Kits at Clynton Court School E-Book

May Wynne

• Herausgeber: Librorium Editions
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Do come over here, Pearl,” urged Roseleen excitedly, “it’s . . . a girl . . . in the grocer’s cart. It looks as if it might be the new girl who ought to have come last week—only it can’t be! The grocer boy is grinning like anything—and yes! he is handing her down a hockey stick . . . and a bag, and she is actually shaking hands. Really if that’s not the limit! Wherever can Miss Carwell have got her from?”
Pearl Willock crossed to the side of her friend. The two girls were alone in the deserted schoolroom; and their interest for the moment was wholly given to the new arrival.

Leseprobe

KITS AT

CLYNTON COURT

SCHOOL

BY

MAY WYNNE

© 2024 Librorium Editions

ISBN : 9782385747367

KITS AT

CLYNTON COURT SCHOOL

Chapter I

“D

o

come over here, Pearl,” urged Roseleen excitedly, “it’s . . . a girl . . . in the grocer’s cart. It looks as if it might be the new girl who ought to have come last week—only it can’t be! The grocer boy is grinning like anything—and yes! he is handing her down a hockey stick . . . and a bag, and she is actually shaking hands. Really if that’s not the limit! Wherever can Miss Carwell have got her from?”

Pearl Willock crossed to the side of her friend. The two girls were alone in the deserted schoolroom; and their interest for the moment was wholly given to the new arrival.

“One of the new rich class,” drawled Pearl disdainfully, “but I agree with you. It will be horrid getting another girl of that sort in the school. The Welbracks are quite enough. I wish one of the govs. could see her. I have a good mind to tell Miss Pasfold.”

The object of their disdain, a tall, well-built girl of fifteen, with a mop of brown curls had already disappeared into the house. Of course, she must be the new girl—and a horror.

“Let’s go down to the garden room,” suggested Roseleen, “or we shall be asked to look after the freak. All the other girls are in the play ground.”

Too late! Already the schoolroom door was opening, and Miss Carwell, the head-mistress of Clynton Court School, came in with the girl who had just arrived.

Such a happy, merry-eyed girl, with freckled face and a pair of the very bluest of blue eyes; there was an enquiring look about her small, tip-tilted nose, and good-humour round her smiling lips.

“This is Kits Kerwayne, girls,” said Miss Carwell, “your new school-fellow. Kits dear, these are Pearl Willock and Roseleen O’Fyne. I am sure they will take you under their wing and make you feel at home. Pearl, child, take Kits up to Miss Sesson’s room, and she will show her where she is to sleep and help her unpack. By the time you are ready, Kits, it will be dinner time.”

Miss Carwell turned away, she was very busy, and felt quite satisfied that she left the new girl in good hands.

Kits was looking with smiling enquiry from one to the other of those new comrades.

“I’ve never been to school before,” she said frankly, “so I’m awfully at sea. I expect—er—it will be jolly when I’m used to it.”

Pearl shrugged her shoulders, she was a pretty fair girl, extremely lady-like in appearance and slightly affected in manner.

“I can’t say I find school a particularly jolly place myself,” she retorted, with a most unfriendly stare, “but if you’ll come upstairs I’ll show you Miss Sesson’s room.”

Poor Kits! She felt the chill of the remark, and stood suddenly shy and uncomfortable before her critics. Were the girls all going to be like this? Roger and Ned had told her it was a billion to one she would hate school—and they seemed likely to be right—though she had loved the look of this grand old house, with its woods and fields and unschoollike air of ancient romance.

It was at this moment, when the newcomer was really in danger of being frozen stiff, that the door opened and in tumbled a very different-looking young woman, who, leaving the door open, shouted gleefully over her shoulder to some one still mounting the stairs.

“Winner, snail! You’re no good to race. Hullo! are you the new girl?—and did you arrive in the grocer’s cart just now?”

Kits thawed at once. This untidy, jolly maiden with two enormous plaits of red hair, and the roundest of moon faces was—human. She also looked friendly, and Kits responded gratefully.

“Yes, I’m Kits Kerwayne. I couldn’t come back—on the right day because of quarantine, and—I suppose I came by the wrong train to-day—there wasn’t a cab anywhere—and the grocer’s boy was a dear. I couldn’t have walked.”

