On stage, as the music faded, the group of Highland ladies and gentlemen, who were sitting at the table, eating, drinking, and conversing gaily, could be heard talking of the day’s hunting. The hostess was regretting that all the guests must depart on the morrow.
Suddenly there came a loud knock at the door, and two servants rushed to open it. A lady in grand clothes, who turned out to be the Lady Morag Seton (Joan had been careful to check that all the names she gave her characters were those of families who had supported Prince Charles) entered the room; she was followed by a tall figure, completely enveloped in a long dark cloak, whom she referred to as her serving-maid Betty. Lady Morag took a chair on the far side of the table from the audience; the serving-maid went and stood self-effacingly behind the chair, head bowed.
Lady Morag, an old friend of the hostess, explained how they had been stranded through an accident to one of their horses; she was immediately invited to stay for the night. More ‘wine’ was brought to the table and the glasses refilled.
The conversation now turned to the subject of Prince Charles, who for many months past had been in hiding, pursued by the English. A pretty young girl, Alison Cameron (played by Pamela Trent), told how there was a reward of thirty thousand pounds offered to anyone assisting in the Prince’s capture. This was the signal for the character Veronica was playing to make the second of her two short remarks. Anxious that it should tell, she enunicated very slowly in her clearest First Eleven tones: ‘Thirty thousand pounds! Why, that sum would be a great . . . I mean, a fortune’, she paused, ‘for a poor MAN!’
The upper-crust English voice rang round the hall. Veronica sat back, beaming, obviously relieved that the great moment was past.
The next speaker was visibly shaken. Katherine Blake was renowned for her propensity to giggle uncontrollably; but Joan glared at her with such malevolence that she managed to keep going, though with a distinct wobble in her voice. Managing somehow to suppress their mirth, the others chimed in, agreeing that, although the Highlanders were desperately poor, they would never betray their Prince.
Suddenly Lady Morag turned round to the dark figure, still standing deferentially behind her, and said fervently: ‘Your Highness, there is no further need of this disguise. We are all true friends here.’
Sometimes the simplest effects are the most telling. There was a warm round of applause from the audience when the serving-maid threw off the huge dark cloak with a splendid gesture, and stood revealed in Highland dress, as Prince Charles Edward himself.
Patricia was the proud possessor of a real kilt, as Joan had remembered when making her plans. It had been a seventeenth-birthday gift from her godfather in Scotland, who had had it made to measure for her by a leading Edinburgh firm. Her black velvet doublet was adapted from an evening jacket of Miss Bruce’s, and her splendid white lace ruffles came from the Chalet School theatrical costume-box. Her hair had been curled and tied back with a velvet ribbon and, although Patricia had no great acting ability, she looked extremely handsome and regal as she stood to receive the loyal respects of her subjects.
When a toast had been drunk, Lady Morag asked that some of the guests should dance to entertain the Prince. This was the signal for the two couples who were to dance the foursome reel to take their places at the front of the stage and for Evelyn Barclay to begin playing a Strathspey tune.
On stage, Bonnie Prince Charlie and his followers watched the dancers with gracious interest, occasionally turning to make a remark to each other. The real audience in the hall sat silent, completely enthralled by the colourful spectacle and the lilting rhythm of the music. In the foursome reel, the graceful interweaving figures that characterise the Strathspey sections have been likened to a ship in full sail. These sections alternate with the wild vitality of the reel proper, and the dance is a delight to watch as well as exciting to perform. There was no doubt of its great success with the audience that night. They applauded vigorously, and, when the dancers had acknowledged the more restrained plaudits of the stage audience, they had to turn and bow to those in the hall many times. When eventually the clapping died down, Prince Charles stood up and, with the particularly charming smile that belonged to Patricia but fitted the princely role so well, thanked the dancers graciously for their merry entertainment.
Then, coming to stand in the middle of the stage, the Prince, with a gesture that included audience as well as players, said in ringing tones: ‘And now, my dear friends, let us all join in the dancing!’
