Yours sincerely,
EMILY CRABINGWAY
There was silence for a few moments when Pamela finished reading. She
handed the banker's guarantee across to her father, who took it without
a word.
"Well!" queried Mr Sigglesthorne, polishing nervously.
"Well," said Mrs Heath, "I think we must have a little time to consider
the matter."
"Why does Miss Crabingway want to cut me off from you all like that,
Mother, for six whole months?" burst out Pamela.
Mrs Heath shook her head and looked across at Mr Sigglesthorne, who,
catching her inquiring glance, shook his head also.
"I know no more than I have told you, madam," he said. "Miss Crabingway
sent for me--she has been very good to me occasionally, when I have been
temporarily embarrassed for money--if you will excuse my introducing
such a subject--and asked me to go and see the parents of the young
ladies she wished to invite, and present them personally with her letter
and instructions. I have already seen one of the young ladies----"
"And is she willing to come--the one you've seen?" asked Pamela.
"She is going to make up her mind and wire to-day to Miss Crabingway,
and if she wires 'yes' she will post on to me the paper of instructions,
duly signed, to my address by Monday morning." Mr Sigglesthorne stood
up and began gathering his belongings together preparatory to taking his
leave. "I will leave you my address; will you kindly send me your
paper, if you decide to accept? Unfortunately, you have very little time
to consider the matter--only a few hours--as Miss Crabingway is
expecting your wire this evening.... Now is there anything more you
would like to ask me, madam, or sir?" he asked politely.
But although Mrs Heath put one or two anxious questions, he could throw
no further light on the matter than before.
"I think--if you will forgive my saying so--that it is just a whim--a
fancy on Miss Crabingway's part. I feel sure your daughter will be well
cared for at Barrowfield--and if she does not like it (although I
suppose I shouldn't say this) she can always come home--and forfeit the
fifty pounds, can't she?"
"Yes, that's true," said Mrs Heath.
"H'm, h'm ... yes--anyway, we can talk the matter over together and wire
by this afternoon," said Mr Heath.
"This is my address," said Mr Sigglesthorne, handing Pamela a thumbed
and dog-eared visiting-card on which was printed: "Joseph Sigglesthorne,
Fig Tree Court, Inner Temple, London." "And now, if you will kindly
excuse me, I must hurry away, as I have other visits to pay this
morning."
Mrs Heath invited him to stay and have some refreshment before he went,
but he declined, saying that he must lose no time in informing the other
young ladies of Miss Crabingway's invitation. So shaking hands all
round he departed, leaving them not a little perplexed.
No sooner was he gone than Doris and Michael burst into the study,
anxious to know what the queer little old man's business with Pamela
could be. They were soon told all about it, and read Miss Crabingway's
letter with much curiosity.
Doris, who was a year younger than Pamela, was as unlike her sister in
looks as she was in temperament. Doris was pale, very pale, with very
fair hair and eyelashes, and light blue eyes. She was inclined to be
pessimistic and over-anxious about most things, and lived up to this
reputation on the present occasion.
Michael, with handsome features, an infectious laugh, and
chestnut-coloured hair (like Pamela's), was nothing if not optimistic;
he and Pamela were always getting sighed over by Doris because of the
levity shown by them over things which Doris considered "too important
to be laughed at." But to-day Michael's optimism seemed to have
suddenly deserted him, and he put down Miss Crabingway's letter in
silence.
Pamela was watching his face anxiously. "What do you think about it,
Michael?" she asked.
"I don't know. I suppose it's all right. What do you think about it
yourself, Pam?" he said. ("Six whole months! And only a few miserable
post-cards! Whatever was old Miss Crabingway thinking of!" said Michael
to himself.)
"After all, it's a very simple matter," said Mr Heath. "Pamela to look
after Miss Crabingway's house for six months. There's nothing in that.
Six months' rest from her studies won't harm her, and she can keep up
her sketching and take some books with her.... It'll be quite a
holiday."
