THE OUTSIDER

Auckland Star, Volume LXVIII, Issue 72, 27 March 1937, Page 40 (Supplement)

THE OUTSIDER

• A STORY OF SCHOOL LIFE. ■

.(Concluded.) » THE short afternoon gave way, with a suddenness which took her by surprise, to a chill, turbulent twilight. The lane along which she was walking was dark with overshadowing .trees whose branches were creaking and groaning as the wind, tossed them backwards and* forwards mercilessly. It was very cold, very lonely, with not even a cottage to shed a. glimmer of light to guide her. Cicely turned up ■ her coat collar, more from sudden nervousness than from cold, and, calling Koko, she put him on his lead. It was. a comfort to her to have him straining at the thong, snorting for breath the while. She went on steadily, her lips tight set, but in her brain an insistent little voice kept muttering cruelly.: "Katharine and Audrey; Katharine and Audrey. They're friends. . They can do the things you will never do. They've no use for you —the outsider." And the straining branches seemed shouting in . taunting chorus: "Outsider—outsider—outsider l" Robinswood Castle lay nearly three miles from the golf course, and by the time ;Cicely came to the dip in the road which plunged down over the low wooden bridge spanning the river it was as dark as midnight, and raining in torrents. Cicely could hear the roar of the water over the •weir long before she reached the bridge, and, mingling with the patter of the rain, it was a terrifying sound in this isolated spot. Cicely was lio coward, but every nerve was taut as she walked onwards towards the bridge, and the hand which clutched the dog's lead was trembling. Slie ? d been an idiot to come this way; it was lonely even on a mid-summer's afternoon, and now the crashing of the trees, the roar of the river, and the ceaseless hiss of the rain made it almost uncanny. Cicely became a quivering bundle' of nerves, and when she drew near the white rails which led up to the bridge, something, some hidden sense, compelled her to stop dead, her hand on her heart, straining to listen-—but for what she could not tell. The noise was terrific, and as she listened an unfamiliar sound beat on her ears. The weir was 200 yards or more upstream, but now it seemed as though the river were lathing itself to fury against, some, obstruction almost at Cicely's feet. ,Almo3t at her feet—where the bridge lay

A sudden dread tugged at Cicely's heart; and she took a cautious step forward. The road was firm beneath her feet, and she ventured a few yards further. Here was the bridge - her hand was on the parapet—and she laughed shakily at her childish fear's. It was quite' all right; the bridge— "O-o-o-oh!" She cried out, a shrill scream of terror which the trees flung back at her mockingly. She had gone forward precipitately, and suddenly, without warning, she stepped into an empty space, a chasm-like hollow where the firm surface of the bridge should have been. Had she not been gripping the parapet she would have plunged headlong into the angry, boiling water beneath; but that hidden sense had whispered a warning, and she staggered back' into safety, shaking as though with some fever, the perspiration pouring off her forehead. . "It's given way—the bridge has given way I" she muttered, leaning against the rails in sudden reaction which made her feel absurdly weak. "The water has washed away the foundations, and—the road! What will happen to anyone coming along the road?" She turned sick at the thought, and the roar of the water, like the howl of some merciless benst of prey, seemed to hurl a savage answer at her. Katharine Cradock. would be coming along this very road at any moment now—and the bridge had given way! "I must warn her —I must warn herl" i Cicely cried the words aloud, and, hardly knowing what she did, she started running wildly up the road along which she had just come. To warn Katharine Cradock of her danger —that was her first, her only thought. To get as far up the road as she could, so as to give Katharine ample warning. She would be leaving the golf club at any moment-r-might even now be driving towards the bridge. She— A An icy hand, suddenly seemed to descend on Cicely, and she stopped abruptly, her eves wide with a new terror. The road over the river did not lead only from the golf club to Robinswood Castle; it was a minor road, but it was used as a short cut from Downover to Redsands. A large number of motorists used it daily, and even now someone might be approaching the bridge from the opposite direction, unaware of their deadly peril, ignorant of the destruction e*: the bridge, until it would be too late to avert disaster.

