For the Sake of the School

by Angela Brazil

  CHAPTER XIV

  Susannah Maude

  The girls at The Woodlands, while they contributed to various charities,had one special and particular object of interest. For several yearsthey had supported a little girl at an orphanage. She was called theirorphan, and twice a year they received accounts of her progress. Theysent her a Christmas present annually, and her neat little letter ofthanks was handed round for everybody to read. Poor Susannah Maude wasthe daughter of very disreputable parents; she had been rescued from atravelling caravan at the age of ten, and the authorities at theAlexandra Home had done their best to obliterate her past life from hermemory. When she reached school-leaving age the question of her futurecareer loomed on the horizon. After considerable correspondence with thematron, Miss Bowes had at length decided to have the girl at TheWoodlands, and try the experiment of training her as a kitchen-maid. Soin February Susannah Maude had arrived, small and undersized, with asharp little face and beady, black eyes, and a habit of sniffing as ifshe had a perpetual cold.

  "Not a bit like the blue-eyed, flaxen-haired orphan of fiction," decidedthe girls, rather disappointed at the sight of their protegee.

  Perhaps the cook was disappointed too. At any rate, many complaints ofsmashed dishes, imperfect wiping, and inadequate sweeping of cornersreached Miss Bowes, who urged patience, harangued the culprit, and shookher head, half laughing and half sighing, over the domesticcatastrophes. Though strictly confined to the kitchen regions, theorphan took the deepest interest in the young ladies of the school. Herkeen eyes would peer out of windows, and her head bob round doors incontinual efforts to gain some idea of their mode of life. A chance wordfrom one of them wreathed her in smiles. She was a funny, odd littleobject with her short squat figure and round bullet head, and thinlittle legs appearing underneath her official white apron. Her officialname was Susan, but every girl in the school called her Susannah Maude.At the instigation of Miss Bowes her patrons took the furthering of hereducation in hand, and each in turn bestowed half an hour a day inhearing her read history, geography, or some other suitable subject. Alittle bewildered among so many fresh teachers, the small maidnevertheless made what efforts she could, and read loud and lustily,even if she did not altogether digest the matter she was supposed to bestudying.

  "I believe she reads the words without taking in a scrap of the sense,"laughed Ulyth, when her turn as instructress was over. "She was gazingat my dress, or my watch, or my handkerchief whenever she could spare aneye from her book. She thinks them of far more importance than HenryVIII."

  "So she does," agreed Lizzie. "I tried to get her interested yesterdayin the number of his wives--I thought the Bluebeard aspect of it mightmove her--but she only said: 'What does it matter when they're alldead?' I felt so blank that I couldn't say any more."

  Nobody quite remembered whose idea it was that their orphan should beinvited to the Camp-fire meetings. Somebody in a soft-hearted momentsuggested it, and Mrs. Arnold replied: "Oh yes, poor little soul! Bringher, by all means." So Susannah Maude had come, and once there sheapparently regarded herself as a member of the League, and turned up onevery available occasion. How much she understood of the proceedings orof the scope of the society nobody could fathom. She sat, during themeetings, bolt upright, with folded arms, as if she were in school, herbright, beady eyes fixed unblinkingly upon Mrs. Arnold, whom she seemedto regard as a species of priestess in charge of occult mysteries.

  "Would I be struck dumb if I told what goes on here?" she asked Ulythone day; and, although she was assured that no such act of vengeance onthe part of Providence would overtake her, she nevertheless preserved asecrecy worthy of a Freemason, and would drop no hint in the kitchen asto the nature of the ceremonies she witnessed.

  One or two points evidently made a great impression upon her. During thespring months Nature lore was very much to the fore, and the membersqualified for candidateship to the various grades by exhibiting theirknowledge of the ways and habits of birds. Notes of observations wereread aloud at the meetings, particulars recorded of nests that had beenbuilt in the school grounds, with data as to the number of days in whicheggs were hatched and the young ones fledged. It was an unwritten law atThe Woodlands never to disturb the birds. The girls were not allowed totake any eggs from the nests, and were taught not to frighten a sittingbird or to interfere with the fledge-lings. After several years of suchconsideration The Woodlands had become a kind of bird sanctuary, wherethe little songsters appeared to know they were free from molestation.That the fruit in the garden suffered rather a heavy toll was true; but,as Miss Bowes remarked: "One can't have everything. We must remember howmany insects they clear away, and not grudge them a few currants andgooseberries. They pay us by their lovely songs in the spring."

