CHAPTER VIII
MAINLY CONCERNING A MOUSE
The Lower Fifth was a long way removed from the Sixth Form at Wakehurst Priory. Between it lay the Middle Fifth, the Upper Fifth, and the Sixth Remove. But things had a way of getting round in the school, as they have in other places; and in due course it came to the ears of the Sixth Form that the new girl, Geraldine Wilmott, was not exactly popular with her companions. She had done something rather "sneaky," the Sixth understood, and was vaguely suspected of being a German—or at any rate of having a good deal of German blood in her.
"Too bad of Miss Oakley to have admitted her into the school if it's true," commented Kathleen Milne, one of the prefects and a prominent member of the Sixth. "Of course, I know the war's over now, and all that; but all the same, one can't quite forget some of the things they did. I, for one, must say that I'd prefer not to be educated at a school where they take German girls."
"Who's that that's German?" inquired Monica Deane, looking up quickly from the book she was poring over. It was during the evening preparation, and Monica, with one or two other members of the Sixth, had repaired to the large room, half classroom, half library, where the Sixth Form classes were held. Being a somewhat privileged form, the Sixth were at liberty to prepare their work where they liked, either in their common room, or in the small studies of which each member of the form possessed one.
It was Kathleen Milne who answered the question.
"That new girl in the Lower Fifth—Geraldine Wilmott."
Monica banged her book indignantly upon the table.
"Rot! She isn't! She's as English as I am. She sleeps next door to me in my dorm, and the first day of term she was telling me all about her home and her relations."
"Well, Phyllis Tressider told me that she was," persisted Kathleen. "Her mother was German and married an Englishman, and they lived in Germany before the war. The kid jabbers German like a native. Fact, Monica. Phyllis says the kid told them so one day, bold as brass about it. She's got all their sneaky ways, too. She's always getting them into rows, and is an awful little funk into the bargain. If that isn't German, I don't know what is!"
Monica said nothing further then, but that evening after supper, she encountered Phyllis Tressider in one of the corridors and immediately cornered her on the subject of Geraldine's nationality.
"What makes you think she's German?" she asked. "Did she tell you she was?"
"Well—all but," said Phyllis. "You wouldn't have any doubts about it if you heard her talk their beastly lingo! She's got Pretty Polly beat to a frazzle."
"Well, I don't believe it," said Monica firmly. "And I think it's jolly rotten of you Lower Fifth kids to go spreading a rumour like that about the school. Even if it were true, the least you could do would be to keep it to yourselves. I didn't know that Wakehurst girls could be such rotten little sneaks!"
"We're not sneaks!" said Phyllis indignantly. "It's she who's a sneak! Why, she got Jack Pym kept in so's she couldn't be tested for the second eleven, on her very first day at school!" And she poured out a somewhat highly-coloured version of the episode of the caricature.
But Monica was not at all sympathetic with Jack's wrongs.
"She was new and didn't know," she said. "You are little brutes to go giving the kid a rough time just because Jack chooses to get herself into trouble. As for her being German—well, even if she is, she needn't necessarily be any the worse for that. I dare say there are some decent Germans—just as there are some rotten English people!" With which, for Monica, rather bitter little speech, the Sixth Form girl stalked away.
Phyllis chose to consider herself very much aggrieved by the wigging Monica had administered, and seeking out her chum, Dorothy, she confided her woes to her. Dorothy was properly sympathetic.
"Well, anyway, if she isn't German, she's a beastly little sneak—and a rotten little coward into the bargain! Let's do something to show Monica what she is really like, shall we? If we could scare her up in the dorm when Monica was there, so that she could see what a funk she is, perhaps she'd believe us."
"But what could we do?" asked Phyllis doubtfully. "Ghosts aren't allowed ever since the Green Dorm scared that little kid, Molly Forest, into fits last winter. Besides, Muriel would be down on us like a ton of coal if we tried on anything of that sort. And I don't want to get into Muriel Paget's bad books if I can help it."
The conversation was taking place in the boot-lobby, a favourite haunt of the two chums since they had discovered that after supper they usually had it entirely to themselves. Dorothy was perched up on the top of one of the lockers, and Phyllis was just climbing up beside her, when a sudden click near by made them both jump down with a little scream.
"What was that? Did you hear it, Phil?"
"It came from underneath this shelf, I think," said Phyllis, stooping down to reconnoitre. Then she thrust her hand under the row of boot-lockers with a little laugh.
"It's a mouse, caught in Bennett's mousetrap. I was in here when he was clearing the boots away yesterday, and he told me he was going to set one, because he was sure there was a mouse in the lockers somewhere. Look, here it is! Isn't it a darling?" And she held up a wooden and wire cage, in which a small mouse was held captive.
Dorothy clasped her hands with a sudden inspiration.
"The very thing!" she exclaimed delightedly.
"What is?" inquired Phyllis, mystified.
"Why, that mouse! It will do to frighten Geraldine with, splendidly. We'll put it in her bed to-night, and she'll scream like anything when she finds it there. That'll show Monica that you weren't much out when you said she was a funk."
"I say! It would be rather a lark," said Phyllis, her eyes dancing with mischief. "It won't make Muriel ratty, though, will it?"
"Not with us," declared Dorothy confidently. "She'll never find out who's done it, even if she does think it didn't happen to be there by accident. She'll probably be awfully ratty with Geraldine, though. She despises people who are afraid of mice. Don't you remember how down she was on Dora Wainscott last term because she screamed when one ran across the dining-hall one day?"
"But won't it get out before Geraldine gets into bed?" said Phyllis, longing to carry out the trick, yet half afraid of incurring the wrath of her beloved Muriel. Phyllis was as "gone" on the head girl as Muriel would ever permit any of the girls at Wakehurst to be.
