NB: All of the excerpts about folk dancing below are © the estate of Elsie J. Oxenham

Girls of the Hamlet Club (1914)

In this, the first of Oxenham's 'Abbey' books, (secretly) rich new girl Cicely forms the Hamlet Club in response to the decision by the rich schoolgirls who live in town to make their clubs too expensive for the country girls from the hamlets to join. The main activity of the club soon becomes folk dancing.

Chapter 17 - The Hamlet Club Meets

TWICE during that first night Cicely was awakened by the nurse, and led, in slippers and dressing-gown, with sleepy eyes and tumbled dark curls, to her grandmother’s bedside, to satisfy the old lady that she was really there. A word and a touch of her hand were sufficient, and Mrs Broadway slept again. Cicely stumbled back to bed, and was late for breakfast. But Mrs Broadway was stronger next day, and Mr Broadway much more cheerful. The servants looked with approval on the new member of the household, and hoped for livelier times in future; and the faces of grooms and gardeners brightened when she appeared with her grandfather on a tour of inspection. Broadway End had been quiet and gloomy long enough. Now there was some prospect of life and interest, as soon as the mistress’s recovery was complete.

After lunch the carriage was placed at Cicely’s disposal, and she drove to Whiteleaf to pack up her books and treasures, to leave Mrs Ramage to attend to less interesting articles, and to find Miriam and explain what had happened. But Miriam understood already, having called to see her the evening before; so Cicely had only to warn her to keep the story from the rest of the school.

“You don’t want them to know?” and Miriam’s face brightened. “You aren’t going to forsake us Hamlets, then?”

“Mirry!”

“I didn’t really think you would, but it may make things a bit awkward. It’s queer, you know. You’re our president, and yet you live in a finer house even than Hilary, and you ought to think as much of yourself as she does.”

“It’s all an accident where we happen to live,” Cicely said sturdily. “But I know it’s queer, and some of them might say I wasn’t eligible as president any longer. I mean to belong to Whiteleaf still, and Broadway End is just an accident, though it’s a far bigger house than I expected. So don’t tell anybody, will you, Mirry? Unless perhaps Dorothy. She might turn up here to look for me. But don’t tell even Marguerite or Georgie. It might make them feel queer.”

“And why shouldn’t it make me feel queer in just the same way? You mean, of course, they might feel the difference between you and them; but it’s just the same—”

“Yes; but I did hope you and I were too good friends for such nonsense; and, besides, I thought you were too old to be so silly, Mirry Honor,” said Cicely hotly, with her usual vigour when indignant.

Miriam laughed. “I’ll say no more about it,” she said hastily. “I say! Marguerite says the membership cards will be ready next week, so if Saturday’s fine we might have our meeting then.”

“If Dorothy can have the badges ready. It is decent of her and Marguerite to do so much of the work. Where shall we meet? In the wood somewhere, if possible?”

“It should be in the wood, or in a hamlet,” Miriam agreed; “and near Wycombe, for that suits everybody.”

“In Kingswood, then,” Cicely said decidedly; “down in the hollow, where the wood is more open.”

Saturday was fine, and was preceded by a week of clear, frosty weather, with skies of richest blue, and a sharp wind which dried the ground and made walking or cycling a delight. Cicely and Miriam came by train together, and walked up the hill to Totteridge and so into the wood.

“Why the white dress?” demanded Miriam, with a glance at what she could see of it under Cicely’s coat.

“Oh, that’s to please grandmother! I hadn’t time to change, so I just wore my big coat over it. I’m not trying to dress up and show off. Did you think I was?” she demanded quickly. “You might know me better, Mirry!”

“I wasn’t sure. I didn’t think you would, but when I saw your dress I wondered.”

“Grandmother won’t have me in her room in my school things. It’s too bad of her, for I’m sure they’re nice enough. But she doesn’t like skirts and blouses. I always have the fag of changing when I’m going to stay indoors and she’s likely to want me. Of course it feels nice and clean, and it means being lazy! No one could do home lessons in a white frock! But she insists on it. She asked me to wear white in the evenings, or when I’m about the house, and she’s so old and ill that I’d do anything to satisfy her, even if it is silly and a fag. She says my mother used to wear white, and she likes me to, too. But if I’d thought you’d think that, I’d have stopped to change, if it had made me lose the train!”

“I apologise!” Miriam laughed. “But I shouldn’t be surprised if Dorothy did. It won’t occur to any one else; but Dorothy won’t see any reason why she shouldn’t. She’s that kind.”

She was right. The occasion had seemed to Dorothy worthy of a change of costume, and she wore a white summer dress under her long coat. Cicely knit her brows, but was not in a position to remonstrate.

The meeting in the wood was a pleasure that day, with firm ground underfoot and sunshine streaming upon the fallen red leaves and dull gray stems of the beeches. The cloaks spread on the soft carpet were hardly needed, and the girls lay among the bumpy roots and leaned against the trees.

The badges provided by Dorothy were received with much delight. They were little squares of green linen, with the form of the Cross standing on its sloping base, cut out of white calico and stitched neatly upon the green. The girls pinned them on their breasts, and felt honourably decorated.

Marguerite’s membership cards were also much admired. They bore the name and motto of the club in Old English lettering at the tip; then followed the name of the president and of the individual member. In one corner was her registration number, and in the other the name of her hamlet.

When these had been distributed, the members took hands in a big ring, encircling many tree-trunks, and repeated the two rules of the club. Three cheers were given for the president, who acknowledged them in a brief speech, wishing good luck to the club, and hinting at developments in the near future, which, however, could not be made public yet; the reason being that she did not yet know herself what they were to be. Then Cicely called on “our esteemed representative in the Sixth;” and Miriam rose, looking rather nervous.

“Lady President and fellow-members, I want to give the club a good send-off, and I’d like just to wish it all good fortune and sit down again. But the honourable lady in the chair”—Cicely laughed and patted her tree-stump—“has given me a difficult job to do, and as she always gets her own way I suppose I’ll have to do it. But I want you to know that it’s her idea all through, only she’s too shy to explain it to you.” Cicely looked away through the wood, in search of the doves murmuring overhead. “She asked me to explain the secret meaning of our motto.” Interest deepened suddenly; no one had known there was a secret meaning. “Please keep it a secret; don’t tell any one outside the club. We don’t want the rest of the school to mock, and they might want to. But the motto means more to Cicely and me than we’ve told you yet, and we think you ought to know. You needn’t take any notice of the other meaning unless you like. If you don’t care for it, just forget it, and let it mean to you only the question whether we are or are not to be out of everything in the school. But to some of us it means the question all have to decide sooner or later, whether they’ll just have a good time and please themselves and get all they can and care for nothing else, or whether they’ll put more important things first, and—and care about other people, and try to do great things in the world. It’s not very easy to explain, and it’s very difficult to say it, but I hope you’ll understand. It just makes all the difference how we decide. And Cicely says when she thinks about it she always remembers our hero, who belongs to us here so much more than to other people, because he lived here—John Hampden. He chose right, though it meant giving up so much, and I do think all we girls living here in his country ought to think about him sometimes; and if we can’t be as great as he was, we can be great in our own way. Well, that’s what the “question” of our motto means to Cicely and me. Don’t let’s try to annoy the Town girls and set ourselves against them! It’s so mean and kiddy to do anything like that. Let’s be content with our own club, and not interfere with theirs. Thank you for listening so nicely. I’ve said it very badly, and it’s been stodgy and uninteresting, I’m afraid; but I’ve done my best, and I hope you’ll understand;” and Miriam sat down, very hot and embarrassed, and dissatisfied with herself.

But the girls would take much from her which might have been received impatiently from any one else. Little was said; but her shy words went home, and were remembered by many long afterwards, and proved a help to some in times of difficult decision.

There was a moment’s awkward silence when she had finished. Then Cicely sprang up. “Girls, I propose a vote of thanks to Miriam Honor. Our club has had a good start this afternoon. I hope we’ll all belong to it for a very long time, and welcome any new Hamlet girls who may come to the school, so that they’ll have no chance to feel lonely or out of things for a single day.—Dorothy, will you second? Thanks.—Three cheers, then! and afterwards we’ll all take hands and sing “Auld Lang Syne”, and then we’ll go home to tea.”

The five original members of the club walked through the wood together on their way home. Cicely, Miriam, and Dorothy, with linked arms, talked earnestly of plans for the club’s future; while Georgie and Marguerite, behind, discussed Miriam’s speech.

“We’ll have to do something soon, Cicely,” said Dorothy decidedly. “They won’t be satisfied long without some object. Couldn’t we have a hockey club?”

“How could we all get sticks? They cost a lot, Dorothy,” Miriam reminded her.

“Netball isn’t expensive,” Cicely said thoughtfully. “We could play that. But I’ve been thinking—I want my granny-people to get to know you all. I think they’ll like you! And I’d like to do something for them—perhaps at Christmas. They’re so lonely, and old, and dull. Couldn’t we give them a treat to cheer them up?”

“You talk as if they were in the workhouse, instead of having everything they could possibly want!” laughed Dorothy.

“They haven’t everything; I’ve been there long enough to see that. They’ve settled down into grooves, and stuck in them. When grandmother is better she’ll just go back into hers again. I want to wake things up a little. Couldn’t we get up an entertainment for Christmas? It would be something for the club to do, and it would please them, and be good fun for us. We always had a Christmas entertainment at school, and we always enjoyed it. What could we do? Have we any brilliant specimens among us?—You know the girls best, Mirry. What can they do? What can you do yourself?”

“I? Oh—”

“She sings, you know,” Dorothy said promptly. “Put her down for two songs and encores, Cicely.”

“Dorothy, don’t be silly. I only sing in class.”

“Then it’s time you began singing out of class, and having your voice trained, my dear.”

“Mirry, don’t tell stories,” Cicely said severely. “You sing out in the road; you know you do. I’ve heard you! You shall sing the “Maiden Fair,” or “Why are you wandering?” or some other favourite of your own.”

“Those old things! Mother sang them to us all as babies.”

“That’s why you sing them so well,” Dorothy explained.—“She’s all right, Cicely. Marguerite sings rather prettily, too, but not like Mirry. I might manage something with my violin, but it won’t be brilliant. You recite, don’t you?

“I used to. I used to dance, too, but—”

“Dance!” said Dorothy quickly. “Now that’s an idea! So did I. Could you manage a minuet?”

Cicely looked up quickly. “Oh, have you learned dancing? I love it! I’ve been missing it so. I think the grannies would like that. Yes, of course, the minuet, or—you don’t know “Rheinlander”?

“Don’t I? It was my favourite. I like flopping down on one knee—”

“Then you take the gentleman’s part!” Cicely cried eagerly. “I was always lady to Nancy Gaynor’s gentleman. Do you remember it?”

“I’ve cousins in Amersham who used to come over for dancing lessons. Remember it? How could one forget? I say, have a go now!”

They were in an open glade at the entrance to the wood, its ruddy carpet flecked with sunbeams, the gray-green velvety stems standing far apart. Dorothy tossed aside her blue school coat and hat, and stood slim and straight in her loose white dress. She held out her hand.

“‘Rheinlander?’” she said; and Cicely laughed, threw off her coat, and stood bareheaded and white-robed also.

Georgie and Marguerite, coming up behind Miriam, stood and gasped and gazed. The “lady” and “gentleman” took hands, and stood for a moment, bending slightly, laughing at one another, Cicely humming a few bars of an air. Then they ran daintily forward over the red leaves, two bending, swaying white figures, sometimes back to back, sometimes clasped closely as in a waltz, sometimes with hands linked lightly, feet flying, every movement picturesque and graceful. The girls, watching breathlessly, could not remember many of the movements; but three were impressed on their minds—one, when Dorothy suddenly fell on one knee on a patch of bare ground, with such a resounding clap that it seemed she must have bruised her knee, and Cicely, holding her hand lightly, danced round her, looking down into her upturned face; one, when the “gentleman” threw wide her arms in invitation, and the “lady” sprang into them and was clasped to her partner’s breast; and another, when, at the end of the dance, Dorothy caught her “lady” round the waist, and tossed her high into the air, Cicely holding herself stiffly upright as she flew up and down again. Then they paused, as at the beginning, bodies bent, hands caught lightly, and then danced off among the trees, followed by rapturous applause from the audience.

“That’s awfully pretty, Cicely!” cried Miriam.

“It’s lovely! But what made you do it? Are you often taken that way? And who taught you? How did Dorothy know? Have you been practising it together?” cried the others.

“It wants the music, of course;” and the dancers came back panting, to put on their coats. “But it is jolly!”

“But how did you throw Cicely up like that, Dorothy?” asked Miriam. “Isn’t she heavy? And isn’t your knee black-and-blue?”

The dancers laughed.

“I jumped. It wasn’t all Dorothy. I jumped as high as I could,” said Cicely.

“And I stamped; I chose that bit of hard ground on purpose. It doesn’t hurt; it wasn’t all knee,” Dorothy laughed.

“Girls!”—and Cicely slipped the elastic of her big hat under her curls, pushed the hat back comfortably, and faced them with glowing eyes—“I’ve had an idea! I had it while we were dancing. We’ll make the Hamlet Club a dancing club, and learn morris and country dancing. It’s easy to learn—I think I could teach it—it’s jolly good exercise, and it’s jolly good fun. We used to love it at school. It costs nothing to speak of. I can easily get sticks and bells and handkerchiefs from town—”

“Sticks? To dance with?”

“We’ve got handkerchiefs!”

“Not big enough,” said Cicely.

“And what are the bells for?”

“To wear on your ankles. Then, when you kick, they jingle;” and Cicely gave a demonstration of the morris step.

“Oh, but that’s queer!” said Dorothy at once. “That’s not an ordinary step.”

“No; it’s the morris. You’ve never danced it or you’d know. Don’t you see? It’s all so beautifully in keeping with our club. The dances were known centuries ago in the villages—probably in these villages. Each village had its ‘side’. Why shouldn’t they have them again?”

“Its ‘side’?”

“Its morris ‘side’. We would say ‘troop’ or ‘band.’ There are just enough of us, if Edna will join, Georgie. You need six for a morris. Any number will do for a country-dance. But if we formed a “side” and learned a few dances, we could each teach another set. I know quite enough to start on, I think. ‘Laudnum Bunches,’ ‘Rigs o’ Marlow,’ ‘Constant Billy,’ ‘Trunkles,’ ‘Country Gardens’—I know I could teach all those. Now what do you think?”

“It’s a ripping idea!” Dorothy said enthusiastically. “I’m on!”

“What do you do with the sticks and hankies?” Marguerite asked eagerly. “And do you have to dress up?”

“It’s not necessary, but it looks nicer for the ‘side’ to dress alike, if possible,” said Cicely. “Of course, it was a man’s dance originally. You read of the morris men. You can see that by the step. You kick and jump and fight and stamp, and clap hands and strike sticks, instead of bowing and curtsying and gliding and bending. I forgot ‘Bean-setting’. We must have that, because of the dibbing.”

“Now you’re talking a language we don’t understand,” laughed Miriam. “What is dibbing?”

“I’ll show you when we have the sticks. You do like the idea, don’t you, Miriam? You’d be willing to join in? We might find four more little ones, and let Bobs and Babs have a ‘side’ too. They’d learn quick enough.”

“I think it sounds awfully jolly,” said Georgie enthusiastically. “Ordinary dances, like quadrilles and lancers, are slow, and waltzing is silly. I don’t care for it, anyway!” as Cicely protested. “As for that lovely thing you and Dorothy did just now, I could never learn anything like that. I’m too stiff—all joints and corners. But I could stamp and kick, and I like the idea of a fighting dance.”

“Then you’ll love ‘How d’ye do, sir?’” Cicely laughed. “I’ll be afraid to dance with you for fear you’ll box my ears in earnest. It’s boxing, you know.” And Georgie beamed.

“I like the idea very much, and I think the others will too,” Miriam said heartily. “I’ve heard of morris dancing, but I’ve never seen any. None of us go to dancing-classes at school, so it will be quite new—”

“Oh, they’ve never learned morris-dancing! I asked some of the girls when I went first, and they’d never heard of it. We’ll be doing something quite original. We might give a display in time, and invite the Townies. They’d be green with envy.” And the rest laughed.

“I do like those old names,” Miriam said appreciatively. “What do they mean? They’re awfully quaint. Say them again, won’t you?”

Cicely laughed. “‘Laudnum Bunches’, ‘Constant Billy’, ‘Blue-eyed Stranger,’ ‘Morris Off,’ ‘Trunkles’—oh don’t ask me what they mean! There’s ‘Greensleeves’, too, and ‘Green Garters,’ and ‘Green Stockings.’ Green must have been the festive colour in those days. I suppose they’re the names of the old tunes. We’ll need music, of course. The tunes simply make you dance. And in ‘How d’ye do, sir?’ you have to sing;” and she hummed the air, “How d’ye do, sir?”

“I say, can’t we begin now?” Georgie was all impatience.

“Where can we practise? We’d better learn the steps and movements, and then find some one to play for us.”

“Miss Lane will do that,” Miriam said instantly. “She says she doesn’t play, but she can fiddle. I’ve heard her play ‘Sir Roger’ and the hornpipe and Scotch reels, so she ought to be able to manage your morris tunes. I suppose a fiddle will do?”

“Couldn’t be better. But will she?”

“If it’s in the evenings, and doesn’t take her from her painting, I’m sure she will,” said Miriam. “Could we practise in the wood?”

“It rains sometimes,” Cicely reminded her; “and think of the mud! It’s just a chance we’ve been able to meet outside today; nine days out of ten we couldn’t.

“If you could come to Darley’s Bottom I’d ask dad to have a barn cleared, and we could practise there,” said Dorothy eagerly. “Would that do?”

“Ripping! I’m sure the old morris men used to practise in barns. Let’s meet next Saturday and have a long afternoon at it. You’ll soon get hold of the step, and then the dances are very easy. I’ll get the sticks and things. Let me see!” Cicely eyed her prospective “side” thoughtfully. “I’d better be leader, and call the movements till we get used to them. We stand in two rows, you know, and number one, three, five, and two, four, six. One and two are partners, and so on.—Dorothy, I’ll have you for partner, as you’ve danced before; so you’ll be Number Two and lead the other column—”

“Am I lady or gentleman?”

“I told you there was no lady or gentleman. We’re all the same, only partners.”

“How weird! Are you sure?”

Cicely laughed. “Mirry, I want you to be Number Six, so you’ll stand at the back, behind Dorothy, and Marguerite can be Five, and come behind me.”