"It's only those restrictions about not being allowed to see any of
us--and--and that curious mention of a locked door..." said Mother.
"Ah, yes! I don't like the sound of that at all," said Doris, shaking
her head.
"Oh, come now--it may be only her private and personal belongings she's
put in that room," said Mr Heath.
"It _might_ be, of course," said Doris, in a tone that implied that
nothing was more unlikely.
"Of course that must be it," continued Mr Heath (from whom Michael and
Pamela inherited their optimism). "Miss Crabingway wouldn't want all
those strange girls upsetting her personal things.... And remember the
fifty pounds--it'll be most useful for Pamela. But still, you must
decide yourself, Pamela, what you would rather do."
"I _don't_ want to go--and I _do_--if you know what I mean," said
Pamela.
They understood what she meant. But the matter had to be decided
immediately, and so they all sat down and began to discuss it from each
and every point of view, until at length, after much hesitation, Pamela
made up her mind to accept Miss Crabingway's invitation.
Later in the day she and Michael walked round to the post-office and
sent off the wire to Barrowfield; and Pamela also sent the signed paper
off to Mr Sigglesthorne.
During the next few days Pamela lived in a state of excited rush and
hurry. There seemed so much to be done, so many friends to see and say
good-bye to; so many clothes to get ready and pack; so much shopping to
do; and then there were a hundred and one odd jobs that she meant to
attend to before she went away, and never got time to see to any of them
after all. Everybody seemed very kind and anxious to help her as much
as they could. Even John and twelve-year-old Olive begged to be allowed
to help, and proposed that they should take a hand at packing Pamela's
trunk. Olive, indeed, could not be persuaded that her help was not
needed until she had been pacified with the gift of Pamela's glove-box
and a scent satchet to keep for herself. That was always the easiest
way to divert Olive's ambitions--make her a present of something you
didn't want and she quickly forgot what she had been clamouring for a
few minutes earlier. John, who was two years younger than Olive, was
the 'baby' of the family in name only. John was sturdy, noisy, and
emphatic in all he said and did--and was not so easily put off with
gifts. He would accept the gift and then go on asking for the other
thing as well. Fortunately he was not so insistent on helping to pack
as on being allowed to sit on the lid of the trunk to squash it down
when it was full and about to be locked. This little matter was easily
arranged, and when everything was quite ready he was called in, asked to
be so obliging as to cast his weight on to the top of the trunk--which
he did with great alacrity--and the trunk was locked in triumph.
On the Monday night Mother came into Pamela's bedroom and wished her an
extra good-night.
"Be sure to come home if you are unhappy, dear. Or if you are ill or
anything--let me know--and bother the old fifty pounds," said Mother.
"Promise me, Pamela--or I shall be so unhappy."
So Pamela promised. "But I'm sure to be all right, Mother, and you're
not to worry about me at all, dear. But do take care of yourselves, all
of you, till I come back."
Pamela said good night quite cheerfully, but after her mother had gone
downstairs again she found that she did not feel cheerful a bit. She
began to think things like "This is the last time I shall sleep in my
own little room," and "This is the last time I shall hear Michael
whistling on his way upstairs," until she made herself cry. Then she
scolded herself for being so silly, and fell asleep.
*CHAPTER III*
*BERYL*
When Pamela alighted at Barrowfield station on the Tuesday afternoon
daylight was beginning to fade and a fine drizzling rain had set in.
She gazed round the deserted platform, and gave a shiver as a chilly
little breeze rustled past her, stirring the loose bits of paper on the
stone paving and making the half-closed door of the General Waiting Room
creak dismally as it pushed it farther open. Pamela had been sitting
for an hour and a half in the train, and she felt cold and stiff and
suddenly depressed. She was the only passenger to get out at
Barrowfield, and the only living soul about the place as far as she
could see was a porter, who now came strolling down the platform and
took charge of her luggage.