"It won't if we tuck the bedclothes in tightly," replied Dorothy. "Come along, Phil, and let's put it in now. We shall just have time before prayers if we buck up. You scoot ahead and see if the coast's clear while I come behind with the mouse. Remember, you left your handkerchief up in the dorm, and felt you were going to sneeze in Chapel, but couldn't find Sister to ask permission to fetch it, if we meet anyone."
The coast proved to be quite clear, however, and the handkerchief excuse was not needed, which was, perhaps, just as well. The two had used it some half-dozen times already this term, although barely a fortnight had gone by. Arrived in the Pink Dormitory, Dorothy produced a candle and a box of matches,—both were strictly forbidden in the dormitories on account of the risk of fire, but that was quite a minor detail with these two girls,—and having cautiously struck a light, the two proceeded to deposit the mouse in Geraldine Wilmott's bed.
It was not a very difficult proceeding. The mouse was quite a baby one, and far too scared to make any effort to escape when Dorothy shook it out of the trap and covered it up securely with the bedclothes. Phyllis had already tucked the sheets in tightly so as to cut off any possible avenue of escape. And then the two conspirators made haste to restore the trap to its place under the boot-lockers and take their places in Chapel, the bell for prayers having already sounded.
The plot succeeded beyond their wildest anticipations. The occupants of the Pink Dormitory were just about to get into bed that night, and Muriel, as dormitory monitress, was waiting to turn the lights out, when there came a piercing scream from Cubicle Thirteen. The next moment a slender night-gowned figure burst into the corridor, shaking in every limb. A dozen heads were thrust out from behind curtains to see what was the matter, and the head girl came hurrying down the dormitory to investigate the cause of the disturbance.
"Why, Geraldine! What is the matter? Who has been frightening Geraldine Wilmott like this?" demanded Muriel sternly, as she joined the group of girls clustering round Geraldine.
"Nobody's been frightening her. She just screamed, and we came out to see what was the matter," said Phyllis Tressider, with an air of innocence and anxious solicitude. Had Muriel been watching her closely she might have suspected that extreme innocence, but as it was she was too much taken up with Geraldine to heed it.
"What is the matter, Geraldine?" she asked again, putting her hand kindly on the trembling girl's shoulder. "What happened? What was it frightened you so?"
"It was a m—m—mouse! It was in my bed. It jumped out at me when I was getting in. It's in my cubicle now. Oh, catch it for me! Do catch it!" the girl wailed. "I do hate mice so!"
"A mouse?" Muriel's hand dropped from the girl's shoulder, and her voice was expressive of the utmost scorn. "Fancy making all that fuss about a mouse! Really, Geraldine, I should have thought you were too old for such nonsense. Get into bed at once and don't let me hear any more of this rubbish."
"Oh, I daren't? It may be there still," cried Geraldine, struggling to control her terror but not succeeding very well. Mice were a real bugbear to her, and had been ever since a foolish nursemaid had scared her with them as a tiny mite, and the fear had grown worse instead of better during the last three years. But, of course, the girls of Wakehurst Priory could not be expected to know this, or to have understood the terror even if they had—least of all Muriel Paget, whose own nerves were of that sane and healthy order for which mice and other fearsome creatures had no terrors at all. She stalked into Geraldine's cubicle and turned down the bedclothes of the small bed. But though she made a thorough search both in the bed and under all the furniture, no trace of the mouse could be discovered. It had utterly disappeared, and the head girl was inclined to believe that the occupant of Number Thirteen had imagined the whole incident.
"There's nothing there. Get back into bed at once," she commanded, having looked in every possible and impossible place for the cause of Geraldine's alarm. "Even if it was a mouse, it couldn't hurt you. It would probably be much more frightened of you than you are of it."
"There really is nothing there, Geraldine," said Monica kindly. "Come along and get back into bed and let me tuck you up. I'm next door to you, you know, and I'll come along in a minute if you're frightened in the night."
Geraldine allowed herself to be taken back to bed and tucked in by the elder girl. Now that her first fright was over, and the unreasoning terror that always possessed her at the sight of a mouse had passed away somewhat, she was very much ashamed of her panic, and dreaded the teasing it would probably bring upon her from the rest of the school. A remark which Dorothy Pemberton made, as she scurried back to her own distant cubicle at Muriel's bidding, did not tend to ease poor Geraldine's mind.
"I think her name rather suits her, don't you?" she asked of the dormitory in general. "She's nothing but a German Gerry after all!"
And although Muriel Paget commanded her sharply to shut up and get into bed, yet the titter of appreciation that went round the dormitory warned Geraldine only too surely that Dorothy had found a nickname for her that would stick.
CHAPTER IX
AN INTERVIEW WITH THE HEAD GIRL
And it stuck! From that day forward Geraldine was invariably known throughout the school as "German Gerry." "Gerry" alone the girl would not have minded so much. As a shortening for Geraldine, it compared quite favourably with most nicknames. But with the prefix of "German" the title became abhorrent to the unfortunate new girl, a fact which was very soon discovered by the Lower Fifth. And although Geraldine, or Gerry, as she now became, except to the mistresses and one or two of the older girls, did her best to disguise how much she minded, yet she could not help wincing sometimes when the objectionable name was uttered.
Once she tried the effect of a mild remonstrance.
"I wish you wouldn't call me that," she said one evening during preparation, when Phyllis Tressider addressed her by the title with a request for the loan of a book. "I'm not German—and I do so hate being called it!"
There was dead silence in the classroom. The Lower Fifth had been expecting Gerry to remonstrate for some time past, and her failure to do so had been put down as another sign of her weak spirit. The Lower Fifth was quite unable to comprehend the mentality of a girl who, from a sheer nervous dread of "rows," would submit to almost any treatment rather than protest. The form waited now with some interest to see how the situation would develop, leaving Phyllis to deal with it as she thought fit.
