrimony, and yellow ragwort, which were reflected in the dark waters of quiet pools. In the centre the sunshine made little gleaming, glinting ripples like leaping bars of gold, and here and there patches of water-lilies spread their white chalices open to the sky. There was a delicious breeze, most grateful after the hot walk across the hayfields, and the smooth gliding motion was ideal. The girls trailed their hands in the river, and dabbed their faces, and said it was topping, and began to sing boat songs which 183 they had learnt at school, and which sounded very pretty and appropriate to an accompaniment of oars and lapping water.

The great event of the afternoon was to be a picnic tea. Hampers of provisions had been brought, and Miss Beasley proposed that they should land at one of the numerous little islands, light a fire, and boil their big kettles. The selection of the particular island was, of course, in her discretion, and she had a conference with her old boatman on the subject.

“Island? I knows of the very one to suit you. I’ve taken parties there before, and there’s a good spot to land, and a place to tie the boats to, which there isn’t on every one of them islands. It’s just an hour’s row up from the weir, and less time to go back because of the current.”

After gliding onward for what seemed to the girls all too short a space of time, but no doubt appeared considerably longer to their rheumatic rowers, the island in question was at last reached. It looked most attractive with the willows and bulrushes and tangly interior. A tree-stump made quite a good landing-place, and everyone managed to scramble out successfully without planting a foot in the water. The first business was to explore, and to hunt up sufficient wood for a camp fire. Luckily the weather had been dry, so that all available sticks would be suitable for fuel. The girls dispersed in various directions, on the understanding that they were to reassemble when Miss Beasley blew her whistle as a signal.

“I call this a great stunt!” observed Morvyth, as the Mystic Seven moved off in company. 184

“Even Gibbie’s in spirits, bless her!” murmured Aveline fatuously.

“So she is. But all the same, I’d rather wander off alone than be tied to her apron-strings; so come along, quick! Remember you’re to earn your living by picking up sticks, so don’t slack!”

“Cheero, old sport! Don’t get raggy!”

Pioneers were penetrating the virgin forest on all sides. From right and left came squeals, giggles, or chuckles, as the girls investigated the capacities of the island. Some kept to the banks and cut dry reeds to make the bonfire burn quickly, while others were in quest of more solid fuel.

“If we’d only had a hatchet or a saw,” sighed Raymonde, “we might have cut off some quite nice logs. There really isn’t much to pick up on the ground.”

“Wish we could take that rotten tree along with us,” murmured Morvyth, pointing to a decayed old stump that stood upright with two withered boughs like scraggy arms outstretched on either side of it.

“Too big a job, my child; but we might break off one of those branches,” opined Raymonde. “No, I know we can’t reach it from below, that’s self-evident. Your humble servant’s going to climb. Here, Ave, you bluebottle, give me a leg up!”

“Oh! Suppose it topples over with you! Don’t, Ray!”

“Bunkum! It won’t! I’m not scared, thanks!”

As a matter of fact, Raymonde knew perfectly well that she was going to perform rather a risky feat. She did it because she was in a don’t-care frame of mind, also because she had quarrelled with Morvyth earlier in the afternoon, and wished to astonish her. Morvyth was standing now, elevating her eyebrows, and looking as if she did not believe that Raymonde would really carry out her boast, which was all the more reason for the latter to put speech into action.

Aveline obediently rendered the required assistance, and with a swing and a clutch Raymonde managed to scramble up the trunk to the place where the boughs forked. One of these was in a particularly crumbling and decrepit condition, and she thought that with a strong effort she might succeed in breaking it off. It was not an easy matter to balance herself on the fork and stretch out to pull at the branch.

“You’ll be over in a sec.!” called Morvyth.

“Bow-wow!” responded Raymonde airily.

She leaned a little farther along, seized the branch with both hands, and gave a mighty tug. The result was more than she anticipated. The poor old tree had reached a stage of such interior decay that it was really only kept together by the bark. The violence of the wrench upset it to its foundations; it tottered, swayed, and suddenly descended. The girls picked up Raymonde out of a cloud of dust and a mass of touchwood. By all strict rules of retribution she ought to have been hurt, but as a matter of fact she was only a little bruised, considerably choked with pulverized wood, and very much astonished. When she recovered her presence of mind, she set to work to break off pieces from the boughs, which were just exactly what was wanted for the bonfire fuel. 186

“Don’t tell Gibbie!” she besought the others.

“Right-o! Mum’s the word!” her chums assured her. “Bless its little heart, we wouldn’t get it into a scrape! Don’t think it of us!”

Miss Beasley’s signal sounded at this critical moment, so the Mystic Seven filed off like vestal virgins to feed the fire which Miss Gibbs, with her accustomed energy, had already lighted. Their contribution of wood was so substantial that it drew comment from the rest of the party, but they received the congratulations with due modesty, and did not divulge the source of their supply. Most of the girls were too much interested in proclaiming their own adventures to care to listen to anybody else’s, and the mistresses were busy watching the kettles. It seemed like camp life over again to be sitting in a circle, drinking tea out of enamelled mugs, and eating thick pieces of bread and butter. Miss Beasley had provided a large home-made plum birthday cake, with a sixpence baked in it, the acquisition of which was naturally a matter of keen interest to each several girl, until the lucky slice fell to the lot of Cynthia Greene, who fondled the coveted coin tenderly.

“I’ll have a hole bored through it, and wear it on my chain always, in memory of you, dear Miss Beasley!” she declared in emphatic tones.

“Little sycophant!” sneered Morvyth enviously.

“She ought to give it to the soldiers!” snapped Raymonde.

But Miss Gibbs was rattling a row of mugs together as a delicate hint that the feast was finished, and the Principal was consulting her watch, and calling to the boatmen to make ready. The monitresses 187 swept all remaining comestibles into the baskets, stamped out the fire, emptied the kettles, and proclaimed the camping-ground left in due order. One by one the boats started on their way down the river, drifting easily now with the current, and leaving long trails of ripples behind them. The sun was sinking low in the west, and there was a lovely golden light on the water, the shadows on the willowy shore were deep and mysterious, a kingfisher flashed along the bank like a living jewel. The spirits of the school, already risen to fermenting point, effervesced into stunt songs composed on the emergency of the moment, and passed on from boat to boat.