01 The School at the Chalet (2 page)

‘Oh, rather!’ Madge was struggling with her stout, laced-up boots. ‘Insist on his doing things at once, Dick.

I want to get off and be settled before the summer visitors arrive at Tiern See. He’ll want us to play round till September if I know anything about lawyers, and it makes no difference really, because I’ve made up my mind to go. Mademoiselle will be thankful to get away from England too.’

‘You’re sure it’s all right about her coming?’

‘Yes. I spoke to her a week ago, and she said if you consented, she would come. She’s not too happy at the Withers’, and she’s not really tied to them at all, She loves us-has done ever since I sat on Jean Withers for being rude to her!-and she adores Jo. I’m not mad keen on making a fortune. So long as we can keep ourselves, and save a little for the chicken in case of accidents, I shall be quite happy.’

‘Righto! Well, so-long! Hope you get the Grizel kid!’ And with this, Dick turned and left the room, while Madge ran upstairs to get her raincoat and cap, before she, too, ventured out into the hurricane of wind and rain with which March had arrived that year, to seek her first pupil for the Châlet School.

Chapter 2.

Grizel.

Seated at the old schoolroom piano, Grizel Cochrane was diligently practising scales and exercises. She had no real love of music, but her father insisted that she must learn; and since she must learn, then, also, she must practise. Her stepmother, whom Grizel hated with all the intensity of her childish soul, had decreed that, although this was her last day at home, the dreary hour of scales and exercises must be done as usual.

Her music all lay at the bottom of her trunk, so anything else was impossible, for which she was devoutly grateful.

‘Thank goodness, I shall be away from all this after to-morrow,’ she thought as she pounded fiercely away at C sharp major. ‘I love Miss Bettany, and Jo is a dear. I’m sure they won’t make me practise three hours a day there. C sharp major, relative minor A sharp.’ Automatically her fingers changed on to the relative harmonic minor as she went on with her thoughts. ‘I’m glad I’m going away from England-glad I’m leaving them! They don’t want me, and I can’t endure them!’ Tears pricked at the back of her eyes at this thought, but she resolutely drove them back, and attacked the melodic minor. At fourteen and a half Grizel Cochrane had realised that she was decidedly an unwanted member of the Cochrane family. Her mother had died when she was five. Grizel could just remember her as a fragile, complaining being, who lay on a couch all day, and said ‘Hush!’ in fretful tones whenever her little daughter ventured to raise her voice. After her death, Mr Cochrane had sent the child to his mother’s, and led a bachelor life for the next five years. On Grizel’s tenth birthday he had married again, most unaccountably, without informing his second wife of the fact that he had a daughter. That she discovered when they reached home after the honeymoon, to find Grizel awaiting them on the steps. To say that the second Mrs Cochrane was indignant is to describe the state of affairs much too mildly. At first, she insisted that the child must go to boarding-school. Her husband calmly replied that one reason for his second marriage was that he wanted Grizel under his own roof. He also pointed out that if she were sent away at once people would talk. Mrs Cochrane desired that less than anything, so she gave way. Grizel went daily to a big high school in the neighbourhood, and, nominally at any rate, received the same care and attention as any of her friends. But life at her grandmother’s had spoilt her in many ways, and before long she and her stepmother were at daggers drawn with each other. Mr Cochrane, never a particularly loving parent, refused to interfere. Mrs Cochrane was never actively unkind, but she possessed a sharp tongue, and she had never forgiven her husband for not telling her of Grizel’s existence. By slow degrees the wilful, high-spirited child gradually became a frightened, nervous creature, who did as she was bidden with a painful readiness.

Later, she became the excuse for many ‘scenes,’ and on the day when Madge Bettany set off in the wind and rain to secure her for the Châlet School, Mr Cochrane had at last given way, and agreed to send her away. Then the great question had been ‘where?’ To them, considering the point, had come Madge, and with her a complete solution of the problem. It was satisfactory from all points of view. Grizel’s father realised that if she were sent away with such an old friend as Madge Bettany, it would give rise to no gossip in the little town, which was beginning to conjecture at the causes for her loss of spirit. Mrs Cochrane rejoiced in the fact that it would be sheer absurdity for her to make the long journey from Innsbrück to Cornwall for any holidays but the summer holidays. Grizel herself only wanted to get right away from her present surroundings, and Madge went home thrilling to the fact that she had gained her first pupil.