Phyllis thought fit to say nothing for the moment. And after a brief pause, Gerry spoke again.
"I'm not German, you know," she said pleadingly. "Not the very least little bit."
"Aren't you?" said Phyllis politely, but with the utmost indifference in her tone. "I say, has anybody done this beastly number eleven sum yet? Is 33¼ the right answer?"
"I'm not German, Phyllis! Truly I'm not!" repeated poor Gerry, her eyes filling with tears.
"Oh, aren't you?" said Phyllis again. "Of course if you tell us so——" with an ironic emphasis on the "tell." Then she broke off with an air of having done with the subject for ever. "But I'm really not interested, one way or the other," she concluded. "I say, Dorothy, you might tell me what your answer is to number eleven?"
"Then, please, don't call me that any longer," pleaded Gerry; but Phyllis ignored her altogether and turned to Jack Pym, who sat on one side of her.
"Extraordinary the number of Germans who're getting naturalised these days," she remarked conversationally. "Shows what a fat lot of patriotism they've got, doesn't it? As soon as their country's down and out they all desert her and refuse to acknowledge her any longer. Oh, well—I suppose it's all one can expect from a lot of German Gerries!"
"Oh, shut up, for goodness' sake, and let me get on with my prep!" growled Jack, planting her elbows firmly on her desk and bending over her papers. Jack had caught sight of tears in Gerry's eyes, and the sight had disconcerted her strangely. After all, Gerry was almost a new girl. It had really been quite an accident that she had got her into trouble on that first day of term; and even though she did speak German so well it need not necessarily mean that she had German tendencies. Did not Miss Parrot speak it equally fluently? Nobody would ever dream of accusing Miss Parrot of having German sympathies. Gerry really was having rather a rotten time of it, and it was a shame that Dorothy and Phyllis should be always at her like that. But unfortunately Jack was not strong enough in character to stand up on behalf of the new girl. She was always far too easily swayed by popular opinion, and since popular opinion appeared to be dead against Gerry, Jack dared not show her any sympathy. So she stifled her feelings of compunction and returned to work, endeavouring to banish all thought of Gerry Wilmott from her mind.
After this one attempt, Gerry abandoned all efforts to rid herself of the objectionable nickname. It never occurred to her to take the form into her confidence respecting the reason for her nerves. Indeed, she did not connect them herself with the air-raid night. Also, in the present state of affairs, there was really no one in whom she could confide, and in any case she would have found it difficult to speak of that terrible evening. She became more and more solitary, hardly attempting to speak to her companions, and a more miserable and lonelier girl than the one who inhabited Cubicle Thirteen, in the Pink Dormitory at Wakehurst Priory, it would have been hard to find. It really seemed as though some of the ill-luck proverbially attaching to the mystic number was hanging over her head. Lessons were almost her only solace. Having no other interest in life, Gerry set to work to excel in class, and did so well that she very soon rose to the top of the form, a place which had been divided pretty evenly hitherto between Hilda Burns and Dorothy Pemberton. The new girl's success in form work aroused more jealousy on Dorothy's part, and on Phyllis's, too. Phyllis's championship of her chum did not need much spurring, more especially when it concerned Gerry Wilmott.
But success in lessons cannot make up for unpopularity away from them. To a girl at boarding-school the social life is by far the most important part as a rule, much more important than the hours passed in the classroom. And Gerry, who was no exception to the general run of girls in this respect, found her position in form a very poor consolation indeed for all the other troubles that she had to bear.
Unfortunately, too, she was a hopeless duffer at games, never having played any before coming to school. Hockey was the principal pastime during the two winter terms at Wakehurst, and practice two or three times a week was compulsory for all except for a few girls who were exempt on account of some physical defect. Gerry, who, although delicate, had nothing really organically wrong with her, was obliged to take her turn with the rest; but she disliked the muddy pastime immensely, and took no interest in trying to improve her play. She was put down in the very lowest team of all, along with quite small children and a few other beginners like herself; and although the prefect who took charge of the hockey practice tried occasionally to "buck up" the slack girl from the Lower Fifth, she, herself, was not very interested in the game and met with no success.
Just before half-term, a series of dormitory matches was arranged by the head girl, who was captain of the first team and immensely keen on the game. Muriel was naturally anxious that her own dormitory should distinguish itself, and she selected her team with great care and much anxious thought. Several of the matches had been played, and so far the Pink Dormitory had been victorious against all the opponents they had met. Now they were down to play against the Green Dormitory, a very powerful rival, which also possessed, so far, an unbroken record. It was pretty certain that the Dormitory Hockey Cup, which was the prize of these inter-school matches, would go to one or the other of these two teams, and excitement in the school ran high as the day approached on which the final match was to be played.
There were thirty inhabitants of the Pink Dormitory, so it ought to have been possible to have chosen eleven players from amongst them without having to fall back upon one who had only begun to play that term, and who hated hockey into the bargain. Nevertheless, by a series of unlucky accidents, the number of possible players was gradually reduced, until on the very morning of the day fixed for the match against the Green Dormitory, Muriel found herself confronted with the problem of choosing between Geraldine Wilmott and a small girl from the Middle Third for her eleventh player. In her perplexity she consulted Monica, who, although she was not in the first school eleven, was quite a useful player and Muriel's principal reliance in the Pink team.
"There's literally no one else," the head girl said in despair. "Gladys and Bee are away for the week-end. Dora Wainscott's got a gathered hand, so she's out of the question; Ena Philpotts mayn't play at all this term; Sister's taking Pam to the dentist's this afternoon; and Ursula Hanson is going out with her aunt. All the others are either down with 'flu or just recovering from it, and Sister won't let any of them play until they've been up a week. That only leaves us Marjorie Brown or this new girl—Geraldine what's-her-name. 'German Gerry' the girls call her, don't they? Have you seen her play—have you any idea what she's like?"