The Prince offered ‘his’ arm to Lady Morag and, to the strains of the well-known air, ‘Come o’er the stream, Charlie’, the couple led the rest of the players, in graceful procession, down the steps from the stage and into the audience. The miniature play was at an end, and dancing now began for the whole company.
Evelyn Barclay at the piano quickened the tempo of ‘Come o’er the stream, Charlie’, which despite its Scottish origin makes an excellent Viennese waltz; and, as soon as the chairs had been stacked in a corner of the hall, every girl was ready to accept Bonnie Prince Charlie’s invitation and throw herself joyfully into dancing.
There were a great many extremely tired people by bed-time that night; but it was generally agreed to have been one of the very best parties ever held at either school.
CHAPTER XIII.
CONFLICT!
ON the following Monday good weather at last returned to Briesau. It had still been dull on the Sunday, although not actually wet. Now the sun shone gloriously and, for the first time, the visitors saw the Tiernsee looking just as blue as it did in the brightly coloured paintings that were prominently displayed in the hotel dining-room.
But for Patricia, this was not a happy day. She had awakened that morning with a slight headache — something she would normally have managed to forget as the day’s interests absorbed her. But a letter from her mother was waiting on the breakfast table and it plunged her into deep gloom. The well-meaning attempts of her friends to offer comfort were unavailing. Patricia did not so much reject as seem unaware of them.
When eleven o’clock came and the Grange House girls were about to set off for the Chalet School, where the postponed netball match was to be played at 11.30, Patricia sought out Miss Bruce. The dull ache in her head seemed now to have become a fiery storm and she asked for permission to remain behind.
‘If I could just take a quiet walk in the fresh air and then lie down for a bit, I’m sure I’d feel all right,’ she said in matter-of-fact tones, belied by her unhappy expression.
One look at the white face convinced Miss Bruce that Patricia had a real need of solitude. She did not altogether like leaving the girl alone, but realised she was unlikely to come to any harm. So she gave the necessary permission, stipulating only that Patricia should not walk beyond the fence enclosing Briesau and that she must promise, if her headache were not improved by the afternoon, to consult the Chalet School Matron about it.
It seemed unnaturally quiet in the hotel after the girls had departed and Patricia was glad to get outside into the sunshine. As Miss Bruce had not restricted her to any particular part of Briesau, she turned first of all away from the lake, taking a path she did not know that led in the direction of the valley. She passed a big chalet, its walls painted with colourful frescos; beside the house a few cows were grazing contentedly, their bells dingdonging in the stillness. The autumn had been so mild that most of the herds were still on the Alms high above the valley, where they always go during summer. Patricia did not know this and she did wonder fleetingly why there were so few cows to be seen, but it was only the most passing thought, for her mind was bitterly occupied with her own affairs.
During the weeks abroad there had been so many new interests, so many people to meet and places to see, that she had given little thought to her everyday life. Now she was learning the hard lesson that while people and circumstances may be left behind, sometimes even forgotten, your problems will inevitably catch up with you.
It was not t
hat her mother’s letter contained anything that was in itself shattering. But underneath the recital of trivalities there lurked the assumption that Patricia would soon return to begin the life of a society debutante. This was so confidently taken for granted that it gave her a feeling of helplessness. It was like being trapped and suffocated in a sea of candy-floss.
The letter began with a catalogue of complaints about a manicurist who had been inconsiderate enough to go off and get married, leaving her clients abandoned. Lady Davidson had continued:
I saw your cousin Philippa at the Baxter-Baddeleys’ fork-luncheon last Tuesday. I find poor Philippa really very plain but her dress was quite charming. Her mother tells me they have an excellent new French dressmaker. I think she sounds just the person to make your presentation dress. So I have made arrangements for her to see you the minute you get back. Of course she charges the absolute earth, but for something so important it will be worth while. We shall have to get something done about your hair. I suppose a Marcel wave will be the only answer as it is so straight. It is really too tiresome that you won’t be home till Christmas. I have so many other arrangements to make for you, and now I can do nothing until January.