“Why do you put Mirry at the back?” Marguerite asked jealously. “She’s the biggest—”

“Cicely laughed again. “Because it’s the post of honour. In corner-dances, Mirry and I will have to lead off. She’ll be my opposite, as you’ll be Dorothy’s. One and six, two and five, and then three and four—don’t you see? Georgie and Edna in the middle will have to copy us, for Edna’s so much the youngest. In some dances Dorothy and I will lead; but in others it will be Miriam and I, because we dance across from corner to corner—like in ‘Sir Roger,’ you know. And when we reverse, you and Miriam will be leaders.”

“I’ve never danced. I don’t know whether I’ll be good enough,” Miriam said doubtfully.

“Oh, go to!—as the old morris men would have said. You’ll dance all right, Mirry; don’t you worry! I wouldn’t want you for my opposite if I wasn’t sure of you. We’ll start with ‘Blue-eyed Stranger.’ That’s easy.”

“It all sounds very jolly,” said Miriam. “But my dear Lady President, we promised to catch the 4.30 train, and your—oh, well, never mind! But we’d better run, or we’ll lose that train.”

“Good-bye, all, till Monday!—Come on, then, Mirry!” and Cicely caught her hand and raced across the triangular green of Totteridge and down the hill.

“You nearly gave me away!” she panted, when they were out of hearing. “What were you going to say? The carriage?”

“Yes. “Your chariot will be waiting, and your fiery steeds champing with impatience,” is what I was going to say.”

“It’s as well you didn’t! Georgie and Marguerite would have started. I wonder how long I can keep it dark?”

“You’ll have to explain if you want them to go to the house at Christmas, as you suggested.”

“Yes; but by then they’ll be so keen on this dancing that they won’t want to do without me even if I’m not a proper Hamlet. I say, Mirry, thank you awfully for what you said!”

Miriam flushed. “I didn’t like doing it. I was afraid they’d laugh or think me silly.”

“They didn’t. It just gave the club the start it needed. It was awfully good of you, for I know you didn’t want to. I couldn’t have done it myself.”

“I didn’t want to; but I wanted it done by somebody. We’ll have to live up to our motto, now that we’ve made it public, you know.”

“That’s so,” Cicely said thoughtfully.

Chapter 18 - Dancing in the Barn

THE big house at Broadway End was a very different place now that Cicely’s influence could make itself felt. “Stodginess” she abhorred; dullness and quietness were out of the question where she came. As soon as her grandmother was safely on the road to recovery, Cicely threw off the restraint with which she had curbed herself for the first few days, whistled as she ran up and down stairs, sang in her bedroom and while she prepared her home-work, chattered to every one, and crossed the big hall or ran down the corridors to the steps of the morris-dance. The maids smiled when, with her return from school, the cheerful noise began again; her grandmother liked to hear her—at a distance; and Mr Broadway’s silent habits vanished more rapidly every day. He felt younger already, and sometimes even went back in thought to the days of fifteen years ago, when her mother had sung and danced and chattered in just the same way. Only now did he realise how lonely the years had been, and how the house had needed the presence of some young life.

Cicely’s preparations for evening work always amused him. She required her tea the instant she came in from school, and did not care to talk much till she had had her first cup. After that she was eager to tell the day’s news, and soon learned to call him to come and listen if he did not happen to be waiting for her. But after tea, which she preferred in the cosy corner of the hall by the huge fireplace, she adjourned at once to the library, cleared the big table, spread her books over its polished surface, and tackled arithmetic, parsing, or exercises, singing all the time. She explained that it did not interfere with her work—in fact, it helped. She did not think what she was singing. Often it was dance-music, with no words but a lilt and swing which fascinated her, and, as she said, set her thoughts spinning. “All Around the Maypole” and “The Red Shore” were particular favourites, and so were “Half Hanikin” and “Early One Morning.” For one whole evening she worked to the tune and words of “Constant Billy”:

“O my Billy, my constant Bill,

When shall I see my Bill again?

When the fishes fly over the mountains,

Then you will see your Billy again.”

Often this half-unconscious song was accompanied by a quite unconscious shuffle and stamp of her feet, as if the music demanded it, and the effect to an unaccustomed listener was curious, and not suggestive of work. But Cicely triumphantly showed pages of correct sums and neat French exercises and well-expressed essays, and told of a steadily rising place in class as she grew more used to the new books and the requirements of her mistresses.

“I couldn’t work quarter as well if I didn’t sing, she insisted. “I always needed a room to myself at the Gaynors’. And how could any one sing ‘Half Hanikin’ and not stamp? I wonder what the name means! Mirry Honor’s always wanting to know the meaning of the morris names.”

Mr. Broadway would gladly have seen her less interested in her school friends and more content at home. He was apt to be impatient when she disappeared for a whole afternoon to dance in a barn at Darley’ Bottom.

But, as she did not hesitate to point out, he had allowed her to form these friendships while she was left lonely in Whiteleaf, and she could not break them now. He tried to bribe her with an offer of riding lessons as soon as he found she could not ride, and the gift of a pony on her birthday late in November proved a severe temptation. But she resolutely confined pony and lessons to Saturday mornings, and continued to meet Miriam in the afternoons.

On their first Saturday in the barn, she drove to Green Hailey and picked up Miriam, who was just setting out to walk to Darley’s Bottom.

“Of course you’re going to drive with me! I’m sick of going alone in this old carriage. Besides, I want your help. We must only drive to Speen, you know, and walk from there to Darley’s. I don’t want the carriage going there. So we’ll have to carry all those things. These are the morris-sticks, and those are the bells and handkerchiefs.”

“That sounds like business. Did Mr. Broadway send for them for you?”

“I told him I wanted some things for the club, and he told me to send for what I liked. So I wrote to Mrs. Gaynor. I say, Mirry, I want you to do something for me! That big house is far bigger and more important in every way than I’d expected. There seems to be everything any one could want, and I never have to do anything for myself. There’s always a maid running round after me picking up the things I leave lying about, and putting on my buttons, and so on. I don’t even have to brush my hair. I rather wonder that they let me wash my own face. It’s a big change from Mrs. Ramage’s cottage!”

“It must feel very funny,” Miriam said thoughtfully, remembering her morning of washing-up, making bread, cleaning the kitchen, and washing and ironing pinafores for Babs.

“It does; and I’m getting to like it! I didn’t at first. There’s to be a pony, too, and I’m to learn to ride. Now, Mirry, I’m afraid of myself. I want you to watch, and if you see me beginning to get snobby, or to put on side, or anything loathly like that, please jump on me quick! Say anything you like, so long as it’s bad enough to pull me up. Pinch me if you think it would do any good. But don’t—don’t let me turn into a rotter like some of those Town girls are. Be a real decent kind of friend, and take care of me.”

Miriam laughed. “I’ll keep a good lookout—though what I’d say or do if I saw it coming on I really don’t know.”

“Oh, you could make me listen if you tried!” cried Cicely. “You did pull me up over that white dress, you know, when I didn’t deserve it.”

“I don’t think you’re in much danger so far,” Miriam assured her.

They left the carriage at Speen, and taking the bundles and slinging their rubber shoes on their arms, they walked the last mile to Darley’s Bottom, and were received noisily by the rest of the “side”, gathered in a big, dimly-lit barn, with piles of hay stacked in one gloomy end. Georgie, Edna, Marguerite, and Dorothy rolled out of the hay as they appeared, and began picking it off their dresses and out of their hair.

“We’ve been waiting for you. But you’ve had a long walk; you’ll want to rest before we dance,” said Dorothy. “Come and lie on the hay, and get all bitty like we are; you look so dreadfully tidy compared with us.”

“Oh, I’m not tired! I don’t want to rest, and I don’t think Mirry does either. We’re good walkers, you know,” Cicely said airily.—“Do you feel the need of a rest, Mirry?”

“I’m really not very tired,” Miriam laughed. “I think I could manage a kick and a stamp. You’ve all come in drill-things, as the lady president suggested, I see. It’s a good plan.” And the neat blue tunics, white blouses, and green girdles proved a very suitable costume for dancing.

“Here are the sticks and things. Let’s put on the bells at once. You’ll get the step better. Don’t fool about with the sticks, Georgie; get to business!” And Georgie and Edna meekly surrendered the staves with which they were sparring.

Cicely showed them how to fix the bells below the knee, and then demanded an exhibition of steps to see what progress they had made. Georgie had grasped the peculiar step, and promised to become a good dancer very speedily. Miriam also gave satisfaction, for she had had the advantage of private demonstrations on the Risborough road on the way home from school; but Marguerite and Dorothy found more difficulty. Dorothy could not forget the fancy steps and gliding movements of the dances she had hitherto known, and could not remember to use her heels and knees as she had to do to ring her bells properly; and Marguerite’s French blood found the sturdy, vigorous morris step strange and difficult. But a little extra practice on their part enabled them to grasp its peculiar demands, and then Cicely initiated them into the various movements—go and come, cross over, back to back, and several others.

“Once you know these, we can begin. I’ll call the movements, and you’ll soon get into them. Georgie, always cross with your right shoulder to your partner’s, or you’ll have us in endless muddles. In chain, remember you follow me, and Marguerite and I go in the shape of a big S. That’s right. Now let’s practise Capers.”

“Capers?”

“High-stepping, you know—like this. You can’t dance too hard or too high. Don’t go over on your back when you first try it, though.—Swing your hands, Dorothy.—Feet higher, Marguerite; but keep your balance.—Always right foot first Edna.—Remember the jump, Dorothy. Now try Slow Capers—like this.”

“Does our word ‘to caper’ come from the old morris-dancing, I wonder?” Miriam pondered, as they rested on the hay.

“Probably. You always want to know where names come from, Mirry.”

“It’s interesting. When can we start a dance in earnest?”

“Now, if you’ll remember those movements. We’ll get in a muddle once or twice, but you’ll soon get into it. We’ll try ‘Blue-eyed Stranger,’ for that’s in a column, and Dorothy and I will lead. If that goes all right, we’ll try a corner-dance—‘Laudnum Bunches’.”

They all worked with a will. The jingling bells and waving handkerchiefs proved inspiring, even without music, and progress was rapid. By the time Mrs. Darley summoned them to tea they had grasped the principle of the first two dances, and were clamouring for something more advanced. Georgie wanted “that fighting dance,” and Dorothy was eager to use the sticks or try some hand-clapping.

But Cicely knew the importance of keeping something in reserve. She showed them how to hold the little staves, but refused to explain the movements of the dances this week.

“You’ll get muddled if we try too many all at once. Let’s have a country-dance instead. That’s different; you can’t confuse them. Remember it’s the ordinary dance step now; no more kicking and hopping. You won’t need bells for this, Georgie. You all know ‘Sir Roger.’ It’s the same kind of thing. Two lines; Marguerite, Georgie, and I will be the ladies. Can you curtsy, Georgie? Now shall we have ‘Three Meet,’ or ‘London is a fine Town,’ or ‘Bo-Peep’? ‘Three Meet’ is a good one for six. Link arms, men! Women also!”

“You might say gentlemen and ladies!” Dorothy suggested.

“In our dance-book it was always men and women. I like it; it sounds so quaint and country-like. We’re village dancers, you know. Advance and retire, twice. Now Dorothy and I lead up the middle; all follow in couples. Now we swing, and so on. You’ll soon get used to it. I like ‘Gathering Peascods’ too, but we want more to make that go well.”

“More quaint old names,” laughed Miriam.

“I like the morris best,” said Georgie when, after a riotous “Sir Roger,” they threw on their coats and lay resting in the hay. “I just love the end of those dances, when you call, “All in!” and we get in a ring and stand on one foot and shout.”

“And throw up your hands,” said Cicely. “Yes, people aren’t prepared for the shout at the end. It’s a good finish. Now, what do you think? Can we teach the rest of the club, or must it be only for ourselves? If we practise till the holidays, could you each train six more, when we have plenty of time?”

“Why not? You taught us.”

“I think we could, Cicely,” Miriam said eagerly. “I know they’d all love it. But where could we meet?”

“Next summer we’ll dance in the woods and on the greens, as they used to do. But just now—”

“You can have this barn as often as you like, you know,” said Dorothy. “Father promised it should be left empty for us.”

“The problem is solved, Mirry!—Dorothy, in the name of the club I thank you,” the president said solemnly.

“It’s central. Yes, that’s ripping. Then we must learn as quickly as we can, and be ready for the holidays.”

“I’ll invite the whole club on the Saturday before Christmas,” said Dorothy eagerly. “They can sit on the hay, and we’ll give them a demonstration. Then they’ll know what they’re going to learn. Can we be ready by then? We must learn some stick-dances, you know.”

“And the fighting-dance!” pleaded Georgie.

“We’ll have ‘Rigs o’Marlow’ and ‘Bean-setting’ next week, and ‘How d’ye do, sir?’ for Georgie’s sake,” said Cicely. “Then we’ll still have time for ‘Constant Billy’ and ‘Country Gardens’ and ‘Step Back’. Yes, we’ll be ready, Dorothy. It’s a ripping plan, and thank you awfully. We’ll invite the girls at once, and tell them it’s very important, but a great secret. Then they’ll see the club is really going to be of some use; and next term, when we’ve got into the way of it, we’ll have the country-dances, where you want a lot to do them properly.”

“We ought to have music now,” said Marguerite. “Shall we send a deputation to Miss Lane?”

“Cicely must go,” said Dorothy; and Cicely, Miriam, and Marguerite were requested to wait upon Margia, explain the new development of the Hamlet Club, and beg her assistance.

“You’ll be tired by the time you get home, Mirry,” said Marguerite, as they changed their shoes. “Did Cicely walk too? I thought she’d cycle.”

“Cycle!” and Cicely looked up. “You’re pushing half the way in this country. Look at the hill beside the Cross.”

“But you’d have had a fine smooth run after that. You two will be tired. It’s quite four miles. To walk each way and dance for three hours in between is fairly lively exercise, even for you.”

“I don’t feel overtired yet. I can manage to get home, anyway,” laughed Miriam, but felt rather guilty at thought of the carriage waiting for them in Speen.

“I nearly came to look you up this morning, Cicely;” and Marguerite tugged at a boot-lace. “I was cycling round Hampden and Denner Hill, and I nearly came along to Whiteleaf. But I went to Georgie’s instead.”

Cicely looked up from her seat on the floor. “It’s as well you didn’t,” she said slowly; “you wouldn’t have found me. I’m not staying in Whiteleaf just now. Haven’t I happened to mention it? Oh, Mirry knew. I’m staying with my grandmother. It’s quite near Whiteleaf; but don’t go looking for me at Mrs. Ramage’s, or you’ll be disappointed.”

“I’m glad you told me. I’d have been pretty wild if I’d come all that way and not found you. Where does your grandmother live? And why weren’t you with her before?”

“She was ill. She’s better now.—Are you ready, Mirry? Then we’d better get along. I couldn’t find my way without you; so don’t lose me in the dark, will you?”

“I hope you won’t be too tired. It’s a long way after all that dancing,” Georgie said anxiously. “Don’t you want to rest?”

“Oh, Miriam and I are good walkers,” Cicely said lightly, as they set out through the darkness.

“We’re winning a reputation we hardly deserve, I’m afraid,” she laughed, as they tumbled into the carriage. “I know I couldn’t walk three miles more.”

“Yes; I felt we were rather cheating them.” Marguerite looked quite worried. “But it’s nearly as far for her.”

“We’ll tell them soon. I had to say something to stop them coming to Whiteleaf after me. Now we must see Miss Lane on Monday. They’ll love the dancing still more when we have music.”

From Chapter 17: 'Firework Cicely'

The deputation from the Hamlet Club waited on Margia during the dinner-hour. They invited her into the library, seated her by the fire and themselves on the hearthrug, then explained their wishes, and handed her books of morris and country dance music. Margia laughed, and saw at a glance that she could give them valuable help. She only stipulated that she must not be asked to give up precious hours of daylight to fiddling, but promised to come to Darley’s Bottom at tea-time each Saturday, and play for them in the evening.

“We’ll have to light the barn with lanterns, as we did last Saturday,” laughed Marguerite. “It was weird. Did you see the shadows as we jumped?”

“I liked it; it was so mysterious and ghostly,” said Miriam.

So Margia was prepared for the sight which met her when she reached Darley’s Bottom on the following Saturday afternoon, carrying her violin. The farmyard was very dark, but light was streaming out of a big doorway, and here were gathered servants, farm-hands, and children, attracted by the strange sounds they had heard coming from the barn—jingling bells, clashing and thumping staves, an occasional unexpected shout. She made her way through the crowd, and found “Bean-setting” in progress, the “side” thumping, or “dibbing,” their short sticks vigorously on the ground, dancing across, dibbing again, turning back to back to dib once more, and at “All in!” called by Cicely, jumping into columns and standing breathless with staves crossed. The gloomy barn was lit by great lanterns, which threw gigantic shadows into the corners, and fell on the flying hair of the dancers and twinkled back from the jumping bells.

Margia’s appearance was greeted with a shout, and the “side” broke ranks and surrounded her, flushed and panting, their hair disordered, tunics and green girdles flying. Music was the only thing wanted to make their enjoyment complete. They were ready to go through all their dances if only she would play for them. She laughed, tuned up hastily, and shouldered her fiddle.

“What’s first on your list? ‘Laudnum Bunches’? Here you are then.” And staves were hastily dropped and handkerchiefs caught up.

“That just makes all the difference!” cried Miriam, when their closing shout, with arms flung up and right foot raised, had startled the audience in the doorway. “I’d no idea dancing felt like this, Cicely. I forget everything, and feel as if I could go on for ever. It’s—what’s the word?—not only exciting, but—”

“Exhilarating,” laughed Margia. “I’d like to join in.”

“Do! We’ll teach you—”

But Margia laughed, and struck up “Rigs o’Marlow;” and there was a rush for staves, that not a moment should be lost.

They closed with “Sir Roger,” and went home late, but flushed with exercise and bright-eyed with enjoyment. Cicely and Miriam were supposed to have the longest walk, and Georgie and Marguerite pitied them exceedingly. But they only laughed, and Margia, understanding, laughed too.

“We’ll have to confess soon; I feel a regular fraud,” Miriam said, as she sank on the cushions of the waiting carriage.

“We will—soon; but not just yet. I’m going to have a party at Christmas, and invite all our “side.” I want to see their faces,” Cicely laughed.

From Chapter 20: 'The Aylesbury Match'

“What are those Hamlets up to?” and Hilary turned to Maud, curious and exasperated. “I’d give anything to know! They’ve something up their sleeve.”

“They meet at Darley’s Bottom every Saturday. Georgie Gilks told me so, but I couldn’t find out what for. It’s all Cicely Hobart, whatever they’re up to.”

“Yes; we made a tremendous mistake when we let her slip through our fingers. I wonder if they’ll turn up on Friday?”

“Probably not; I expect it was only talk.”