"No, I've never seen her play, but I shouldn't think she's much good. Who superintends her team practice? Do you know?"
"Yes, Kathleen Milne. She's right down in the bottom team, you see. But so's Marjorie, too, for the matter of that. I've asked Kathleen which is the best, but she doesn't seem to know much about either of them. Says they are both so rotten that she really doesn't know which is the worse."
"Kathleen's rather a slacker at hockey herself," commented Monica. "You can't really wonder her team doesn't do better when they've got such a slack coach. Can't you get that changed, Muriel? I don't see why it must always be a prefect who takes charge of the hockey practices for the lower teams. It would be much better to have somebody who knew something about hockey—even if it wasn't a prefect. Don't you think so?"
"Yes, it is rather a bad practice, and I mean to get it altered in time," agreed Muriel. "Only there's so much to be done, and I've only been head two terms, you know. Still, I really will see about it as soon as I can. But that doesn't help me out of my fix over the dormitory match. Which of those two shall I play? Gerry or Marjorie?"
"I think I should give Gerry the chance," replied Monica thoughtfully. "Marjorie is such a mite of a thing, and from what Kathleen told you she doesn't appear to be any better in her play. After all, one player won't make such a huge lot of difference since you've got ten of the original team left. You're really rather lucky, Muriel, only to have one of the eleven down with 'flu."
"Yes, I suppose I am," said the head girl. "Very well, then, it shall be Gerry. Where do the Lower Fifth hang out this time of the morning?"
"In their sitting-room, I expect, since it's Saturday and there isn't any prep," said Monica.
Muriel opened the door of her study and hailed a small girl who happened to be passing.
"Here, Babs, run round to the Lower Fifth sitting-room and tell Gerry Wilmott I want her in my study. If she isn't there, just hunt about until you find her. There's a good kid."
"All right, Muriel," said the small girl, and darted off on her errand—fagging for Muriel Paget was esteemed a great honour amongst the smaller fry at Wakehurst Priory. And so Gerry, sitting half-hidden in a corner of the sitting-room, buried in a book, was presently aroused by a violent jog at her elbow, and looked up to find Babs Hethwaite standing beside her.
"Muriel Paget wants you in her study. She says you're to go to her at once," burst out the messenger.
Several of the members of the form looked up interestedly at this announcement, and many curious eyes followed Gerry as she made her way across the room.
"Hullo, what's up? I wonder what German Gerry's been doing for Muriel to want her in such a hurry?" commented Nita Fleming as the door closed behind the new girl.
"Oh, nothing! Perhaps Sister's been complaining about her drawers or something," said Jack, rather resenting the tone in which Nita spoke. It was noticeable—or rather would have been noticeable if anybody had been interested enough to notice it—that Jack never spoke of Gerry by the objectionable nickname herself, although she made no comment when others used it. Always, whenever Gerry was unkindly spoken of by anybody, Jack felt an unaccountable desire to stick up for her and take her part. If Jack had only been a little braver, she probably would have done so. It was curious how drawn she had been to Gerry during that first evening of the term when Monica had handed the new girl over to her care. If only things had been different, she might have made a real chum OF Gerry Wilmott—Jack reflected rather wistfully. But though Jack was plucky enough where mice and hockey and material things of that sort were concerned, when it came to braving the good opinion of her fellows, her courage failed her altogether.
Gerry found Muriel sitting at her writing-desk, making out a revised list for the afternoon's match.
"Oh, there you are!" the head girl said, as Gerry entered the room in response to her "Come in." "Look here, you've got to play in the match this afternoon for the Pink Dorm. Gladys Williams is down with 'flu and you've got to take her place—right back. Do you think you can manage it?"
Gerry gave a gasp of dismay.
"Me! Oh, but, Muriel, I'm rotten at hockey!"
"I know you are," said Muriel candidly. "But there literally isn't anybody else—all the other girls in the Pink Dorm are away or down with 'flu, or something. I never came across such a lot in my life! I wouldn't put you in if there was anybody else—but there isn't. So you'll just have to play."
"But, Muriel——" protested Gerry desperately. But Muriel waved her protest aside.
"Not another word! You've got to play. It's for the honour of the dorm, you know. I shan't expect anything very great of you—just do your best and I shall be satisfied. It's 2.30 sharp up on the hockey ground, and mind you're ready in time."
Then, as Gerry still lingered, a look of distress on her face, the head girl rose from her seat and laid her hand kindly on her junior's shoulder.
"Look here, kiddie—you must try and get a better opinion of yourself. Having confidence in oneself is half the battle in everything, you know. Just make up your mind that you're going to play A1 in the match this afternoon, and you'll come through all right! You're such a quiet, shy person that you make the girls shy of you too, and you'll never make friends with them while you're like that. You just try and come out of the background a little and do things, and you'll find you'll get on much better all round."
Muriel smiled down very kindly at the younger girl as she said these words, and Gerry felt her heart go out to the head girl of the school. Almost it was on the tip of her tongue to confide some of her troubles to Muriel about that horrible nickname and the caricature that first day in class, and how the rest of the Lower Fifth suspected her of having German sympathies, if nothing worse! It was evident that Muriel knew that things were not quite right with her, or she would not have said as much as she had done.
But just as she was going to speak, the words died away on her lips. No! She wouldn't say! She wasn't a sneak, whatever the Lower Fifth might think, and since she had kept her own counsel so far, she would keep it to the end. After all, she didn't want to be friends with such a mean set of pigs as the Lower Fifth had proved themselves to be! Even Jack, whom she had liked so much that first day of term—but, no! Jack would not bear thinking about just then! And Gerry turned to leave the head girl's study with a murmur of thanks for Muriel's encouragement.
