"I don't feel so afraid of Sir Mervyn now I know he's only a white owl,"

declared Cicely.

They stumbled down the stairs and across the dark nave, then stood waiting anxiously for some sign of coming relief. Was that a distant footstep? Yes; they heard the creaking of the lich-gate, the sound of voices, and the crunching of boots on the gravel path. They sprang at the door, knocking and shouting for help with all their might. In another moment the great key turned in the lock. It was Judson, the s.e.xton, who stood outside, with quite a number of people from the cottages behind him. All the village had been roused by the tolling of the bell, and everyone expected to find either a gang of thieves at work or the building on fire, instead of only two frightened little schoolgirls from the Manor.

At that moment both Miss Russell and Monica came hurrying up, the latter reproaching herself keenly for not having seen her companions safely home, and the former very angry at their escapade. As Lindsay had supposed, they had been expected back more than an hour ago, but Miss Russell thought Monica must have had an unusually long practice. When their bedtime arrived, and still they were missing, the headmistress had grown uneasy, and started in search of them. She had gone first to the church and found the door locked (it must have been while they were in the vestry), so concluded that they had returned with Monica to the cottage. She had been seriously alarmed to find they were not there, and her anxiety was shared by the Courtenays; and both she and Monica were on the point of rousing the whole village to aid in discovering their whereabouts when the sudden clanging of the bell made them hasten to the church. The girls gave a brief account of their adventure in reply to the many enquiries of their rescuers.

"I thought I could have trusted you to return straight home," said Miss Russell reproachfully. "No, Monica, it is not in any way your fault.

Lindsay and Cicely knew perfectly well they had no right to linger behind, nor to enter the tower. I am disappointed in them, for I certainly should not have allowed them to go and blow the organ if I had believed there was the slightest opportunity for such behaviour.

They have only themselves to blame, and I consider they thoroughly deserved the fright they have had."

CHAPTER XII

An Enigma

Though most of the delights of the summer term at the Manor consisted of outdoor amus.e.m.e.nts, other interests were not entirely lacking. In a magazine which Miss Russell took in for the school library there was an announcement of a compet.i.tion which offered a prize to children under thirteen for the largest number of poetical quotations descriptive of wild flowers. Both Lindsay and Cicely were anxious to try, and ransacked all the volumes of poetry they could get hold of for suitable extracts.

"I think it's too much bother," said Nora Proctor. "It means looking through such a heap of books, and then copying out the pieces so neatly afterwards. It would take one's whole recreation time."

"And probably one wouldn't get anything for it in the end," said Marjorie Butler.

"I began," said Effie Hargreaves, "but, as Nora says, it's far too great a f.a.g. I got ten quotations from Shakespeare, and six from Tennyson.

I'll give them to you, Cicely, if you like."

"Oh, thanks, if they're not the same as I have already!"

"I tried for a prize once in a magazine," said Beryl Austen, "but I only got highly commended. I'm afraid my writing wasn't good enough."

Though the other girls did not care to compete themselves, they were interested in Lindsay's and Cicely's lists, and gave them any a.s.sistance they could in hunting out fresh quotations.

"I'll tell you what," said Beryl, "you ought to ask Monica. She reads a great deal, and I believe she's rather clever at botany. I heard her talking about the wild flowers of the neighbourhood to Miss Russell."

"Yes, I believe she has a nice pressed collection," said Effie. "She promised to show it to us some day."

Lindsay and Cicely took Beryl's advice, and waylaid Monica as she came to the French cla.s.s next morning.

"I'm glad you asked me," she replied. "I've no doubt I shall be able to help you; I have a good many beautiful books on botany in the library.

I'll bring the key this afternoon, and unlock the case for you."

Monica always kept her promises. She arrived about four o'clock, and opened the large gla.s.s doors that preserved the handsome calf-bound volumes from dust and dirt.

