CHAPTER II

ENTER THE BLACK SHEEP

One afternoon a week later the Fifth commandeered the common room for a special meeting to arrange an impromptu cricket match for the next Wednesday afternoon, the weather being so unusually hot that it was impossible to start winter games in real earnest. They were about to begin the meeting, when an excited exclamation from a girl sitting curled up in a corner of the big settee attracted everyone's attention.

"Oh, I say, girls, just listen to this!" She held up the letter which she had been reading while waiting for the meeting to start.

"Letters already, Glenda?" remarked Ida Preston. "Why, we've only been back a week. Not from home, surely?"

"No," replied Glenda. "This came by the afternoon post and it's from my cousin, who lives at Croftdene. She thinks her news might be of interest to us. It has given me a thrill, anyway."

"Something about St. Etheldreda's?" asked Irene Eames in surprise.

Glenda nodded. She was a tall girl of striking appearance, always beautifully dressed, with dark hair and eyes and a rather dramatic way of talking. She delighted in creating sensations and had a large following among the Fifth. In fact, she and her friend--red-haired, hot-tempered, clever Irene Eames--were the acknowledged leaders of the form.

"I should just think it is," Glenda replied with emphasis. "It's about this new girl who hasn't turned up yet. It seems she's a real bad lot, according to my cousin, who thinks we're in for a lively time."

"Does she know her, then?"

"No, but--well, I'll tell you how it is. A lady named Mrs. Whiddon recently came to live in the old Grange at Croftdene. My aunt and cousin went to call, and before the acquaintance was many weeks old they discovered that Mrs. Whiddon had a niece, who was so naughty and troublesome she didn't know what to do with her. She sent her away to a boarding-school last term, and"--here Glenda paused with great dramatic effect--"she was _expelled_!"

There were exclamations of incredulous wonder from Glenda's little audience.

"It's quite true, because it comes from the girl's own aunt and guardian," declared Glenda. "At the end of the term--she was only there a term--the Principal wrote and asked Mrs. Whiddon to take her niece away, as she was quite unmanageable and would have a bad influence on the other girls."

"I wonder what she did," breathed Betty Cairns, awestruck. "It must have been something dreadful."

Glenda shook her head. "I don't know. Mrs. Whiddon didn't say. Mustn't she be a bright specimen, though--the niece, I mean!"

"And this girl is coming to St. Etheldreda's," said Irene slowly. "Surely Miss Julian doesn't know what sort of a character she has?"

"But she does!" Glenda retorted triumphantly. "She offered to take the girl into her school--give her a trial, so to speak. It seems her mother was a very dear old friend of Prinny's and she's doing it for her sake, I suppose."

The girls looked at one another, but no one said anything.

"What I think," continued Glenda, "is that it's rather hard lines on us to have a girl of this sort foisted on us. If she's too bad a character for one school to put up with, then she isn't good enough for St. Etheldreda's."

"Hear, hear!" came from one or two listeners.

"Well," said red-haired Irene, the top girl of the form, "we aren't all saints by any means, but I've never yet heard of a girl at St. Etheldreda's who has had to be threatened with expulsion. I don't want to chum up with a girl of that sort."

Glenda held up her letter. "My cousin says it's a good thing for me I am warned in time, as she knows how lacking I am in common sense and a 'sense of balance,' whatever that means. Rather a knock for me, what?" and she joined heartily in the laugh against herself.

"Still, perhaps it is rather fortunate we have got to know about this girl," Muriel Graves observed thoughtfully. "Otherwise we might have had a few shocks."

"Forewarned is forearmed," added Irene. "We shall know how to deal with her--or rather, how to steer clear of her," and there was a murmur of agreement from the others; the rest of the form were apt to be easily swayed by its two strongest characters, Irene and Glenda.

Suddenly a new voice, hitherto unheard, came from the direction of the wide hearth.

"I say, don't you think the fairest thing would be to give the kid a chance?" said Nathalie Sandrich.

All eyes were immediately turned on the new speaker, a rather big girl who had somewhat the appearance of a lanky, ungainly young colt; that is to say, her hands and feet seemed to be too large in proportion to the rest of her, while she did not appear to know quite what to do with her elbows and knees--faults which would probably be remedied when she had finished growing. She had a shock of bright brown hair, irregular features, plentifully besprinkled with freckles during the summer term, and a rather wide mouth which displayed beautifully white, even teeth when she smiled.

Nathalie Sandrich, usually known as Nat, had, as she herself declared, only one talent, a perfect genius for "putting her foot in it."

