At the end of the summer term it had always been the custom of the school for each Form to get up a separate little entertainment, at which the other Forms should act audience. This year it was unanimously decided not only to keep up the old tradition, but to extend the original plan by charging for admission, and sending the proceeds to the Blinded Soldiers’ Fund. This idea appealed greatly to the girls.

“They’ve given their eyes for us, and we ought to do something for them!” declared Linda emphatically.

“It must be awful to be blind,” sighed Muriel.

“Yes, and some of them are such lads, too! Think of losing your sight, and having your whole career ruined, when you’re only nineteen or twenty, and the ghastly prospect of living years and years and years till you’re quite old, and never being able to see the sun again, and the flowers, and your friends’ faces, or anything that makes life beautiful! I don’t think half of us realize what our soldiers have suffered for us!”

“And they’re so patient and cheerful!” added Veronica. “In my opinion they prove their heroism 239 as much by the way they bear their ruined lives afterwards as by their deeds in the trenches. It has shown what stuff British folk are made of. And you get such surprises. Often a boy whom you’ve known, and always thought weak and selfish and silly, will turn out to have any amount of grit in him. There’s one in particular—a friend of ours. He cared for nothing before except amusing himself—the kind of boy who’s always getting into debt and doing foolish things. Well, he’s utterly changed; he’s not like the same fellow. I think the war will have made a great difference to many of our men.”

“And to our women too, I hope,” said Miss Beasley, who, unnoticed by Veronica, had joined the group. “It would be a poor thing for the country if only the men came purified out of this time of trouble. ‘A nation rises no higher than its women!’ And now is Woman’s great opportunity. I think she is taking it. She is showing by her work in hospitals, in canteens, on the land, in offices, or in public service, how she can put her shoulder to the wheel and help in her country’s hour of need. I believe this war will have broken down many foolish old traditions and customs, and that people will be ready afterwards to live more simple, natural lives than they did before. The school-girls of to-day are the women of to-morrow, and it is on you that the nation will rely in years to come. Don’t ever forget that! Try to prove it practically!”

Miss Beasley seldom “preached” to the girls, but when she spoke, her few quiet words generally had their effect. Hermie and Linda in especial 240 turned them over in their minds. As the result of their mistress’s last remark, they made a suggestion to their fellow-monitresses.

“Some of us are leaving this term, and at any rate in a few years we shall all have left, and be scattered about in various places. Wouldn’t it be nice to make a kind of League, and undertake that every girl who has belonged to this school will do her very best to help the world? It should be a ‘Marlowe Grange’ pledge, and we’d bind ourselves to keep it. If a whole school makes up its mind to a thing, it ought to have some effect, and it would be splendid to feel that our school had been an inspiration, and helped to build up a new and better nation after the war. There are only twenty-six of us here at present, but suppose when we leave we each influence ten people, that makes two hundred and sixty, and if they each influence ten people more, it makes two thousand six hundred, so the thing grows like circles in a pond. I don’t mean that we’re to be a set of prigs, and go about criticizing everybody and telling them they are slackers—that’s not the right way at all; but if we stick up constantly for all that we know is best, people will probably begin to sympathize, and want to do the same.”

Hermie’s and Linda’s idea appealed to the Sixth. They instituted the League at once, and persuaded the entire school to join. They put their heads together, and drew up a short code which they considered should explain the attitude of their society. It ran as follows:— 241

God Save the King

In order to make the League a binding and lasting affair, the monitresses decided to give each 242 member a copy of the code, and ask her to sign her name to it. For this purpose they made twenty-six dainty little books of exercise paper, with covers of cardboard (begged from the drawing cupboard) decorated with Japanese stencils of iris, chrysanthemums, birds and reeds, or other artistic designs, the backs being tied with bows of baby ribbon. After the list of rules, were appended a few suitable quotations, and blank pages were left, so that each individual could fill them up with extracts that she liked, either cut out of magazines or written in her own hand. Most of the girls admired Robert Louis Stevenson, so the selections began with his wise and tender epitome of life:—

“To be honest, to be kind, to earn a little and to spend a little less, to make upon the whole a family happier for his presence, to renounce when that shall be necessary and not be embittered, to keep a few friends, but these without capitulation. Above all, on the same grim condition, to keep friends with himself. Here is a task for all that a man has of fortitude and delicacy.”