Tiie realisation stunned Cicely, and for a minute she stood in the middle of the road, incapable of clear thought. Then, with a little sob, she turned once more and raced towards the bridge, her breath coming in painful gasps. ■ The road curved treacherously on the other side of the river, so that an approaching motorist did not see the bridge until he was all but on it. Too late then to stop, unless he had some sort v of warning as he rounded the bend. Some sort of warning—and there was no one here but herself) no one within earshot! On her, Cicely, rested this awful responsibility, for she dared not leave the spot. She must act, and act at once. At any moment traffic might approach the bridge from one side or the other. Unless she hit on some plan an appalling tragedy was unavoidable, and-, almost as in a dream, Cicely found herself tying. Koko safely to one of the rails, then advancing with unfaltering steps towards the crumbling structure of the bridge. There was only one thing to .do. If she stood on the Redsands side of ithe bridge the would be left unguarded. If she went to the Downover bank— Here she pulled herself up sharply. She couldn't get across to the Downover side; the bridge had collapsed in the middle, leaving nothing but the bare framework, and that undermined, crumbling with rot and with the action of the water. Nothing but the bare framework — so frail that it might snap at the lightest touch. Yet on that piece of rotting timber ' depended perhaps three lives or more, and Cicely meant to use it now. Moving with, infinite caution, feeling her way with steady hands, clutching at whatever support the crazy frame afforded, she made her! way forward. It was very dark, but her eyes were growing accustomed to the gloom, and as she approached the danger spot she- hesitated, biting her lip in fear. There was practically, nothing left —no foothold, nothing between her and the tossing, roaring water beneath. It was sheer madness to go any further, and yet-— j Not for nothing had Cicely Joan j Colville written that vivid essay on "Personal Courage." She herself possessed the quality to the full, and now she showed herself in her true colours. Going, back towards the spot where Koko sat whining " and yapping in exasperated boredom, she untied him and picked up the lead. Carrying this to the end of the railing, on the very brink of the river, she looped it round the post, then undid the leather belt which she wore round her waist. Joining this to the lead, she unbuttoned her coat, blessing the' luckj chance which had made her wear her gym. tunic to-day—the gym tunic' which was the nearest sin would ever get to anything like a real school, she reflected wistfully. The .girdle would play a hero's* part now, and she unknotted it with shaking fingers, then secured it"to the belt, thus making a long rope.

='-v — " . Jgy Tying the other end tightly round her wrist, 6he crept forward again, this time unfalteringly, and if she was .white to the lips, and her eyes were dark with terror, there was na one to seeShe was on the frailest part of the bridge now, clinging with both hands, the la6so she had made cutting her wrist. The decayed /wood splintered ag she trod on it, and she cried out as she lurched and was flung sideways against the rickety parapet. She wa3 standing on a broken beam which was keeping in position only by a miracle, and as she clung there, dumb with terror now, she heard the crack of crumbling wood. . She held her breath in an agony of fear as the whole seemed to shake, then gasped as a piece of timber not 2ft from her was swirled into the whirlpool of the river. The wood on which she was lialf-standing, half-crouching, was straining and breaking under her weight, and she gripped the parapet with nerveless hands. She was in the centre of the wreckage, so that the headlights of any vehicle approaching from either side would fall directly on her. She was wearing. a white blouse—her sleeves would be an excellent mark, for she had flung.her coat off before embarking on this undertaking. She felt the rotten plank under her giving way, but tightened her hold on | the parapet and murmured desperately: "It's for Katharine. If—l can- hang on—till she don't mind— what happens." And then,.as the wood beneath her right foot slipped from under it and was whirled away, plunging her foot into ice-cold water: "I can't—do it—l can't! It's too— hard—it's—" Just as it seemed that her courage must slip from her she stiffened. Far off —incredibly far off, it seemed to her—she heard the roar of a powerful car.. It drew nearer and nearer, and just as a. mist seemed .to descend between her and everything but that cruel, roaring.pool so close—so terribly close to her—a blaze of light turned the darkness into day, and the world became a place of shouting, alarmed voices, and dark, surging Waters. It seemed hours later that Cicely became aware of anything again, and when she opened her eyes, drowsily at first, then with newly-awakened curiosity, she was lying on a couch in a room which she had never seen before, a room of warm old rose shades and soft blues, of gleaming silver and snowy linen, with a fire leaping and crackling in the*grate, and someone—sitting beside her— holding her hand—someone—• "Katharine I" ♦" Cicely whispered the word Incredulously as she looked up with dazed eyes into the face of the girl seated a"t her side. A dream, surely, but what a glorious dream! To be lying in this beautiful room, with this lovejy girl beside her, holding her (Continued 011 next page.)