"Where to, miss?" inquired the porter; and his voice at once reminded
Pamela of the voice of a man who used to come round selling muffins in
Oldminster, and this made her conjure up an instant's vision of home and
Mother and Michael and all of them sitting round the fire while Doris
toasted muffins for tea. It was a ridiculous thing to think of at this
moment, but she could not help it. How she wished she were at home,
toasting muffins.... But the man was waiting.
"Miss Crabingway's house, Chequertrees," she answered. "Is it far from
here?"
"'Bout a mile an' 'arf, Chequertrees is," said the porter.
"Oh, dear," said Pamela. "Well, can I get a cab or anything?"
Before the porter could reply the sound of heavy footsteps was heard on
the wooden floor of the station entrance, and the next moment Tom Bagg
hove into sight. Of course Pamela did not know what his name was then,
though she knew it well enough afterward; you could not help knowing it
if you stayed in Barrowfield more than a couple of hours, because Mr
Bagg was a local celebrity. However, all Pamela knew at present was that
a fat, burly man with an enormous waterproof cape and a waterproof hat
stood before her. Here was the very person she wanted--the Barrowfield
cab-man. He touched his hat with a fat forefinger.
"Evenin', miss. Ascuse me, but are you the young lady for
Chequertrees?" he asked.
When Pamela had informed him that she was, he told her that he had had
instructions from Miss Crabingway to convey her and her luggage from the
station.
So Pamela got into the welcome cab outside, and was driven away through
the dusk. She could not see much through the blurred and steaming
windows, and the little she could make out appeared to be all hedges and
trees. Presently she could feel that the cab was going downhill, then
the pace slackened and it seemed to climb a little, then for a long time
(or so it seemed to Pamela) the cab jogged along on level ground. The
slow pace at which the cab moved along, the impossibility of seeing
anything through the windows, and her impatience to reach her journey's
end, made it seem a very long mile and a half from the station.
All at once the cab stopped with a violent jerk. And here was
Chequertrees, at last. Tom Bagg clambered down from his seat and held
the cab door open while Pamela got quickly out. He smiled genially down
at her, and then pulled the iron bell-chain outside the gate of the
house.
While Tom Bagg got her boxes down from the cab Pamela gazed at the house
which was to be her home for the next six months. She could not see
very much of the house from the gate--a tall iron-barred gate set into a
high wall topped with ivy. There was a long and wide gravel path up to
the front door, and Pamela could see that the house was covered with ivy
and had many windows. The garden struck her as being a lovely place for
hide-and-seek, on account of its thick bushes and number of big trees.
As she passed through the gate and made her way along the path, the
cabman following with her luggage, she saw that there was a light in one
of the windows behind a red blind.
She had no time to notice anything else before the front door was opened
by a middle-aged servant in white cap and apron.
"Oh, I'm Miss Heath--Pamela Heath," said Pamela, as the maid waited
silently.
"Oh, please come in, miss," said the maid. "Miss Crabingway told us to
expect you."
Pamela stepped in, then turned to the cabman, remembering his fare; but
she was told that he had already been paid by Miss Crabingway, and was
going back to meet the next down train and fetch another young lady to
the house--"What I was told you was expecting here," he said to the
maid.
"That's right," she replied. "Two more young ladies we are expecting
to-night."
"Oh, aye. Two it might be--one for certain. _I_ remember. Good
evenin', miss." And depositing Pamela's boxes in the hall the cabman
took his departure.
Pamela then became aware that another white-aproned servant was standing
at the back of the hall, waiting to receive her; she was quite an
elderly woman with white hair. Directly Pamela caught sight of her
kind, motherly old face, the feeling of depression that had been with
her ever since she had got out at Barrowfield station fell away from
her, and she felt at home. This was Martha, she learnt, and Ellen it
was who had opened the front door. In the few minutes' talk Pamela had
with them before being shown upstairs to her bedroom to take off her
outdoor things and have a wash, she gathered that Miss Crabingway had
departed yesterday morning, and had left word that all orders were to be
taken from Miss Pamela, "just as if it was Miss Crabingway herself that
was telling us what to do," volunteered Ellen. It made Pamela feel
awfully young and inefficient and responsible to hear these two elderly,
experienced housekeepers asking _her_ for orders.