Strange to relate, when a difficult catch at cricket was muffed--a catch upon which the fate of the match rested--the unhappy fielder was sure to be Nat Sandrich, though Nat was quite a good cricketer. Should it be discovered that one of the girls walking down the church aisle for Sunday morning service was displaying an enormous hole in her stocking, above the heel of her shoe, one took it for granted that the girl would be Nat although, as she pointed out, she did quite as much darning as any other girl in the school. When the position lists of the term examinations were posted up, the name of Nat Sandrich was invariably the very last on the Fifth Form list, though one could not by any means call her a dull or stupid girl. She was unfortunately the member of a Fifth Form unusually diligent and intelligent at their lessons, and suffered in comparison; she also generally managed to lower her chances further by omitting to head one of her papers or number some of her questions, thereby losing marks to which she would otherwise have been entitled. On the whole Nat was popular with her school companions, for she had a cheerful disposition and often amused them, but they were inclined to regard her with a kind of tolerant, good-natured contempt.

All eyes were now on Nat, as she made her suggestion so abruptly.

"What exactly do you mean, Nat?" asked Irene.

"Only that I think you ought to give the kid a chance," repeated Nat, "by treating her as if you'd never heard any of that," pointing to Glenda's letter. "Just imagine she's an ordinary sort of girl and you've never heard anything against her. She may not be so bad after all. Perhaps there was a mistake at the other school. Besides, you can soon judge what sort of a girl she is for yourselves. It isn't fair to her to form a prejudice against her before you see her."

Here was a new point of view. Glenda looked annoyed, for though she was not an unkind or ill-natured girl at heart, she did not like to see the startling effect produced by her news counteracted.

"I hardly see how a mistake could have been made," she said loftily. "Her aunt's opinion of her seemed to coincide with that of the Head Mistress of the school. I don't think it's at all nice of Prinny to plant down such a character in our midst."

But Nat stuck to her guns. "Prinny wants to give her another chance or she would have told us what sort of a girl this new kid was," she insisted. "Besides, don't you think that's the sort of thing she meant when she talked about 'putting in' as well as 'getting out'? It isn't being very kind or considerate."

"Good gracious! It's never Nat preaching!" cried Irene with an amazed expression "What will happen next?"

Nat was crimson to her ears. "I'm not preaching," she denied, with as much indignation as if she had been accused of breaking all the ten commandments at once. "I've never preached in my life. It's only that I don't think it's fair----"

"Good for you, Nat," broke in a clear voice from behind, and everyone looked hurriedly round to see Allison standing just inside the door. She had entered unnoticed in the commotion some few minutes ago and now came forward. "Nat is right," she went on decidedly, "I don't know how you got hold of this tale. Miss Julian was particularly anxious that rumours of this sort should not get about."

The girls were eager to explain the source of their information and were already feeling a little ashamed of themselves, for they were good-hearted girls in the main and even those strong-minded spirits, Irene and Glenda, were anxious to keep the good opinion of the popular Head Girl.

Allison smiled round upon the circle of Fifth-formers.

"Then is it agreed that Nat's idea be adopted, and we all decide to forget what we've just heard in Glenda's letter and give this new girl at least a fair start? Then it won't be our faults if she doesn't take advantage of it."

Everyone agreed, with outward heartiness at any rate. "As a matter of fact," Allison then continued, "it's about the new girl that I came to speak to you. She's just arrived."

Naturally this announcement caused great excitement.

"Is she coming into the Fifth?" asked Irene.

"Yes. Miss Julian is giving her a trial with you, though I believe she is a little below the average age. As a senior she'll be entitled to a study, of course. Which of you will volunteer to take her in?"

There was silence. Everyone looked stealthily at everyone else, but no volunteers were forthcoming.

At last Nat said, with a sigh: "I suppose I ought to, as I'm the only one with a study to myself at present. But I don't want to. I like a peaceful life."

"Oh, you needn't necessarily be the victim," replied Allison. "It can easily be otherwise arranged by somebody changing studies with you."

Still no one moved or spoke.

Allison looked across at Nat. "You'll have to take it on," she said with a twinkle in her eyes. "No one else will."

Nat groaned. "All right," she replied resignedly. "I suppose you can't expect the girls to upset their present study arrangements. But I don't look forward to the prospect."

"If she can't get on with you, Nat, then she won't get on with anyone," Allison said decidedly, adding with another twinkle: "You will have to put up a notice on the board, publicly announcing that you will not hold yourself responsible for any of your partner's debts or misdemeanours. Here she is, I believe," as the door opened and Pamela Preston looked in.

"I've brought her along; Allison," said the prefect. "She's taken her things upstairs to her cubicle and partially unpacked."

"Right-oh!" Allison nodded her thanks. "I'll introduce her to her future form companions and leave her to their tender mercies."

Pamela vanished, leaving her charge standing just inside the door.