‘It isn’t quite so bad while I’m still at school,’ Patricia thought as she continued drearily along the path, ‘but once I’ve left, what, oh, what shall I do?’
Heedless of where she was going, she let her feet take her where they would and, after some minutes’ blind wandering, found she had come round in a half-circle and was now behind the Kron Prinz Karl, standing beside the little whitewashed church. On impulse she tried the door; when it opened, she went inside.
The church was utterly simple and had no pretensions to beauty, although the frescos on the wall had a certain naive charm. But within it there was, unmistakably, a feeling of peace. Patricia would not have thought of herself as a religious person; nevertheless she sat very still for quite five minutes, absorbing from the tranquil atmosphere something she could sense although she could not have described it. Her troubles did not seem any less, but suddenly it felt more possible to cope with them.
Back at the hotel she met the proprietor’s wife in the hall. Miss Bruce had told Frau Dobler of Patricia’s indisposition, and the kindly Austrian woman was most anxious to know how the young lady was feeling and whether she would now be going to join ‘die andere Fräulein’ at the school. When Patricia replied that she would prefer to go and lie down for a while, Frau Dobler immediately offered to bring up some soup and rolls in an hour’s time, and Patricia accepted gratefully.
All this time her friends in the two schools had been engaged in a tremendous combat on the netball court. There was a good-sized crowd to watch the game, including the Grange House girls not playing in their team and most of the Chalet School Seniors, Middles and staff. The London girls, captained by Veronica Cunningham, had produced a most efficient team; they had been lucky in that all but one of their First Seven were in the group visiting Austria. The Chalet School Seven, who also played extremely well, were having to work their hardest not to be outclassed.
The visitors had the advantage in height and reach; four of their team were tall, topping their opposite numbers in the Chalet team by as much as two or three inches. However, the Chaletians were very quick on their feet, their passing was good, and both Grizel Cochrane and Marie von Eschenau were excellent at shooting.
The score at half-time had been ten goals to eight in favour of the visitors. Then a hard-fought round at the beginning of the second half brought the Chaletians’ score up to nine and they were now, in an atmosphere of tense excitement, doing their utmost to get the vital goal that would make the score level and bring them a chance to draw ahead.
At this dramatic moment Margia Stevens, released at last from the piano, arrived breathlessly to remind Vanna di Ricci that Herr Anserl was expecting her in five minutes for a lesson. Margia had been rather resentful that, because of her lesson, she had been obliged to miss more than half of the long-awaited match. Indeed she had even asked Mademoiselle Lepâttre if she might be allowed to have the lesson some other time. Mademoiselle sympathised with her disappointment, but said firmly that while she, as headmistress, was quite at liberty to re-arrange the girls’ schoolwork, it was out of the question to ask their distinguished visiting piano professor to waste his time without a pupil. Mademoiselle also pointed out that for Margia music was the most important subject in the curriculum; and that, moreover, courtesy demanded she attend the lesson, for which Herr Anserl, by no means a young man, had made a long steep journey on foot all the way up from Spärtz.
‘You’d better get a move on, Vanna,’ Margia urged the pretty Italian girl, in a loud stage whisper. ‘Vater Bär is in a jolly fierce mood this morning. He made me go pounding away at exercises and studies for simply hours and only let me have about five minutes at the end for my new piece. And even then he kept bawling at me to go back and play the first line over and over again. I don’t want to hear the words “noch einmal” again for at least a hundred years.’
Vanna departed with a rueful expression, caused not so much by having to miss the netball match as by a lively dread of the temperamental fireworks she anticipated during her lesson.