vat -— " — (Continued from previous page.) hand! She closed her eyes, dreading to wake up and lose the dream, then opened them again as a low, musical voice spoke her name: "Cicely—are you all right now?" It was Katharine Cradockwho was speaking, Katharine - Cradock who now looked down at her with smiling : eyes. Cicely couldn't understand it in the very least, arid.Jier forehead puckered in bewilderment;; as she looked up at Katharine. :e "Are you feeling better ?", the elder girl asked gently, and' 'as Cicely nodded, uncomprehehdirigly, she seemed to understand what .was ■ puzzling her.- ■ Y '* . "The broken-down . youremember?" she said, and.in Jier eyes was a look which made Cicely flush with happiness. "It was wonderfully brave thing that you did. Cicely; if it hadn't been for you—" She left the sentence unfinished, and shivered; tften went on softly: "Slisß Haldane and I can never thank you enough, my dear, and—" Cicely interrupted her shrilly. "Miss Haldane ?" she repeated wildly. "But that's the name of the headmistress of Coverdale!" "Yes, my headmistress, and my mother's dearest friend," Katharine told her gravely. "I took her up to tlie-golf club to-day, and but for you our game would have ended in— But don't let us think of anything so horrible!" slio broke off lightly. "You have been an absolute little brick, Cicely, and now I am going to leave Miss Haldane to tell you far better than I ever can just what we think of you." Cicely flushed. "Oh," piease—don't!" she pleaded in awe-struck tones, her eyes glowing, "I—l— Oil, Katharine, I'd be seared out of my wits if I had to talk 'to Miss Haldane. She's the headmistress of Coverdale, and —" "Have you been giving me 6ucli a 1 bad name that I am looked on as a species of ogress, Katharine?" a laughing voice chimed in from the doorway, and the tall, beautiful woman Cicely, had seen in the car came in and stood by the couch, smiling down at a girl who had struggled to lier feet and was gazing at her in rapt admiration. "Cicely my dear, I was a happy woman the other. day when I read your really beautiful essay," she said. "I am happier still at this moment to be speaking to the writer of it, because I know that she is more than worthy of the sentiments she expressed in her essay. Down-, over College is lucky to have found l you, and with all my heart I hope you will be happy and successful there." Cicely looked up at her, the quick tears in her eyes. "I'm not going to Downover College, Miss Haldane," she said huskily. "I'm staying on at Miss Timmis'. You see, I didn't win the scholarship, and—and—well," she concluded, with a pathetic attempt at a smile, "I can't go to the college without it." There was a momentary silence.

Miss- Haldane. frowned, and glanced' at Katharine. Cicely's head, . wabent, and now two tears trickled, slowly- down her cheeks.. Two only got so. far, for the.next moment, she was in Sylvia Haldane's arms,. sobbing out a disjointed, piteous little story to a sympathetic listener. When the-recital was finished Miss Haldane stood, up, and there fwas a look in her eyes -which Katharine read aright as meaning , a sudden' determination. '■ "Lady Cradock wants you to have tea with, us nowy Cicely," she said briskly, entirely.-ignoring what the girl -had,, just told. her. ."We telephoned to your mother io say that you were .with us, so she'.will, not; be _ I myself .will drive you home - after And," she added, with a smile, "your dog is downstairs. nearly .mad with impatience to see you. , \ V ~;V; V-• She led the way from the room, and. as they crossed to . the door Katharine put her'arm round Cicely's shoulders. i,\, '\' r • • v : "All right, kiddie?" she asked, and Cicely smiled. She knew beyond all shadow of doubt tha't Katharine had never been so utterly sweet—-such.'a real friend —to Audrey Thurlow. It was her little hour of triumph! Her second hour came later-—three days later, to be exact—when she sat down to a formidable array of parcels at the breakfast table. Her father had arrived home the day before,\ very- much better, and the seal had, been set on that improvement when Sir Hubert Cradock himself had called and had made to him an offer -which had changed everything. Sir Hubert, it' appeared, was a professional soldier, and professional soldiers know nothing : -of | farming. Tlie farms on the Robins- ; wood, estate were going to rack and' | ruin through bad management; would he, John. Colville, be a .good • fellow and take over that management? Sir Hubert would be eternally grateful if lie would, and—or—pno hated ! to mention such matters between gentlemen'and friends, but financially John Colville should not be. the. loser. And the good man had gone,.leayT ing John Colville £500 a year better off, and now—now at last John;.Colvitle's daughter understood the mysterious secret signs and sentences which her-parents had exchanged the night before their laughing command to her to "wait and see" when she had asked them to let her share the secret. ■ \ • Then came a letter from .Robinswood Castle, written 011 Coverdale paper, and signed by Sylvia Haldane. Would Cicely like to enter Coverdale next term? There was a vacancy at Headlands, the largest board inghouse, and Miss Haldane would like to enter Cicely's name to start .on January 23. The headmistress was able, at her own discretion, to award two scholarships a year, and she considered that Cicely was up to the standard required. Cicely read no further.- What need? In a few lines Miss Haldane had granted her her great ambition, aIK l—well, if that Christmas she displayed symptoms of mid-summer madness months later than the

-roper time, who can wonder ? - For Katharine Cradock arrived that very afternoon to, congratulate her, and to offer to coach her in hockey and netball during, the holidays. '. Yes, there could be no doubt about the matter now, the Outsider had indeed come into her own at last!

THE END,