  Ulyth was a great devotee of Nature study, and had the supremesatisfaction of being the first to discover that a pair of long-tailedtits were building in a gorse-bush down the paddock. She was immenselyexcited, for they were rather rare birds in that district, and generallynested much higher up on the hills. This was indeed the only instance onrecord of their having selected The Woodlands for their domesticoperations. As she had made the discovery, it was her particularprivilege to take the observations, and every day she would go veryquietly and cautiously and seat herself near the spot to note the doingsof the shy little architects. It was a subject of intense interest towatch the globular nest grow, and then to ascertain, when the parentswere out of the way, that eggs had actually been laid in it. Ulyth wasso afraid of disturbing the tits that she conducted her dailyobservations alone, fearing lest even Lizzie's presence might frightenthem. "When there are two of us we can't help talking, and an unusualsound scares them worse than anything," she decided.

  One morning she started for her daily expedition to the paddock. Thelittle hen had been sitting long enough to make Ulyth think the eggsmust surely be hatched, and that probably the parents were both alreadybusy catering for their progeny. She crept noiselessly round the cornerto the hollow where the bushes were situated. Then she gave a gasp and acry of horror. On the ground, quite close to the nest, knelt SusannahMaude, busily occupied in smearing some sticky white substance over thelower boughs and shoots of the gorse-bushes. She looked round with abeaming face as Ulyth approached. Her beady eyes twinkled withself-congratulation.

  "Susannah! What are you doing, you young imp of mischief?" exclaimedUlyth in an agony.

  "Catching your birds for you, Miss," responded the orphan, a thrill ofpride in her voice. "It's bird-lime, this is, and it'll soon stick 'em,you'll see. I knows all about it, for my father was a bird-catcher, andI often went with him when I was a kid. I'd a job to get the lime, I cantell you, but Bobby Jones brought me some from Llangarmon."

  She looked at Ulyth with a smile, as if waiting for the praise that shedeemed due to her efforts. Utterly aghast, Ulyth stammered:

  "But, Susannah Maude, we--we don't want the birds caught."

  The orphan appeared puzzled. A shade crossed her sharp little face.

  "Not want to catch 'em? What's the use of 'em, then? Dad caught 'em andsold 'em."

  Ulyth had to keep a strong curb over her temper. After all, how couldthis ignorant child know what she had never been taught? Miss Bowesmight well preach patience and forbearance.

  "It's very cruel to snare the birds with lime at any time, especiallynow, when they have young ones who would starve without them," sheexplained with what calm she could muster. "Promise me that you willnever try to do such a thing again, and never interfere with any of thenests. Mrs. Arnold will be most grieved to hear of this."

  The orphan's black eyes filled with tears.

  "Will she mind? I thought she'd like 'em to keep in a cage as pets. I'ddo anything in the world to please her."

  "Then leave the birds alone, if you want to please her. Run now to thehouse and fetch me a basin full of hot water and a cloth. I must wipeall this horrible stuff off the bushes. Bring a knife, too, for I shallhave to cut away some of the branches and
burn them. I hope the titswon't desert."

  Ulyth was late for school that morning, but the offence was condoned byMiss Teddington when she heard the reason.

  "I hope you washed every scrap of the lime off?" she asked anxiously.

  "I didn't leave it while there was enough to catch even a bumble-bee.The birds are back. They came directly I'd gone a dozen yards away."

  "That shows the young ones are hatched. I hope Susan won't direct herenergies into any other natural-history experiments."

  "We shall be sorry we brought her to the Camp-fire if she does. Shemeans well, but the worst of her is that you never can calculate in theleast what she may do next. She's a problem."

  * * * * *

  During the summer term the Camp-fire Guild had many informal meetings bythe stream. The girls were often allowed to take tea there, a permissionwhich they highly appreciated. Mrs. Arnold had lent them a smallcamp-oven, in which they could bake cakes, and many culinary effortsresulted from the acquisition. On Saturday afternoon Gertrude Oliver andAddie Knighton were on the cooking-list as special scouts, and, havingmixed some currant-buns, placed them carefully in the oven. They were incharge of the camp-fire and responsible for the preparation of the tea,to which that day all the mistresses were to be specially invited. Therest of the school were in the playing-field practising flag-signallingunder the joint superintendence of Mrs. Arnold and Miss Teddington.