"Here they are," she said. "Some are very dry and scientific, and some are popular, and have coloured pictures. There are catalogues of plants, and schedules of species, and old herbals, and every kind of book you can imagine that has a bearing on the subject. Some are about British flowers and some about foreign ones, and there are others on mosses and ferns and fungi. They used to belong to my uncle; he was extremely fond of botany."

"Have you read them all?" asked Cicely.

"No, I'm afraid I have rather neglected them. You see, I have had so many lessons to learn. One can't study everything at once, and Mother particularly wants me to work hard at French. Perhaps some day I may attack the natural orders. It will take you a long time to look through every one of these books. I'll leave the case unlocked, so that you can get them out when you like. I know I can trust you not to spoil the covers, and to put each back in its proper place."

"We'll be very, very careful of them," Lindsay a.s.sured her. "We won't carry them into the garden. We'll sit and read them here at the table."

"That will be all right, then," said Monica. "I feel they are rather a particular charge, because they were left to me as a special legacy. I believe my uncle valued them more than anything else in the world. I often think I don't appreciate them as much as I ought."

As Monica had said, it took considerable labour to thoroughly examine all the books and search for extracts. Some merely contained long lists of Latin names, and others were far too learned and scientific to interest schoolgirls. A few, however, treated the subject from its romantic side, and quoted pa.s.sages of poetry such as they wanted. Miss Russell, who had encouraged them to try for the prize, gave them permission to use the library when they pleased; so for the next few days they spent most of their spare time there.

It was a pleasant occupation, and one that seemed to bring them into touch with the old poets who had loved Nature so dearly, and sung so charmingly about her blossoms. It was quite wonderful to think that nearly six hundred years ago Chaucer had noticed and recorded the little golden heart and white crown of the daisy; and that King James I of Scotland, while pining as Henry IV's prisoner in Windsor Castle, could remember and write of--

"The sharpe, greene, sweete juniper, Growing so fair with branches here and there".

The compet.i.tion proved most interesting, and, as it happened, was to be connected with unforeseen occurrences.

One afternoon, Cicely, who was trying to work her way systematically along the shelves, brought down a thick, bulky volume, bound in brown leather, with metal corners, and ent.i.tled _Floral Calendar_.

"This must be an old one," she remarked. "Look how yellow the paper is, and there are actually long S's. Someone has scribbled notes all round the edges of the pages."

"I wonder if it was Sir Giles Courtenay?" said Lindsay.

Cicely turned to the flyleaf at the beginning. Yes, in exactly the same rather straggling hand was the inscription:

"GILES PEMBERTON COURTENAY, HAVERSLEIGH MANOR, SOMERSET."

"He seems to have been fond of writing in his books," said Lindsay.

"What's this opposite his name?"

On the inside of the cover quite a long piece of poetry had been copied.

It appeared to be something in the nature of an acrostic or charade, and it ran thus:--

ENIGMA

My _First_, among flowers you can't find a better, 'T was used by a king for securing a letter.

My _Second_, whose blossoms of yellow soon fade, Comes out every night in the calm evening shade.

My _Third_, oft called Iris, is much in demand, It grows on an island named Van Diemen's Land.

My _Fourth_, a wild flower with sweet golden eye, Is more blessing than "torment" to all who pa.s.s by.

My _Fifth_, with great trusses of lavender hue, Is the sweetest of shrubs that the spring brings to view.

My _Sixth_, an old blossom in medicine once famed, Was good for the eyesight, and thus it was named.

Now if you have guessed all these flowers that I prize, Please take my initials and finals likewise: The former you'll find to be hiding the latter; If you've solved the enigma you'll see 'tis a matter Perchance may provide you with just a lost link, And bring you a greater reward than you think.

G. P. C.

Both Lindsay and Cicely were particularly fond of any kind of riddle.

They seized upon this floral enigma with delight, and began to puzzle it out with the help of the ill.u.s.trated catalogue of plants given in the old volume.

"How funny of Sir Giles Courtenay to have written it inside a botany book!" said Cicely.

"I suppose he was quite mad," replied Lindsay.