Their surprise was therefore great when the Hamlets arrived in force, and cheered at every opportunity, from the first appearance of the school team till the last goal had been scored and victory remained with the Wycombe girls.

“This is a change from last year,” Maud remarked as they rested at half-time. “A complete change of tactics! What’s the reason, do you think?”

“I don’t know; but it’s far easier to play,” replied Hilary. “They make a ripping row. I believe we’d have won the Slough match if they’d been there to cheer.”

“Invite them to come regularly, then!”

“They can’t; they’re engaged every Saturday!” and Hilary laughed ruefully. “Whatever their “engagement” may be, they won’t give it up for us.”

Conscious of having done their duty to the school, as put to them by their president, the Hamlet girls were now eager for their own excitement next day.

A surprise awaited even Cicely when she arrived, shoes in hand, for Dorothy had decorated the barn with holly, flags, and bunting, and spread hay, covered with rugs, round the walls for seats, and the scene was very gay. As the girls arrived they were led to seats by maids from the house, and sat wondering what was going to happen. The lanterns were lit early; Margia arrived, and tuned her violin, but refused to say what was coming; and all waited expectantly.

Then Margia struck up a processional morris, and, led by Cicely, the “side” came dancing in, wearing their drill-tunics, white handkerchiefs waving in each hand. The Hamlets, unprepared for anything of the kind, gasped and stared; then the six took their places, Margia changed the tune, and Cicely and Miriam led off in “Laudnum Bunches.”

Before a delighted audience, they went through their various dances, stick-tapping, dibbing, hand-clapping, and Georgie’s favourite, the fighting “How d’ye do, sir?” Cicely and Miriam advanced, shook hands cordially, and retired. Dorothy and Marguerite did the same, and then Georgie and Edna, each pair singing lustily the words of the title as they gripped hands, and the last two standing so for a long moment before they retired and the jigging dance was resumed by all. Then the first pair advanced with clenched fists, and the audience shouted in delight as Miriam’s arm shot out and almost caught Cicely on the nose, and Cicely apparently tried to give Miriam a black eye, both singing as before, “How d’ye do sir?” Georgie’s boxing was so vigorous that little Edna flinched, but the blow passed her harmlessly, and then they were all hopping in time to the music as before. The dance ended with a salutation, when all in turn shook hands after the fight, and then, forming a ring, threw up hands and feet and shouted in chorus.

During tea Cicely explained their willingness to teach the dances to all the members of the club, if they would arrange themselves into “sides” and come regularly to the barn to practise. Before they went home she made them line up for “Sir Roger,” and seven new “sides” were enrolled and sworn to secrecy, Dorothy volunteering to train more than one set if they would come to her for lessons.

“There’s one thing,” Cicely said thoughtfully as she drove home with Miriam. “I wish we could have prettier dresses. Our drill things are all right, but they’re not pretty, and nothing like what people used to wear—”

“Oh, historically they’re hopeless, of course! But they’re so suitable. Don’t suggest fancy dresses, Cicely! We don’t want a lot of fuss and expense.”

“I know; but I’m thinking. Last time we danced at school—it was the midsummer breaking-up revels—we all had fancy dresses, each “side” alike, of course. It looked awfully jolly. The three Gaynors and I and two others had Old English costumes, as simple as possible—costing about twopence each—the kind of thing girls probably did wear about James 1.’s reign, when they danced on the greens, you know. It was a plain gray dress, with a broad white collar and cuffs and short sleeves, and a little white hood. The other “sides” all had different country dresses—milkmaids, and haymakers, and so on; but people said ours were the prettiest. Now, my dress is packed away at the Gaynors’, and so are theirs, and they’re no use to any one. If I could get mine and borrow the others, we could easily make one or two more. It would cost almost nothing, and look heaps nicer. You’re just about Nancy’s size. She was two years older than I. Now, Mirry, don’t be a pig, and say, if I take the trouble of getting the things, you won’t wear a borrowed dress! I know you’re awfully stuck-up and proud; but just think—”

“Cicely, you’re horrid!”

“Then you will, and that’s all right! For the sake of our “side,” so that it will look nicest, as well as dance best; as of course it will! All right! I’ll write to Nancy.”

However, the arrangements on which Cicely’s grandparents insisted for the Christmas holidays made a letter to Nancy unnecessary. And Cicely’s intention of training a set of small children to dance, with Bobs and Babs Honor as leaders, had to be postponed also, for Mr. Broadway refused to allow her to spend Christmas in the cottage, though she protested that she would be quite happy and had heaps of invitations, and a welcome at Miriam’s whenever she cared to go. But her grandparents did not like the thought; so to please them she consented to go to the Gaynors’ for ten days. She went reluctantly, sorry to leave her friends, relieved to know she had won her First and made good her position in class, and full of plans for the future of the club, in which she intended to ask Nancy Gaynor’s help, since the opportunity had offered.

While she was away her lieutenants set the new “sides” to practising morris steps. In those country hamlets there were few entertainments during the winter, so much time was available for dancing, and the days went less slowly than usual. The barn at Darley’s Bottom was generally busy, and the progress of the recruits was rapid.

They did so well, indeed, that it became evident there would be something to show their president when she returned. Thereupon Dorothy was seized with a desire to give her a surprise, and made a proposal to Miriam and Marguerite.

“Could we, do you think?”

“Why not?”

“It would be awfully jolly, and she’d love it; but—”

“I’m sure we could, and it would look heaps nicer than gym. dresses! Marguerite, you’re clever; you’d help, wouldn’t you?”

Cicely’s return to Whiteleaf was delayed by a series of parties among her old schoolfellows. But she appeared at Darley’s Bottom one afternoon with still a week of holidays before her, and a plan to propose on which her heart was set. She was going for a week to Broadway End; Margia Lane was coming to keep her company, and the original “side” were all to come too. She broached the idea to Miriam and Dorothy, to whom the name of the house was familiar, though they had never visited it.

“Grandmother gave me leave to invite some friends, and the maids will just love it. They like something going on. We’ll drive or cycle during the day, and Miss Lane can paint. At night we’ll dance! I want you to see the dresses. There are four, and I’ve brought stuff for two more. Mirry and Marguerite can make them. They’ve got useful fingers; I haven’t. Will you come?”

“I’d love it!” Both spoke together.

“If mother can spare me,” Miriam added. “I think she will, for a few days. But how about Georgie and Edna and Marguerite? They don’t know you live there.”

“I’m going to call for them tomorrow in the carriage, and bring them back with me.”

“Well, look here!” Dorothy had been thinking. “We want to have another dance-evening before school begins, to show you how we’re getting on. Shall we come to you, or will you come here?”

“I’d rather not ask them all up to Broadway End yet, if you don’t mind. It’s a long way; and besides, I’d rather they didn’t know, as long as I’m not living there.”

“Then we’ll have dancing here on Tuesday evening, and each let our “side” know; and Dorothy’s eyes met Miriam’s significantly to remind her of their secret.

From Chapter 21: 'A Surprise for the President'

It was dark as they reached Broadway End, but the door stood open, and on the steps they were welcomed by the prettiest pair of Puritan maidens any one could wish to see. For Miriam and Dorothy had tried on the dresses, and Dorothy had been so pleased with hers that she had refused to take it off, or to let Miriam change either. The dresses were of simple gray, with short sleeves and broad white cuffs at the elbow, and broad white collars at the low round neck. Dorothy’s white hood was laid lightly on bushy brown hair hanging loose about her shoulders; but Miriam had plaited her long yellow locks in two thick braids which hung over her shoulders on to her breast, and this new style of hair-dressing suited her so well that Cicely insisted upon it whenever she wore her dancing-dress.

They stood laughing in the flood of electric light pouring down the steps, and the new-comers, tumbling out of the carriage, broke into questions and exclamations.

“It’s all right! Come in, and I’ll tell you all about it,” Cicely urged. “Don’t you see Mirry and Dorothy? Or don’t you know them as Old English maidens? Come along;” and she persuaded them to enter.

“But, Cicely, this can’t be your grandmother’s house! Where have you brought us to? Where are we?” and they looked round the great hall with bewildered eyes; while Miriam and Dorothy laughed and begged them to come to tea.

Cicely shut the inner door, dismissed the interested maid, and addressed her bewildered guests. “This is Broadway End—”

“Broadway End!” Georgie’s tone and the size of Edna’s eyes showed they knew the house by name.

“I stayed here for three weeks during last term, and drove down to meet Miriam every day. We used to drive to Speen, too, and walk from there to the barn for dancing, when you thought we’d walked all the way.” Miriam laughed. “And I shall be living here for good as soon as my grannies come home from Nice. So I thought you’d better know; but don’t tell the others yet.”

“And you mean to go on being a Hamlet, though you live here?” Georgie’s tone was incredulous.

“And you’ve kept it dark all this time!” Marguerite marvelled. “Why, you’re more—you ought to be more stuck-up than Hilary herself! Her place isn’t in with this.”

“I hope I’ll never be like that,” said Cicely. “I think all that kind of thing is hateful. Now do come and have tea. I’m dying for mine, but I can’t begin until you do.”

“And we thought there wouldn’t be room in the cottage!” Georgie began to giggle. “I was going to sleep on the sofa, and Ed. in a chair! We thought we’d have to dance in a barn! There’s plenty of room here;” and she looked round the great hall appreciatively.

Cicely threw herself into a big chair before the fire. “Pour out, Mirry—do! You haven’t been driving all afternoon, rescuing princesses and carrying them off in your chariot to your enchanted castle! Give me a rest—do!”

Miriam laughingly went to preside, and Dorothy persuaded the new-comers to sit down. They had still hardly recovered from their surprise, and accepted tea and muffins in a dazed dream. But Marguerite presently began to question Miriam about her dress; and Cicely explained.

“It’s for the sake of the ‘side.’ It will look so much jollier than our tunics. Of course we can’t dress all the rest—we would if we could—but perhaps we can persuade them to keep to drill-things, or to dress alike in white. The “sides” mustn’t look patchy if we can help it.” Miriam and Dorothy looked down demurely, and did not venture to meet Georgie’s dancing eyes.

“Well, I agree with that. Those dresses are very dainty,” Marguerite said; “but they’re not correct, you know. They’re Puritan, and the Puritans didn’t dance; they objected to all that kind of thing.”

“Now, Marguerite! Mirry and I have argued that out already,” exclaimed Cicely. “Do you suppose the Puritans sat down and designed fancy costumes for their girls? Of course they didn’t. They just wore the very plainest and most ordinary dresses going—the dresses people used every day. What they wouldn’t do was wear fancy, showy things, and dress up. Most likely these are what the village girls wore about that time, and therefore are the very things we want. Of course, in time the dress came to be associated with the Puritans, because they always used it; but they didn’t make it up.”

“Oh, well, if you think so, it’s all right;” and Marguerite’s scruples vanished.

Margia arrived while Miriam was still pouring out tea, and received a boisterous welcome. Her eyes wandered from Miriam to Dorothy, then settled on Miriam in delighted appreciation. “That suits you, Mirry; it makes you a real Old English village maiden at once.”

“And Dorothy?” demanded Georgie.

“Dorothy too, of course,” Margia said hastily; and Dorothy smiled and understood.

That week was a time of riotous enjoyment to all. Mornings and afternoons were given to driving and cycling; while Margia went off with stool and paint-box, and was happily busy till dark. After tea the big hall was cleared, the fiddle tuned, and the girls gave themselves up to dancing; Cicely had come back primed with new dances which only required two, four, or six. She taught them “Cochin China,” which was danced in threes, and “The Parson’s Farewell,” which only demanded two couples; and, at the request of Miriam and Marguerite, she taught them the minuet and “Rheinlander,” which had delighted them so greatly. Georgie and Edna declared themselves too stiff for these more graceful movements, and when persuaded to try, proved very awkward. They much preferred the boisterous morris and country dances; so they were released from the more stately movements, and set to hem collars and cuffs for the two dresses which still had to be made.

One evening, as they sat before the fire, resting after a riotous time of “Shepherd’s Hey,” bells still on their ankles and handkerchiefs thrown aside, Cicely demanded of Marguerite an explanation of her name and reputed French origin. “Anybody can see you’ve some French in you; you’re so dark, and so clever with your fingers, and you speak French so well. Was your mother French?”

“No; my great-grandfather! I’m a relic of the past. You’ve heard of the French school at Penn a hundred and twenty years ago?”

“A French school at Penn? No. How queer!”

“Oh, haven’t you heard? Burke—you know, the great orator—was awfully sympathetic with the French royalties and nobility at the time of the Revolution; and when so many of them were guillotined, he started a school for their orphan boys. He lived near Beaconsfield. You’ve seen his grave in the church? His house was Gregories, on the road to Penn, and he was to have been made Lord Beaconsfield when he retired. But his only son died, and he wouldn’t have the title. He didn’t care much about anything after that.”

“It was awfully sad,” said Miriam. “It just broke his heart; and the son wasn’t worth it, you know. He hadn’t any brains compared with his father; he made a mess of everything. But his father thought all the world of him.”

“Perhaps it was as well he died, after all,” said Margia, who, like the rest, was sitting on the rug in the firelight. “If he had lived, he would only have disappointed his father.”

“Well, Burke started his school for French orphans up at Penn,” Marguerite continued, “and used to drive out to see them. They were all dressed in blue uniforms, with white cockades in their hats, and on the cockade were the words “Vive le Roi.” If they’d lost their father, it was put on a red label; but if they’d only lost an uncle, it was on a black one. That’s what I’ve been told, anyway. Now, my great-grandfather was one of those boys. He had lost his mother, and both his father and an uncle—I don’t know whether he had more than one label!—but he had another uncle who managed to escape; and when all the boys were sent back to France in 1820, this uncle claimed him. But he didn’t want to go. He’d met a pretty Quaker girl called Margaret Verity, living in the village, and he liked her—rather more than usual, you know! So he ran away, rather than go back to France, and took service with Margaret’s uncle at Amersham. But his own people found him, and made him go back to France till he was of age. They thought he’d forget her, but he didn’t; and as soon as he could, he came back to England, married her, and settled in Penn. They had no son, so the French name died out; but their daughter married her cousin, John Verity, and he was my grandfather. So I have heaps of French cousins; and when my father was a boy he visited them, and lived for some years in France. He died three years ago, a little while after my mother; but while he was alive he used to make me talk French, and say he’d send me to my cousins some day. Of course, they have no titles in France now, so the family have dropped theirs; but they still have a lovely old chateau near Lyons, and live there still.”

“Would you like to go?”

“I’d love to see it. I wouldn’t like to live there altogether.”

“We’ll call you Marguerite of Valois,” laughed Cicely; “except when I want to tease you, and then I shall call you Daisy. “Allons! Dansons, mes enfants! Let’s try ‘Trunkles.’ Corner-dance—handkerchiefs!”

On Tuesday afternoon they all drove or cycled to Darley’s Bottom for tea before the rest of the members arrived. Cicely had argued that they should not wear the new dresses, since the others could not dress up, and might feel disappointed. But Dorothy, who was unaccountably excited over this dance evening, begged that the dresses might be worn. She was sure the others would like to see them. She did not think it would make them feel bad. So Cicely yielded, though somewhat against her better judgement.

And now came the surprise which Miriam and Dorothy had prepared during her absence in London. For when the girls arrived they were marshalled outside by their respective trainers, while Cicely sat alone in the barn. Then they all came dancing in to the music of “Green Garters”; and she gasped, and then broke into delighted applause, for each party of six was dressed alike, but each was different from the last.

Dorothy’s side, girls from Speen, Hughenden, and Terriers, were dressed as boys, to their great delight, in green smocks and soft slouch hats. Miriam’s, from Risborough, Hampden, and Saunderton, wore white summer frocks, with white ribbons in their hair. Marguerite’s, from Penn and Haslemere, wore cotton frocks of various colours, such as all possessed for summer use, but with the addition of little white aprons, dainty lace fichus, and sun-bonnets. Georgie’s girls, from Kingshill and Prestwood, wore their drill tunics, as did the younger girls whom Edna captained, with some help from her sister.

The effect, as all came dancing in, waving white handkerchiefs in both hands, and took their places for the dance, was striking and pretty. Cicely, eager to know how it had been arranged, curbed her questions till the new dancers had shown what they could do. Then, applauding and shouting “Bravo!” she took her place with her own gray-clad “side,” and joined in “Country Gardens” and “Step Back.”

“That’s ripping!” she said eagerly when they broke ranks to rest. “You must have worked awfully hard. We can have a real good country-dance now. You’ll love “My Lady Cullen.” But do tell me how you managed the dresses! It was a jolly surprise. I’d never dreamt it was possible, and here you’ve gone and done it!”

“Oh, when you think about it, they really cost very little—either trouble or money,” Dorothy laughed. “We had to make the smocks, of course; but all the rest are just made up. Marguerite made up those lace things for her girls, and you know how cheap sun-bonnets are. Miriam found her girls had white frocks; they had them last year for the breaking-up concert. If we don’t use them for practising, but only for great occasions, they won’t suffer much, and when we want to show off to anyone—your grandmother, for instance—we’ll have them ready.”

“It’s ripping, and awfully jolly of you to think of it! Now I want to see your girls and Marguerite’s do a country-dance. What do they know? ‘Bonnets so Blue’? Good! Then line up, lasses and lads. And afterwards Dorothy and Mirry and Marguerite and I will show you ‘Rufty Tufty.’ That’s for four. We’ve just been learning it.”

“‘Rufty Tufty’! Did you ever know such a name for a dance?” laughed Miriam. “All the names are quaint, but that one’s positively weird. It’s a pretty dance, though.”

“Dorothy’s girls must be men, of course, since they’re dressed like boys,” said Cicely. “It will look fine. Now let’s see ‘Bonnets so Blue’.”

The result, when the six “men” in dark green formed in one line, and the ladies in their coloured frocks and bonnets in the other, was very effective, and was received with great applause. Then Cicely chose the four best dancers among the “boys” and the four best girls, and made them form up for a square dance, “Dull Sir John,” and here again the blending of the green and coloured costumes was strikingly pretty. Then all the forty-two joined in “Nancy’s Fancy” and “The Triumph,” under her direction, as both were new, and finished the evening with the usual rollicking “Sir Roger.”

Margia closed the dance by striking up “Auld Lang Syne,” and all joined hands in a big ring, and marched round singing heartily. Then, with three cheers for the Hamlet Club, they separated, to meet at school on Thursday, with meaning looks and eloquent laughter, and a new password, “Remember Darley’s Barn!” of which the exasperated Town girls, question as they might, could gain no explanation.

In these last key excerpts, the Hamlet Club performs a May Day ceremony to the rest of the school and achieve recognition and reconciliation.

Chapter 23 - A New Champion

“MY Hamlets want something new!” and Cicely sat despondently down beside Margia one evening when dancing in the barn was over.