For the next fortnight or so everyone had been kept busy. Grizel found herself condemned to sitting and sewing name-tapes on to new stockings and gloves and handkerchiefs, as well as having to endure various

‘tryings-on.’ At any other time she would have resented all this intensely. Now it was, for her, just part of the joy of going away. Madge had been unable to say, at first, when they would go; but Dick, having applied for and received a month’s longer furlough, bustled their old solicitor to such an extent, that the middle of April found them with house and furniture sold, boxes packed, and everything ready. What was more, the Châlet School had two other pupils in prospect. Mademoiselle was bringing a little cousin, Simone Lecoutier, from Paris, and a business friend of Mr Cochrane’s, an American, had been fired with enthusiasm over the school, and had written asking Miss Bettany if she could find room for his twelve-year-old Evadne next term.

Grizel was musing over all this as her fingers moved up and down the keys with accuracy and precision. It seemed almost impossible that it could be she who, on the morrow, would be taken up to London by her father, unusually indulgent, and there given over to Miss Bettany’s charge. Madge and Jo had left their old home early in the previous week, in order to pay farewell visits to such relatives as remained to them.

It’s too good to be true!’ thought Grizel ecstatically; ‘and that’s ten o’clock, thank goodness!’

She finished off the scale of A flat melodic minor in grand style, and then shut down the lid of the piano with a bang. She had heard her stepmother go out a few minutes previously, so she ran down to the kitchen, where the cook, who adored her, and spoilt her when it was possible, welcomed her with a wide smile, and made haste to proffer a rock bun.

‘Just hot out of the oven, Miss Grizel, love,’ she said.

Grizel accepted it, and, sitting on the table, munched it with good appetite.

‘This time to-morrow I sha’n't be here,’ she said, when it was disposed of.

‘No, lovey. It’ll be the train this time to-morrow,’ replied the good woman in her soft, sing-song voice.

‘And then Paris next day-and then Innsbrück next week!’ Grizel spoke exultingly ‘Oh, Cookie! I’m so thrilled, I’m so thrilled, I can’t keep still!’

‘Eh, it’s a lot you’ll be seeing, Miss Grizel. And you’ll write to Cookie and tell her all about the grand sights in them furrin cities, won’t you?’

‘Of course I will, Cookie dear! I’ll write to you as often as I can.’ And Grizel jumped down from her perch and, flinging her arms round Cook’s neck, gave her a hearty hug. ‘I’ll write to you every week if I can.’

‘There’s a love! And-Miss Grizel, dearie, I was over to Bodmin last night, and I got this for you to remember your Cookie by.’

‘Oh, Cookie! How dear and kind of you! Whatever can it be?’

Grizel took the narrow parcel, feeling its shape with childish curiosity before she opened it. A little scream of ecstasy broke from her as she realised what it was-a beautiful Waterman fountain pen.

‘Oh, Cook! And I’ve always wanted one ever so!’

The tears stood in her grey eyes as she carefully examined it. Cook, looking down at the small flushed face, felt well rewarded for her long tramp of the night before, and for the sacrifice of a new spring hat, which had been necessary to buy the pen.

‘I’ve nothing to give you,’ said Grizel, sudden sadness in her tones.

‘You’ll be giving me your news, lovey- maybe a picture-postcard or two! That’s all I’ll be wanting from you. Now you’d better go, Miss Grizel. The mistress only went down to the butcher’s, and she won’t like it if she finds you here.’

Grizel nodded. Too well she knew the scolding that would be the portion of both of them if her stepmother caught her in the kitchen. With a final hug and a kiss, she turned and ran upstairs to her own little room, cuddling her new possession. Some paper lay on the little dressing-table, and she ‘tried’ the pen on it. Cook had had it filled ready, and it was a beauty-neither too fine nor too broad. She wrote her name with a flourish several times, and then, hearing Mrs Cochrane’s step on the stairs, tucked it away into her attaché case, and screwed up the bits of paper, thrusting them into her pocket just in time. When her stepmother entered the room she was standing gazing out of the window, and whistling softly. Mrs Cochrane frowned at her.

‘Grizel! I have told you before that I will not allow whistling! Kindly obey me! As long as you are under this roof you will do as I tell you!’

Grizel obeyed. The disciplining of the past three years had taught her the value of unquestioning obedience, if it had taught her nothing else.

‘You had better put on your outdoor things and come with me,’ went on her stepmother. ‘You ought to say good-bye to the Rector and Miss Fareham; and I have to go to the Rectory. Hurry up now, and brush your hair, and be downstairs in ten minutes’ time.’