Trixie roared. She had seen the expressions of superior disdain on the faces of her other school-fellows and knew what they meant.

“You’re a sport,” she applauded, “most new bugs would have sat on their boxes and howled. The grocer’s boy deserves a putty medal. What’s happening? Are you coming to view the domain, or——.”

Roseleen struck in hastily.

“Miss Carwell wants her to go up to Miss Sesson and be shown her room. Will you take her with you, Trixie? Come along, Pearl. We shall have time for a game of tennis.”

Trixie, perched on the edge of one of the long tables, grimaced after the departing pair, then looked at Kits and laughed.

“Fancy falling into the hands of the Prims!” she chuckled. “Poor you! And you shocked them in one act. For the rest of your stay at Clynton Court the Prims will bracket you and the grocer’s cart together. Never mind, don’t take it to heart. The Prims are harmless and concern no one. Come in, Pickles, and be introduced. The grocer’s cart chum is all right.”

Kits laughed outright, but she was no longer forlorn. A pretty imp of a girl, with bobbed hair and the very thinnest of thin arms was peeping in on them.

“Allow me,” quoth Trixie, with mock grandeur, “to introduce Pamela Irene Spandock—otherwise Pickles—the darling of our Crew. Come in and have a good look at Kits, my dear Pickles, she’s worth a survey, though I’ve not yet asked her to be our most faithful and devoted comrade. Are we making your head buzz, Kits? If so, it’s nothing to what it will be during dinner! Come along to Miss Sesson, and ask her to put you in No. 8, we have room for a little one, and I don’t think your constitution would survive being put to bye-byes with the Prims.”

Kits chuckled.

“You’ve done me good,” she said, gratefully, “I . . . well! it’s my first experience of school, and it was awful. Do let me glue myself on to you? And are most of the girls like those first two?”

Pickles skipped in delight.

“A school full of Prims! Why, we should suffocate or require padded rooms,” she gurgled, “but we’re a mixed lot, my angel, and require a lot of weeding out. It’s no use to explain. You’ll have to feel your feet if you’ve never been to school. Has any one taught you the A.B.C.?”

“I’ve always shared a governess with a friend,” replied Kits, nodding, “I went to her house every day. It was quite jolly. Then her mother thought she had better go to Lausanne to be polished off, and, as our Dad didn’t like me to go abroad, I came here. You see, I’ve no sisters, only brothers—four of them, all darlings who don’t count me as a sister—I’m one of themselves. They did pity me, coming to school.”

She pitied herself too at the present moment, though, of course, it would have been ever so much worse without Trixie and Pickles, who took entire possession of her.

Actually, Kits had not known she could be shy till the moment she found herself marshalled to her place in the long dining hall, with thirty pairs of bright, inquisitive eyes regarding her.

Trixie was sympathetic.

“Rude cats,” she said, sotto voce, “don’t you want to put your tongue out at them? I should! Of course, it is because you’ve come back late. New girls don’t generally have so much attention. Lucky for you it is a half holiday. I’ve told Noreen and Jane that we are going for a tramp over the moors. Have you any special and particular liking for a cave—with stalactites and mysterious echoes? It’s the Crew’s happy hunting ground. We are the Crew.”

A thin, high pitched voice came echoing down from the head of the table.

“Beatrix, you disobey! To talk it is not permitted. Taisez-vous. You receive punishment if I speak again.”

Trixie grimaced. After all, she had only been whispering to encourage a shy newcomer, and had hoped Alda Wenton’s broad shoulders were hiding her from Mademoiselle. But it required very broad shoulders, or very dark corners to hide anything from Mademoiselle’s sharp eyes.

Kits decided that she should never like the vinegar-cruet of a woman, with her stiff angles and pointed features. The gentle-faced, grey-haired lady at the other end looked much nicer—not a bit like Kits’ idea of a governess.

The dining hall was a double room, with two long tables running the whole length. To Kits it all seemed a great bustle and bewilderment. She didn’t want her dinner, yet dared not leave it for fear of being spoken to by Mademoiselle. It was real relief when the meal was over and her faithful “protectors” succeeded in drawing her away from the crowd of girls, who were making up for lost time by chatting like a flock of magpies.