“Why? Have they learnt all the dances you know?”

“Oh, no! We haven’t had ‘Bluff King Hal’ yet, or ‘Bobbing Joe,’ among the morris; and there are heaps of country-dances—‘Step and fetch her,’ and ‘Brighton Camp,’ and plenty more. But they’re all the same kind of thing. The girls aren’t grumbling, but I’d like to give them something new before long. I do like starting new things!”

“Better than going on steadily with the old ones?” laughed Margia.

“Well, it is more thrilling, isn’t it?”

Two days later Cicely greeted Margia with radiant face.

“I’ve had an idea! I’ve heard from my grannies, and they won’t be home till May Day. Grandmother isn’t strong yet, and they won’t risk coming home to cold winds in March and April. So we’ll have to put off our entertainment till after the holidays.”

“You seem very pleased about it.”

“Oh, well, I’m quite comfortable at Whiteleaf. But don’t you see? We’ll have a May Day dance for them—Old English revels and a Maypole! It’s just the new thing I was wanting.”

“A Maypole! You’re getting ambitious in your old age, Cicely. The girls would like it, of course; but how could you manage it?”

“It’s quite easy. We had one at school, and it could be fixed up in five minutes. It’s on a stand, you know. Dorothy’s awfully keen on it, and says their men will put it up in the barn whenever we want it. We’ll have some morris days and some Maypole days. It will be a change.”

“Are you really thinking of it? Where is the pole to come from?”

“The Gaynors will send it from town. I’ll see to that. And you’ll be able to play “Come Lasses and Lads,” and “All around the Maypole,” and “Joan, to the Maypole away let us on!” We’ll learn to sing them, and the rest can sing while the eight couples dance.”

“It would be very pretty. But aren’t you a little extravagant? Do you feel at liberty to send for whatever you happen to want?”

“I feel at liberty to send for this, anyway,” Cicely said stoutly. “The others will enjoy it too; it’s not just for myself. We haven’t spent so very much, Margia. The sticks and bells cost hardly anything.”

“And the fancy dresses?”

“Oh, that was Dorothy’s doing! Besides, they only cost twopence.”

Margia laughed. “Well, if you’re going into it so thoroughly, why not have all the extra characters who belong to your morris? I’ve been reading it up, and I think we could manage it without too much trouble or expense, especially as we have the holidays before us.”

“What characters? I didn’t know there were any.”

“The old morris men didn’t go alone. They always had a crowd of followers—Robin Hood and Maid Marian, a fool, Friar Tuck and Little John, a bishop, a hobby-horse, a Jack-in-the-green, a beggar, and, I believe, a ragman, who carried any extra garments the dancers required.”

Cicely’s eyes were eager. “That’s just what I want! There are quite a lot of Hamlets who don’t belong to any of the “sides;” they couldn’t come to practise, or they’ve joined the school since. I was afraid they’d think they ought to do the Maypole dance, and I’d rather give it to some who have practised more. It’s a bit tricky, you know. We’ll dress them up. What do they have to do?”

“Oh, march in a procession, and act about while the dancers are resting, and make fun, and supply a change from the dancing.”

“That’s ripping! Now how can we manage the dresses? Dorothy’s gardener will make us a Jack-in-the-green; he’s most obliging. And their carpenter will make a hobby-horse if we tell him what it’s like. The beggar and the ragman will be easy, but the others will need some making.”

“Suppose we leave them till the holidays. Robin and Little John will need green suits and bows and arrows, and Maid Marian some kind of milkmaid’s dress. None of the things must be elaborate, or we’ll spoil the whole effect.”

Cicely nodded. “We’re country dancers—village girls dancing on the green. Silks and satins would spoil it. Have you heard about the gorgeous dresses the Townies are having for the play? Maud is Rosalind, and she and Celia are going to have simply lovely costumes for the first act. Madeline Bradshawe is Celia, and Hilary is Orlando. They’re making an awful fuss over their dresses.”

“You could borrow Touchstone’s dress after she had done with it for your morris clown,” Margia suggested; “and one of the foresters might lend you a green tunic for Robin.”

Cicely made a grimace. “I’d rather not ask them. We’ll try to make our own. They’d ask so many questions.—I say, Georgie, what’s up?” as Georgie Gilks came flying up from the dressing room and ran right into them.

“I’ve just heard Alice and Jelly talking,” Georgie panted. “Have you heard—about the meeting of the school clubs last night?”

“No; what? What has it to do with us?”

“Nothing, as it happens, but it’s interesting. I want to tell Mirry. Madeline Bradshawe called a special meeting; she’s secretary of the United Clubs, you know, and Hilary’s captain”—and at Madeline’s name Margia turned eagerly to listen. “Well, Madeline made a speech and proposed that all subscriptions to the clubs should be abolished, and that the clubs should be open to all members of the school—Hamlets as well as Townies. She said she thought it wasn’t right that so many girls should be kept out of the clubs, and she’d like to see the school united, everybody joining in everything. Isn’t she a brick?”

“Bravo, Madeline!” said Margia warmly.

“It was awfully plucky to stand up and say that to Hilary and Maud and the rest;” and Cicely’s face glowed. “I say, let’s find Mirry and tell her.”

“That’s how I felt too,” Georgie nodded. “Where is she?”

“With Marguerite upstairs. But what came of it, Georgie? Did they agree?”

“Oh, no; the others wouldn’t have it, of course. They voted on it, and two or three sided with her, but all the rest were against it. She argued that they didn’t need the subscriptions, and had to spend the money on plays and dances at the end of the term; but they wouldn’t make any change.”

“They’re a horrid lot,” Cicely said lightly. “But we don’t care—now. We’ve got our club. We shouldn’t have time to join theirs if they wanted us to. But it’s shabby of them, all the same. It’s nice to know that Madeline spoke up for us.”

“It can’t have been easy,” Margia said thoughtfully.

“No; it would be horrid. She’s a jolly good sport. I do like plucky things,” Cicely said heartily.

Madeline’s action had no direct result at the moment. Her friends found her too valuable to lose, so they allowed her to keep her “weird opinions”, while disregarding them completely. But the fact that she had spoken as she did won her the esteem of the Hamlet girls, and brought about a friendship between Miriam and herself, which they both shared with Margia, and which was helpful to them all.

During this term the division in the school was particularly acute, though fairly amicable, both parties being too busy with their own interests to care what the others were doing. The Town girls would much have liked to know what took place at the meetings in Darley’s barn, and tried to find out. But no Hamlet would betray the secret, and soon the Dramatic Society’s play absorbed all thoughts, and the Hamlets and their secret were forgotten. Rosalind, Celia, and Orlando were busy learning their lines or discussing their costumes all day long, whenever an interval in classes permitted, and many of the others were taking part as foresters, courtiers, or shepherdesses.

The Hamlets, on the other hand, were busy with their Maypole, which had given a fresh zest to the dance evenings, and ignored the elaborate preparations of the Town girls. A Maypole suggested a queen; so one evening voting papers were distributed, and the result showed an almost equal number in favour of Miriam and Cicely. No one else stood a chance.

As soon as this was discovered Cicely sprang to her feet. “Girls, thank you awfully for voting for me, but I really can’t be queen, and I’ll tell you why. I’m master of ceremonies and managing director, and that’s enough for one person. Besides, I’m not old enough yet. We can have another queen next year, and there’ll be several more chances for me before I put my hair up. We couldn’t have a grown-up queen. But I do want Mirry Honor to be queen. She’ll be grown-up in a year or two; she’s over sixteen now, so this is her last chance.” Miriam laughed. “And she’ll look the part far better than I should. I’m sure a May Queen ought to be tall and fair, and she’s both. I don’t say you should choose the queen because of her looks, but I do think a yellow-haired queen is the proper thing, if you can get one reasonably. We’ve got one, and we must have her. Besides again, she’s the oldest of us, and you’ve known far longer than you have me. You really want her, but you’re asking me out of politeness. It’s very nice of you, but I’d rather not this year, thank you. Now don’t let Mirry make a speech, or she’ll argue all I’ve said. Shall we call it settled? Then three cheers—”

“Cicely, that isn’t fair! I protest! I’d much rather not, please.—I was only waiting till she’d finished, girls. I’ve heaps of reasons—”

“Very good ones, no doubt. But keep them to yourself, my dear. We’re all quite satisfied. You ought to be pleased and proud. It’s an honour to your hamlet—”

“Won’t you let me speak?” cried Miriam, in mock indignation.

“Not just now. Afterwards, as much as you like.—Girls, catch hold!” and they caught hands and formed a cheering ring round the laughing queen.

Miriam blushed and protested to no purpose. There was much truth in Cicely’s words that many had voted for her chiefly because they felt the club owed so much to her. At heart they were all pleased to do homage to their original leader, and Miriam might say what she would, but could not shake their resolve. She was formally chosen to be queen when the time came, and was informed that on Maypole evenings she might stay at home and work for matric., as she would not be required to dance. All she would have to do would be to sit on her throne and look pretty, said Cicely mischievously.

“Oh, but I want to dance; I love it!” cried Miriam ruefully. “And it will spoil our “side”.”

“Well, we’ll give our morris and country dances first, so that our “side” can join with the rest. Then we’ll crown you and bring in the Maypole, and you shall watch and look regal while we plait it and show what we can do with the ribbons. Now don’t make any more difficulties. Dorothy and I are going to see to it all. But keep it dark from the Townies; we don’t want them asking questions. Don’t tell even Madeline Bradshawe.”

“I haven’t told her anything. Our girls are so pleased to have secrets. They just love being questioned by the Townies,” Miriam laughed. “But I shall feel an awful idiot, Cicely. I’d far rather it had been you. You wouldn’t let me say so.”

“You think it would be more suitable for me to feel an awful idiot, I suppose? Thank you. But you needn’t. You’ve got to pay for being the oldest, and the nicest, and the most liked, and the pret—Oh, well, I won’t say it, then,” as Miriam threatened Cicely with her morris staff. “But it’s true, and everybody knows it. I’m awfully glad we’ve settled it so nicely. It’s just what I wanted.”

“Nicely! It’s not what I wanted at all.”

“Besides, Mirry, there’s another reason;” and Cicely spoke earnestly. “You’re a real Hamlet, and some people might say I am not. If they heard about it, and heard that I was queen, they might think I’d been chosen for—well, for horrid reasons, you know. Our girls don’t know, but people might not believe that. I’m awfully glad it isn’t Dorothy or I. We don’t want anything of that kind even hinted at in our club.”

“I’d have enjoyed it all far more if it had been you,” Miriam insisted. “Of course, it’s not an important thing. It’s only for your grandfather and grandmother and ourselves. There won’t be any one else, will there? You’ll promise? I shall feel funny enough as it is, but I couldn’t stand it if there were other people present.”

“I don’t know of any one else,” Cicely assured her.

“Well, if you invite any one I shall funk it, and you’ll have to be queen yourself. So just remember,” Miriam warned Cicely.

Chapter 24 - Dancing in the Wood

THE May Queen elect walked briskly through the wood, singing at the top of her voice, “The Bailiff’s Daughter of Islington.”

“Yet she was coye, and would not believe

That he did love her soe;

Noe, nor at any time would she

Any countenance to him showe.

And when he had been seven long yeares

And never his love could see:

‘Many a teare have I shed for her sake,

When she little thought of mee.’

—Oh, how you made me jump!”

The president of the Hamlet Club stepped out from behind a big beech-tree. “Now, Mirry Honor, you’ll sing that to my grannies on May Day. We’ll need something between the dances. Only dancing would get stale. You’ll sing that, and “Why are you wandering here, I pray?” That’s pretty, and real Old English.”

“Cicely, I couldn’t! I’ve never sung to people. I’d be awfully nervous.”

“Then it’s time you began. Nervous? Nonsense! My grannies will love it. Marguerite will sing, too, after you’re sitting on your throne, and Dorothy will play.”

“And what are you going to do? Don’t say you’re trying to get out of doing anything, you fraud!”

“Oh, I’ll recite some Robin Hood ballad. I can’t sing for anything, if any one’s listening. I say, Mirry”—and Cicely’s eyes danced—“I’ve made up a ballad. Would you like to see it? Here you are then. You know that air we’re so fond of, ‘Early One Morning?’ It may have words, but I don’t know them, so I’ve invented some. See if you don’t think they’re just like a real old ballad;” and she tossed a notebook to Miriam, and sat down of the projecting roots of the old tree.

It was Easter Saturday, and the Hamlet Club was celebrating the return of spring by a dance-meeting in Hampden Woods—their first open air dance since the winter. The woods in spring had filled Cicely with rapture. A carpet of violets and primroses, delicate wood-sorrel and anemones, had sprung up in some, while others remained red-brown below but took on wonderful shades of misty green above. Birds were calling from every tree, larks carolling over every open field. The honeysuckle had budded in January; but now, late in March, every bush was touched with green, and even some of the trees showed colour. The ground was still wet in many places, but there were dry glades in the woods, where pine-needles lay thick, and in one of these the club had planned to meet. The early Easter had necessitated a few days’ holiday, but there still remained a fortnight of school before the last evening, when the much hoped-for play was to be given.

Miriam read the scribbled words, laughing now and then.

“Early one morning, as I alone was roaming,

Out in the beechwood green, I met a maiden fair.

‘Good day, fair maid!’ said I.

She curtsied in reply.

Thus out in the beechwood green, I met my lady fair.

Early one morning when all the birds were calling,

Down in the primrose dell, I met my lady fair.

‘Say, do you love me, dear?’

‘Not yet, kind sir, I fear.’

Wand’ring in the primrose dell, I met my lady fair.

“I should hope not, indeed! He was in a hurry. I wonder she answered so politely.

“Early one morning, when all the woods were sunshine,

Close to the lonely pool, I met my lady fair.

‘Dear, do you love me yet?’

‘Kind sir, I’m glad we met.’

Waiting by the lonely pool, I met my lady fair.

“Cicely, you’re a wretch! What do you know about this kind of thing—what he said, and what she said? ‘I’m glad we met,’ indeed!”

“Well, you were singing about love, and shedding tears, and being coy,” Cicely protested. “And look at your ‘maiden fair’ that you’re so fond of. I think it’s disgraceful—‘Who will say but maidens may kiss for recreation?’”

“Oh, well, the poor man was feeling rather bad just then! And I didn’t make it up. Your lady’s getting on pretty fast. I see she was waiting for him, too,” Miriam laughed; and read on:

“Early one morning, when larks on high were carolling,

High on the grassy hills, I met my lady fair.

‘Dear, do you love me well?’

‘Sir, I can hardly tell.’

Walking on the grassy hills, I met my lady fair.

Early one morning, when red the sun was dawning,

Out on the windy heath, I met my lady fair.

‘Will you be mine?’ said I.

‘Kind sir, I’d like to try.’

Riding on the windy heath, I met my lady fair.

Early one morning, when all the leaves were reddening,

Close to the bramble hedge, I met my lady fair.

‘Dear, will you marry me?’

‘Yes, please, kind sir!’ said she.

Hiding by the bramble hedge, I kissed my maiden fair.

“Cicely!”

“Well, why not?” the poetess protested in an injured tone. “They were engaged. Why shouldn’t they? It was quite proper. In fact, I thought he’d done it the verse before. But as they were on horseback, perhaps it wouldn’t have been very comfortable. I don’t know. I’ve never tried. Still, I think he was very good to wait so long.”

“I like your rhymes,” Miriam mocked. “Morning and dawning and roaming and calling are pretty awful; but reddening is hopeless, Cicely.”

“Quite good enough for a ballad. Their rhymes are always groggy. And anyway, the second and fifth lines always rhyme.”

“Very brilliant!”

“And the third and fourth. I think a good deal of it rhymes,” Cicely said indignantly.

Miriam laughed. “There’s a lot of it,” she said; and read on:

“Early one morning, when dark the snow was falling,

Down in the sheltered vale, I met my lady fair.

‘Dear, when shall we be wed?’

‘When you please, kind sir,’ she said.

Sheltered in the lowly vale, I met my lady fair.

Early one morning, with song and feast and dancing,

Up in the ancient church, I met my lady fair.

‘Will you be mine?’ said I.

‘I will!’ was her reply.

Thus up in the ancient church, I wed my lady fair.

“Well I’m glad they managed it at last. I was afraid it was going to end with tears or a funeral, as they so often do.”

“Oh, no; I think that’s horrid. You see, it goes right through the year, bringing in all the seasons, and all the country about here—woods, and hills, and heath, and blackberries, and old churches, and primroses. ‘The lonely pool’ is in Penn Wood, you know. You can go on as long as you like—as long as you can think of new places for them to meet, and other things for them to say. It’s like Consequences, or ‘When I was a schoolgirl,’ going on and on.”

“It will fit the tune all right, but it sometimes sounds funny to read.”

“So do all these ballad things. They’re frightfully irregular. You have to fit the tune to the words. Look at that one you were singing just now!

“She pulled off her gowne of greene,

And put on ragged attire,

And to faire London she would goe,

Her true love to inquire.

And as she went along the high road,

The weather being hot and drye,

She sat her downe upon a greene bank,

And her true love came riding bye—

“As he would in a story, of course. But look at those lines! You have to sing them. They sound cracked when they’re read.”

“Yours goes more evenly, I admit,” Miriam laughed. “I like your ballad. May I copy it?” And Cicely unsuspectingly gave her leave.

They danced among the beech-trees, and Margia, coming up the path fiddle in hand, applauded the pretty scene. Shafts of sunlight filtering among the gray-green stems fell on the bare heads and tumbled hair of the “morris men,” and made a brilliant mosaic of the rich red carpet under their flying feet.

“That’s the real thing—better even than the barn,” she said. “It will lose a great deal by being shown in a hall, Cicely. In the woods or on a village green is the proper place.”

“But it was danced indoors, too. When mummers and morris men came to a big house they used to be invited to dance in the hall.”

“I suppose so. But it’s prettier out of doors. How is your baby “side” getting on?”

“First rate. They’re as smart as anything. They’ve picked it up even more quickly than I thought they would. Bobs is a fine little dancer, and Babs is another.”

“They love it anyway,” Miriam laughed.

“Are you girls going to the Dramatic Society’s play on the tenth?” Margia asked. “They’re working very hard over it. They were going to rehearse both today and Monday, as they won’t have much time once the exams. begin.”

“I don’t know; we haven’t decided;” and Cicely dropped on the fallen leaves to rest. “Some of them don’t want to, but I think it would be only decent. They’re counting so much on it, and they want a big audience. I think we ought to go and clap, and make a good show for the sake of the school. They’ve made us all sick of it, of course, and talked of nothing else all term, and it’s rather shabby when they know it means nothing to us. But, all the same, I think it would be only decent to go. They were pleased when we went to the match.”