As Linda and Hermie could not agree whether this ideal of life or the one by William Henry Channing was the more beautifully expressed, it was agreed to put the latter’s as well:—

“To live content with small means; to seek elegance rather than luxury, and refinement rather than fashion; to be worthy, not respectable, and wealthy, not rich, to study hard, think quietly, talk gently, act frankly; to listen to stars and birds, to babes and sages with open heart; to bear all cheerfully, do all bravely, await occasions, hurry never; in a word, to let the spiritual, unbidden and unconscious, 243 grow up through the common—this is to be my symphony.”

As the League was to be nothing if not practical, everyone felt that the best way of upholding its principles at the present moment was to raise a good collection for the fund for the blinded soldiers. The Sixth determined to give a theatrical performance, the juniors a display of gymnastics and dancing, and the Fifth concentrated their minds upon a concert.

“It’s not to be just an ordinary concert,” said Ardiune, addressing a select committee of management; “it must be something extra special and outside, such as we’ve never had before in the school, so rub up your ideas, please, and make suggestions. I’m waiting!”

“Rather a big order to get anything entirely new!” grunted Morvyth. “I should say everything on the face of the earth’s been tried already!”

“But not here! How you catch me up!”

“There isn’t time to get up an operetta, I suppose?” ventured Fauvette.

“Hardly—in three days!”

“A patriotic performance?”

“Had one only last term, so it would come stale.”

“Then what can we have?”

“I know!” exclaimed Raymonde, bouncing up from her chair, and taking a seat upon the table instead. “I vote we be coons!”

“What’s coons?” asked Katherine ungrammatically.

“Oh, you stupid! You know! You sing 244 plantation songs, and wear a red-and-white costume, and wave tambourines, and that sort of thing.”

“Do we black our faces?”

“We can if we like, but it isn’t necessary. We’re not to be nigger minstrels exactly. Coons are different. Of course, the songs are all about Sambos and Dinahs, but white people can sing them with quite as great effect. I believe the Bumble’s got some castanets and things put away that we could borrow.”

“So she has! Bags me the cymbals!”

“Pity nobody can play the banjo.”

“Never mind, we shall do very well with the piano.”

The committee having decided that their concert was to be a coon performance, the girls set to work accordingly to make preparations. All the songbooks in the school were ransacked to find plantation melodies, and after much discussion, not to say quarrelling, a programme was at length arranged, sufficiently spicy to entertain the girl portion of the audience, but select enough not to offend the easily shocked susceptibilities of Miss Gibbs, whose ideas of songs suitable for young ladies ran—in direct opposition to most of her theories—on absolutely Early Victorian lines.

“Gibbie’s notion of a concert is ‘Home, Sweet Home’ and ‘Cherry Ripe’, and perhaps ‘Caller Herrin’ if you want something lively,” pouted Ardiune.

“Yes, and even those have to be edited,” agreed Morvyth. “Don’t you remember when we were learning ‘Cherry Ripe’, she insisted on our changing 245 ‘Where my Julia’s lips do smile’ into ‘Where the sunbeams sweetly smile?’”

“And she wouldn’t let us sing ‘The Blue Bells of Scotland’, and we knew it was just because it began: ‘Oh where, tell me where, is your Highland laddie gone?’”

“Don’t you know it’s highly improper for a school-girl even to mention a laddie?” murmured Katherine ironically.

“How about the blinded soldiers, then?”

“That’s another matter, I suppose.”

“Look here—let’s take our programme to the Bumble, and get her to pass it beforehand, and then there can be no criticisms afterwards.”

“Right you are!”

“I’ve got another idea,” propounded Raymonde. “Suppose, instead of having our concert in the lecture hall, we ask the Bumble to let us have it in the barn instead? It would be just twice as coony.”

“Top-hole! It would be a regular stunt!” agreed the committee.

A deputation waited upon Miss Beasley, and found her quite gracious and amenable to reason, both in respect of the choice of plantation ditties and the use of the barn as a place of entertainment. She even vouchsafed the further and most valuable suggestion that they might supply refreshments and charge for them, to help to swell the funds.

“You can send an order to the Stores at Gladford to-morrow for cakes and biscuits. Cook shall make you some lemonade, and you may have the oil stove in the barn and supply cocoa at twopence a cup.”