“You are sleeping in No. 7 with Joyce Wayde,” said Trixie, as they ran upstairs. “No, she’s not one of the Crew, but quite a good sort, rather quiet and mooney, with eyes for no one but Gwenda. Did you notice Gwen? A big fair girl—with a trick of fluttering her eye-lids. She’s a genius—but not a ripping genius like Crystal Colton—who is one of us—and a perfect scream. She is one of the latecomers, too. She won’t be back till to-morrow, then we shall all sit up and take notice. Here’s No. 7. Oh, you have unpacked of course. Get on a hat and sports coat and wait on the landing. I must collect the others.”

Kits still felt breathless. She wondered whether she ever would get to know this world of girls by name, or how long it would take her to learn the ropes. Trixie was the kindest of teachers, but—well! she did talk rather fast, and Kits had collected only one or two outstanding facts. The girls with whom she was to chum called themselves the “Crew”, and loved fun and mischief, whilst two others at least were known as the Prims, and embodied the perfect sketch that Roger and Ned had made of “Ye youthful school-girl.”

“I’m jolly glad we don’t have to walk two and two,” thought Kits, as she flung open her room door, “but I wonder whether we have to have a governess with us? I thought we always should, and I can picture Mademoiselle in a cave. Oh!”

She came to a halt at sight of the other girl in the room. This would be her bedroom companion Joyce Wayde, and as there was no one else to introduce her she would have to do it herself. Kits grinned and held out her hand.

“I’m Kits Kerwayne,” said she, “and you’re Joyce Wayde I’m sure. Are you coming out on the moors with us?”

Joyce blushed. She was a tall, slender girl, not exactly pretty—she was too pale for that, but she had big grey eyes, and very soft brown hair, which she wore in a plait. Her face suggested a sensitive nature, reserved and shy—by no means the ideal comrade for mad pranks or merry fun, but the sort of friend who would be a friend through thick and thin, if she once gave her love. She shook her head hurriedly at Kits’ question.

“Oh no,” she replied, “I am going into the town with Miss Carwell. Is there anything I can get for you? Oh, I forgot. You have only just come. Can I help you to find anything?”

Kits laughed.

“No thanks,” she replied brightly, “Trixie Dean and some of her friends are taking me for a walk over the moors. I’ve never been in Yorkshire before. The moors look ripping!”

Joyce flushed.

“Of course, I love it,” she replied simply, “Clynton is my home. I live—at least my home is—on the other side of the village about three miles away. The moors are my friends if you can understand?”

Kits nodded.

“Rather! I’ve lived all my life in Kent—near the sea. I hated coming here, but I believe I’ll like it. Now I must bustle, or the others will be waiting.” And, snatching up her cap, Kits ran off whistling. Yes,—actually and openly whistling, to the horror of Mademoiselle—who was just coming upstairs.

Trixie & Co. faded into the back-ground, convulsed with laughter, as the French governess exclaimed in horror at that most deliberate, most unheard-of crime—the whistling on the stairs.

“But you . . . you have ze air of a gamin of ze streets,” Mademoiselle concluded, “it is not so the demoiselles of Clynton Court conduct themselves. It is told me you arrive in the carriage of ze grocaire! And here you stand, ze cap set at ze back of your head—your legs apart, . . . and with your lips you do whistle. It is a disgrace, my dear, you shall not permit to happen again.”

Kits looked quite bewildered, and blushed to her eyes.

“I’m very, very sorry,” she replied, “awfully sorry. I . . . well! I always have whistled, all my life. I never thought of it being wrong.”

Mademoiselle sighed the sigh of hopelessness and despair. This new pupil was, she felt convinced from the first, destined to be a thorn in her side.

Meantime, with the passing of Mademoiselle, merry comrades surrounded Kits once more, whirling her away in consoling fashion which for ever wiped from her vision the picture of demure little maidens walking two and two, neither swinging their arms or turning in their toes!

Clynton Court had never been built for a girls’ school. It was a fine, imposing white house, set in a hollow of the moors, with wooded grounds stretching away almost as far as the banks of the Ribble. There were fields for the playing of hockey and cricket, wooded dells for rambles and picnicking, and . . . an occasional chance for boating when Miss Evelton, the sportsmistress, had time to take a favoured few under her care.

Kits was “all eyes for everything.”