"Oh, you'll please go on just as usual, won't you? ... It's all so
strange and new to me--I do hope you'll help me to do things right. I'll
have to come and talk things over with you presently," she said.
And though Ellen declared in tones of great solemnity that anything that
she could do to be of use to Miss Pamela would be done with pleasure,
yet it was the kindly smile in Martha's eyes that comforted Pamela.
Things would be all right, she felt, so long as Martha was there.
Pamela felt a great liking for Martha from the first--she seemed such a
sensible, cheerful soul; and the more Pamela got to know about her
afterward the more she respected and trusted her. Ellen she was not so
sure about, though she grew to like her later on, in spite of her
melancholy expression and tone of voice. Pamela was not long in
discovering that Ellen had grown to enjoy her melancholy as other people
enjoy their happiness. It was an art in which Ellen certainly excelled.
She could relate at great length, when in the mood, all the various
strokes of bad fortune that had fallen on her numerous relatives and
acquaintances, and all the illnesses they had suffered from, and died
of, and her favourite recreation was wandering round old churchyards and
exclaiming over the early age at which numbers of people died.
But though Martha and Ellen might be opposite temperamentally, yet they
certainly united in making Pamela very welcome on her arrival at
Chequertrees, and she found them most kind and willing and anxious to
make her comfortable. Ellen carried her boxes up to the bedroom, while
Martha bustled about, getting hot water for her to wash, and pulling
down blinds and lighting the gas.
As soon as Pamela was left alone in her bedroom she threw off her hat
and sat down on a chair and looked about her, taking stock of her new
surroundings. Of course she had not had time to notice much so far, but
as she had passed through the square hall and up the soft-carpeted
stairs to her bedroom, which was on the first floor landing, she had got
an impression of a house well furnished, but sombre. There were a great
many thick plush curtains hanging over doors and at windows, and the
walls were crowded with pictures, most of them having heavy dark frames.
And now, this room, which Miss Crabingway had said was to be Pamela's
bedroom--well, it was handsomely furnished and clean, but to Pamela's
eyes, used to her airy, sparsely furnished little room at home with its
fresh white paint, oak furniture, and plain green linoleum, this room
seemed dark and overcrowded. The bedroom suite was dark mahogany, and
had as one of its pieces a huge wardrobe with two glass doors which
filled almost the entire length of one wall; it was evidently intended,
originally, for a much larger room than the one it was in at present;
here it towered over the other furniture like a bullying giant. The
bedstead, dressing-table, and washstand, although they were of dark
mahogany, were evidently not of the same set as the wardrobe. Pamela
observed that the wallpaper was an all-over floral design in various
shades of green and raised gold roses; the gloomy, old-fashioned
fireplace, with its marble mantelpiece, on which were arranged a score
of old china ornaments and photo frames, and a massive marble clock, was
the chief feature of the wall opposite the wardrobe. The
window-curtains, the duchess set on the dressing-table, and the coverlet
on the bed were the only touches of white to relieve the general
sombreness that prevailed. Pamela was sorry to see that there was a
thick soft carpet on the floor--she hated carpets in bedrooms. As she
wandered round the room she was to occupy for many a day to come,
becoming acquainted with it from various angles, she sighed; everything
looked solid, expensive, and subdued, but it did not please her eye at
all (though she had to admit to herself that everything seemed very
comfortable nevertheless).
