A Popular Schoolgirl, Angela Brazil [big screen ebook reader txt] 📗

“Sham ill, get Dr. Broadfield to attend, and coax them out of him,” suggested Fil.

Doreen shook her head.

“He’s not the school doctor, unfortunately. When Millie sprained her ankle, Miss Burd sent for Dr. Harrison. We might fish for them with a butterfly net tied to the end of a drilling pole, if they’re anywhere near enough.”

“They’re not. I peeped over the wall and they’ve rolled quite a long way off.”

“How weak! What are we to do?”

“There’s nothing for it,” said Ingred slowly, “but to make a sally into the enemy’s trenches and fetch them back!”

“Oh! I dare say! But who’s going to do the sallying business?”

“I will, if you like.”

“You!”

“Yes; I don’t mind a scrap.”

“You heroine!”

“Don’t mensh!”

“But suppose you’re caught?”

“I shall have to risk that, of course. I’ll reconnoiter carefully first.”

The boundary between the College premises and the property of Dr. Broadfield was part of the old Abbey wall. The mortar had crumbled away from the stones, leaving large interstices, so it was quite easy to climb. With a little boosting from Verity and Nora, Ingred successfully reached the top, and peered over into the neighboring garden. Just below her was a rockery, which offered not only an easy means of descent, but a quick mode of egress in the case of the necessity of beating a hasty retreat.

Beyond the flowerbed, and lying on the lawn, were no less than seven tennis balls, marked with the unmistakable blue cross that claimed them for the College. The sight was enough to spur on the faintest heart. Apparently there was nobody in this part of the garden, and no watchful face peered from any of the windows. It was certainly an opportunity that ought not to be missed. Ingred slipped first one foot and then the other over the wall, and dropped on to the rockery. It was the work of a minute to pick up the balls and throw them back to rejoicing friends. If she herself had followed immediately there would have been no sequel to the episode. But happening to look under the bushes, she noticed another ball, and went in quest of it. It seemed a shame to return until she had found any that might have strayed farther afield, so she dived under the rhododendron bushes, and was rewarded with two more balls. She had issued out on to another part of the lawn, and was on the very point of retreating, when she suddenly heard voices on the path between the bushes. To run to the wall would be to cross open country, so, with an instinctive desire to seek cover, she dived into a summerhouse close by, and shut the door. The footsteps came nearer. Were they going to follow her into her retreat, and catch her? It would be too ignominious! Peeping warily through a small window of the summerhouse, she saw two young people, apparently much interested in each other, strolling leisurely up. To her immense relief they did not attempt to enter, but sat down on a seat outside the window. They were so near that she could perforce hear every word, and was an unwilling but compulsory eavesdropper.

At first the conversation consisted mostly of tender nothings: “He” certainly called her “Darling!”; “She” replied: “Oh, Donald, don’t!” and a sound followed so suspiciously like a kiss that Ingred, only a few feet away from them, almost giggled aloud. She wondered how long they were going to keep her a prisoner. It might be very pleasant for themselves to sit “spooning” in the garden on a mild May evening, but if they prolonged their enjoyment beyond eight o’clock, the hostel supper-bell would ring, and any girl not in her place at the table would lose a mark for punctuality.

“He” on the other side of the window, was waxing sentimental about old times and bygone days.

“I’m glad you’re not a nun, darling!” he remarked fatuously. “If you had lived in the ancient Abbey, I shouldn’t have been able to walk about the garden with you, should I?”

“I suppose not,” she ventured, “especially if you’d been a monk.”

“I dare say some of them did manage to do a little lovemaking sometimes, though. What’s that story about the ghost?”

“The White Nun, do you mean? The one that haunts the College gardens?”

(Ingred pricked up her ears at this).

“Yes. Isn’t there some legend or other about her?”

“I believe there is, but I’ve forgotten it. I only know she walks on moonlight nights, down the steps by the sundial, and then disappears into the wall near the Abbey. At least she’s supposed to. I’ve never met anybody who’s seen her. Don’t talk of such shuddery things! You make me feel creepy!”

Apparently he offered masculine protection, for another suggestive sound was followed by a giggle and a remonstrance. The hostel bell was ringing, and the Abbey clock was striking eight. Were they going to stay talking all night? Ingred was growing desperate. She wondered how she was going to explain her absence to Mrs. Best. She even debated whether it would be advisable to open the summerhouse door, bolt across the lawn, and trust to luck that the matter was not reported at the College. She had her hand on the latch when the feminine voice outside remarked:

“It’s getting chilly, Donald!”

“Don’t catch cold, darling!” with tender solicitude. “Would you rather go indoors?”

“Hooray!” triumphed Ingred inwardly, though she did not dare to utter a sound.

It took a little while for the lovers to get under way and finally stroll back along the path among the bushes. Ingred gave them time to walk out of sight and hearing, then made a dash for the rockery, scrambled over the wall, tore across the tennis courts, and entered the dining-room nearly ten minutes late for supper. Mrs. Best looked at her reproachfully, and Doreen, who was monitress for the month, took a notebook from her pocket and made an entry therein. Nora and Verity and Fil went on eating sago blancmange with stolid countenances that betrayed no knowledge of