“I love cricket,” she confessed, “nearly all games but croquet are jolly, but the boys and I love birds-nesting and collections of all sorts. Fossils are our favourites. In Kent there are such ripping chalk pits, we go and spend hours in them, and we find all the treasures of the deep. Old arrow heads, fossilized shells and snails, it’s grand fun. I suppose there aren’t any chalk pits round here?”

“Never heard of any,” quoth Trixie, her eyes twinkling, for already she had recognized a kindred spirit, “but there are fossils, and I believe an old coal mine. Crystal will tell you. She collects fossils and antiques, so she’ll welcome you to her heart. Now, Pickles, what are you up to? Is it a bull, or——?”

Pamela had scrambled to the top of a heathery hill, and was viewing the landscape.

“No,” she shouted back regretfully, “no such a thrill, but there’s a car turning in through the gates—and I fancy—I’m almost certain I saw Crys.”

“She said she wasn’t coming till to-morrow,” said Noreen and Jane in a breath, and Kits looked in some amusement at the speakers.

Of all this merry band of new comrades the twins roused her speculations most. They didn’t look as if they were brimming with fun or mischief, though it almost made you smile to look at them at all! They were so exactly like a pair of tall Dutch dolls, with funny little plaits of black hair, rosy cheeks and the roundest brown eyes. Noreen seemed to be the spokeswoman and Jane the echo. How was it they came to be part of the Crew with a Pickles and a Trixie?

Kits rubbed her nose thoughtfully, whilst Pickles, descending from the hill top, tucked her arm through Trixie’s.

“Let’s race for the Cave,” she suggested. “Shew Kits round and get back early. We can go down to the Dell after tea if Crystal has come, and have a meeting to elect Kits in style. Of course, you want to be elected, eh, Kits?”

Kits beamed.

“Does that mean being one of the Crew?” she asked. “Rather! And I shall write to Ned and Roger to-night, and tell them they were absolutely out of it about girls’ schools, though at first—oh, those Prims did give me shocks!”

“Serve you right for mounting ze carriage of ze grocaire,” retorted Trixie. “Now, one, two, three and away! as far as that sort of cairn of rocks to the left, Kits. Off!”

Kits could run—and she meant to let these girls know it. But, alas! running over a heather-clad moor needs practice—and Kits “won her spurs”—not by arriving first at the cairn, but by turning a complete somersault, and picking herself up promptly to continue the race!

Pickles crowed her bravas like a cock, as she stood flapping her long arms from the summit of a rock.

“You’ll do,” said she. “No squashiness about you. Never mind the mud on your skirt, it’s the brown badge of courage. Here’s the Cave. Not a very mysterious affair but O.K. for the Grand Council meetings of the Crew.”

Kits was down on her hands and knees, only too ready to crawl through the rocky opening which led into a circular cave—one of those many hiding places of the moors. Stalactites hung from the roof and thin trickles of water had been petrified against the rocky walls giving an appearance of dampness.

“Here we sit and jawbate,” said Trixie, “or at times, if possible, bring Crystal’s symplelite lamp and make ye olde world toffee which sticks to your ribs, likewise to your teeth. Barring Crystal you now see the Crew complete. We are not law-breakers or secret sinners, we like fun, we love fun, we hate sneakery in all its branches, and we utterly fail to see why girls shouldn’t be as jolly as boys. That’s the idea. We want to be sports, with a sporting code of honour. If we have larks and get caught we own up. We wouldn’t allow any one to be blamed for our pranks. We adore adventure—and we won’t be stiff or starched. There you are, my dear. So if you join up you’ll take us as you find us. Have a stalactite?”

Kits sat back on her heels and laughed for very glee.

“Topping!” she cried, “What luck that I found you all right the first day. We’ll have adventures, we’ll have fun,—and we’ll not let the boys—any boys—all boys—have the crow over us. Oh, I do wish we had the symplelite now, for I’m longing for toffee,—and Miss Carwell told Mums hampers were not allowed.”

“Neither are they,” quoth Pickles, “but they come. Of that anon. I really do feel we ought to return now and welcome Crystal. I’m certain sure it was she,—there’s only one Crystal, eh, girls? and she sent me a p.c. last week to tell me she had made a discovery for eighteen pence. I’m longing to know what it is.”