“We don’t want to please them. Why should we?” argued Dorothy.

“Well, perhaps we needn’t, but we needn’t be mean, and I think it would be mean to stop away from such a big thing as the play. Besides, it would look so bad, and there’ll be heaps of strangers there. And I’d like to see the play! I’m curious about Hilary’s Orlando. She ought to do it rather well. Celia will be all right, too, but I know Maud won’t make a good Rosalind. She’s scornful enough; that will be all right! But Rosalind is nice at times, and I don’t believe Maud can do it.”

“Who’s taking Jaques? He wants some doing.”

“Violet—Maud’s sister in the Fifth. She’s rather good. I’ve heard her at elocution. I shall go, Margia; the rest can do as they like. I want to see it.”

The rest of the Hamlets had still not made up their minds when the end of term came. The exams. told the tale of overmuch attention to the play, for several girls in the Sixth had to be content with second-class certificates, and Miriam easily left them behind. Hilary, Maud, and Madeline ruefully decided that next term they must work in earnest till matric. was over, and Miriam, hearing them, looked dubious. Matric. called for more than two months’ steady work, in her opinion.

The play was, of course, to be the crowning event of the term. School was to break up in the morning, and the performance to take place in the evening. Miss Macey had lent the large school hall, and was to be present with her staff. Friends and relations had been invited by the Dramatic Society, and a number of tickets had been sold to outsiders as well. The Hamlet girls had been invited to fill the gallery, joining those Townies who were not taking part, and the performers were keenly anxious that they should be present.

For the last few days nothing was talked of but the play. The Hamlet girls grew so weary of the subject that they began to hint they would boycott the performance.

It was on the very day before the great evening, the last day of the term but one, that Dorothy went flying upstairs before school, and hurled herself on Cicely and Miriam as they stood talking in the hall.

“I say! Have you heard? What do you think?”

“Whatever’s up, Dorothy? You look quite scared!”

“Well, I am! It’s the most awful thing. You evidently haven’t heard;” and she dropped, panting on a form. “Oh, dear! I’m getting too old to run upstairs!”

“You shouldn’t do it then. Suppose you tell us what’s the matter?” Cicely said unsympathetically.

“Maud’s got measles! Rosalind! And the play’s tomorrow! And all those people coming!”

“Oh, I say!” gasped Cicely. “What will they do? How awfully awkward!”

“That is hard lines! Poor Hilary!” Miriam exclaimed.

“She’s crying like anything in the Sixth room.”

“Hilary crying?”

“No end. Miss Macey had a letter, and told her and Madeline as soon as they arrived. She’s awfully worried, too. I heard Alice telling Geraldine. They all looked like collapsing. You see, it knocks out Violet too. She can’t come, of course.”

“Rosalind and Jaques! They can’t have the play, that’s all. No one could take Rosalind at a day’s notice; and then there’s Jaques as well. Oh, it is hard lines, after all their planning! They’d hoped so much from the play. Well, I am sorry!” Miriam said soberly.

“Even if any one could take the parts, they haven’t got the costumes, for Maud had taken them home, and of course Miss Macey wouldn’t hear of any one wearing things from an infected house. Oh, they’ll have to give up the play altogether—for the present. They may give it at midsummer.”

“Yes; but what about tomorrow night? Will it be possible to put off the people?”

“How can they? It’s not as if they had a week. And they’ve sold tickets to outsiders. If only relations were coming it might be possible to stop them; but I heard Miss Macey say it would be quite out of the question. They’ll have to get up some kind of a concert. Won’t they feel awful?”

“It’s dreadful for them,” Miriam said soberly.

“It does serve them right, you know, for the way they’ve fussed about the play,” Cicely remarked. “But I’m sorry for them, all the same. They’ll need to have something, but it will fall frightfully flat. I think we’d better not go! It would only make them feel worse;” and as the bell rang for prayers they took their places, looking very sober, and noting Hilary’s red eyes and Madeline’s distress as they appeared.

A heavy depression settled upon all, and even the Hamlet girls felt subdued and worried. Nobody cared much about exam. results or class places. What was to happen tomorrow night? How were the guests to be entertained? That was the all important question.

At midday Hilary appeared in the Fourth Form room, looking white and anxious, her eyes swollen with crying again, a paper in her hand.

“Look here, girls! You’ve heard about this awful business. Can any of you help us? We’ve got to get up some kind of concert for these dreadful people. I wish they’d all refused. We’ll put off as many as we can, but some are sure to turn up. It will be a wretched fizzle, anyway; but we must do the best we can.—Cicely Hobart, you recite. You’ll help, won’t we? For the sake of the school, you’ll help us out of this awful mess?”

A startling idea occurred to Cicely. She looked round hurriedly, but saw that neither Dorothy, Marguerite, nor Georgie had had the same thought. Would it be possible? It would save the situation, and be a glorious triumph for the Hamlet Club, if it could be carried through.

She looked up at Hilary, her eyes ablaze.

“Would you like us to do the whole thing for you—to provide two hours’ entertainment for your visitors?”

“Cicely!” cried Dorothy.

“What do you mean, child?” and Hilary obviously thought Cicely demented.

“Just that. Would you like the Hamlet Club to give you an entertainment instead of your play? I don’t promise it, mind! I don’t say they will, but I could ask them, if you like.”

“You couldn’t! You and the Hamlets? What could you do?”

“That is the question! I can’t tell you. You might not want it, and then our secret would be told for nothing. But if you say you’d like it, I’ll consult the others. You’d better ask Madeline Bradshawe,” as Hilary stood uncertain and bewildered. “And ask Miss Lane if she thinks you should accept the offer. She knows all about it. But tell her we haven’t told you what we intend to do.”

“I’ll ask her, and tell Madeline,” Hilary said slowly. “But it sounds simply weird! Do you really mean that you Hamlets would undertake the whole evening? And would it be as good as the concert we could get up at a day’s notice?”

“Ask Miss Lane. Ask her just that,” Cicely advised. “But let us know as soon as you can, for we’ll have heaps to do if we take it on. Ask Miriam Honor what she thinks too.”

“Now, girls, will you?” she demanded as soon as the door had closed on Hilary. “Come here and talk to me!” for Alice and Geraldine were all attention.

“I will, ma’am!” said Marguerite promptly. “I think it’s a ripping idea, and would get the school out of this hole better than anything else. Mirry will say the same.”

“Unless she funks her part! She didn’t bargain for this!” jerked Dorothy. “Cicely, why should we? It gives away our secret and makes the whole thing known. Why not let them have the concert? Besides, how could we—”

“Townies present, Dorothy!” Marguerite sang out.—“Keep back, you girls, or the proposal is off, and you can have your concert without any help from us. We’ve the right to talk it over without any of you listening.—I’ll keep them back, Cicely. You convert Dorothy and Georgie. I’m with you all through, and I’ll bring Mirry up to the scratch if she wants to funk. But she won’t; she’s sporty. She’ll play up, though she never expected anything like this;” and Marguerite kept the interested outsiders at bay, while Cicely argued and pleaded with her Hamlets.

In the midst of the discussion Miriam arrived, startled and eager to hear the truth for herself. “Cicely, what a splendid idea! Can we really carry it through?”

“If we can get the girls! Help me to work them up to it; they’re shy.”

“Well, so am I! You won’t expect me to—”

“Townies present!” sang out Marguerite.

“Of course we’ll expect you to, Mirry! Now don’t be silly!”

“Oh, but I can’t! I couldn’t, Cicely. I’d feel such an awful freak.”

“Oh, no, you won’t! But help me with these girls. Does Hilary really want it?”

“Miss Lane told her she’d be lucky if she could get us to do it, and they’ve gone to consult Miss Macey. Hilary’s getting quite keen, and Madeline says she’ll love us for ever if we’ll only get them out of this mess,” Miriam laughed. “But our secret will be gone, Cicely.”

“I know. I’m sorry; but we’ll have to sacrifice something for the sake of the school.”

“Bother the school!” grumbled Dorothy. “I don’t see why we should do so much for the Townies.”

“Only because we can,” said Cicely, “and if we can we ought to;” and Miriam nodded. “Besides, it’s what we’d like them to do for us if we were in a mess. And it isn’t for them only. It’s to help the school. You haven’t a scrap of school spirit, Dorothy. I know you’ve only been at school a few months, but you ought to be picking it up by this time. You ought to be ready to do anything to help the school.—Come and interview the others, Mirry!”

“But could we be ready? Wouldn’t we need a lot of preparation?” argued Georgie.

“This afternoon’s a holiday, for the match against that Uxbridge team,” Cicely reminded her. “We could meet at Darley’s and arrange everything.—Well, Hilary?”

“Miss Macey would like to see you and Miriam, Cicely. And Madeline and I think that if you really will do the evening for us, it will be jolly decent, and we’ll be for ever grateful. Miss Lane says she knows you can, and it’s just a question if you will. If you will, we’ll be awfully obliged to you.”

“I can’t say till I’ve seen the girls.—We’d better go to Miss Macey, Mirry. I guess we’ll have to explain to her, but we won’t tell any one else. It must be a surprise.”

“Look here, Cicely,” Miriam said anxiously as they ran down to Miss Macey’s study, “must you have all that May Queen business? Couldn’t we do without it? Oh, don’t look like that!” as Cicely’s face expressed her horror. “But couldn’t we—”

“Why, Mirry, it will be the grand climax! We couldn’t have anything better; people will just love it.”

“I shan’t! I didn’t know you were going to let me in for anything like this! Before the whole school—it makes me shiver with fright!”

“Oh, don’t be a goose! I didn’t know either; but we must play up and do our share.”

“Well, there’s one thing I want. I shall be awfully uncomfortable, but I won’t back out. I’m not looking forward to it; but I’ll do my share. But I’d like mother to come, Cicely. She was awfully pleased when she heard you’d chosen me, and she’d like to see the dancing. We’ll all be taking part, and she’d be left alone at home. Would it be possible, do you think?”

“Why, of course! We’ll give her a seat on the platform.”

“No, she wouldn’t like that. But if she might be in the crowd somewhere—it won’t be evening dress, will it?” in sudden dismay

“Oh, no, not for everybody. A few may dress; they would have done for the play. But most won’t. They won’t think it’s important enough. Yes, Mirry, of course she must come. I’m sorry I didn’t think of it. I’ll tell Miss Macey. Now I wonder what she’ll say?”

Chapter 25 - The Hamlets to the Rescue

“AN exhibition of morris and country dancing?” and Miss Macey began to look less worried. “Yes, Cicely, that sounds very nice; but can you do it, my dear? Aren’t you promising rather much? Who has taught you?”

“I learned at my other school, and I’ve been teaching the rest. We dance every Saturday at Darley’s Bottom. Really, Miss Macey, we can do it! Ask Miss Lane. She plays for us, and she knows.”

“Indeed, Miss Macey, it will be quite all right!” Margia said eagerly. “The dances are exceedingly pretty, and the girls know them thoroughly. You can leave the evening to them with perfect confidence. The question to me is rather whether Cicely and her club are willing to make their secret public for the sake of helping the school out of this dilemma. They have kept it to themselves all winter, and I know some of them will be unwilling to surrender it.”

Miss Macey looked at Cicely, who said at once, “I know. I haven’t got them to agree yet. But I’ll do my best, and I think they’ll come round. Miriam and Marguerite and I can do a good deal when we work together. Georgie won’t refuse if Mirry asks her, and she’ll bring Edna in. That only leaves Dorothy, and she’s too sporty to stand out and spoil the ‘side.’ And if our ‘side’ is willing, the others will probably give in, even if they grumble.”

Miss Macey raised her eyebrows. She recognised the technical terms of the morris-dance, and realised that Cicely knew what she was talking about.

“But you can’t dance for two hours, Cicely; you’ll all be dead!” Margia remonstrated.

“We haven’t enough dances either. Oh, I’ve thought of that, and I see how we can manage. But I thought we might have an interval to rest, and perhaps the girls out of the play would like to provide refreshments, as they’ll be taking no other part.”

“I’m sure they would do that. I’ll speak to Hilary about it. Then if you really think you can carry it through, Cicely, we’ll leave the whole evening to you gladly. It will be a great relief. You’re sure you can undertake it?”

“If the others will agree. I can’t promise till I’ve asked them, Miss Macey. But if we may have a meeting in the library, I’ll let you know in half-an-hour.”

“Very well; tell us as soon as you can. Certainly you may have your meeting, if you can collect your girls. Say I gave orders you were not to be disturbed.”

“As Cicely was hurrying away, Margia called her back. “Cicely, you could borrow Touchstone’s dress for your clown, and a forester’s for Robin. They won’t be needed now. Shall I arrange it for you.”

“Oh, yes, if you will! I’d rather have had our own; but any one will understand we’ve had no time to make things. Couldn’t we have Celia’s shepherdess frock for Maid Marian too? I haven’t seen it, but it must be just the kind of thing.”

Margia nodded, and went off to interview Madeline; while Miss Macey consulted Hilary as to refreshments. With all the spirit taken out of them by the disaster, the Town girls had no heart for the concert they had proposed, and were glad to wash their hands of the whole affair. The evening was sure to be a failure, anyway. What the Hamlets could do, nobody but themselves seemed to know, and Miss Macey was careful to keep the secret. But if they could do anything—why, let them! That was the general attitude of those outside the Hamlet Club. The positions in the school were reversed, and the Town girls found themselves emphatically the outsiders, with nothing left to them but the care of the refreshments. Outside the closed library door all was vague, uncertain, and very disheartening.

Inside there was excitement and heated discussion. The sacrifice of the secret touched the Hamlet girls to the quick, and they were at first unwilling to make it. Dorothy argued vehemently that the Town girls deserved no such consideration, and a section of the club agreed, and cheered her loudly. Cicely let them have their say, then made a spirited appeal to their school loyalty and pride, feelings she had been struggling to foster among them.

“For the sake of the school—not for the Townies, nor Miss Macey, nor any one else,” she insisted. “The school’s in an awkward corner, and we can help it out. If we refuse, we shan’t be worth anything;” and backed strongly by Miriam and Marguerite, she gained their consent at last.

“Edna, run and tell Miss Macey it’s all right!—Now, girls, we’ve heaps to arrange!” and the decision once made, they were all eagerness and excitement, full of questions as to method.

They separated for dinner, and the Hamlets gathered to picnic in groups and discuss the plans put before them. Miriam and her friends talked them over as they lunched in the dairy, and Cicely and Dorothy went in to dinner with inscrutable faces, and refused to answer any questions.

“It will be quite all right,” Cicely said coolly. “You needn’t worry; just leave it all to us!” And they could get no more from her.

While the hockey-team played their visitors from Uxbridge, and their friends crowded into the field to cheer them on to victory, the Hamlets met to draw up their programme, and be sure that everybody understood. The heaviest burden of organisation lay upon Cicely, the task of transporting the necessary properties fell to Dorothy, and Miriam went home looking extremely sober over her share. It seemed to her that she had far too much to do; but Cicely would not let her off any item she had promised, and Miriam was, as Marguerite had said, not one to back out of a bargain. But she was dreading it, and neither her mother’s pleasure nor the delight of the little ones could comfort her or relieve her nervousness. It was a relief to find, when the following evening came, an atmosphere of excitement and anticipation abroad, which helped her to face the ordeal.

The big carriage from Broadway End, with Cicely inside, called at Green Hailey to pick up Mrs. Honor and all the family, Miriam wearing her long school coat over her gray dancing dress, as did Cicely.

“There’s just one thing I’m sorry about,” Miriam said as they waited for Mrs. Honor. “We’re expecting Dick home this evening for the holidays, and it’s rotten for him to come and find everybody out. At first mother said she wouldn’t come; but I begged her to. But we feel bad about leaving Dick.”

“Wouldn’t he come too? Miss Macey would be delighted.”

“He hasn’t arrived. I’ve left a note telling him where we are, and he may get here in an hour; but—”

“He could come after us. It would be jolly for him to see you crowned!”

“Oh!”—Miriam shivered—“don’t talk about it! I’m as nervous as can be. If I disappear at the last minute you’ll know I’ve run away.”

“I’ll hold on to you, then! Mirry, you goose, you don’t really care, do you? There’s nothing to be frightened of.”

“That’s all very well! You aren’t going to be made a silly of before the whole school!”

“Well, of all the ungrateful things! But I wish your brother could come. It’s hard lines for him to be the only one of the family left out. Couldn’t he cycle after us? He might be late, but he’d see some of the fun.”

“No bike,” said Miriam briefly.

“Mine’s at Mrs. Ramage’s. Would he care to ride it? Mirry, add a postscript telling him to fetch my bike and come after us. But if he arrives in the middle of a dance, you mustn’t get flustered and put us out, you know.”

Miriam laughed. “I don’t know that he’d come.”

“Give him the chance, anyway.”

So a line was added to the letter, and then they climbed into the carriage and drove away.

“Did you spend the evening ironing your collar and cuffs and hood?” Miriam laughed. “I guess most of our ‘side’ did.”

“No; I got Mrs. Ramage to do them, while I rubbed up my recitations. I hadn’t expected to need them for a fortnight, you know. It’s rather hard on us altogether. I shall ask Miss Macey to explain.”

Bobs and Babs were in a state of excitement which the long drive increased. But Cicely, true to her resolve, insisted on leaving the carriage in Wycombe and walking to the school. Her connection with Broadway End was still a secret to all but her own “side,” and it would not do for a Hamlet girl to drive up in a carriage and pair.

When the guests entered the big hall that evening they found the seats ranged round the walls instead of in rows across, much to their surprise. More than one row of chairs was needed, for curiosity as to the mysterious entertainment by the girls from the villages had brought almost as big an audience as would have come for the much-vaunted play. The Town girls, in white evening dresses, hung over the gallery railing, wondering what the Hamlets were going to do, and hoping the evening would not be a failure, but rather expecting it. Miss Macey had said she knew all about it, however, and she seemed fairly happy, they decided; while Miss Lane, wearing a white dress and tuning a violin, appeared to be actually looking forward to what was coming.

“I didn’t know you played, Miss Lane!” and Madeline paused beside her.

“I don’t; I only fiddle. I’m not a violinist, but I can do this kind of thing.”

“What kind of thing?”

“You’ll soon see,” laughed Margia.

Madeline sighed. “You’re all so jolly mysterious about it!” and she went to help Hilary with the refreshments.

A class-room opening off the hall had been set aside as refreshment-room, and here were prepared cakes and sandwiches, coffee and lemonade, awaiting the interval later in the evening. Another big class-room had been claimed by Dorothy, and each Hamlet girl was directed thither by Georgie, who, wearing her hat and coat as usual, waited to catch them as they arrived. Miriam Honor, bareheaded, but wearing her long coat also, stood at the door and refused admittance to any but Hamlets.

