14 the plot is successful
maureen had been rather scared at moira’s sudden arrival in the practice-room. she had heard the angry voices in the next room too, when moira had left her, and had been even more scared. it didn’t take much to scare maureen! she slipped hurriedly out of the room and went off to the classroom to put the finishing touches to her designs. she was to show them to the others that evening.
she saw gwen’s sour face as she walked into the common-room with her sheaf of designs, and sheets and sheets of music and verses. oh, maureen had been very busy! if mam’zelle and miss james had known how hard she had been at work they would have been most surprised. neither of them had any idea that maureen had it in her to work at all.
“what they taught at mazeley manor i really do not know,” miss james said to the other teachers each time she corrected maureen’s work.
“self-admiration—self-esteem—self-pity,” murmured miss williams, who taught one lesson in the fifth form, and had had quite enough of maureen.
“but not self-control,” said miss james. “what a school! it’s a good thing it’s shut down.”
everyone was in the common-room waiting for maureen, though neither gwen nor catherine knew the little plot that was being hatched by the rest. maureen beamed round. “now you’re going to see something,” she said, gaily, and laughed her silly little laugh. “it was always said at mazeley manor that i was a good all-rounder—don’t think i’m boasting, will you—but honestly, though i say it myself, i can do most things!”
maureen was surprised to hear some of the girls laughing quite hilariously.
“you’re such a joker, maureen,” said alicia, appreciatively. “always being really humorous.”
this was a new idea to maureen. nobody had ever called her humorous before. she at once went up in her own estimation.
“now,” she said, “i’ll show you the designs first. this is for cinderella’s ball costume—i’ve gone back to the sixteenth century for it, as you see.”
shrieks of laughter came from everyone. “priceless!” said darrell, pretending to wipe her eyes. “how can you think of it, maureen?”
“a perfect scream,” said mavis, holding up the crude drawing, with its poor colouring. “what a joke! i didn’t know you’d such a sense of humour, maureen.”
maureen was puzzled. she hadn’t meant the drawing to be funny at all. she had thought it was beautiful. she hurried on to the next one—but the girls forestalled her and picked up the sheets, showing them round to one another with squeals of laughter.
“look at this one! i never saw anything so funny in my life!”
“good enough for punch! i say—look at the baron’s face! and what is he wearing?”
“this one’s priceless. gosh, maureen really is a humorist, isn’t she?”
then irene picked up the sheets of music. “hallo! here are the tunes she has written! i bet they’ll be priceless, too. i’ll play them over.”
she went to the common-room piano, and with a very droll expression on her face she played the tunes, making them sound even sillier than they were.
everyone crowded round the piano, laughing. “isn’t maureen a scream! she can do funny drawings and write ridiculous tunes too!”
maureen began to feel frightened. were the girls really in earnest about all this? they seemed to be. surely—surely—they couldn’t really think that all her lovely work was so bad that it was funny? they must be thinking it was funny on purpose—perhaps they thought she meant it to be!
she turned to find gwen. gwen would understand. gwen was her friend, she had told gwen everything—how good she was at drawing, music and singing, how hard she had worked at all this, how pleased she was with the results.
gwen was looking at her and it wasn’t a nice look. it was a triumphant look that said, “ah—pride comes before a fall, my girl—and what a fall!” it was a look that said, “i’m glad about all this. serves you right.”
maureen was shocked. gwen laughed loudly, and joined in with the others.
“frightfully funny! priceless, maureen! who would have thought you could be so funny?”
“now sing,” said mavis, and thrust one of the songs into her hand. “let’s hear you. you’ve such a wonderful voice, haven’t you, so well-trained. i’m sure it must be a great joy to you. sing!”
maureen did not dare to refuse. she gazed at the music with blurred eyes and sang. her loud voice rose, even more off the note than usual. it shook with disappointment as the girls began to clap and cheer and laugh again.
“ha ha! listen to that! can’t she have a comic part in the play, darrell, and sing it? she’d bring the house down. did you ever hear such a voice?”
maureen stopped singing. tears fell down her cheek. she gave one desperate look at gwen, a look begging for a word of praise—but none came.
she turned to go out of the room. catherine ran after her. “maureen! don’t take it like that. the girls don’t mean anything!”
“oh yes we do,” said darrell, under her breath. “we’ve been cruel to be kind. catherine would say a thing like that.”
“don’t touch me!” cried maureen. “saint catherine—coming all over pious and goody-goody after you’ve laughed at me with the rest! ho—saint!”
catherine shrank back as if she had been slapped in the face. nobody smiled, except gwen. mary-lou looked upset. she couldn’t bear scenes of any sort. bill looked on stolidly. she got up.
“well, i’m going riding,” she said. “there’s half an hour of daylight left. coming, clarissa?”
bill’s stolidness and matter-of-fact voice made everyone feel more normal. they watched bill and clarissa go out of the room.
“well—i don’t somehow feel that was quite such a success as we hoped,” said sally. “actually i feel rather low-down.”
“so do i,” said darrell. “maureen is a conceited ass, of course, and badly needed taking down a peg—but i’m afraid we’ve taken her down more pegs than we meant to.”
“it won’t hurt her,” said gwen, in a smug voice. “she thinks too much of herself. i can’t think why she’s attached herself to me all these weeks.”
alicia couldn’t resist this. “like calls to like, dear gwen,” she said. “deep calls to deep. you’re as like as two peas, you and maureen. it’s been a sweet sight to see you together.”
“you don’t really mean that, alicia?” said gwen, after a surprised and hurt silence. “we’re not really alike, maureen and i. you’ve let your tongue run away with you as usual.”
