Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. A Popular Schoolgirl by Angela Brazil (top 100 books to read TXT) 📖
- Author: Angela Brazil
Book online «A Popular Schoolgirl by Angela Brazil (top 100 books to read TXT) 📖». Author Angela Brazil
They verified their instructions from a boy who was standing in the farmyard, whittling a stick, and trudged away over a stubble field and through a turnstile gate. It was quite pretty along the path by the river. There was a tall hedge where hips and haws showed red, and a grassy border where a few wild flowers still bloomed. The sun shed a soft golden autumnal haze over the fields and bushes and the lines of yellow trees.
The girls rather enjoyed themselves; it was an unexpected country excursion, and had all the charm of novelty. They walked about half a mile, chatting about school matters as they went, then suddenly they were confronted by an alternative. A bridge spanned the river, and the broad, well-trodden path along which they had come turned over the bridge. There was indeed a track that continued along the left bank, but it was over-grown, and looked little used. Which were they to take?
That was a question which required discussion.
"The girl said: 'keep along the river bank on the left,'" urged Ingred.
"Yet the path so plainly goes across here," demurred Verity.
"That's certainly the left bank, but that way looks as if it led to nowhere," vacillated Beatrice.
"Can't we ask anybody?"
"There isn't a soul in sight."
"Isn't there a signpost?"
"Nothing of the sort."
"Then which way shall we go?"
"Better take votes on it."
"Right-o! I'm for 'bypath meadow.'"
"And I'm for the 'king's highway.'"
"So am I, so we're two to one!"
"I'll give in, then," said Ingred, "only I've a sort of feeling we're going wrong, all the same!"
The new path led along the opposite bank, and was very much a replica of the former. It ran on and on for what seemed quite a long distance, but they met nobody from whom they could inquire the way. For nearly a quarter of a mile a belt of trees obscured the view, and when at last the prospect could once more be seen, Beatrice stopped short with a groan of despair. On the other side of the water was the unmistakable spire of Waverley church.
"We've come wrong, after all!"
"Oh, good night! So we have!"
"What an absolute swindle!"
The girls were certainly not in luck that day. They had missed their path as effectually as they had missed their train. The chimneys of Waverley were in sight, but separated from them by a wide stream, and unless they were prepared to wade, swim, or fly, there was no way of reaching the village.
"There's nothing for it but to turn back!"
"Why, but that's miles!"
"Are you sure it's Waverley over there? Can we ask anybody?"
"No one to ask, worse luck!"
"Yes, there is! I can see some people coming along in a boat."
Rendered desperate by the emergency, Ingred struggled through the reeds to the very edge of the river, and lifted up her voice in an agonized cry of "Help!"
A punt was drifting slowly with the current, and its occupants, a lady and gentleman, looked with surprise at the agitated girl who was hailing them from the bank. The gentleman at once paddled in her direction, and, running his little craft among the reeds, inquired what was the matter.
"Oh, please, is that Waverley over there?" asked Ingred anxiously. "We've lost our way, and we've walked miles! Is there any bridge near?"
"That's certainly Waverley, but there's no bridge till you come to one a mile and a half down stream."
Ingred's face was tragic. She turned to Beatrice and Verity, who had joined her.
"It's no use! We shall have to go back!"
But the lady was whispering something to the gentleman, and he beckoned to the girls with a smile.
"Don't run away!" he said. "Look here, we'll punt you across if you like."
"Like!" The girls hardly knew how to express their gratitude.
"The three of you'd be too heavy a load. I think I'd better take just one at a time. Can you manage to get in? It's rather swampy here. Give me your hand!"
Ingred splashed ankle deep in oozy mud as she scrambled on board, but that was a trifle compared with the relief of being ferried over the river. Her knight-errant was neither young nor handsome, being, indeed, rather bald and stout, but no orthodox interesting hero of fiction could have been more welcome at the moment. She tendered her utmost thanks as she landed, again with damage to her shoes, on the rushy bank opposite. Their friends in need, having successfully punted over Beatrice and Verity also, bade them a laughing good-bye, and resumed their easy course down stream, leaving three very grateful girls behind them.
[Illustration: A FRIEND IN NEED]
"That's helped us out of a fix! Don't say again we've no luck!" cried Beatrice, wiping her boots carefully on the grass.
"They were angels in disguise!" sighed Ingred.
"Rather stout angels!" chuckled Verity. "Now, how are we going to get out of this field?"
"Over the hedge, I suppose. There's a piece of fence that looks climbable!" returned Beatrice, swinging herself up with elephantine grace, and dropping with a heavy thud on the other side. "Oh! good biz! We're on a cinder path!"
They were indeed in a back lane which led at the bottom of some gardens, then behind a row of stables, and finally through a gate on to the high road.
"I know where we are now!" exclaimed Beatrice gleefully. "It's only quite a short way to the Morton's. They live in the next terrace but two. I believe we're within measurable distance of some lunch."
This was such good news that they strode along in renewed spirits. Considering all, they thought the adventure was turning out well. A meal would undoubtedly be most acceptable, if Beatrice's friends were hospitable enough to offer it.
"It's the fourth house," said Beatrice, "the one with the copper beech over the gate. Linden Lea—yes, here we are! Oh, I say, what are all the blinds down for?"
The girls faced each other blankly.
"Is anyone dead?" faltered Ingred.
"I'll ring and inquire, at any rate," murmured Beatrice.