"I'll do my very best," she said earnestly. And Muriel gave her another friendly smile as she dismissed her, so that Gerry retraced her steps to the Lower Fifth classroom with a new feeling of happiness in her heart. Muriel was nice—whatever the girls in the Lower Fifth might be. And so was Monica, and possibly some of the girls in the Middle and Upper Fifth were not quite so beastly—yes, that was the only word for it—as her present companions. Gerry decided that she would work harder than ever at her lessons and try and get moved up next term, and then possibly, amongst new companions, she could make a new start, and find school life a much happier affair than it had been hitherto.
With which resolve she turned the handle of the sitting-room door and walked inside.
CHAPTER X
THE DORMITORY MATCH
As a rule when Gerry walked into a room, she might have been invisible so far as the Lower Fifth was concerned. But on this particular morning the form's collective curiosity was too great to allow it to keep up its dignified attitude of obliviousness any longer.
"What did Muriel want you for?" demanded Phyllis jealously, as Gerry came into the sitting-room.
"N—nothing much," answered Gerry nervously. She nearly always was nervous when questioned abruptly, more especially when Phyllis Tressider happened to be the questioner. "It was only—only that I've got to play in the dormitory match this afternoon."
"You! What on earth is Muriel thinking of? Why, you can't play hockey for nuts!" exclaimed Dorothy Pemberton in undisguised astonishment.
That was, to tell the truth, exactly Gerry's own opinion, but all the same it was not pleasant to have it confirmed so emphatically by somebody else. All her determination to play her very best that afternoon, and so justify Muriel's choice, slipped away from the new girl as she saw the incredulous amazement in her companions' faces. Of course she couldn't play! She was quite hopeless where games were concerned, and always would be. All the old lack of confidence and distrust of self flooded Gerry's mind again, quite undoing all the good Muriel's kindly encouragement had worked in her.
It was with a premonition of failure that she took up the place Muriel had assigned to her on the hockey field that afternoon. She felt physically ill with suspense and nervousness as she waited for the whistle to sound and the game to start—a nervousness which grew greater and greater as the game went on and no balls came her way. Perhaps if the thick of the fighting had been down her end, some of Gerry's nervousness might have worn off. But, as it happened, the Pink Dormitory forwards proved themselves immeasurably superior to the forwards of the Green Dormitory. And nearly all the play took place down near the Green Dormitory's goal. On the few occasions when the Green forwards did get away with the ball, they were turned back easily by the Pink half-backs. Monica Deane, Gerry's companion at full back, stopped a stray ball or two, but nothing at all serious in the nature of a struggle took place at the Pink Dormitory's end of the field.
But although the Green attack was poor, its defence was strong enough, and in spite of the fact that all the play was down in the Green's goal circle, it was not until well after half-time that Muriel succeeded at last in scoring a goal for her dormitory. Gerry drew a breath of relief as the forwards returned to the centre-line. Incredible as it may sound, Gerry had not as yet touched a ball. There couldn't be much longer to play now—not more than another ten minutes at the outside. If she had not distinguished herself so far, at least she had not disgraced herself. Oh, if only Muriel would keep the ball at the other end until these next ten minutes were over, then she would be safely through her ordeal! Monica and the Pink goal-keeper were lamenting loudly at the dullness of their afternoon, but Gerry was almost praying that the inaction might continue to the end.
But, alas! her prayers were destined to be unfulfilled! Five minutes before time, the Green Dormitory made a desperate effort to break down the Pink team's defence. Jack Pym, from her place at half-back, got hold of the ball, and obeying the orders of her captain, Alice Metcalfe, not to pass it but to break etiquette for once and take it up herself, succeeded in getting it by the Pink half-backs. Elsie Lipscombe, centre forward for the Greens, joined her then, and together the two took the ball down until they were almost inside the Pink Dormitory's goal circle. Monica flew out to tackle them, and succeeded in stopping Elsie Lipscombe, who, however, tipped the ball back to Jack with an injunction to "get it into the goal circle and shoot for all you're worth."
"Into her, Gerry!" shouted Monica, flying after Jack, but unable to catch up with her. It should have been an easy matter for Gerry to have disposed of the ball, for at that moment Jack slipped suddenly and sent it accidentally a yard or so farther in front of her than she had intended. All that Gerry had to do was to stop the ball—it was not a hard one—and hit it out of the goal circle. But the panic which had been raging in Gerry's soul all the afternoon took complete possession of her at this critical moment. To her distorted imagination the ball seemed to have grown to three times its normal size, while Jack, bearing rapidly down upon her, appeared a veritable juggernaut. The ball was coming straight towards her, but she did not even attempt to stop it. Worse even than that: with a little shrill cry of terror she dropped her stick and fled!
Of course the goal was scored. The Pink goal-keeper was too utterly flabbergasted at her full back's desertion to do anything but stare after Gerry's fleeing figure. Jack, however, although she too was astounded at Gerry's behaviour, kept her wits about her sufficiently to pounce upon the ball and send it flying between the goalposts, thus making things even between the two teams again.
The whistle blew for a goal, and Gerry, recovering from her momentary lapse, returned to her place. She was trembling in every limb, overcome with shame at her exhibition of fear, and the coldness with which Monica and the goalkeeper regarded her as she crept forlornly back to her position did not help her to regain very much of her equanimity.
Muriel made a desperate effort to recover her lost advantage. But she could not succeed in breaking down the Green Dormitory's defence again, and the whistle blew for time at last without either side gaining the victory.
"Bother!" said Muriel, as she and Monica and one or two other members of the Pink team walked off the field together. "That means we'll have to play it again. We ought to have won easily, too. I messed up an easy shot for goal in the first half—if I'd only got that we should have been all right."