The clothes you choose, and the furniture you choose to surround
yourself with, are an index of your character to a stranger. To Pamela,
who could not remember ever seeing Miss Crabingway, this room was an
introduction. Of Miss Crabingway's character she knew nothing, but in
her mind's eye she pictured Miss Crabingway fond of solid, expensive
things, as large and dark, with rich, black, rustling dresses, and gold
brooches, and a lot of thick gold rings set with large stones on her
fingers. Her face she could not imagine--except that it would be
massive and well preserved. Pamela never could imagine people's faces,
in her mind's eye; she could conjure up people's figures and movements
clearly--but the faces were always dim and misty. It sometimes worried
her that even her mother's face or Michael's refused to be clearly
recalled when she was away from them. Of course she knew their features
by heart, and every twist and turn of their heads--but she could not see
their features in her mind's eye.
Having imagined Miss Crabingway, therefore, as well as she was able, she
hastily flung off her outdoor things, washed her hands and face and
brushed her hair, and prepared to go downstairs. She was wearing her
artistic, dark green frock, and as she stood a moment with her hand on
the door knob taking a final glance round the room, she looked as fresh
and clear-eyed a specimen of girlhood as one could wish to see.
She made her way downstairs, and seeing an open door and a lighted room
on the left of the hall, she entered. It was, as she had expected, the
dining-room. Dark, sombre furniture again, and rich hangings; there was
a cheerful fire burning in the grate, and a white cloth, and cups and
saucers on the table hinted at tea in the near future.
Pamela had come in silently, her footsteps making no sound on the thick
carpet, and it was not until she had been standing for a few seconds
inside the doorway that she noticed that there was some one already in
the room--some one who had evidently not seen, nor heard, Pamela enter.
Crouching by the fire, and almost hidden by a big arm-chair that stood
on the rug, was a girl; she had her back to the door and did not move as
Pamela stood watching for a moment. The girl's thin hands were
stretched out to the blaze as if she were cold, and her head leant
against the side of the chair; she made no sound, but there was
something in her attitude that suggested great dejection and loneliness.
Pamela was just about to go forward when a slight sound between a sob
and a sigh escaped the figure, and Pamela paused. She felt that it
would make the girl embarrassed to think that she had been watched and
overheard. So Pamela backed stealthily out of the room (hoping she
wouldn't run into Ellen or Martha), and crept up the stairs again; she
waited a moment on the landing, shut her bedroom door with a snap, then
came running downstairs, humming and patting the banisters with her hand
as she came--so as to give warning of her approach.
She entered the dining-room. The girl was sitting in the arm-chair now,
and stood up nervously as Pamela came in. She was a pale, thin girl,
with large dark eyes and black hair, and her movements were nervous and
jerky. She wore a dark-coloured skirt and a white silk blouse with
short sleeves to the elbow, which made her look very cold, and
emphasized the thinness of her arms.
The two girls gazed at each other for a second, then Pamela gave a
friendly smile.
"As there's no one here to introduce us, we'll introduce ourselves,
shall we? I'm Pamela Heath," she said.
"I'm Beryl Cranswick," said the girl, smiling shyly.
Pamela held out her hand, and they shook hands.
"I'm so glad to meet you," said Pamela. "I suppose we are the first two
to arrive."
"I suppose so," said Beryl, which did not help matters forward at all.
"What time did you arrive?" asked Pamela. "I came by the four o'clock
train from Marylebone."
"I arrived here this afternoon about three," Beryl informed her.
"Oh, you've been here a long time then--it's just gone six now. I
didn't know you were here when I came--they didn't mention it to me....
But have you had any tea yet?"
Beryl shook her head.
"Why--why ever not?" said Pamela, in surprise, ringing the bell by the
fireplace. "We'll have some at once, shall we?"
"They did ask me if I'd have some--but I said I'd wait. I--I didn't
like to--to bother them--till you came," stammered Beryl.
"Why, you must have been awfully cold and hungry after that long railway
journey; you _should_ have had a cup of tea and something--I'm sure it
wouldn't have been a bit of trouble to them," said Pamela, seizing the
poker and stirring up the fire. "Sit down and have a good warm--you
look quite cold still. We'll soon have this fire ... there! that's
better."
Ellen appeared at this moment, in answer to the bell.
"Oh, could we have some tea, please?" said Pamela. "What time are the
other arrivals expected, can you tell me?"