Naturally everyone gazed at her with unrestrained curiosity, and rather to their disappointment did not see anything about the new girl that looked at all dreadful or desperately wicked. In fact, there was something rather childish about the solitary figure, in spite of her fifteen years; an impression due to the slightness of her build, her height, which was rather under than above the average, the shortness of her tunic and her straight bobbed hair, black near the roots and ending round her ears in a kind of rusty brown. Like the rest of her figure, her features were small and delicately cut, her complexion olive and her eyes grey-blue, under lashes that were long and dark. She came forward apparently without either shyness or eagerness, as Allison called to her.

[Illustration: "Everyone gazed at her with unrestrained curiosity."]

"Your name's Monica, isn't it?" the Head Girl asked with a friendly smile.

"Yes, Monica Carr," was the brief response, but there was no return of Allison's smile.

"Well, these are girls of the Fifth, which will probably be your form. I'll just introduce you to two or three of them, then I'll clear off and leave you to make friends. This is Irene, the top girl. This is Glenda, the shining light of the dramatic society, and here is Ida Preston, the most accurate netball shooter we have ever possessed. Oh, and this is Nat. I mustn't forget Nat, as you are to share studies with her."

The girls, true to their compact, greeted the newcomer with as much naturalness as they could simulate, and Allison, her mind relieved, took her departure.

"'Fraid we shall have to postpone our meeting," observed Glenda. "The tea bell will soon be ringing. We must have it later. Come along to my study about half an hour before supper bell, those who wish, and we'll fix up our match arrangements then."

Nat turned to the girl who stood silently at her side. "Come along and I'll show you our study," she suggested. "Then if you've any books and things you want to keep there you can bring them down."

The new girl followed Nat along the passage which led to the row of senior studies, added to the school accommodation when the Annexe was built. She listened silently as Nat, who was a sociable soul, chatted cheerfully. She was not very responsive, however; not even when Nat, with obvious pride, ushered her into the little room, remarking:

"To a certain extent we are allowed to furnish or decorate our studies as we like. It's rather fun to see the different ideas different girls have. This study is rather bare at present, but the girl who was to share it with me left last term and took her belongings with her, and I haven't had time to hang up my pictures yet. The table, chairs and cupboard are school furniture, but the little bookcase is mine. My youngest brother made it for me, so that accounts for the shelves not fitting properly. Perhaps you would like to suggest things--what colours we should choose for curtains, table-cloth, cushion-covers and so on--or perhaps you have some pictures you would like to put up. I'm afraid I'm not very artistic about that sort of thing."

No gleam of animation or enthusiasm lightened the new girl's face. "I didn't bring anything like that with me," she said, speaking for the first time, in a voice that was low-toned and with a husky note in it. "I didn't know. Besides, I haven't anything, except one or two dressing-table ornaments that will do for my cubicle."

"But perhaps you'll have a few original ideas," persisted Nat. "Then we might look round and buy what we want."

"I don't often get original ideas," was the discouraging reply.

Nat rubbed her nose thoughtfully, reflecting dismally that this was not a very bright beginning and held out few hopes for a jolly future. However, you couldn't always judge new girls from first impressions. Some of them felt very strange and awkward and homesick at first, poor things. She tried again, meaning to be comforting.

"I hope you don't feel homesick, because really there isn't any need. Of course, some of the younger girls are, though we haven't any very young ones. Last year we had a new girl--quite a big girl in the Fourth--who cried and cried every night for a whole week, till her nose was so red the others said it gave her a most disreputable look! Now she cries every time we break up for the holidays."

"Well, I haven't any intention of crying, either now or when we break up. As for being homesick, I haven't a home to be sick for."

"Oh, haven't you? What a shame!" Nat said sympathetically. "Where will you go for the holidays?"

"Oh, I've a house I can go to--my aunt's house. It's very large and comfortable, and you can have everything you want there--but a house isn't a home."

"Haven't you a father or mother?"

"No."

"Nor brothers or sisters?"

"No."

"How horrid for you!" Nat had not been at all attracted by the new girl, but now her ready sympathies were enlisted. No wonder she was so queer and stiff!

"Have you been to many schools?" she continued, with another attempt to be friendly.

"No, I was only at one for a term last year."

"You've had a governess then, I suppose?"

"No."

"Oh!" Nat wondered how a girl was educated, if she neither went to school nor had a governess. "I suppose your people taught you at home?"

"No."

After this brief denial, conversation languished. The new girl volunteered no information about herself and did not seem to want to know anything about her new surroundings, so Nat racked her brains for a further topic of interest.

"Do you play games at all? That always helps at school. Even girls who aren't much good at anything else get awfully popular if they can shine at games."

"No, I can't play any games."