“What are you doing in there, Mirry?” and Geraldine and Alice addressed her inquisitively. “Are you Hamlets dressing up? I say, what a joke! You’re not going to give a play, are you?”

“Why have you done your hair in two plaits, Miriam? It suits you. You should always do it like that,” Geraldine said approvingly. “You’ve got too much for one, you know.”

Miriam laughed. “Thank you for the advice. Now you’d better go back to your gallery, or you won’t get seats. We’re going to begin.”

“Let’s have a peep, Mirry, there’s a duck! Don’t be mean! We won’t tell! I can hear bells tinkling—heaps of bells! What are you going to do with bells, Mirry? Won’t you let us look? Well, show us what your dress is like!” And Miriam was glad when Margia saw her difficulty, and came and drove them off.

“Please tell Miss Macey we’re almost ready! And—Margia, wouldn’t you like to sing those horrid songs instead of me? I’m feeling awfully bad!”

Margia smiled and shook her head. “Don’t worry, Mirry; you’ll get on all right. But don’t be nervous; it’s silly.”

“I’m so nervous that I’m positively shaky!” and Miriam laughed tremulously, and slipped into the room to lay aside her coat and put on her white hood and bells.

The hall was very full when Miss Macey rose. The platform held the particular guests of the staff and several officials connected with the school; but one chair, next to the head-mistress’s, was carefully reserved, for whom not even Miss Macey knew. In the dressing-room Cicely switched off the light, and cautioning her troop to silence, opened the door an inch so that they could hear.

In a brief speech, to which the excited and now somewhat nervous Hamlets listened breathlessly, Miss Macey explained the disaster which had befallen the play prepared by the Dramatic Society. Some of the guests had not heard the news, and looked at one another in dismay. They would not have come for a mere schoolgirl concert, which seemed the only substitute they could be offered at a day’s notice. But Miss Macey’s explanation half-reassured them, while stimulating their curiosity to the highest pitch.

“In this awkward predicament one of the school societies, known as the Hamlet Club, has very generously come to our help,” she said, and Cicely flashed a look of triumph at Dorothy and Georgie. “One of the school societies!” That was good to hear, after the assumption by the Town girls that their clubs alone were worthy of the name. And from Miss Macey herself!

“I know very little about the entertainment they will offer you,” Miss Macey continued. “But under the circumstances we have thought it best to accept their offer. Their president tells me”—and the girls in the dark class-room giggled and nudged Cicely—“that the proceedings will take the form of Old English village revels. This, I think, sounds promising, and is certainly suited to our position in a town which is the centre of so large a village district. The girls who will entertain us tonight belong to the villages and hamlets scattered over the hills and valleys which lie so close to us. To many of us the hill-country is only a delightful picnic ground for our summer outings, nature rambles, and excursions in search of the picturesque and the historically interesting, with which we are so richly favoured in this neighbourhood. But these girls of the Hamlet Club claim the hills as their home, and are proud of the fact. It is fitting that they should show us their idea of old village revels, and I look for a very interesting and enjoyable evening. I now invite the Hamlet Club to take possession of the hall and show us what they can do.”

“Isn’t she a dear?” murmured Cicely. “If we’d made up every word ourselves it wouldn’t have been different.”

“How did she know just what we wanted?” Miriam whispered in reply. “Margia Lane has been talking to her, I expect.”

“Girls, are you ready?” as the applause died away; and, in the expectant silence which followed, Margia stood forward and sounded the notes of a processional morris. “Bells firm? You’ve all got handkerchiefs? Then remember—any order you like. And no muddles or mistakes.—Now, Mirry, don’t be nervy; there’s no need. They’ll love it;” and Cicely threw open the door and led the way down the passage left for them between the chairs.

They circled the hall in single file, a long line of waving white handkerchiefs, jingling bells, and many coloured costumes. To the spectators there was at present no reason or order in the dresses; and though the girls were greeted with hearty applause, they knew that the general feeling was one of bewildered anticipation. So far the audience merely perceived that the girls were apparently going to dance and that they were in fancy dress.

First came a dainty gray-clad Puritan maid, with a white hood on her loose dark hair; then a “boy” in green smock and slouch-hat; then a girl in white, with white ribbons in her hair; then one in dark-blue gymnasium dress, with white blouse and tossing green girdle; then a girl in a coloured dress and sun-bonnet, with white lace fichu and little apron; another in gym. costume; and one in a coloured print frock and white pinafore, with a wreath of flowers in her hair—Dorothy’s second “side.” Because the dresses were dainty and the effect pretty and bright, and because the girls were obviously excited and enjoying themselves, the audience clapped sympathetically and wondered.

The music broke off suddenly; there was a moment’s kaleidoscopic confusion, when colours and costumes seemed hopelessly mixed up, and then each girl found her place, and the seven “sides” stood revealed, each set dressed alike, every girl with bells jingling on her ankles and a white handkerchief in each hand.

The applause broke out again, hearty and delighted, as the spectators began to understand. The various “sides” were discussed—the Puritans, the green “boys,” the white girls, the sun-bonnets, the gym. set, the pinafores—and the first was generally held to be the daintiest costume, if not the best for dancing in.

“Bravo! Very pretty! Now let’s see what they can do!” Margia played the air of “Laudnum Bunches,” and the “sides” stood waiting, ready to jump on the last beat. Then Cicely and Miriam danced forward, hopping and jigging, handkerchiefs waving; then Dorothy and Marguerite; and then Georgie and Edna, and their counterparts in the other “sides.”

“Go it! Dance up!” cried Cicely. “Capers! Higher, Marguerite. All in!” And as each “side” formed a ring, raised the right foot and threw up both hands, and shouted, round after round of delighted applause broke out.

“Good! Good! Let’s have that again! Give us some more!” shouted one and another. The last of Miss Macey’s anxiety vanished, and she settled down to enjoy herself.

The “sides” fell into column again, and as Margia struck up “Blue-eyed Stranger,” the handkerchiefs waved once more, and the second dance began.

Chapter 26 - All Around the Maypole

“I’M enjoying this down to the ground,” said a beaming father in the front row, as Margia led the dancers into “Country Gardens.”

“Very pretty; very pretty indeed,” a lady agreed; and Mrs. Honor, watching Miriam proudly, heard and smiled.

The last of Miriam’s nervousness vanished during “Trunkles.” The hand-striking movements of “Country Gardens” had roused the audience to enthusiastic applause, and the girls were flushed and delighted with their appreciation. As Cicely and Miriam advanced in the first movement of “Trunkles,” stamped, and struck their feet smartly together, Cicely glanced at her “opposite’s” face and murmured, “Not feeling bad any more, Mirry?”

Miriam laughed and shook her head, and when the other pairs had advanced and retired, and she and Cicely had to change places, meet, and cross again, she replied, “Not a bit, now; it’s all just a joke.”

“Yes, a big joke. They’re enjoying it. We’ll have some sticks next. It is a bit of fun, isn’t it?” And then they had to give place to Dorothy and Marguerite. The slow and then the quick capers, and the usual ring, brought the dance to the end, and the “sides” broke ranks and ran to throw down their handkerchiefs at Margia’s feet and catch up their staves.

During the “dibbing” movements of “Bean-setting,” while the staves were thumping the floor in time to the music, a fair-haired schoolboy of fifteen slipped through the crowd and found a place by his mother’s side. Mrs. Honor smiled a welcome, and his hand sought hers.

“This is ripping!” Dick murmured, under cover of the music. “Where’s our Mirry? I say, I wouldn’t have believed she could dance like that.”

“She’s very fond of it, and so are the babies. You’ll see them presently.”

“Are the kiddies to dance too? What a joke! And which is the president, whose ripping bike I’ve borrowed?”

“There, with the dark curly hair; the leader of the Puritans.”

Dick nodded, and watched the pretty scene intently, as “Bean-setting” gave place to “Rigs o’ Marlow.”

“How have the Hamlets learned all these jolly dances?” murmured Alice, as she and Geraldine hung over the gallery railing, wide-eyed and astonished. “Who taught them? How do they do it?”

“They’re going off!” cried Geraldine. “What will they do now, I wonder?” as Cicely led away her “side” to the tune of “Morris Off,” and each set in turn fell into line.

Flushed and panting, they dropped to the floor to rest, and all began to strip off the bells from their ankles. Then a laugh and a murmur of questions, and a giggle from the gallery, heralded something new, and from the class-room came the motley horde of miscellaneous characters, who, as Margia had said, always accompanied the old morris men. Miss Macey raised her eyebrows in astonishment. She had not expected the idea to be carried out with such thoroughness.

First came a sword-bearer, dressed in Lincoln green, and carrying aloft a rich pound-cake impaled on his sword-point, sword and cake decorated with coloured ribbons.

“It’s that girl Maggie Puddiphat, from Terriers,” murmured Geraldine. “Doesn’t she make a jolly boy? I suppose that’s one of the foresters’ dresses from the play?”

The sword-bearer was followed by Robin Hood and Maid Marian arm-in-arm, he wearing green doublet and hose and a feathered hat, and carrying a bow; she in a short-skirted pink-and-white shepherdess’s costume, with a big straw hat tied with ribbons. Then came Jack-in-the-green, invisible inside her wicker-cage covered with holly and ivy; and then Little John, a very tall, fair-haired girl in green, and Friar Tuck, wearing a monk’s robe and cowl. A “beggar” and “ragman” in tattered garments, and the fool, in Touchstone’s borrowed suit, brought up the rear, while the hobby-horse pranced up and down the procession. The fool carried a switch with a small bladder on the end, and belaboured the mummers and the hobby-horse, whose quaint form, with horse’s head and tail, and flat framework supporting the trappings which concealed the feet of the rider, caused much amusement among the girls upstairs.

The procession circled the hall, amid the cheers of the spectators. Then the cake was lowered and cut by Maid Marian, and slices distributed among the girls in the gallery by Robin Hood, Little John, and the fool.

“It’ll bring you good luck. Oh, you mustn’t eat it! You must keep it for a year. It’s very lucky,” Robin remonstrated.

The sword-bearer and Maid Marian handed round the cake among the guests on the platform, and Miss Macey and Margia accepted their slices with gratitude, and promised to keep them for luck.

“Why are they taking off the bells?” asked Madeline. “Why don’t they keep them on? They’re so pretty.”

“Yes, but this is a country-dance. You only use bells for the morris,” Robin explained.

The “sides” were mixed up this time, as the dancers formed in two long lines; but there was some method in the arrangement, for six green-smocked “boys,” six girls in gym. tunics, and six Puritans took the men’s parts, and the eighteen girls from Miriam’s, Marguerite’s, and Dorothy’s “sides,” the women’s. Margia struck up a rollicking country-dance, and “London is a fine Town,” “Flowers of Edinburgh,” and “The Triumph” went with a swing.

For “Gathering Peascods” several rings of ten were formed, and Miriam Honor and her partner, a white-frocked girl with flying red hair, fell out to rest. The rings swung round, broke up, clapped hands in the centre, swung their partners, formed a small circle inside the large one, and broke up finally, and dropped on the floor to rest.

The music changed suddenly from violin to piano, from dance to ballad, and the astonished audience saw a slim, yellow-haired Puritan rise and stand beside Miss Bates. A hush fell, and Miriam, nervous again and rather white, began to sing, “The Bailiff’s Daughter.” Her voice was untrained, but very sweet, and after the first verse she gained confidence and sang the quaint old words bravely and clearly.

“Is that our Mirry?” murmured Dick Honor, in genuine amazement. “I didn’t know she could sing.”

“She’s always singing about the house, you silly boy,” said his mother.

“Oh, well, of course. But not like that.”

The tumult of applause astonished Miriam, and Cicely murmured, as she returned gladly to her place on the floor, “You’re ripping, Mirry. Have you got an encore? They’ll want it, you know. What will you sing?”

Miriam’s eyes danced. She saw a chance to pay Cicely out for forcing such prominence upon her. “I’ve something here, if you think I really must,” she said demurely, and in answer to Margia’s raised eyebrows went forward to the piano and pointed to one of the Old English airs. “I’ll sing that, please, Miss Bates. I have the words here;” and she took a slip of paper from the book.

At the first note of the accompaniment Cicely raised her head suspiciously. She caught Miriam’s laughing eye, and the colour rushed into her cheeks. “Mirry, you wretch!” she murmured, and sat with bent head, wishing she could escape.

But so long as no one knew, it did not matter. No one could possibly guess. Nevertheless, she felt, as she confessed afterwards, “very funny” as the words of her ballad rang through the hall. As a joke she had thought it quite passable; but sung before an audience it seemed childish and silly, the rhymes even more feeble than before. She was relieved when it was over, and Miriam bent to say a word to Miss Macey before returning to her seat.

Then Cicely wished herself still farther away, as Miss Macey rose to make an explanation. She understood, she said smiling, that the words which had just been sung had been written by the president of the Hamlet Club, which the singer would like to explain, accounted for the “groggy rhymes.” And there was a ripple of laughter and then a round of applause.

“Mirry, you mean thing! You wretch, to give me away like that!—Come along, Dorothy; give them something else to think about.” And Cicely and Dorothy ran out into the middle of the floor, paused in a graceful attitude, and then danced off in the pretty movements of “Rheinlander,” and the ballad was forgotten, as all attention was centred on the two dainty figures. “Rheinlander” was followed by a minuet danced by Miriam and Marguerite, with all the grace which the sturdy morris lacked; and then Cicely’s “baby side” stood forth and danced a morris-dance by themselves, to the great delight of the spectators. They were all tiny children of seven or eight years, dressed in white smocks and white slouch-hats, and their dancing, in “Shepherd’s Hey” and “Constant Billy,” was loudly applauded.

Then Cicely stood up and recited the ballad of Robin Hood’s rescue of Will Stutely, and Miriam followed with her second song, “Why are you wandering here, I pray?” followed, since an encore was again demanded, by “My lodging is on the cold ground.”

“I never knew Miriam Honor could sing like that,” Hilary murmured.

“She ought to have her voice trained; it’s really good,” Madeline agreed. “It seems to me we’ve been keeping some good things out of our clubs, you know.”

Hilary said nothing, but watched with sombre eyes as the “morris men” put on their bells again and formed up for “Bluff King Hal,” with its quaint little nod, its more serious movements, its marching with linked arms. “How d’ye do, sir?” with its boxing, singing and vigorous dancing, made a fine finish to the first part of the programme, and, as usual, proved a favourite.

The dancers were more than ready to rest, so the Town girls hurried down to hand round refreshments and to wait on the tired but happy Hamlets.

“Miriam, your songs were ripping;” and Madeline brought lemonade and sandwiches to the Puritans squatting in a ring on the floor. “You ought to train your voice, you know. It’s awfully jolly.”

“I’m glad you liked them. I was horribly nervous; but the lady president wouldn’t let me off.”

“I should think not. And did Cicely really write that ballad? It was jolly good.”

“Wasn’t she a rotter to give me away like that? Mean thing; it was an awfully shabby trick!” Cicely grumbled.

“Are we to have more dances after the interval? They’re very pretty; I liked that last one best, where you all sang.”

“The second half of the programme will be quite different from the first,” Cicely said solemnly, and winked at Miriam, who laughed and reddened, and went to speak to Dick.

Then Miss Macey came up to offer congratulations. “Have you really taught the others all these charming dances, Cicely? But where have you practised them?”

“In a barn at Darley’s Bottom. We’ve danced every Saturday all through the winter, Miss Macey—by lamp-light, sometimes. It’s been great fun.”

“It sounds most romantic. I had no idea you were preparing such a surprise for us.”

“Nobody knew. That’s the only thing we’re sorry about, that we’ve had to give up our secret. Please, Miss Macey, will you make an announcement for us before we begin again?” and Cicely rapidly made some explanations in an undertone.

Miss Macey raised her eyebrows again. “But aren’t you rather ambitious, Cicely? Can you carry this through?”

“Well, I’m rather afraid myself! But we’ll do our best, if you wouldn’t mind explaining, Miss Macey.”

So Miss Macey mounted the platform again. “I understand that we are now to see a representation of an Old English May Day. This sounds rather ambitious, I confess, and I really know nothing of how it is to be carried out. I will ask you to remember that our young friends have only had one day in which to make their arrangements, and as they had naturally not expected to celebrate May Day for a fortnight yet, their plans may be pardoned for being in a somewhat unfinished state. They are anxious, however, to provide as varied a programme as possible, so they have decided to venture on the further items we are now to see. I am sure your judgment will be lenient if anything should go wrong.”

The applause was sympathetic and appreciative. The audience had only looked for a continuance of the morris-dancing, and were delighted to know they were to be offered more novelties. Did a May Day imply a queen? Who would be chosen? But surely a Maypole would be necessary! How could the Hamlets set up a Maypole in the hall? How could they have a May Day without one?

Cicely and Dorothy, guided by Margia, had made simplicity their aim in their preparations, realising that anything formal or elaborate would be out of place. The result was an ease and spontaneity which made the next hour’s festivities seem to come on the spur of the moment, unrehearsed and unprepared.

Two long lines were formed, bells and handkerchiefs discarded. Margia gave the first notes of “Bobbing Joan,” and couples danced up and down, swung and turned, “women” curtseying, “men” bowing gallantly. But suddenly the dance ended, and all gathered in an excited group, talking and laughing without restraint, paying no heed to the fool and hobby-horse, who pranced about outside the crowd. A name was shouted by some one and taken up by all, and the girls joined hands in a big ring, and danced gaily round a Puritan maiden, left alone in the centre.

Miriam, blushing and laughing, seemed to protest. Then, catching up her gray skirts, she dropped a curtsy towards each side of the moving ring. The dancers broke into lusty cheers, hats and hands and sun-bonnets waving, and the audience began to understand.

“Apparently we’re to have a queen, anyway. Who is she? Why, it’s the yellow-haired girl who sang!”

“Mirry Honor! Mirry Honor! She’ll make a pretty queen!” And Mrs. Honor blushed with pleasure, while Dick’s eyes grew round.

Miriam, with a gesture, seemed to beg the dancers not to leave her so much alone, and they clustered round her again. The “ragman” pushed her way in, and then the spectators could hardly see what followed. Miriam herself only knew vaguely how matters were to be arranged. Before she knew it, her hood was snatched off, and somebody had taken possession of her long plaits, and was hurriedly unwinding them. The “ragman” produced a brush, and without asking leave brushed out her thick tresses.

“You can’t be a queen in pigtails, Mirry,” Marguerite argued, when the victim remonstrated. “Now don’t say a word. No, you won’t look untidy—or silly. Take my word for it, you’ll look the part, that’s all.”