"Or if that little ass, Gerry Wilmott, hadn't funked," remarked Monica, rather bitterly. It was she who had given the casting vote in favour of Gerry's inclusion in the team, and she was feeling more or less responsible for the fiasco.
"Oh, well, I don't know," said Muriel leniently. "The kid didn't want to play, I will say that for her. I practically forced her to. It was my fault, I suppose, really, for making her do it against her will."
"You weren't to know that she was such a little coward, though," said Monica. Curiously enough it was Monica who was the more down upon Gerry for her exhibition of fright—Monica, who might have been expected to have had some sympathy with the shy new girl whom, up to now, she had rather taken under her wing. As it was, it was Muriel, brilliant, splendid Muriel, who had never known what it was to have an attack of funk in her life, who was the more inclined to make excuses for her. Ever since the mouse episode in the dormitory, which Muriel had since recognised to have been real terror and not merely affectation, as she had at first suspected, upon Gerry's part, the head girl had been observing Gerry with some interest, and the girl's genuine self-depreciation in her study that morning had touched her more than she quite knew.
"Poor kiddie, I expect she's feeling pretty cut up about it," she said sympathetically. And she actually waited until Gerry, forlornly lagging in the rear of the other players, came up, in order to speak a kind word to the disgraced member of her team.
Gerry, absorbed in her own miserable thoughts, did not see the head girl until she was nearly upon her. Then she drew up short with a nervous gesture, expecting a reprimand. But Muriel made haste to remove the apprehension she saw in Gerry's eyes.
"Come on, kid; you seem to have got left behind," she said gently. "Come and walk with me." And she slipped her hand through the younger girl's arm.
"Oh, Muriel—I am so sorry——" began poor Gerry, the tears coming into her eyes. But Muriel cut short the impending apology.
"Oh, rubbish!" she said. "Don't be sorry. Just do better another time. That's all I want. After all, we haven't lost the Cup, you know. We shall have another shot for it next week or the week after, and you must try and do better then."
"Oh no, no! Not in a match again! Please, please not, Muriel!" cried Gerry, with such a note of anguish in her tone that Muriel realised that this was not a case for the maxim, "You can do it if you only try," with which she was used to encourage people who in her opinion needed encouragement. In a vague sort of way it came home to her that Gerry's mentality was rather outside her experience of schoolgirl psychology, and for the moment she forbore to press the already overtaxed girl further.
"Very well," she said gently. "Don't get into such a stew over it. You shan't play in a match again until you feel more confident. But you've got to learn to play hockey, you know. I must take you in hand myself and see what I can do with you. Meanwhile you must cheer up, and not go fretting yourself to death over that one ball. It really doesn't matter an atom!"
And as they had now reached the school buildings, she let go of Gerry's arm, and with a kindly smile and an encouraging pat on her shoulder, she sent the Lower Fifth girl off to the dormitory to change, not a little comforted.
CHAPTER XI
A LESSON IN HOCKEY
But the comforted feeling did not last very long. There was no monitress on duty in the Pink Dormitory when Gerry reached it, both Muriel and Monica, who sometimes acted as the head girl's understudy, having been detained downstairs, and Dorothy Pemberton was taking advantage of that fact to change from her hockey things to her ordinary school attire in Phyllis Tressider's cubicle. Through the half-drawn curtains the two saw Gerry go by, and immediately brought their conversation round to the new girl's display of cowardice upon the playing-field.
"Wasn't it a shame we didn't win the match?" lamented Phyllis. "If it hadn't been for German Gerry's funking that ball we must have won."
"Sickening, isn't it?" agreed Dorothy, raising her voice so that there could be no possible doubt about the occupant of the next cubicle hearing the remark. "I can't think what made Muriel play her! I shouldn't think she ever would again!"
"Fancy being afraid of a hockey ball!" said Phyllis scornfully.
"Perhaps it was the sight of Jack that frightened her," suggested Dorothy. "Jack owes her something for the way German Gerry stopped her playing in that hockey trial. Perhaps she thought Jack was going to take it out of her then with a hockey stick!"
A little choked sound from next door assured the two that their shots were going home, and encouraged them to further efforts.
"I bet Muriel felt pretty ratty when the German turned tail," Phyllis went on maliciously. "Even Monica looked fed up—I guess she won't take German Gerry's part any more! And as for Muriel—I shouldn't think she'd ever speak to Gerry again! Muriel simply hates cowards."
Dorothy racked her brains for another hurting remark. But before she could think of one, rapid steps came down the corridor, and the next minute the cubicle curtain was thrust aside, and the head girl, flushed with indignation, appeared before the two conspirators' horrified eyes.
"There's one thing I hate even worse than cowards," said Muriel, with mingled contempt and anger, "and that is sneaks! It's one of the meanest, sneakiest things I ever heard of to go saying things like that about a person when you know they can overhear you! I'm not the least bit ratty with Gerry. She didn't do it on purpose, and she's sorry enough about it, anyway, without you two little worms rubbing it in like that. You just shut up and leave Gerry alone. If I hear you talking like that again I shall deal with you pretty severely."
For a moment the two girls were too thunderstruck at the Nemesis that had descended upon them to make any excuse for themselves. Then Dorothy rallied her failing powers.
"We're awfully sorry, Muriel," she murmured in a deprecating tone. "We didn't know Gerry was in her cubicle and could hear us."
Muriel gave a contemptuous sniff.
"Don't tell such lies! If you had said that you didn't know I could hear, I might have believed you. Go back to your cubicle at once, Dorothy, and finish changing there. You know quite well that you are not allowed to change in another girl's cubicle or talk in the dormitory unless you've got permission. You can both of you take a conduct mark for this little affair."