“May we sell sweets, Miss Beasley?” asked Raymonde tentatively. 246

“Well—yes. I don’t see why you shouldn’t. You may put down chocolates with your order for cakes and biscuits, if you like.”

The delegates made a cheerful exit from the study, and hurried to communicate their good tidings to the rest of the Form.

“O Jubilate! We’ll make a night of it!” commented Katherine. “The Bumble’s turned into an absolute honey-bee!”

Great were the preparations for the event. Costumes had to be contrived—a difficult matter with only the school theatrical box to draw upon—and ten coons to be turned out in uniform garb. The usual stock properties, such as the brigand’s velvet jacket, the Admiral’s cocked hat, or the hunting top-boots, were utterly useless, and the girls had to set their wits to work. They decided to wear their best white petticoats with white blouses, and to make hats out of stiff brown paper trimmed with rosettes of scarlet crinkled paper (obtainable at the village shop), using bands of the same scarlet for belts and ties.

“Of course we’d rather have had real rush-hats and ribbons, but if you can’t get them you can’t, and there’s an end of it, and you must just make up your mind to do without!” said Raymonde philosophically.

“If I sing too hard I know I’ll burst my waistband!” objected Morvyth, who always looked on the gloomy side of events.

“Then don’t sing too hard, and don’t take any refreshments, if you’ve such an easily expanding figure!” snapped Raymonde.

“We could stitch the crinkled paper over an 247 ordinary belt, and then it wouldn’t break through,” suggested Valentine.

“Scarlet’s not my colour!” mourned Fauvette.

“Never mind, Baby, you look nice in anything!” returned Aveline soothingly. “And your white petticoat’s a perfect dream! I always said it was a shame to wear it under a dress.”

The entertainment was to take place in the evening, after preparation, and on the afternoon of the day in question the Fifth Form took sole and absolute possession of the barn, turning everybody else out, even those indignant enthusiasts who were at work at the wood-carving bench.

“Mind, our tools haven’t got to be touched, or we’ll have something to say!” called out Daphne as she made an unwilling exit.

“I shall put them all in the box!” returned Morvyth, slamming the door.

The wood-carving bench had to serve as refreshment table, so it was cleared with scant ceremony, in spite of Daphne’s protest; a clean cloth, borrowed from the cook, was spread upon it, and plates of cakes and biscuits, and packets of chocolates, were laid out as attractively as possible, with vases of flowers between.

Raymonde, who was nothing if not inventive, suddenly evolved a new and enterprising scheme.

“We must have a platform!” she decided. “Come along to the wood pile, and we’ll get some packing-cases and put railway sleepers over them. It won’t take us long!”

It turned out a more strenuous business than she had anticipated, however, for it was difficult in the first place to find packing-cases of the 248 same height, and more difficult still to get the railway sleepers to fit neatly together on the top of them.

“I hope it’ll hold up!” said Aveline dubiously, when the erection was at last complete.

“Oh, it’ll just have to hold!” returned Raymonde in her airiest manner. “I think it’s nicer than a stiff platform, and more suitable for a barn. It looks really ‘coony’, and suggests the Wild West, and log-cabins, and all that sort of thing.”

Immediately after preparation, the coons retired to make final arrangements in the barn. The big stable lanterns were lighted and hung up for purposes of illumination, and a cauldron of water was set upon the oil cooking-stove. It was a horrible scramble, for time was short, and they still had to change their dresses. Everyone seemed in everybody else’s way, and each gave directions to the others, though nobody was in authority, and all got decidedly cross and snapped at one another.

“It’s not an atom of use sticking up that lantern unless you fill it first,” urged Valentine. “I tell you it’s almost empty, and won’t burn twenty minutes. You don’t want to perform in the dark, I suppose?”

“It ought to have been filled before!” grumbled Ardiune. “Here, give me the paraffin can.”

“Take care what you’re doing! You’re slopping into the cauldron!”

“I’m not!”

“But I saw you! We shall have to empty out the cauldron and wash it and refill it.”

“Nonsense!” interfered Raymonde. “There isn’t time. Val, is that lantern finished? Then 249 hang it up, and come along and dress. We shall have everybody arriving before we’re half ready.”