So she rang, and rang again and yet again. She could hear the bell clanging quite plainly and unmistakably somewhere in the back regions, yet nobody came to the door.
"It's funny! I don't hear anybody in the house either," she remarked. "Their dog generally barks at the least sound."
At that moment a small face peeped over the top of the wall which divided the garden from that of the next house, and a childish voice asked:
"Do you want the Mortons?"
"Yes. Isn't anybody in?"
"They're all gone away to Llandudno, for a month."
"All? Isn't anyone here?"
"No, the house is locked up."
Here a warning call of "Willie!" caused their informant to disappear as suddenly as he had come, but the girls had heard enough. All their hopes were suddenly blighted. They had arrived at the end of their journey only to draw a blank. They were indeed in a worse position than when they had missed the train at Denscourt, for they were farther from home, and it was much later. Almost ready to cry, they turned down the garden again.
"We've got to get home to-night somehow!" said Ingred through her set teeth.
"Shall we go to the police station?" quavered Verity.
"And give ourselves up like lost children? No, it's too undignified! Wait a moment, I've got an idea!" said Beatrice. "We passed the post office just now, and I noticed it had a 'Public Telephone.' I'll ring up Mother and tell her where we are, and ask her to come over for us."
"But you can't telephone for nothing, and we haven't so much as a solitary penny amongst us!"
"I know. I thought I'd explain that to the people at the post office, and ask them to let me have the call, and Mother will pay when she comes. I could give them my watch as a security."
"It's worth trying!"
So, with just a little grain of hope, they retraced their steps to the post office, which was also a stationer's and newsagent's. Nobody was in the shop, but when the girls thumped on the counter a rosy-cheeked young person appeared from the back regions.
"Want to telephone without paying? It's against the post office rules," she snapped, as Beatrice briefly explained the circumstances.
"My mother will pay when she comes, and if you'd take my watch——"
"I can't go against post office rules! All calls must be paid for beforehand. That's our instructions."
"But just for once——"
"What's the matter, Doris?" asked a voice, and a kindly-looking little man emerged from the back parlor, wiping his mouth hastily, and took his place behind the counter. Beatrice turned to him with eagerness, and again stated the urgency of their peculiar situation.
"Well, of course we've our instructions from the post office, and we've got to account for the calls, but in this particular case we might let you have one, and pay afterwards," he replied. "Oh, never mind the watch; it's all right!"
Beatrice lost no time in ringing up Number 167 Grovebury, and to her immense delight, when she got the connection, she heard her mother's voice at the instrument. A short explanation was all that was necessary.
"Stay where you are at the Waverley post office, and I will get a taxi and fetch you myself immediately," returned Mrs. Jackson. "It's the greatest relief to know what has become of you. I was going to ring up the police station, and describe you as 'missing!'"
The girls had to wait nearly three-quarters of an hour before the taxi made its appearance, and the welcome form of Mrs. Jackson stepped out of it. She paid what was owing for the call, thanked the postmaster for his civility, and hustled the girls into the conveyance as quickly as possible.
"I suppose girls will be girls," she said, "but I think you've been very silly ones to-day! Why didn't you keep with the rest of the school, as you ought to have done?"
"It sounds a most horrible greedy confession," replied Beatrice guiltily, "but I'm afraid it was all the fault of—buns! They just threw us late, and we missed the others. We'll never buy buns again! Never! Never! O peccavi! We have sinned!"
And she looked so humorously contrite that Mrs. Jackson, who was inclined to scold, laughed in spite of herself, and forgave the delinquents.
"On condition that such a thing doesn't happen again!" she declared.
"Trust us! We wouldn't go through such an experience again for all the buns in the world! Next time we'll cling to the College apron strings like—like——"
"Like adhesive sticking-plaster!" supplied Ingred gently.
"Or oysters to a mermaid's tail!" murmured Verity.
CHAPTER IX A Hostel Frolic"The Foursome League," which Verity had instituted with her room-mates at the hostel, was kept by them as a solemn compact. They stuck to one another nobly, though often in the teeth of great inconvenience. It generally took three of them to urge Fil through her toilet in the mornings and drag her down to breakfast in time. She was always so terribly sleepy at seven o'clock, and so positive that she could whisk through her dressing in ten minutes, and that it was quite unnecessary to get up so soon: even when the others mercilessly pulled the bed-clothes from her, and pointed to their watches, she would dawdle instead of "whisking," and spend much superfluous time over manicure or dabbing on cucumber cream to improve her complexion. She was so innocent about her little vanities, and conducted them with such child-like complacency, that the girls tolerated them quite good humoredly, and even assisted sometimes. One of them generally volunteered to brush her long flaxen hair, and tie her ribbon, and half out of habit the others would tidy her cubicle, which was apt to be chaotic, and put her things away in her drawers. They did it almost automatically, for they had come to look upon Fil somewhat in the light of a big doll, the exclusive property of "The Foursome League," and to be treated as the mascot of the dormitory.
Mrs. Best, the hostel matron, was what the girls called "rather an old dear." Her gray hair was picturesque, and the knowledge that she had lost her husband and a son in the war added an element of pathetic interest to her personality. She was experienced in the ways of girls, and contrived to keep order without seeming to be constantly obtruding rules. Among her various sane practices she instituted the plan of awarding marks for good conduct and order to each dormitory, and allowing the one which scored the highest to give an entertainment to the others during the last hour before bedtime on Thursday night. Naturally this was a privilege to be desired.
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