‘What’s the score, somebody?’ Margia demanded, settling herself down among the Middles. All eyes were on the court, where Jo Bettany, playing at centre for the Chalet School, had just managed to intercept a ball intended for her opposite number, Pamela Trent. Jo passed swiftly to Evadne, the Chalet’s attacking centre; then, neatly dodging Pamela, she ran unexpectedly up the court in the direction of their own goal. This was part of a strategy they had practised under Grizel’s tuition, and the others rapidly fell into their positions. Joey caught the ball returned by Evadne and sent it with a long high throw right down to Marie von Eschenau, playing at attack. Marie, anticipating this, had eluded the vigilance of the Grange House Defence for a moment; the ball passed swiftly, from Marie to Grizel, to Deira O’Hagan and back to Marie, who now prepared to shoot. The watching Chaletians crossed their fingers, for Marie was only just inside the circle. No one had time to be interested in appearances at this tense moment but Marie, the acknowledged beauty of the Chalet School, did look very lovely as she stood, rosy from exertion and concentration, measuring with her eye the distance to the goal. She took careful aim. For one long moment the Chaletians were literally holding their breaths. Then a loud cheer broke out, in which the Grange House party also joined, as the ball dropped, clean and true, right through the goal-net.
‘Oh, well played, Marie!’ Grizel fervently congratulated her attack. ‘Jolly well played!’ As they resumed their positions she gazed round the team, eyes flashing, trying to will them into surpassing themselves. ‘Ten all! I know we can do it,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘I know we can! Buckle to, everyone, and we’ll just show them!’
But the victory was not, after all, to be theirs. Both teams were now on their mettle, and the spectators were treated to some very lively and skilful play as the Chaletians fought desperately to get into the lead. In spite of all their efforts, the more experienced team gradually drew ahead. Veronica Cunningham, Grange House’s goal shooter, seemed to be under a spell that made her unable to miss; no sooner was the ball in her hands than another goal was scored. And Kirsty Robertson, the Grange House attack, was nearly as skilful. The two made a formidable pair, and just after Veronica had yet again shot successfully for her team, the whistle blew. Time was up; and the final result was a victory for Grange House of seventeen goals to twelve.
Grizel immediately called for three hearty cheers for Grange House, and the Chaletians, including her own breathless and exhausted team, responded with great good will. Veronica’s team gave three cheers for the losers and then Veronica turned to Grizel saying enthusiastically: ‘Thanks terribly for the marvellous game; I thought your team played simply rippingly.’
The Chalet School games captain determinedly swallowed her disappointment. �
�Congratulations, Veronica, it was an absolutely topping match and we enjoyed it like anything.’
Then Bette Rincini came forward with some of the other prefects, ready to escort the visitors back to the school where they would be staying for lunch. There was a positive babel of talk as the various groups of girls left the playing field, all chatting away at the tops of their voices.
Joey, looking round the excited throng, became aware for the first time that Patricia was not among them. During the match Joey had not had a single moment to notice anything outside the game; in any case, she had not expected to see Patricia until afterwards, knowing her not to be a member of the netball team.
Now she seized the chance to ask Pamela Trent what had become of her friend. ‘Poor old Patricia!’ she said with feeling, when Pamela briefly explained the situation. ‘But you don’t think she’s really ill, do you? Was there bad news in the letter? Or do you think something else is worrying her? Where is she now? Can’t we do something to help?’
Pamela could not help,laughing at this barrage of questions, but she answered seriously enough: ‘I don’t think there’s anything we can do at the moment, Joey. Patricia does occasionally get a spell of the “miseries”; and usually she prefers to be left alone until she’s shaken herself out of it.’
Pamela looked appraisingly at Joey; she was not sure how far Patricia had confided in the younger girl. Before she could say anything else the rest of the girls had caught up with them; they were swept once more into the general conversation which, naturally, was still about the match.
‘You know, you’ve no need to worry,’ Joan Hatherley was assuring the Chaletians as the noisy procession crossed the garden. ‘It’ll be your turn when it comes to the hockey match. I should think you’ll simply wipe the field with us then. Probably not one of us will survive to tell the tale!’
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