Then, having seen the abashed Dorothy depart to her own cubicle, the head girl turned to Cubicle Thirteen.
"Ready yet, Gerry?" she asked kindly.
"N—not quite," came in muffled accents from behind the drawn curtain.
"Buck up, then—I'm waiting to walk down to tea with you," said Muriel cheerily. And when, a few moments later, a subdued and rather red-eyed person emerged from Number Thirteen, she slipped her hand through the new girl's arm again, and marched her through the dormitory and down the stairs and into the dining-hall, chatting gaily to her all the way, as though she had been some important fellow-prefect instead of merely a humble, insignificant member of the Lower Fifth who had just made a disastrous exhibition of herself on the hockey field.
Arrived in the dining-hall where the girls were assembling for tea, Muriel gave Gerry's arm a parting squeeze, and with a cheerful "Buck up, kid, and never mind what those little beasts say," she sent her off to her place at the bottom of Table Five, while she herself went to her station at the head of Table Two.
But not even the head girl's championship could save Gerry from the bad times that awaited her now. Indeed, in some ways, it rather made matters worse. Phyllis was furiously jealous of the favour Muriel had shown to the new girl, and Dorothy—although she was not so "gone" on the monitress of the Pink Dormitory as her friend was—was yet very indignant that their victim should have any favour shown to her at all. Both girls bitterly resented the way Muriel had spoken to them after the fateful hockey match; and the rowing they had received, and the ensuing conduct marks bestowed upon them, they had, quite unjustly, put down to Gerry's account. They took care that Muriel should not hear any more of their persecution of the new girl; but that did not deter them from carrying it on with an added zeal whenever they were quite sure that the prefect was not within hearing. They tormented Gerry by every means in their power; and though Gerry did her best to conceal from her torturers how much their jeers and gibes had power to hurt, yet she was so unskilled at hiding her feelings and felt their unkindness so keenly that the two were perfectly well aware of how surely their thrusts went home.
The persecution was not by any means confined to her own form, either. Nearly the whole school had been witnesses of her failure up on the hockey field, and those who had not been actually present had heard highly-coloured versions of the episode from those who had. The obnoxious nickname became more used than ever. Even the small girls from the First and Second Forms would shout "German Gerry!" after the new girl; and not even the little marks of favour Muriel sometimes showed her had power to turn the tide of popular opinion in Gerry's favour.
Even Monica, who had at first showed Gerry so much kindness, appeared to have given her up. She no longer smiled at her when they met in the corridors, as they frequently did. And as for Jack,—for whose friendship Gerry yearned more than for anyone else's,—she might not have existed so far as Jack was concerned. That episode up on the hockey field had put the finishing touch to Jack's wavering attraction for the new girl. She could not be friends with a girl who funked—that settled the matter. And Jack returned to her old companionship with Nita Fleming and three or four other members of the Lower Fifth, and tried not to see the wistful expression in Gerry's eyes when they sometimes happened to meet her own.
Gerry's next hockey practice promised to be rather a terrible ordeal for the girl. She began to dread it directly after the dormitory match, and was thankful for the brief respite afforded by the intervening Sunday. Monday, the day on which she should have played again, turned out so wet that hockey or anything else of an out-of-door nature was quite impossible. Tuesday was a walk-day for Gerry's team. But on the following Wednesday the practice could be avoided no longer, and after dinner Gerry went up to her dormitory to change into her hockey things, feeling very much as though she was on her way to be martyred at the stake.
Gerry was far and away the biggest girl in the very low team in which she had been placed. K.1. and K.2. were mostly filled with quite little girls from the First and Second Forms, with one or two backward individuals from the Third, and one spectacled person, Sally Jones, from the Middle Fourth. Sally was rather an aggressive young lady altogether. Although she was not good at hockey she was certainly improving, and was usually put to play centre forward in the practice games. She was inclined to presume upon this position and her superior age to order the other children about. When Gerry slowly approached the ground on which the two K teams were supposed to practise, Sally regarded her with keenly-inquiring eyes, and noticing her obvious dejection prepared to improve the occasion.
"Here comes German Gerry," she observed. And with a quick turn of her wrist she flicked the ball she was idly knocking about full at the approaching girl, hitting her smartly on the shin.
Gerry, who had not seen the ball coming, gave an involuntary cry of pain, which occasioned a shriek of laughter from the small girls around.
"German Gerry! German Gerry! German Gerry's hurt again!" chanted one small damsel. The catchword was taken up by the others, and the air was filled with the clamour from some twenty lusty voices as the taunting cry rose on the wind. But it died down somewhat abruptly, as Sally, who, for all her spectacles, was by no means shortsighted, caught sight of Muriel Paget in the distance.
"Shut up! Here's Muriel!" she said in an awestruck voice. And the chanting stopped suddenly as the head girl came up.
Muriel looked rather sharply from Gerry's flushed face to the abashed countenances of the other children. But if she guessed something of what had been happening she did not betray her surmise.
"Places, please," she said briskly. "I'm going to take your practice to-day instead of Kathleen. So mind you all play up jolly well."
The team scurried to their places with alacrity. It was something very new and unusual for the head girl to come and take their hockey afternoon. When not playing herself, Muriel generally superintended the practices of the B or C teams. It was an unheard-of event that she should condescend to coach the K teams, who were usually taken in hand by some senior who knew very little more about the game than they did themselves. When Kathleen Milne took the practice, she generally contented herself by taking the time and leaving Sally Jones, or some other obtrusive person, to do all the rest. A practice under Muriel Paget would be something very different from the ordinary round of things; and although highly flattered by the honour, the teams looked forward with some apprehension to the next hour.
Muriel allowed the game to go on for about ten minutes. Then she blew her whistle sharply.