“think about it, dear gwendoline mary,” alicia advised her. “do you babble endlessly about your dull family and doings? so does maureen. do you think the world of yourself? so does maureen. do you think you’d be the one and only person fit to be cinderella in the play? so does maureen.”
gwen sprang to her feet and pointed her finger at moira. “oh! just because you found me with my hair down in the dormy the other day, and a towel round my shoulders you went and told the others that i wanted to be cinderella!”
“well, i didn’t realize it until i caught maureen doing exactly the same thing,” said moira. “both of you posing with your hair loose and things draped round you! alicia’s perfectly right. you’re as like as two peas. you ought to be friends. you’re almost twins!”
“but—i don’t like maureen,” said gwen, in a loud and angry tone.
“i’m not surprised,” said alicia’s smooth voice, a whole wealth of meaning in it. “you should know what she’s like, shouldn’t you—seeing that you’re almost twins!”
gwen went stamping out of the room, fuming. darrell drummed on the table with a pencil. “i’m not awfully pleased about all this,” she said, in rather a small voice. “too much spite and malice about!”
gwen suddenly put her head in at the door again and addressed moira.
“i’ll get even with you for telling the girls about me and maureen in front of the class!” she said. “you’ll see—i’ll pay you back, head-girl or no head-girl!”
moira frowned and belinda automatically reached for her pencil. a very fine scowl! but darrell took the pencil away with a beseeching look.
“not this time,” she said. “there’s too much spite in this room this evening.”
“all right—saint darrell!” said belinda, and darrell had to laugh.
moira came over to her. “let’s change the subject,” she said. “what about the house-matches? let’s have a look at the kids you’ve put in.”
darrell got out the lists. moira, as head-girl, took an interest in the matches in which the fifth-formers played, and because she liked games, she was interested too in the lower-school players. it was about the only thing that she and darrell saw eye-to-eye about. soon they were deep in discussion, weighing up the merits of one player against another.
“this match against wellsbrough,” said darrell. “next week’s match, i mean, with the fourth team playing wellsbrough’s fourth team. i’ve put young susan in—and i’d like to put my young sister, felicity, in. what do you think, moira?”
“good gracious, yes,” said moira. “she’s absolutely first-class. super! runs like the wind and never misses a catch. she must have been practising like anything!”
“she has,” said darrell. “i just hesitated because—well, because she’s my sister, and i was a bit afraid i might be showing favouritism, you know.”
“rot!” said moira. “you’d be showing yourself a bad captain if you didn’t stick the best kids into the team! and i insist on your putting felicity in!”
darrell laughed. she was pleased. “oh, all right, seeing that you insist!” she said, and wrote felicity’s name down. “gosh, she’ll be pleased.”
“how’s june shaping?” called alicia. “i’ve seen her practising quite a bit lately. turning over a new leaf do you think?”
“well—not really,” said darrell. “i mean—she practises a lot—but when i coach her she’s as off-hand as ever. never a word of thanks, and always ready to argue. i can’t put her into a match-team yet. she simply doesn’t understand the team spirit—you know, always plays for herself, and not for the side.”
“yes, you’re right,” said moira. “i’ve noticed that, too. can’t have anyone in the team who isn’t willing to pull their weight.”
darrell glanced curiously at moira. how much nicer moira was over this games question than over anything else! she was fair and just and interested. she forgot to be domineering and opinionated. what a pity she was head of the form—she might have been so much nicer if she had had to knuckle down to someone else.
“could you take the lists down for me and put them up on the sports board?” she said to moira. “i’ve got a whole heap of things to do still.”
moira took the list just as catherine hurried to offer to take it. “i’ll take it,” said catherine, who seemed to think it was only right she should be a doormat for everyone.
“no, thanks, saint catherine,” said moira, and catherine went red with humiliation. she had done so much for moira, been so nice to her, taken such a lot of donkey-work off her shoulders—and all she got was that scornful, hateful name—saint catherine. she gave moira an unexpectedly spiteful look.
darrell saw it and shivered impatiently. “i don’t like all this spitefulness going about,” she thought to herself. “it always boils up into something beastly. fancy the saintly catherine giving her beloved moira such a poisonous look!”
she pinned the list of names
moira went down with the lists. she pinned the list of names for the fourth team up first, heading it, “team for wellsbrough match.” immediately a crowd of excited first-formers swarmed round her.
“felicity! you’re in, you’re in!” yelled somebody, and felicity’s face glowed happily.
“so’s susan. but you’re not, june,” said another voice. “fancy—and you’ve been practising so hard. shame!”
“oh well—what do you expect—darrell would be sure to put her sister in,” said june’s voice. she was bitterly disappointed, but she spoke in her usual jaunty manner.
moira heard. “june! apologize at once; darrell shows no favouritism at all. she was half-inclined to leave felicity out. i insisted she should be put in. apologize immediately.”
“well,” began june, defiantly, ready to argue, but moira was insistent.
“i said, ‘apologize’. you heard me. do as you’re told.”
“i apologize,” said june, sulkily. “but i bet it was you who missed me out!”
“i told darrell that i wouldn’t have anyone in the match-team who didn’t play for the team and not for themselves,” said moira, curtly. “you don’t pull your weight. you practise and practise—and then in a game all you want to do is to go your own way, and blow the others! not my idea of a good sportsman. think about it, june.”
she walked off, not caring in the least what the first-formers thought of her outspokenness. june said nothing. she looked rather queer, susan thought. she went up to her.
“it was mean to say all that in front of us,” she began. “she should have . . .”
“what does it matter?” said june, suddenly jaunty again. “do you suppose i care tuppence for moira, or darrell or alicia—or any of those stuck-up fifth-formers?”