She left the room, and Grizel did as she was bidden; but all the time that she was putting on the new blue travelling coat, and changing into her outdoor shoes, and wriggling her brown head into her scarlet tammy, she was murmuring softly to herself, ‘Only to-day left! Only just to-day! To-morrow will soon be here now.’

She went on repeating it as she walked slowly downstairs. Mrs Cochrane caught the low murmur, and looked sharply at her.

‘Why are you talking to yourself, Grizel? Please don’t be so absurd.’

Grizel coloured up furiously, but she said nothing. Walking demurely at her stepmother’s side, she went down the garden-path, which was already bordered with wallflowers and tulips, gaily a-nod in the spring breeze, and out into the street, where they met two of the girls from her old school.

‘You will want to say “good-bye” to your friends,’ said Mrs Cochrane graciously-she was always gracious in public. ‘I will wait for you at the Rectory; but don’t be long, as there are still one or two things I want to do.’

She passed on, and Grizel was left with them.

‘It’s to-morrow you go, Grizel, isn’t it?’ said the elder of the two, a pretty fair child of fourteen, Rosalie Dene by name. ‘Aren’t you sorry to leave home?’

Hitherto Grizels pride had kept her from making any revelations about home matters. Now, somehow, it didn’t seem to matter. She would not come home for more than a year, for she was to stay with the Bettanys all the summer.

‘Sorry?’ she said fervently. ‘I’m not sorry; I’m glad-glad, I tell you!’

‘Grizel!’ gasped Rosalie. ‘Glad to leave home and go right away!’

‘ ‘Tisn’t like your home,’ replied Grizel sombrely. ‘You’ve a mother!’

‘Well, but you have Mrs Cochrane, and I’m sure she’s awfully sweet to you.’

‘Yes, when there’s anyone there to see it,’ replied Grizel recklessly.

The two schoolgirls stood in horrified silence. They did not know what to say.

Grizel broke the spell. She held out her hand.

‘I must be going,’ she said briefly. ‘Goodbye. Write to me sometimes.’

‘Good-bye,’ said Rosalie flatly. ‘Of course I’ll write if you will.’

‘I’ll send you some postcards,’ responded Grizel. ‘Good-bye, Mary!’

Mary, the other child, mumbled something in farewell, and then Grizel ran off, leaving them still staring after her.

‘Well!’ ejaculated Rosalie at last. ‘Did you ever?’

‘Never! ‘replied Mary with finality. ‘I didn’t think Grizel Cochrane was like that!’

‘I wonder what mother will say,’ said Rosalie thoughtfully.

What Mrs Dene actually said when she heard her daughter’s story was, ‘Poor little dear! I hope she will be happy in Austria, then.’

Meanwhile, Grizel hurried to the Rectory, where her stepmother was waiting for her, and took leave of the Rector and his sister, both of whom were fond of her. They had farewell gifts for her too, in the shape of a new Kipling and a big box of chocolates, and she said ‘good-bye’ to them with real regret. They had always been kind to her.

After the Rectory visit, Mrs Cochrane took her into the town to do some shopping, and it seemed to the little girl that never before had they met so many acquaintances in one morning. Everyone was very kind, and wished her good luck and a pleasant journey. One or two told her that they envied her her visit to foreign countries, and most people begged for postcards. Grizel promised them to all and sundry, and all the time her heart was beating madly with delight to think that this was the last time for many a long month that she would be here. Then they went home to lunch, and after it was over, her stepmother dismissed her to the moors, where she ran about like a wild thing till the little silver watch on her wrist warned her that it was nearly tea-time, and she had better be turning homewards. Her father came in for tea, and brought with him a folding Brownie kodak in a neat leather case with a strap to sling across her shoulders. The general atmosphere of kindness seemed to have infected even Mrs Cochrane, and so that last evening passed off well. The next day Mr Cochrane took her up to town, and gave her into Madge Bettany’s charge at Victoria.

Chapter 3.

The Joys of Paris

‘Rien à declarer?’

‘Rien à declarer!’ replied Madge firmly, with one eye on her two charges. For all her self-confidence, she suddenly felt very young to be sole guardian of two girls of twelve and fourteen. The custom-house official grunted as he chalked the mark on the three suit-cases, which was all the luggage they had with them, Mademoiselle La Pâttre and Dick having gone out to Tiern See early in the previous week with the trunks and cases of books, ornaments and pictures, which were all they were taking with them from England.