Unnoticed in the confusion, Cicely and Dorothy had disappeared. As the crowd acclaimed the queen, they had caught hands and run off to the dressing-room, followed by Robin Hood, Little John, and Maid Marian. Now they came hastening back, all bearing burdens.

“Whew!” whistled Dorothy, “if I had shiny hair like that I wouldn’t wear it in a plait. What heaps you’ve got, Your Majesty!”

“If she feels shy she can hide in it; she doesn’t need a veil,” Cicely laughed. “She’s got three times her proper share.—Now, Mirry, here’s your robe.”

They had brought a soft white robe, which looked very dainty, but had cost “about twopence,” as Cicely said, and had been made by the sewing-maid at Darley’s Bottom. By the greatest good fortune it had been finished. Otherwise, as Dorothy said, they would have had to borrow Rosalind’s wedding dress. It fell to the queen’s feet, covering her gray gown, but left her neck and arms bare, as the Puritan dress had done. A girdle was added, and a long white train from the shoulders. Then the crowd fell back in a big ring once more, and Robin Hood advanced and presented a sceptre twined with flowers. Little John brought a great bunch of daffodils, and Maid Marian a wreath laid on a cushion.

“Kneel down, Mirry; you’re so long,” said Cicely; and Miriam obediently knelt on the cushion placed before her.

Cicely, as president of the club and master of ceremonies, took the crown, of white narcissus since the hawthorn was not yet in flower, and laid it on her hair. Then she caught Dorothy’s hand, and Dorothy caught Marguerite’s, Maid Marian and her companions sprang to their places in the circle, and the ring danced cheering round the queen, who looked and felt much abashed, but stood bowing graciously and trying to seem as if she liked it.

“Is that our Mirry?” murmured Dick again. “Why, mother—I believe she’s pretty!”

Mrs. Honor laughed. She had made the discovery long ago. A lady sitting near him heard and smiled.

“I believe she is, Dick.”

“I never knew that before!” and Dick gazed at his sister in frank surprise. “I say, she looks ripping! I’m jolly glad I came.”

The audience and the girls in the gallery joined heartily in the cheers which hailed the queen, and applauded again as the ring broke up and the girls formed two lines leading to the platform. Bobs and Babs Honor, and their tiny white-smocked companions, ran forward with baskets of primroses and violets from the woods, and strewed them before the queen as she came slowly up the hall, bowing to right and left. As she passed, the girls curtsied to the ground, and the green-clad “boys” flourished their hats and bowed.

Miss Macey, understanding the reason of the empty chair now, rose to the occasion. She came forward, greeted the rosy queen with a kiss, and led her to the throne by her side. Miriam, very shy and almost overcome, turned and, sweeping her train aside, bowed to the cheering crowd below, to the audience, to the gallery. Then she sat down and buried her hot face in her flowers.

“I do feel a freak, Miss Macey. But Cicely wouldn’t let me off. She’s a frightful bully sometimes. I hadn’t bargained for this when I promised. It was to be just for ourselves and her grandparents. But she made me stick to it.”

“She was wise. It has been a very pretty ceremony, dear, and you should feel proud. But what are they doing now? Whatever is happening over there?”

“They’re going to dance, and I’m out of it. I can’t have any more fun,” sighed the queen.

“The penalty of greatness,” laughed Miss Macey. “Is this really a Maypole? Well, I never would have believed that could be done so easily! But who are the men?”

“From Darley’s Bottom. They always put it up for us. They were to bring it in a hay-cart with the other things this afternoon, and keep it somewhere in the town till the last minute.”

“Well, well!” and Miss Macey watched and marvelled as the men from the farm carried in the Maypole and set it upright on its stand, its many-coloured ribbons flying. Then, amid cheers from the astonished audience, sixteen girls ran forward, caught up their ribbons, and stood ready to dance. Four were “boys” in green smocks, four were Puritans in gray. With the “boys” as partners, danced four girls from Miriam’s “side,” clad all in white; while four from Marguerite’s, in coloured frocks and sun-bonnets, faced the gray Puritans. all the rest of the girls caught hands in a ring again, and danced gaily round the pole, then stood grouped before the platform, but facing the dancers. Margia gave an introductory chord, and they began to sing “Joan, to the Maypole,” “Come Lasses and Lads,” and later, “All Around the Maypole.”

Cicely, the only Puritan not dancing, made her way through the singers and sat on the edge of the platform at Miriam’s feet.

“I daren’t look! I’m nervous now! There’s going to be an awful hideous muddle in a moment,” she groaned. “They’ll never keep those ribbons right. Tell me when it happens, Mirry. I don’t want to see it.—Miss Macey, you won’t mind? We didn’t expect to need it for a fortnight, you know, and they aren’t nearly perfect yet.

“It’s all right so far, Cicely;” and Miriam watched intently. “I believe they’ll get through. They’re being very careful. Edna never takes her eyes off her ribbon.

“It’s very pretty,” Miss Macey said warmly. “The colours are quite orderly so far, Cicely. Don’t be unhappy about it. Every one will understand if anything goes wrong. But I see no difficulty yet.”

“I can scarcely believe that they’ll manage to plait it properly. It’s too much to hope for. But the farther they can get before the awful muddle comes the better, of course;” and Cicely sat with lowered eyes, in obvious dread of disaster.

A burst of applause made her spring up to look, and then she drew a quick breath of relief, for the “plaiting” had been successfully accomplished, the ribbons were neatly folded round the pole in their correct pattern, and the girls stood in triumph.

“Bravo! Well done! Exceedingly pretty! Mayn’t we see it again?”

But the girls would not risk a repetition of so difficult a venture, and Cicely had been too nervous to suggest it. A different dance around the pole followed, ribbons twisting gracefully till they were wound into a brilliant canopy. Then they were successfully unwound, the big ring danced around the pole again, and the dancers threw themselves down to rest.

Several girls who had been singing now came forward, and forming into threes, danced “Cochin China” and “Three Meet.” Cicely, standing by the queen’s chair, recited part of “The May Queen,” and Dorothy tuned her violin and played a selection of Old English airs. Marguerite sang the Somersetshire folk-song, “No, John, no, John; no, John, no!” and “Drink to me only with thine eyes;” and a couple of fancy dances followed, “The Glory of the West” and “Cheerily and Merrily.”

“How tired those girls must be! You are working them too hard, I’m afraid, Cicely,” said Miss Macey.

“We tried to arrange so that every one should get time to rest. They’re used to dancing, you know.”

“But it’s getting late. Isn’t it time to—Ah! Is this the close?” as Margia struck up “Sir Roger.”

Cicely nodded and laughed, and ran to claim Maid Marian for her partner, and lead her to their place at the head of the long lines. Miriam’s foot was tapping in time to the music.

“I want to dance! I don’t like being left out. I love “Sir Roger” so.”

“Wouldn’t they let you and me join in?” laughed Miss Macey sympathetically. “I find it hard to sit still myself.”

“Oh, no! They wouldn’t like it. Besides, I couldn’t do it in this hateful—I mean, this silly long dress and train.”

“Then you’ll have to be content to be an onlooker for once. This is an excellent finish to a very excellent evening,” Miss Macey said heartily. “You and your club have given us a very great treat.”

“I’m glad we’ve made no awful muddle, anyway. We had so little time to prepare.”

“Yes; I think you were very plucky to face such an undertaking at a day’s notice. I shall say so presently;” and Miss Macey waited for the romping dance to end.

When at last Cicely and Maid Marian found themselves in their places again they faced inwards suddenly and took hands. The others did the same, and the big ring was formed once more. The president led them in a farewell cheer; then they all dropped on the floor to rest, and Miss Macey rose.

It was late, and her speech was short. Many of the Hamlet girls had long distances to go, and she was anxious not to keep them longer than was necessary. She was relieved to hear from the May Queen that arrangements had been made for them to go in parties so far as possible, and all would have company for the greater part of their lonely roads.

“But I could not let them or you go without expressing our warm thanks for this delightful and most original evening. We have had many surprises and a very pretty ceremony.” Here the queen blushed again. “Considering the short notice we were able to give—only one day, let me remind you once more—it seems to me marvellous that there has been no hitch in the proceedings. I understand that the entertainment we have been privileged to see tonight has been prepared for a private celebration of May Day; but as our friends naturally expected to have a fortnight still for preparation, they might well have been excused an occasional failure. That there has been no failure says much for the advanced state of their arrangements, and I am sure we all congratulate them very heartily. I would like to emphasise one point, which seems to me worthy of particular mention. All we have seen, the dancing and merrymaking, has been the treasured secret of the Hamlet Club all through the winter. The secret has been so jealously guarded that though it was known to so many within the club, no whisper has reached any one outside. We did not know what they were doing. I am afraid some of us never inquired. This secret has been generously yielded up for the sake of the school, and I am sure you will appreciate the public spirit thus shown. In your name I tender our thanks to the president and members of the Hamlet Club. Will you join me in three hearty cheers?”

“Three cheers for the May Queen!” shouted Marguerite shrilly at the first opportunity.

“Three cheers for Miss Macey!”

“Three cheers for the school and all of us!” and it seemed that the “morris men” had plenty of breath left in spite of their exertions.

Then the crowds broke up, and there was confusion indeed, and much talk and laughter. The Town girls crowded round the excited Hamlets, begging to be allowed to examine the Maypole, the costumes, and the accessories for the morris-dance. The May Queen would have fled into retirement, having had quite enough of her prominent position; but Miss Macey detained her, and she had to stand and receive compliments and congratulations which made her cheeks burn and set her looking frantically for Cicely to come and share her honours. But Cicely and Dorothy were hard at work urging their triumphant “sides” to disperse, and Miriam had to carry her weight of honours alone.

“I didn’t know you, Mirry,” was Dick’s greeting when at last he was allowed to rescue her. “I’d no idea you could look so imposing.”

“Imposing! I’ve felt a perfect freak all evening,” was the queen’s ungrateful rejoinder.

The big hay-cart which had brought the Maypole was crowded with girls, and sent off, with a parting cheer, on a round of visits to distant hamlets. Marguerite’s aunt had come down from Penn to take her home in a cab, and several more from that neighbourhood were packed in, on condition that they walked up the hill to Terriers. Margia undertook to convoy the girls for Haslemere and Totteridge, extending her own route slightly for the purpose. Dorothy was driving home, and could give several friends a lift; and Georgie and Edna, in a big farm wagon from Kingshill, carried a large and very noisy party.

Mrs. Honor had disappeared as soon as “Sir Roger” was over, with her little ones and the rest of the babies, and Dick cycling alongside. The carriage from Broadway End awaited them at “The Red Lion,” and she reached Green Hailey some time later with only one out of the six still awake, and that one of course Babs. At each home a sleepy baby was lifted out and handed to its mother, and the carriage drove back to the station to fetch Cicely and Miriam, who were coming by train.

Miriam sank on the cushions with a tired sigh. “I’m glad that’s over. It was rather an ordeal, but Miss Macey seemed pleased.”

“Everybody was pleased. It was worth giving up our secret for. I don’t think even Dorothy regrets it now.”

“It ought to make the Townies more friendly,” Miriam said thoughtfully. “If they keep us out of things after this it will look rather bad. I should think they’d be ashamed to.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Cicely said soberly. “Yes, of course, it ought to help.”

“I thought perhaps that was partly why you did it.”

“No; I was thinking of the school and the mess they were in, and that we could help if we would. I really never thought of what might come of it. Once we’d decided, there was no time to think of anything but our plans. There seemed so much to arrange. It was just a rush. We’ll see if anything comes of it. At least, we’ve shown them we can do something. They can’t despise us now. And we’ve made the club known and well thought of. Oh, I’m glad we did it! But I’m jolly tired. I’m going to sleep all tomorrow to make up for it.”

“And on Saturday we meet in Darley’s barn to talk it over.”

“I’m coming to hear what your mother thought of it, too. She may have heard what the people round her said. I’d like to know if she was pleased. Good-night, Your Majesty!”

Chapter 27 - The Sub-Committee

IT was the last day of April, and Margia sat at her cottage door putting finishing touches to a sketch of the entrance to Kingswood, where the green shade of opening buds was beginning to show among the smooth stems of the beeches. School was to begin on the 2nd of May, but she was not expecting to teach this term. Her sister had returned from her long holiday in good health, and was in Wycombe today making arrangements with Miss Macey. Margia was looking forward to summer days in the woods, which were growing in greater beauty every day. Miriam had shown her and Cicely where the primroses were the biggest, where wild hyacinths spread under the trees, where the earliest hawthorn would be found. On every hand Margia saw studies, and was eager to get to work.

But tomorrow was May Day, and she had promised to spend the afternoon at Broadway End. Today Cicely expected her grandparents home; tomorrow the Hamlet Club would meet to celebrate May Day. Margia laughed as she thought of the surprise awaiting them at Broadway End, for the secret had been kept, and the girls only knew that they were to meet at Darley’s Bottom or Green Hailey, and go together to the scene of the revels. They were to dance and crown the May Queen for their own amusement this time, and for the entertainment of their president’s relations, who had been away from home all winter. They knew no more, and speculation was busy as to where the celebrations would take place. Some looked for another barn, others for a garden or green, till a heavy shower on May Day morning put an open-air dance out of the question.

Margia looked up at the sound of horses’ feet, then laid down her brushes in surprise, for Hilary and Madeline, on horseback and attended by a groom, were coming towards her gate. She had heard that Madeline was to spend some days with Hilary during the holidays; but what had brought them to call on her she did not know. Then she laughed, for Cicely had promised to see her that morning, and had said perhaps she would ride, as the roads were too muddy for cycling. She had made progress with her riding lessons during the holidays, and was hoping to ride with her grandfather when he came home. Margia found herself hoping Cicely would arrive while the others were there.

She met them at the gate. “Good-morning! Are you looking for me?”

“Yes, Miss Lane. We want to see Cicely Hobart, and nobody seems to know exactly where she lives. We were told to go to a cottage in Whiteleaf; but the woman said Cicely had left a week ago, and she wasn’t at liberty to give us her new address. So we went on to Green Hailey, but Miriam was out. Then we tried Dorothy Darley, and she wouldn’t tell us either. She said she’d have to ask Cicely’s leave. You know where she lives, don’t you? Why does she make such a mystery about it?”

“For reasons of her own, no doubt. I’ll tell her you want her, but she’s busy at present. Her grandparents, with whom she is now living, are expected home today, and tomorrow the Hamlets are celebrating May Day. Perhaps she would invite you. Or you could see her at school on Thursday.”

“We want to see her before school begins. We’re a deputation from the school clubs to the Hamlets; but we supposed we must see Cicely. She represents the rest.”

“Undoubtedly. I’m expecting her here this morning, but I don’t know what time she’ll come. She wants to give me some final instructions for tomorrow’s revels. They are making a few changes in their programme. I’ll tell her you want to see her, and ask her to arrange for sometime tomorrow. This afternoon she is going to meet her grandmother.”

“We have to be in town tomorrow,” Hilary said ruefully. “We’re going to lunch with friends, and won’t be back till five. Would tomorrow evening be possible?”

“Are you on the ‘phone? Then if Cicely doesn’t come this morning, I’ll ring her up when I’m in town this afternoon and see what we can arrange.”

“Ring her up? Is Cicely on the ‘phone?” cried Hilary.

Margia laughed in some dismay. “She uses it, anyway! I’ll do my best for you, Hilary.” And Hilary and Madeline rode away, puzzled and unable to forget those careless words.

Before they reached the corner, however, they heard Margia calling them, and, looking back, they saw a sight that filled them with amazement—Cicely Hobart, in neat brown habit and cap, seated on a brown pony, riding up to the cottage, followed by a groom. An incredulous look flashed from Hilary to Madeline, and, speechless with amazement, they turned and crossed the green to meet her.

Cicely was greeting Margia gaily. “I’ve had a glorious gallop down the Amersham road! We struck it near Holmer Green, and had it all to ourselves—not a soul in sight. The gorse is in full flower, Margia. You should go and paint it. I’m going to beg grandfather to ask you to paint some sketches for my bedroom, like those on the staircase. I’d be awfully proud of them.”

“Cicely, here are some friends who have been inquiring for your address,” said Margia.

Cicely turned quickly. At sight of the elder girls’ astonishment her eyes danced, and she knew her secret could not be kept much longer. But she was determined not to tell any Town girl until her Hamlets understood.

“You didn’t give it them, I hope? Thanks awfully!” as Margia shook her head.—“Good morning, Hilary! That’s a jolly horse. I like Madeline’s better, though.”

“They’re both Hilary’s,” Madeline laughed. “I’m staying with her. You look as if you were enjoying the holidays, Cicely.”

“I’ve had a jolly time, Cicely admitted, her eyes dwelling approvingly on the horses; for, thanks to the groom’s comments on every horse they met, she was beginning to form opinions on the subject.

“We didn’t know you could ride!” Hilary’s remark was almost a question.

“Didn’t you? Ah, well, you see, some people don’t know everything!”

“Oh, Hilary, don’t set her off! You know what she is!” cried Madeline; and Margia shook her head reprovingly at Cicely.

“I really didn’t mean to say anything rude that time,” Cicely said hastily. “But honestly, Hilary, you do know very little about some of us Hamlets. Did you want to see me today?”

“Yes,” said Hilary swiftly, to cover her unfortunate remark. “We’re a deputation from the United School Clubs, Cicely, to ask if you and the others of the Hamlet Club will join us and make yours one of the school clubs, too. We’re going to adopt Madeline’s suggestion and abolish our subscriptions, if you’ll open your membership to any of our girls who care to join. We hope you’ll join some of our clubs.”

“On equal terms?” Cicely asked bluntly. “You won’t make our girls feel uncomfortable and outside things? You’ll be friendly?”

“If you welcome us, we’ll welcome you,” Hilary said frankly. “I see now that the way we’ve behaved must have seemed pretty mean. Miss Macey’s been talking to us. But it was jolly awkward for us, and I suppose we took the wrong way at first. Miss Macey says the way you helped us the other day gives us a good chance to make a fresh start and try to have things pleasanter all round. She says it will be better for the school, too, and we care a good deal about the school, you know. It was when I saw you were willing to give up your secret to help the school that I began to feel we wanted your help in our clubs. You’d refused to help before, and it made me wild, for I knew you could do it—play hockey, and act, and so on. It riled me to think you’d stand aside and let the school go without your help. But now—”

“It was on principle!” Cicely said quickly. “You were keeping half the school outside. You had no right to pick and choose whose help you’d have. I knew the best thing—the only thing—was for the school to be united, and I decided not to help until it was.”

“Well, will you join in now? If we throw open the tennis and cricket and swimming clubs, will you join and play up, all of you, and let us pick our teams from the best players? And if our girls want to join your Hamlet Club, will you let them?”