Nat was completely taken aback.

"Not any at all? But surely you must have played something. Not cricket or tennis or netball?"

The new girl shook her head.

"Nor hockey?"

"No, I don't think so. What is hockey like?"

"Oh, it's a topping game. You chase up and down a field and swipe at the ball with your stick whenever you get the chance. You'll have to play something here. Games are compulsory, unless you're excused for medical reasons. You haven't a weak heart or varicose veins, I suppose?"

"I don't think so."

"Then you'll have to learn," declared Nat firmly.

"I don't mind if I do."

Silence fell again. Nat did not like to continue the games topic, for the new girl displayed not the slightest interest or enthusiasm in it. She glanced at the clock. Only five minutes before the tea bell rang. A new thought struck her.

"I say, this is one of the days when you have to speak French at meals. No English is allowed at the senior tables under penalty of a penny fine. Do you know much French?"

"Not a word."

Nat gazed incredulously. "Not really? Honest Injun, you're not pulling my leg?"

"Indeed, no. I was never taught French."

"Never taught French! I forgot you've never been to school nor had a governess."

Nat looked hard at the new girl, but there was no sign of mischievous propensities in her expression; she merely appeared bored at having to answer all these tiresome questions.

"Then I'm afraid it's rather hard lines on you," Nat remarked. "You'll have to sit still and say nothing all tea-time."

The new girl looked up and for the first time spoke with some warmth in her voice and manner.

"I don't mind that at all. But I'm jolly hungry. Suppose I want some sugar in my tea or some more jam or cake, and it isn't within reach, can't I ask for it?"

"Not in English. Only in French."

"But I can't speak French."

Nat scratched her head in perplexity. "We must think of some way out of the difficulty. I'm afraid I couldn't possibly teach you the French names for everything on the tea-table before tea bell goes. I'll tell you what. You must just say: 'Passez-moi cela, s'il vous plait,' and point to what you want."

The new girl put her head on one side and regarded Nat with a flicker of impish mischief in her face.

"But it's rude to point."

"Then you must manage to point without being rude. Jerk your head or make a graceful gesture. That's the best I can do for you, anyway."

"What is it I have to say."

"'Passez-moi cela, s'il vous plait.' It means 'Pass me that, please.' Say it after me ten times, then you'll know it by heart."

A few minutes later Monica was escorted to tea by Nat. The big oak-raftered and panelled room with its long tables covered with snow-white napery was a cheery sight, especially when filled with seventy or eighty hungry schoolgirls and echoing with the chatter of their voices. The new girl sat quiet and silent by Nat's side, subdued by the crowds of strange faces, the buzz of strange voices. Curious glances were cast at her by some of the Fifth Form girls who had heard of her reputation, but on the whole they were too busy satisfying their appetites and racking their brains for French phrases to take much notice of Monica.

At her table Glenda Vaughan, tall and good-looking in her dark, handsome style, was holding everyone's attention with her endeavour to relate a humorous story in French, and her love of dramatic effect was shown in every varying tone of her voice, every flash of her dark eyes.

"Attention, mes enfants," she commenced. "Je vais vous dire une petite conte--une conte très-très drôle," and in somewhat remarkable French she endeavoured to relate how the witty young French guest asked his French hostess a riddle. Why was she like the teapot? Here Glenda paused, gazed round triumphantly, then continued: "Et le jeune homme répondit: 'Parce que vous êtes pleine de bonté.'"

Everyone looked puzzled. No one laughed. As a matter of fact Glenda was the only one at the table who might be said to possess linguistic talent and she was very proud of her French. Besides, she had studied up this little story very carefully in order to make an impression.

Nat, who was steadily working her way through her third slice of bread and butter before embarking on cake, paused in the act of helping herself to raspberry jam. "Mais, quel jeune homme stupide! Quel est le joke?" she demanded. "Je--je ne le vois pas."

Glenda, annoyed, flounderingly tried to explain in a mixture of French and English, disregarding the possibility of a fine. "Que vous êtes bêtises! Pleine de bonté--full of goodness; pleine de bon thé--full of good tea. Comprenez?"

Ida Preston burst out laughing while in the act of drinking from her cup, with the natural result that she choked and fell to coughing violently, much to the delight of her unfeeling table companions.

Miss Moore, the mistress in charge that day, stopped chatting to Allison and glanced severely across at the scene of this sudden commotion.

"Comment donc! Qu'avez-vous, Glenda, Irene? Taisez-vous."

While Glenda was wildly searching for a suitable answer in French, Nat's voice was raised in cheerful explanation.

"C'est Ida, Mademoiselle. Elle est trop pleine de bon thé," and from table number two there came a shout of ribald and unseemly mirth at Nat's ready answer.