The vote was carried, and though Kits would have liked to “collect” several of those jolly stalactites she realized that they would not be likely to run away and that she would be returning to the Council chamber many times and oft.

It did not seem nearly such a long walk on the return journey, and the “missing member” was not far to seek. From the top of the slope they saw her—an elf-like figure perched on the right hand pillar which stood sentinel at the gate, an ancestral column having nothing to do with impudent girlhood. Yet, there she sat, a mere wisp of a girl—with a fuzz of light brown hair, and a whimsical expression on her nondescript features, which were only redeemed from plainness by a wonderful pair of green eyes—yes! green absolutely, with curling lashes to shade but not conceal their peculiar colour. Kits stared, fascinated by those eyes and their small, impudent-looking owner, who smiled down at her enquiringly.

“Kits Kerwayne,” sang Trixie, “A new comrade and a sport. Come down, Crys, instanter and tell us all your news from the very beginning. First, what is the discovery?”

Crystal clambered carefully down from her perch.

“A Cookery book,” said she, “A manuscript of the greatest importance. Wait and see! I have brought back a fortune in a nutshell, but I’m not going to tell you all about it yet. We must hold a council, after tea, and I’ll shew you the discovery. What room are you sleeping in, Kits? I’m feeling rather anxious over the answer!”

“No. 7,” said Kits, “with Joyce Wayde. She seems nice.”

Crystal crumpled up and flopped against the gate post.

“Help!” she moaned, “I was hoping . . . hoping . . . hoping I was quartered with Joyce. Friends, your sympathy! There’s no longer any doubt. Miss Sesson has had her revenge and put me with the Prims. With the Prims! Me myself. What will the end be?”

“Collapse of the Prims and solitary confinement for you, my girl,” retorted Trixie positively, “but never mind. You’ll suffer in a good cause. Just think how we shall scream over your experiences.”

“Pig!” raged Crystal, and chased the callous Trixie up the drive. Kits wiped the tears of laughter away from her eyes—and the second post card she sent home that evening was received with smiles by the home folk.

“This is a jolly place. I shall like it awfully. Tons of love. Kits.”

If Mademoiselle had seen that card she would have felt that the new girl ought nevaire . . nevaire to have come to so select an establishment of young ladies as Clynton Court!

Did Mademoiselle know of the existence of the Crew?

Chapter II

K

its

liked Joyce. She was quite sure about that. Her room companion was not like the merry comrades of the Crew but she was nice.

What a comfort! Kits could thoroughly sympathize with Crystal Colton doomed to the companionship of the Prims, though she had an idea Miss Crystal would prove herself a match for the petrifying treatment accorded by Pearl and Roseleen.

Joyce was not a bit of a Prim, though Kits could not altogether “place” her. She was rather shy and dreamy, keen on her lessons and possessed of two gifts—a lovely contralto voice, and a genius for friendship. Her greatest friend was Gwenda Handow, the fair girl with the fluttering eye-lids, who Kits had noticed the first evening. Gwenda was older than Joyce and very clever. She was going in for a big scholarship—so was Crystal—and Joyce confided to Kits almost the first day of her coming how she hoped Gwenda would win it.

“You see, she saved my life, four years ago,” added Joyce earnestly, as she sat by the side of her bed nursing her knee. “I should have been burned to death if it had not been for Gwenda, she has a scar right up her arm now. I only wish . . . oh, you don’t know how I wish, I could have the chance of repaying her.”

Kits chuckled.

“You don’t want her to catch fire just for the pleasure of putting her out, do you?” she asked, “but I know what you mean. You want to shew your gratitude.”

“Yes,” said Joyce, “but she is two years older than I am—and . . . and her friends are older than I am. She’s awfully kind, but . . . I always feel she looks on me as a child. Of course, I’m nearly fifteen, but being the eldest of the family makes me young for my age, and I’m no good at games, excepting tennis.”

“What a pity you don’t belong to the Crew,” said Kits, with real regret, “Trixie and the others are jolly. Tell me, Joyce, who is that very dark girl—almost like a gipsy or an Italian—Teresa Tenerlee.”

“Teresa,” replied Joyce. “Oh, she only came last term. Her mother is Italian. I believe she was a great singer. Teresa sings beautifully too. I don’t know much about her. She doesn’t like me a bit . . . and neither does her friend Olna Raykes.”