Cicely looked at Hilary thoughtfully. “It’s a big thing. I can’t possibly answer for the others. And I’d have to talk it over with Miriam before proposing it to the club. She’s our queen, and we mean her to have a kind of authority all this year. I’ll consult her, and let you know.”

She looked at Margia and laughed. “I suppose all our secrets will have to go now! If I tell the Hamlets everything, there’s no reason why other people shouldn’t know. But the Hamlets must come first. That’s only fair. Margia, don’t give me away, please! I’ll tell them myself and in my own way.” She turned to Hilary. “Could you come to our May Day revels tomorrow afternoon? I could consult the others as soon as they arrive, and tell you then.”

“Where?” asked Hilary ingenuously. “For we’ve a luncheon engagement in town, and won’t be back till the afternoon. Where would we have to come to?”

Cicely’s eyes danced mischievously. “Could you be at Risborough station at three o’clock?”

“No; not till after six, I’m afraid. We’re coming home by the five o’clock train. It goes on to Risborough.”

“Bother!” and Cicely looked thoughtful. Then she said quickly, “Well, it can’t be helped! You’ve seen it all, anyway. I’ll consult the others, and I’ll keep Miriam and Dorothy and Marguerite till you come. You come by that train, and we’ll meet you, and you can talk it over with us. Then we can have things settled before school begins.”

“Well, we’ll do that then,” Hilary said reluctantly.

“And you won’t tell us where we’re going?” Madeline asked, with eyes full of amusement. “You expect us to come without leaving word where we’re going? Suppose we don’t get home safely? They won’t know where to look for us!”

Cicely laughed. “I won’t let anything happen to you! Now I can’t stop any longer. I have to get home to change for lunch, and then go to the station.—Margia, I’ve seen Georgie and Edna, and they’ll rise to the occasion—you know! Mirry hasn’t guessed. No one’s said a word, about it. But they’re all awfully pleased with the idea.”

“Would you like to see my—But better not, perhaps. If it waits till tomorrow, she can show you herself.”

Cicely nodded. “I’d love to see it, but it will be jollier if everyone brings a surprise. Well, good-bye till tomorrow!” and she rode away towards Wycombe.

Hilary and Madeline went thoughtfully homewards. There was evidently something not yet understood about Cicely Hobart. No ordinary Hamlet girl rode a pony like that. They were deeply puzzled, but realised that the next evening would bring an explanation.

At Cicely’s suggestion, but unknown to the May Queen, some changes had been made in the programme for the celebration. One of these gave opportunity for another pretty ceremony, which so overwhelmed Miriam that she hardly knew where to look or how to face her loyal subjects.

When the queen, crowned with hawthorn and carrying a great bouquet of white and purple lilac, had taken her seat on one side of the big hearth, opposite Mr. and Mrs. Broadway, the dancers disappeared into their dressing-room, and returned bringing gifts for presentation to Her Majesty. Miriam had known nothing of this, and was taken aback and almost overcome.

Cicely, with the coming summer in her mind, brought a handsome tennis-racket, Dorothy a book, Marguerite a collar of beautiful old lace from among some treasures left her by her mother, Georgie a rabbit, and Edna a basket of fresh eggs. Margia presented a framed sketch of Hampden Woods, at sight of which the queen gave a cry of delight. The other girls brought gifts of various kinds, many mere trifles, but no one had consented to be left out. Those who had nothing else brought flowers, till the throne looked like a bower, with wood-hyacinths, lilac, and early roses heaped about it.

When all the gifts had been presented, Mr. Broadway produced his own and his wife’s offerings, explaining that if the ceremony were repeated next year, the same would be given to the queen then chosen. On Mrs. Broadway’s behalf, he laid at Queen Miriam’s feet a volume of Tennyson’s poems, and on his own he presented her with a gold medal and chain, the locket inscribed on one side, “May Queen, 191-,” and on the other, in tiny lettering, “Queen Miriam was crowned at Broadway End by the Hamlet Club as its First Queen, 1st.May 191-.”

“A little memento of a very enjoyable afternoon, and a delightful welcome home to England;” and he cut short her shy thanks, for, taken by surprise, she hardly knew what to say. “I beg you to wear it continually, my dear. It will remind your subjects of your authority. When your year of office is over, we will present a similar gift to the next queen, if you will permit us to see the coronation.”

“Mirry will have to crown her—and be crowned with forget-me-nots herself, of course!” Cicely added. “Now here comes the Maypole! Girls, three cheers!” And they caught hands and danced around the pole; while Miriam sat nursing her rabbit, surrounded by flowers, the racket at her feet, her eyes continually wandering towards the lace, the books and the picture.

On the wall above her throne hung a large framed photograph of the queen in her robes and crown. It had been a surprise to the Hamlet girls when they arrived, and had been much admired in the intervals of the dances. It was an excellent likeness, and made a very pretty picture.

“That’s another of grandfather’s jolly ideas,” Cicely explained. “He wrote and told me to make Mirry go and be taken in all her grandeur, and he’s had three copies done—one for us, one for her mother, and one for Miss Macey to hang in the school- hall. And he says he’ll have the same done every year, and present one to the school and one to the queen’s mother, so that by the time we’re old and gray there will be a regular gallery of them, and all the old May Queens will be able to bring their grandchildren to see what they were like when they were young!”

“It suggests a procession of bath-chairs!” laughed Dorothy.

Hilary and Madeline reached the station in a state of curiosity, and even excitement. Where was Cicely? She had promised to meet them. But she was not to be seen, and no one was waiting except a handsome carriage and pair. As they hesitated, the man came up and inquired if they were guests of Miss Hobart’s. Hilary could only stare, but Madeline had presence of mind enough to answer. As they sank on the cushions she murmured, “It’s all to match—the pony—the ‘phone—this carriage! Did you see the livery? And the ripping horses? Miss Cicely has been having a joke with us, it seems! I wonder how she’s managed to keep it dark so long!”

“And why!” said the astounded Hilary.

“Oh, that’s obvious! She’d taken up the Hamlets, and didn’t want to scare them. I wonder where we’re going.”

They could only wait and guess; and as Whiteleaf and Kimble were left behind their curiosity deepened into excitement. It was dusk when the carriage reached Broadway End, and they looked at one another in amazement.

“Where are we? What house is it? It’s a huge place! Oh, Cicely has had her joke, right enough! She’s humbugged us all. Cottage in Whiteleaf, indeed! Isn’t she a little wretch?” murmured Madeline. “I wonder what the Hamlets thought when they arrived this afternoon. She said they didn’t know.”

“There’s Miss Lane on the steps,” said Hilary. “We’ll ask her where we are. Where’s Cicely herself, I wonder?”

Margia welcomed them in the doorway with a smile at their bewildered faces. She shook her head in response to Hilary’s question, and opened the door leading into the big hall.

The only light came from the wood-fire on the open hearth. The Maypole stood with drooping ribbons; relics of the festival were scattered about—flowers, bells, morris staves and handkerchiefs. But the dancers had gone home as twilight fell, and the hall was very quiet.

Mrs. Broadway had been tired out, though she had thoroughly enjoyed her introduction to Cicely’s friends. She had gone to her room to rest, and Mr. Broadway was upstairs also, dressing for dinner. Only Cicely’s most intimate friends were left, and they were talking over the celebrations, the holidays, and the future of the club.

Miriam sat by the fire, still wearing her white robes and nursing her rabbit, her loosened hair drooping on each side of her face as she leaned forward gazing into the flames. On the other side of the hearth, Dorothy lay in Mr. Broadway’s big chair, utterly spent and weary. Cicely and Marguerite, still wearing their gray gowns and white hoods, were on the hearthrug, Cicely sitting at Miriam’s feet, clasping her knees, Marguerite stretched at full length to rest.

“Tableau!” murmured Margia in the doorway. “It’s an accident, however. We didn’t arrange it.”

“As soon as the last of the dancers had gone, Cicely had thrown herself down at the queen’s feet, with an eager, “Now tell us, Mirry! You said you wanted our advice about something as soon as we had a chance to talk it over quietly.”

Miriam’s colour rose, and she stared into the fire. “Miss Macey sent me a card asking me to go and see her this morning; so I went, though I had to hurry back. She says Miss Bates wants to give me singing lessons, and asked how we could arrange it.”

“Good old Batey! I don’t wonder, though. It would be wicked if you didn’t make something of your voice.”

“I thanked her, of course, but said I didn’t think it would be possible. We’ve no piano at home, and no room for one. If a piano came into one of our rooms we should have to wait outside. I told her I only know the songs I’ve heard mother sing; though lately I’ve practised at Dorothy’s. She said I could practise at school; and then—this is what I want to ask you about—she asked if I would be willing to give some of the little ones lessons in morris-dancing in exchange for singing lessons. She says—”

“What a jolly idea!” Cicely cried eagerly.

“Well, she says several parents have asked her to start classes; but no one in the school, except ourselves, has been trained in that kind of dancing, and she wondered if I would be willing to teach it. I said I’d have to ask you first; but I thought I could do it if you were willing.”

“Willing!” Cicely stared. “Why shouldn’t I be willing? It would be very jolly, and I’m sure you could do it. You’ve taught your “side” already. You surely didn’t think I’d object? But why, Mirry?”

“Well, it’s your idea. We’ve all learnt it from you. I said she ought to ask you first.”

“How very like you, Mirry Honor! Now, how could I? You know very well I’d get sick of it in a month. I haven’t your sticking power. Did Miss Macey say that?” as Miriam laughed.

“She said something of the kind, and that she would prefer some one older.”

“Naturally. I’m sure she would. You’re Sixth, after all. It makes some difference. And you’ll soon be putting your hair up—oh, you’ll have to! You needn’t shake it like that!” as Miriam shook her head in vigorous protest, then pushed back her long loose locks. “It will be an awful pity, though; but I suppose you’ll have to. You’re getting so frightfully old, you know. You can teach the kiddies well enough, Mirry; and as for asking my leave, that’s a silly idea; though it’s very sweet of you, of course. I wouldn’t take on the job for anything, but I’ll be delighted if you will. And when you’re a world-famous soprano, you can remember that the Hamlet Club gave you your start.”

“I’m very much obliged to the Hamlet Club—which means you, Cicely. But I’m not going to be a singer; so don’t expect it, or you’ll be disappointed. I’m going to take my B.A., and then teach; but the singing lessons will be a great treat, and may come in useful sometime. Mother’s very pleased about it.”

“I think you’ll be a singer yet. Wait and see. But will you have time to teach dancing?”

“Not till after matric.; but then I can begin.”

“You aren’t going to leave? That would be too awful, Mirry.”

“Not yet. It would mean going to town to study, and I don’t want to do that. Miss Macey has the right to grant senior scholarships, and she wants me to stay on till I’ve passed my Inter., anyway.”

“What a relief!” Cicely said fervently. “We could never get on without you.”

“Without Mirry?” cried Dorothy, and she and Marguerite threw themselves down to rest—Dorothy in the big chair, Marguerite on the rug beside Cicely. “What nonsense! We couldn’t exist. Marguerite would wither up at once, like a squashed daisy. Who’s suggesting anything so awful?”

“Nobody, you goose. Don’t try to come into a conversation when you’ve only heard the tail-end. We were discussing Mirry’s future career, that’s all.”

“It was far too good of you all to give me those lovely presents. I had no chance to say “Thank you.” I was so surprised, I didn’t know what to say; you’d kept it dark so well.”

“Oh, a queen ought to have gifts at her coronation,” Cicely said lightly. “I knew there was something left out that evening at school, but I couldn’t think what it was. The girls liked the idea. They were all pleased, Mirry. Do you like the medal? I had to see to it, as grandfather was away; but he told me where to get it.”

“I love it! I shall wear it night and day.”

“It’s all very well for Cicely. She knows she’ll be the next queen,” said Dorothy.

“So she ought to—”

“I don’t know anything of the kind,” Cicely said swiftly. “Any one may be chosen next year. It may be a Town girl, for all we know. We can’t arrange that it will be a Hamlet—I mean one of the original Hamlets—if we’ve thrown open the club to the whole school. Hilary might be chosen, or Madeline, or Maud.”

“Oh, I say!” and Dorothy looked up in blank dismay. “That would be too awful. Can’t we insist that only a real, proper Hamlet girl—”

“No, I’m afraid we can’t. We’ll have to take the risk.”

“What an appalling prospect! I’m not sure that it’s worth it.”

“You’re forgetting the tennis and cricket clubs. You know you’re keen on both, Dorothy.”

“Yes, but the thought of having a Towny for May Queen is too horrible!”

“Oh, well, the queen must be chosen out of the Hamlet Club, and I don’t suppose all the Townies will rush to join us. We must hope for the best. Our own girls will want to have one of ourselves for queen, you know.”

The discussion had reached this stage, when Margia switched on the lights, crying, “Visitors, Cicely!”

Cicely sprang up and came forward to welcome her guests. “We’re very pleased to see you. I am sorry you couldn’t come for the afternoon, though. We had a jolly time.”

“Cicely, you are a fraud!” cried Madeline. “Do you live here? Why have you cheated us all this time?”

“Oh, for reasons,” Cicely said airily. “I haven’t been here all the time, you know. I’ve really been in Whiteleaf until just the other day. But I shall be living here now my grannies have come home.”

“And where are we? We haven’t the slightest idea.”

“At Broadway End. I had to keep it dark until the club was fairly started.”

“Broadway End!” said Hilary slowly, a new note in her tone; for, in spite of Miss Macey’s pointed advice, she had great respect for wealth, and the house was one of the largest in the district. “Is Mr. Broadway your grandfather? And you’ve kept it dark for six months!” That was a thing she would never be able to understand. In Cicely’s place she would have sought to win the allegiance of the Hamlet girls by means of those very facts which Cicely had concealed so carefully.

“Did your club really not know?” and Madeline looked down at Cicely in amusement.

“Not till this afternoon. Our morris “side” knew, of course. They stayed here in the Christmas holidays. But the rest didn’t know until today that there was a secret. I was living at Whiteleaf, you see.”

“Well, you have cheated us all!” and Madeline looked round the great hall. “What did the other Hamlets say when they arrived?”

“They were a bit stunned at first,” Cicely laughed. “But they got over it, and then they began to ask questions. It was some time before we could settle down to our revels. Come and speak to Queen Miriam;” and she brought chairs towards the hearth.

Miriam rose and swept her train aside in a graceful, laughing curtsy.

Dorothy looked up lazily. “I really can’t get up. Mirry must do the polite for me. I’m exhausted. She hasn’t been dancing for the last two hours;” and she nodded to Hilary and Madeline.

“I’m glad to see you here, Hilary.” There was meaning in Miriam’s tone. “Here” meant much more than Broadway End, and Hilary knew it. “Have you had jolly holidays? I haven’t seen you since that last evening when we danced. How is Maud?”

“Better; but Violet’s down with it now, of course. They say Maud nearly cried her eyes out over the play.”

“How stately you look, Mirry!” said Madeline. “Is it the long dress?”

“Cicely wouldn’t let me change. She says we’re to wait till after dinner,” Miriam explained. “Then Dorothy’s going to drive Margia and Marguerite home, and you two and I can go together. Cicely will lend us the carriage.”

“You’ll stop to dinner, won’t you? Oh, you really must!” Cicely urged. “Grandfather will enjoy it awfully. He’s had such a quiet time for years that he says he’s going to make up for it now, and I’m going to help him. Grandmother has gone to bed, as she isn’t very strong yet and the journey tired her yesterday. So we six and Margia have to entertain grandfather; I wanted Georgie and Edna to stay too; but they had to get home. I think they were shy.”

“And what is your club’s decision?” asked Madeline soberly as they sat down. “We all ought to be friendly, Cicely. I hope you’re willing.”

“I was willing from the first. I always said the state of things in the school was wrong. They’re not very keen, but they’re willing to try it for the sake of the school—”

“And to please Mirry and Cicely,” put in Dorothy, from the depths of the big chair. “They’re both so awfully keen on it that the poor Hamlets hadn’t much choice.”

“You can’t wonder if they hesitated,” Cicely said gravely. “They don’t feel at all sure that you’ll all be friendly. You’ll have to alter that. We can’t do it. It has been horrid for them, and they can’t forget it all at once. It’s not as if they were still outsiders, with no club of their own. They’re quite satisfied now, and not half so keen on the school clubs as they were. They’re not very anxious to have a lot of new members in our club either. But we’ve decided to try it, and see how it works. You must do your best with your girls, and we will with ours, and we’ll all try to get them to work well together out of school as well as in. We can’t expect everything to be perfect all at once, when things have been so much the other way for so long. But we see it will be best for the school, and we’ll help in every way we can. What do you say?”

“I’ll do my best,” Madeline said soberly. “I see the difficulties, but it ought to be possible to get over them.”

Hilary said little, but thought much. She had come prepared to yield, but feeling that she was granting a favour. She had never doubted that the offer would be accepted with eagerness and delight. She had made a great concession, and had expected corresponding gratitude. Cicely’s report, “They’re not keen, but they’re willing to try for the sake of the school,” had been a revelation and something of a shock. It was not the attitude she had expected from the Hamlets. They were more independent-minded than she quite approved of. The honour of being admitted to the school clubs had evidently failed to impress them duly. She felt rather crushed, and hardly knew what to say.

Dorothy read her feeling in her face, and chuckled inwardly, but knew better than to rouse Cicely’s wrath or worry Miriam by expressing herself aloud. Marguerite, gazing into the fire, looked too innocent to be natural. Cicely eyed them both severely.

Queen Miriam disregarded them, and addressed the visitors. “If we all try together, we ought to be able to make things go. Couldn’t we form an unofficial strictly private sub-committee to help matters on and smooth over difficulties? You two and I in the Sixth, and these two and Cicely among the younger girls? We might supply the—the grease to make the wheels go round! Don’t you see what I mean? It would have to be a secret, of course, but I think we could help. We might make this term the best the school has ever had.”

“Your Majesty of the May, you’re ripping! I’ll be a wheel-greaser, if the others will,” Cicely said enthusiastically, and in spite of the imperative ringing of the dinner-bell, would not permit any adjournment till a solemn pledge had been taken by all.

“All the same,” she said, as she helped Miriam out of her robes and into her coat after dinner, “we’ve got some queer members on our strictly private sub-committee. You and Madeline are all right, and I hope Marguerite can be trusted to play up for the sake of the school. But Hilary and Dorothy—well, we’ll see! It’s the best we can do, and we’ll hope it will turn out well. Good-night, Queen Mirry! I’ll see you in Whiteleaf tomorrow morning. You won’t mind going to school with me, perhaps? Then good-night, Lady of the May;” and, with a parting hug, she let her go.

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Text © Ju Gosling aka ju90 2010