  "It's a nuisance we can't leave the cakes," sighed Addie. "I did so wantto see them send that message about the aeroplane."

  "They're baking all right," said Gertrude. "We can't make them anyquicker by looking at them. Couldn't we just run to the top of thegravel-pit and watch for a few minutes? There's Susannah Maude; she'dkeep an eye on them. Hello! Susan!"

  The orphan, in virtue of being a hanger-on of the Camp-fire, waswandering about by the stream in the wake of the proceedings. She camerunning up eagerly at Gertrude's call.

  "I'll mind 'em for you, Miss. I've watched Cook dozens of times. I'lllook after the kettle too. You leave it to me."

  "I hope it won't be a case of King Alfred and the cakes."

  Susan grinned comprehension.

  "Standard V Historical Reader. Not me!" she chuckled. "I always thoughtthe woman was a silly to trust a man to turn the cakes."

  "Well, mind you show up better. You might as well put the milk-can inthe stream to keep cool. We don't want it curdled, and I'm certainthere's thunder about."

  Addie and Gertie were sure they were not absent long. They just stoodand watched a few messages being sent, then ran back promptly to theirduties.

  Susannah Maude was in the very act of trying to lift the big camp-kettlefrom its trivet.

  "Hold hard there!" screamed Addie, running to the rescue. "You can'tmove that alone. Susan! Stop!" It was too late, however. The smallbusybody had managed to stir the kettle, but, her youthful arms beingquite unequal to sustaining its weight, she let it drop, retreating witha wild Indian yell of alarm. The stream of boiling water fortunatelyescaped her, but nearly put out the fire. When the steam and dust hadsubsided, the rueful scouts picked up the empty kettle gingerly, as itwas hot.

  "We shall have to build up the fire again," lamented Gertrude. "Oh,Addie, the cakes!"

  She might well exclaim. In a row among the ashes were the soaked,dust-covered remains of the precious currant-buns.

  "I took 'em out of the oven because they were done," explained Susanhastily, justifying herself. "I thought you shouldn't blame me forletting 'em burn, anyhow; and I put 'em down there on some dock-leavesto keep hot. I couldn't tell the kettle would fall on 'em."

  "They're done for," sighed Addie. "There isn't one fit to eat. Help usto fill the kettle again as soon as you can, and fetch some more sticksand gorse, you black-eyed Susan!"

  "Where's the milk-can?" asked Gertrude uneasily.

  "I put it in the stream as you told me," replied the orphan rathersulkily, indicating with a nod the location.

  Decidedly anxious as to its safety, the girls ran to the water-side.They always put the can in a particular little sheltered corner fencedin by a few stones. Susannah had helped them to place it there manytimes, and had even named the spot "the dairy". They looked in vain. Themilk was certainly not there now.

  "What in the name of thunder have you done with the can, you wretchedimp?" shouted Addie, thoroughly angry.

  "You said it ought to keep very cool, so I threw it into the deep pool.'Tain't my fault," retorted Susannah, who had a temper as well as herbenefactresses.

  "I've half a mind to throw you after it!" raged Gertie, her fingerstwitching to shake the luckless orphan.

  Perhaps Susannah's experienced eye gauged the extent of her wrath, anddecided that for once she had gone too far. She did not wait to profferany more explanations, but turned and fled back towards the house,resuming her neglected pan-scouring in the scullery with a zeal thatastonished the cook.

  Addie and Gertie replenished the camp-fire and refilled the kettle; butthe cakes were hopeless, and the milk was beyond recall. Doris Deane,the champion swimmer of the school, dived for the can next morning andbrought it up empty; the lid was never recovered, probably having beenwashed into a hole.

  The Guild sat down that afternoon rather disconsolately to milkless tea.Addie had begged a small jugful from the kitchen, enough for theirguests, the mistresses, but it was impossible to replace the bigtwo-gallon can at a moment's notice.

  "I begin to wish the school had never supported an orphan at the'Alexandra Home for Destitute Children'," sighed Gertie, eating plainbread and butter, and thinking regretfully of her spoilt cakes. "I votenext term we ask to give up collecting for it, and keep a monkey at theZoo instead. We could send it nuts and biscuits at Christmas."

  "And currant-buns?" giggled Beth Broadway.

  "You are about the most unfeeling wretch I ever came across!" snappedGertrude.