“I don’t like Olna,” said Kits heartily. “She reminds me of a ferret or a vicious horse. Aren’t I a cat? But do think over what I’ve said about the Crew, Joyce. The girls are so straight, and they like you.”

Joyce blushed.

“I’m too slow,” she sighed, “I’m sorry. I’d love to join—if only because of you. But you’d soon wish I hadn’t. You see, mother always tells me that being the eldest is such a big responsibility. Jennie and May will be looking to me as an example. And . . . though the fun you all have is just the loveliest fun . . . it might lead into rows—and mother is a friend of Miss Carwell’s . . . and would hear at once. I’d rather have the dullest time in the world than worry my mother, for she’s not strong—and such a darling. I do hope,” added poor stammering Joyce shyly, “that you don’t think me a prig. It’s not that a bit. I always was a tom-boy at home—and Jim my brother says I’m as good as a boy, but at school it’s so different. Things you can do at home are really against rules here.”

Kits wrinkled her brows. She did understand Joyce’s meaning, far better than Trixie or Crystal would have done, and her liking for the girl, who would rather have a dull time than give her mother the least uneasiness appealed to her generosity.

“I’d like to shake hands, Joyce,” she replied frankly. “That’s all! And I’m glad we’re pals. Of course, I shall stick to the Crew. Mother wouldn’t mind the jolly fun we have—she’s even a bit of a tom-boy herself, and often goes rabbiting with us in the woods. But . . . I see it is different for you—and I’m awfully glad I’m not the eldest—or an example.”

“But I’m often a bad example,” urged Joyce, in deadly fear of having made herself out to be a pattern. “And perhaps, though I can’t be one of the Crew, you’d let me join your fun—when I can? I know the moors all round, ever so far, and I think I could get leave for us to fish in the stream in Farmer Gale’s meadows, if Miss Evelton came too.”

Kits beamed. She guessed that her friendship would mean a big thing for this girl who had somehow failed to find her niche in school life.

Crystal’s ancient cookery book had been keeping the Crew most unnaturally quiet of late. Even with the aid of a magnifying glass it was quite difficult to make out the old English characters.

Crystal’s patience was admirable.

“It’s no use to be ambitious,” she declared, “we can’t make home-brewed wines or preserves, or a noble venison pasty. But some of these household hints are topping. ‘To make blacking for boots.’ Here’s the milk in the cocoanut! White of egg and lamp-black. Girls! it’s a fortune. Look at the shine those Hessian top-boots must have wanted. We’ll save our money and buy eggs—many eggs. Then the lamp-black and the boot room. What a lark.”

“What shall we do with the yolks of the eggs?” asked Pickles. “Custards, eh? It’s a pity to waste them. Here’s a recipe for mending china. I say, Crystal, that was a well laid out eighteen-pennorth.”

Trixie yawned.

“We’ll get the eggs to-morrow,” said she, “but what shall we do to-day? I don’t feel like cricket, and all the tennis courts are engaged. Come along Crew, and be—er—is it patriotic? I know to-morrow is Primrose Day, and that’s a national in memoriam about something. Is it the Battle of Waterloo? or the Accession of Queen Victoria? Anyhow Horsfold Woods are crammed with primroses, and we’ll decorate the place. Miss Carwell might take the hint and give us a holiday to celebrate the day.”

The idea “caught on”, though Crystal, who liked to stick to her own trail a bit too much, would have preferred a visit to the farm. Baskets were routed out and the bunch of merry girls set off for their afternoon’s fun.

“The Hall has been bought by a Mr. Timothy Plethwaite,” quoth Trixie, tucking her arm through that of Kits. “He is—or was—a rich manufacturer in Leeds, but having made a huge fortune, he has come here, bought the Hall, married a Lady Marigold some one or the other, and is enjoying life. Why not? From all accounts he’s awfully good-natured too. That’s why we’re going to take his primroses.”

“They are lovely woods,” chuckled Kits, as she rolled down a steep bank to where the primroses simply carpeted the mossy ground. A cuckoo sang its gay challenge, brown rabbits scuttled breathlessly away into the undergrowth, and Kits, clapping her hands, sang too, in sheer joy of life.

Would Ned and Roger ever believe her tale of the freedom of girl school life?