Almost every amateur concert begins late, and this was no exception to the rule. By the time the coons had scrambled into their costumes, and Fauvette had got her best lace-trimmed white petticoat fastened adequately on to her blouse with safety-pins, and Katherine had adjusted her tie to her satisfaction, and Muriel had induced her paper hat to tilt at the right angle on her head, the audience was clamouring for admission at the door of the barn, and making moral remarks on the subject of punctuality.

“We’re awfully sorry,” panted Raymonde in excuse, undoing the padlock which the coons had left fastened, and allowing the school to tramp into the place of entertainment. “Your shillings, please! Yes, we’re taking the money first thing, instead of handing round the plate in the interval. Where’s the Bumble?”

“Just coming now, with Gibbie and Ma’m’selle.”

The barn with its dark rafters, stable lanterns, and improvised benches, certainly looked a most appropriate setting for a plantation programme, and Miss Beasley glanced round with amused interest on her arrival. She and the other mistresses were escorted to special posts of honour, and the performance began without further delay. Everybody admired the costumes; the red-and-white effect was quite charming, especially when worn by all ten alike, and the paper hats with their big rosettes gave a coquettish appearance that added to the piquancy of the songs. There could, of course, be no piano accompaniment, but the girls 250 made up for it by a liberal clashing of cymbals, rattling of castanets, and jingling of tambourines. They were as “cute” and “coony” as they knew how to be, putting a great deal of action into the songs, and adding a few comic asides. At Raymonde’s suggestion, they had decided during the performance of “The Darkies’ Frolic” to dance a lively kind of combined fox-trot and cake-walk measure to illustrate the words. They had practised it carefully beforehand, and considered it the piÈce de rÉsistance of the evening. But alas! they had not calculated on the difference between the firm floor of the barn and the extremely shaky erection on which they were perched. They were only half-way through, and were capering in most approved darky fashion, when the middle packing-case which supported the planks suddenly gave way, and the platform collapsed. Some of the girls sprang off in time, but several went down among the ruins, and were rescued by the agitated mistresses, fortunately without real injuries, though there were scratches and bruises, and at least half a yard of lace was torn from Fauvette’s best petticoat.

As “The Darkies’ Frolic” was the last item but one in the first half of the programme, and the performers were naturally ruffled by their unexpected accident, Miss Beasley suggested that they had better have the interval at once, and soothe their feelings with cakes and cocoa before resuming the entertainment. The little spread on the wood-carving bench looked attractive; the Stores had sent a tempting selection of cakes, and the audience was quite ready for refreshment. Ardiune, presiding 251 at the cauldron, mixed cups of cocoa as speedily as possible, and handed them out in exchange for twopences. At the first sip, however, an expression of acute disgust spread itself over the countenance of each consumer.

“Whew!” choked Hermie. “What’s the matter with the stuff? It’s simply atrocious!”

“It tastes of paraffin!” proclaimed Veronica, pulling a wry face.

“There! I told you so!” whispered Valentine to Ardiune. “You have just gone and done it this time!”

There was no doubt about the matter. The contents of the cauldron were quite undrinkable, and the girls had to fall back on the small quantity of lemonade which the cook had provided. It was a most mortifying experience, especially happening just after the failure of the platform. The Sixth were looking amused and superior, the juniors were grumbling, and Miss Beasley was saying “Never mind, so long as we help the blinded soldiers;” which was kind, but not altogether comforting. The audience made up for the lack of cocoa by their consumption of confectionery, and went on buying till not a solitary cake or packet of chocolate was left upon the bench.

The second half of the programme had to be performed upon the floor, but went off nevertheless in quite good style and with much flourish of instruments. Fauvette, with her torn lace hurriedly pinned up, piped a pretty little solo about “piccaninnies” and “ole mammies”; Aveline and Katherine gave a spirited duet, and the troupe in general roared choruses with great vigour. Everybody 252 decided that the evening—barring the cocoa—had been a great success. The proceeds, in particular, were highly satisfactory.

“One pound ten shillings!” announced Raymonde. “Just count it over, somebody, please, to make sure I’m right! I don’t call that half bad for a Form concert. If the others do as well, we shall have quite a nice sum. Shall I give it to the Bumble now?”

“She’s gone upstairs. Besides, I believe it’s Gibbie who’s going to send off the money. You’d better keep it till the others have had their entertainments, and it can all be handed in together.”

“Right-o! I’ll take it and lock it up in my drawer. I say, it was awful fun being coons, wasn’t it?”

“Top-hole!” agreed the others.