The reception of the whole school lasted some time, and the Empress’s hand must have ached. Her mental notes as to the quality of the handshakes she received would be publicly recorded next day from the platform, with special condemnation for the limp, fishy, or three-fingered variety on the one side, or the agonizing ring-squeezer on the other. Miss Thomas, one of the music mistresses, seated herself at the piano, and the proceedings opened with a violin-solo competition. Ten girls, in more or less acute stages of nervousness, each in turn played a one-page study, their points for which were carefully recorded by the judges, marks being given for tone, bowing, time, tune, and artistic rendering. As they retired to put away their instruments, their places were taken by vocal candidates. In order to shorten the programme, each was allowed to sing only one verse of a song, and their merits or faults were similarly recorded. Several of the Intermediates had entered for the competition. Rose Butler trilled forth a sentimental little ditty in a rather quavering mezzo; Annie Turner, whose compass was contralto, poured out a sea ballad—a trifle flat; Nora Cleary raised a storm of applause by a funny Irish song, and received marks for style, though her voice was poor in quality; and Elsie Bartlett scored for St. Elgiva’s by reaching high B with the utmost clearness and ease. The Intermediates grinned at one another with satisfaction. Even Gladys Woodham, the acknowledged prima donna of St. Githa’s, had never soared in public beyond A sharp. They felt that they had beaten the Seniors by half a tone.
Piano solos were next on the list, limited to two pages, on account of the too speedy passage of time. Here again the St. Elgiva’s girls expected a triumph, for Patricia Lennox was to play a waltz especially composed in her honour by a musical friend. It was called “Under the Stars”, and bore a coloured picture of a dark-blue sky, water and trees, and a stone balustrade, and it bore printed upon it the magic words “Dedicated to Patricia”, and underneath, written in a firm, manly hand, “With kindest remembrances from E. H.”.
The whole of Elgiva’s had thrilled when allowed to view the copy exhibited by its owner with many becoming blushes, but with steadfast refusals to record tender particulars; and though Patricia’s enemies were unkind enough to say that there was no evidence that the “Patricia” mentioned on the cover was identical with herself, or that the “E. H.” stood for Edwin Herbert, the composer, it was felt that they merely objected out of envy, and would have been only too delighted to have such luck themselves.
They all listened entranced as Patricia dashed off her piece. She had a showy execution, and it really sounded very well. The whole school knew about the dedication and the inscription; the Intermediates had taken care of that. As their champion descended from the platform, they felt that she had invested St. Elgiva’s with an element of mystery and romance. But alas! one story is good until another is told, and St. Githa’s had been reserving a trump card for the occasion. Winifrede Mason had herself composed a piece. She called it “The Brackenfield March”, and had written it out in manuscript, and drawn a picture of the school in bold black-and-white upon a brown paper cover. It was quite a jolly, catchy tune, with plenty of swing and go about it, and the fact that it was undoubtedly her own production caused poor Patricia’s waltz to pale before it. The clapping was tremendous. Every girl in school, with the exception of nine who had not studied the piano, was determined to copy the march and learn it for herself, and Winifrede was immediately besieged with applications for the loan of the manuscript. She bore her honours calmly.
“Oh, it wasn’t difficult! I just knocked it off, you know. I’ve heaps of tunes in my head; it’s only a matter of getting them written down, really. When I’ve time I’ll try to make up another. Oh, I don’t know about publishing it—that can wait.”
To live in the same school with a girl who composed pieces was something! Everybody anticipated the publication of the march, and felt that the reputation of Brackenfield would be thoroughly established in the musical world.
The next item on the programme was an interval for refreshments, during which time various exhibits of drawings and of scientific and natural history specimens were on view, and were judged according to merit by Miss Carter and Miss Hughlins.
The second part of the evening was to be dramatic. A good many names had been given in for the Charades competition, and these were arranged in groups of four. Each company was given one syllable of a charade to act, with a strict time limit. A large assortment of clothes and some useful articles of furniture were placed in the dressing-room behind the platform, and the actresses were allowed only two minutes to arrange their stage, don costumes, and discuss their piece.
Marjorie found herself drawn with Annie Turner, Belle Miller, and Violet Nelson, two of the Juniors. The syllable to be acted was “Age”, and the four girls withdrew to the dressing-room for a hasty conference.
“What can we do? I haven’t an idea in my head,” sighed Annie. “Two minutes is not enough to think.”
The Juniors said nothing, but giggled nervously. Marjorie’s ready wits, however, rose to the emergency.
“We’ll have a Red Cross Hospital,” she decided. “You, Annie, are the Commandant, and we three are prospective V.A.D.’s coming to be interviewed. You’ve got to ask us our names and ages, and a heap of other questions. Put on that Red Cross apron, quick, and we’ll put on hats and coats and pretend we’ve had a long journey. Belle, take in a table and a chair for the Commandant. She ought to be sitting writing.”
Annie, Belle, and Violet seized on the idea with enthusiasm, and robed themselves immediately. When the bell rang the performers marched on to the platform without any delay (which secured ten marks for promptitude). Annie, in her Red Cross apron, rapped the table in an authoritative fashion and demanded the business of her callers. Then the fun began. Marjorie, posing as a wild Irish girl, put on a capital imitation of the brogue, and urged her own merits with zeal. She evaded the question of her right age, and offered a whole catalogue of things she could do, from dressing a wound to mixing a pudding and scrubbing the passages. She was so racy and humorous, and threw in such amusing asides, that the audience shrieked with laughter, and were quite disappointed when the five minutes’ bell put a sudden and speedy end to the interesting performance. As Marjorie walked back to her seat she became well aware that she had scored. Her fellow Intermediates looked at her with a new interest, for she had brought credit to St. Elgiva’s.
“Isn’t she a scream?” she overheard Rose Butler say to Francie Sheppard, and Francie replied “Rather! I call her topping!” which, of course, was slang, and not fit for such an occasion; but then the girls were beginning to forget the elaborate ceremony of the opening of the evening.
Next day, after morning school was over, Jean Everard, one of the prefects, tapped Marjorie on the shoulder.
“We’ve put your name down for the Charades Society,” she said briefly. “I suppose you want to join?”
“Rather!” replied Marjorie, flushing to the roots of her hair with delight at the honour offered her.
CHAPTER IV.
Exeats
Marjorie and Dona possessed one immense advantage in their choice of a school. Their aunt, Mrs. Trafford, lived within a mile of Brackenfield, and had arranged with Mrs. Morrison that the two girls should spend every alternate Wednesday afternoon at her house. Wednesday was the most general day for exeats; it was the leisurely half-holiday of the week, when the girls might carry out their own little plans, Saturday afternoons being reserved for hockey practice and matches, at which all were expected to attend. The rules were strict at Brackenfield, and enacted that the girls must be escorted from school to their destination and sent back under proper chaperonage, but during the hours spent at their aunt’s they were