"I'm going to try you in different places," she said, as the play stopped. "You're none of you much good where you are. Now let's have a complete shift round." And she proceeded to change the players about until the whole field almost was transposed.
Up to now, Gerry had always played full back—or rather, she had stood in that position. It would be incorrect to say that she had "played" anywhere. But now Muriel signalled to her to come forward.
"You're no good at all as back, Gerry. Come and try centre forward for a bit. And, Sally, you take Gerry's place at full back. Now are you all arranged? Come along, Gerry, and take your place."
"But, Muriel—I can't play centre forward. Why, I don't even know how to bully!" expostulated Gerry, aghast at the greatness thus suddenly thrust upon her.
"Don't you? Well, that can soon be remedied. Here, where's the ball? Lend me your stick a moment, Betty. Now, Gerry, stand square. No, not like that—feet apart. So. That's better. Now—one, two, three—now hit the ball. See? Do it again until you've quite got it." And she made the younger girl repeat the performance again and again until Gerry really seemed to know the correct movements.
"Now, then, come along and begin. Here's your stick, Betty—thanks very much."
But Gerry still hung back.
"Oh, Muriel—I can't!" she breathed unhappily. But Muriel only smiled down into her face, kindly but very firmly.
"Now, Gerry, don't be silly. This isn't a match, and it doesn't matter a hang if you do make a mess of it. You can't live at Wakehurst Priory and not play hockey. We're all hockey mad here, you know, and I've made up my mind that you're going to learn to play. It was mostly for your sake that I came down to coach the K teams to-day. Buck up, now, and try. You can do it, you know, if you'll only think you can."
Thus adjured, Gerry made an effort. She took her place reluctantly on the centre-line and began to bully. Much to her own surprise she got the ball away from her opponent, and on following up her advantage succeeded in getting it by the centre half also. She lost it then, but much encouraged by Muriel's approving "Well done, Gerry!" she made another great effort and retrieved it again. And thenceforward, although she did not distinguish herself very specially, she took quite an active part in the game, finding it a good deal easier and much less painful—even when she did inadvertently stop a ball on her ankle—than she had expected.
In making her play centre forward, Muriel had hit upon the one plan which could help her to overcome her nerves. Right in the thick of the battle there was no time for overmuch thinking, and the sick feeling of nervousness which had always crept over her hitherto when she stood at full back, waiting, waiting, waiting for the ball to come, was banished altogether. Towards the end of the afternoon, Gerry even succeeded in hitting a goal, much to her own surprise and the surprise of her fellow-players. It was more by good luck than judgment, but all the same it served to hearten her spirits immensely, and Muriel's smile of approval more than compensated for the pain her bruised ankle was causing her.
"You see you can play all right when you like," said the head girl when the practice was over. "Are you walking down with anybody? No? Good; then come and walk down with me. Let's see, now, when's your next practice? Friday, isn't it?"
"Yes, Friday," answered Gerry, rather hot and breathless from her exertions, but so pleased at her late performance that she did not mind that.
"Well, I shall come and coach you again then, and if you do as well as you did to-day, I shall move you up into J.2. It will be much better for you than playing amongst all those little kids. But you'll have to play forward always, never back. I always think you need to be rather a stolid individual altogether to make a successful back. I can't think why Kathleen ever put you to play there. Besides, you're cut out for a forward with those great long legs of yours. And you can run, too—I watched you particularly to-day."
Gerry's heart glowed within her, but Muriel's next words filled her with alarm.
"Now, do you know what I want you to do? We're playing the return match against the Green Dorm on Saturday week, and if you keep on improving, as I think you will, I'm going to put you down to play again for the Pink. No—wait a minute," as Gerry gave a little exclamation of protest. "It won't be back this time. I shall put you on the wing somewhere, or else half-back—I'm not quite sure myself yet. But I specially want you to play, and to play well. I want to give you an opportunity of wiping out last Saturday in the eyes of the school. And if you've got the grit I think you have, you're going to take it."
There was silence for a moment or two. Then Gerry spoke uncertainly:
"But—but suppose I funk again?"
"You won't funk," said Muriel, with a quiet conviction that did more to reassure the nervous girl at her side than any amount of arguing would have done. To some natures the greatest incentive to do well is the knowledge that somebody believes in them implicitly. Gerry, whose first impulse had been to refuse the offer in a panic and beg Muriel at all costs to leave her name out of the team, seemed to catch some of the elder girl's confidence. If only she could—if only she could overcome her nerves sufficiently to do well! If she could distinguish herself in the coming match and show the girls that though she was funky at some things she wasn't a coward all through, how splendid it would be! Oh, she would, she would! She would play and justify Muriel's confidence in her. She wouldn't funk again.
"Are you quite sure you're not afraid to play a coward?" she said, in such a low tone that Muriel could only just catch the obnoxious word. But she did catch it, and stopping suddenly, she laid her hands firmly on the younger girl's shoulders.
"Now, look here, Gerry, don't be absurd!" she said. "Even if some of the girls have called you that, there's no earthly reason why you should imagine that it's true. Just buck up and make up your mind that you won't be a coward. You needn't be, you know. Being brave isn't just a matter of not fearing things. The very bravest people of all are often those who are the most afraid and yet who conquer their fears. You conquered your fear quite a lot this afternoon. You got one quite nasty bang on your ankle—I was watching you and I saw—and you didn't make the least little bit of fuss about it. Well, if you've done that once you can do it again. Now, if I ask you to play in my team for the next dormitory match, will you do it?"
"Yes," said Gerry simply, raising her eyes to the head girl's face. And after a deep look into them, Muriel dropped her hands from her junior's shoulders with a satisfied smile.
"That's all right, then," she said. "And now we'd better both buck up, or we'll be frantically late for tea."