*THE GIRLS OF CHEQUERTREES*
*CHAPTER I*
*THE WINDOW OPPOSITE*
On a cold, damp January evening a woman sat in the dusk of a fire-lit
room gazing through the window. For half an hour she had been sitting
there fidgeting impatiently with her hands and feet every few minutes,
but never moving from the position she had taken up by the window. Her
expectant gaze was centred on the outline of a house that stood on the
opposite side of the village green at Barrowfield.
From the window, or for the matter of that from the green or the road
that encircled the green, little could be seen of the house, as the high
ivy-topped walls which surrounded the garden guarded it jealously from
prying eyes. It was only through the tall iron-rail gate set into an
arch in the stone wall that you could ascertain that the house was
flat-fronted and square, a house entirely covered with ivy, out from
whose dark, rustling leaves many windows peered like deep-set eyes. A
broad gravel path swept from the gate to a flight of white steps that
led up to the front door. The garden, stretching away on either side of
the path, appeared to be thick and bushy with shrubs and tall old trees.
This much the woman at the window had observed from the gate, and now
she was sitting--waiting.
A little breeze sprang up and scurried through the ivy leaves as if it
and they were whispering together about something. Although the house
seemed silent, it was not deserted, for presently, as it grew darker, a
light appeared in one of the lower windows and a blind was drawn--a red
blind through which the light glowed, seeming to increase in strength as
the house gradually faded into the dusk and was lost to sight.
The woman who was watching sighed and nervously bit the nail of her
thumb.
"That's where she is," she muttered to herself, gazing at the red blind.
At that moment the sound of wheels and jingling bells became audible,
and a light flickered at the top of the main road that led down to the
village from the station. The woman frowned and strained her eyes
toward the dancing light on the road. It was the station cab
approaching, jogging along at its usual pace, slowly but surely, with
stout old Tom Bagg, the driver, snugly ensconced on the box-seat.
Outside the gate of the ivy-covered house the cab came to a stand-still,
and a young girl alighted. She was plainly visible as she paused beneath
the street lamp outside the gate before entering the dark garden,
followed by Tom Bagg much beladen and struggling with boxes. In a few
minutes the old cabman came out again, and the cab jogged away back to
the station.
The woman who had watched all this intently then moved away from the
window, and, limping slightly as she walked, made her way to the fire.
Crouching down on the hearth she poked the fire into a blaze and warmed
her cold hands--her eyes fixed broodingly on the leaping flames. After
a while she pulled a chair toward her and sank into it--still with her
eyes on the fire, lost in thought.
She was aroused from her reverie by the sound of wheels and jingling
bells again, heralding the return of the cab. Instantly she got up,
limped back to the window, and peered out.
Once more the cab stopped at the gate of the ivy-covered house, and this
time two girls got out and passed through the garden gate, followed by
Tom Bagg still more beladen and struggling beneath boxes and parcels and
travelling rugs.
The woman watched until old Tom Bagg had departed again, then she gave
an odd, short laugh, and for a while stared gloomily out at the closed
iron-rail gate in the wall opposite.