"I don't know, miss," replied Ellen. "At least, not for
certain--sometime to-day, that's all Miss Crabingway told us. The last
down train gets in at Barrowfield at midnight."
"Oh, I see. Well, it's no good waiting for them, I suppose--we'd better
have tea now in case they don't arrive till midnight," said Pamela.
"Very well, miss. I'll bring it in at once," and Ellen departed.
It was rather a queer experience for Pamela, playing hostess in this
strange house to strange people, but her frank, easy manners helped her
considerably.
Beryl, in Pamela's position, would have suffered agonies of indecision
and nervousness, and she felt thankful she was not in Pamela's shoes,
though she certainly envied the unself-conscious ease with which Pamela
managed things. They were really quite small, insignificant things, but
to Beryl, very self-conscious and timid, they would have caused much
dismay. Beryl was passing through a stage of acute self-consciousness,
not due to vanity in the slightest, but to nerves. Even to eat in
public was a misery to her; although she was aware that she was
scrupulously particular in the way she drank or ate her food, yet she
hated having to have meals with other people; she always felt that they
were watching her--criticizing her.
And so, when she and Pamela had tea together for the first time, she
hardly ate or drank anything. Unfortunately, by accident, she got a plum
jam stone in her mouth and did not like to remove it, suffering much
discomfort in consequence until Pamela's attention being distracted to
the window blind behind her for a moment, Beryl quickly conveyed the
stone to her plate again, and finished her tea in peace. Pamela, who
was as fastidious as anyone in her table manners, was yet quite easy,
and appeared to enjoy a huge tea with comfort and daintiness combined.
Beryl certainly did envy her that evening. She wondered what Pamela
would have done if she had got a plum stone in her mouth--and rather
wished this could happen so that she might see how easily Pamela would
act. But Beryl's luck was out; no such opportunity occurred.
Over tea Pamela gave Beryl a long account of her home and people, and
then began making inquiries about Beryl's home. But Beryl was strangely
reticent, and only stated a few bald facts. She was an orphan, she said;
no brothers--no sisters--and her father and mother had been dead many
years; her aunt, with whom she lived, had her home just outside
London--at Enfield. Beryl said she had never been to boarding-school;
no, she didn't go out much--didn't know many people--they lived very
quietly--and so on. From Beryl's manner Pamela gathered that she did
not wish to discuss her home or aunt, so the matter was dropped, and
Pamela suggested that when tea was over they should ask Martha or Ellen
to show them over the house, so that they would know their way about.
Both Martha and Ellen professed themselves delighted to show them over
the house, and so both of them accompanied the two girls on a tour of
inspection. Martha, who liked to do things thoroughly while she was
about it, insisted on them seeing every room and cupboard from top to
bottom of the house, with the exception, of course, of the locked-up
room at the end of the first floor landing.
On this landing there were five rooms: the locked-up room ran right
across the front of the house, the locked door being opposite the
stair-head; on either side of the landing were two rooms--all four to be
used as bedrooms for the girls, each having a separate room to herself.
The rooms allotted to Pamela and Isobel Prior were on the left, Isobel's
adjoining the locked room; Beryl's room was opposite to Pamela's, and
her next-door neighbour was to be Caroline Weston.
Another flight of stairs, starting near by Beryl's door, led up to
Martha's and Ellen's rooms, the bath-room and airing cupboards, and
another spare bedroom.
The ground floor included the dining-room (which we have already seen)
and, on the opposite side of the hall, a large drawing-room with French
windows that led into the garden. Next door to the dining-room, and at
the back of the house, was a queer little room with books all round the
walls, a huge writing-desk (much too large for the rest of the
furniture), half a dozen odd chairs, an old spinning-wheel, and a glass
cabinet full of curiosities. This was called the 'study,' Martha said,
where Miss Crabingway read or attended to her correspondence; but, in
spite of the books, it looked more like an interesting museum of odds
and ends. A spacious kitchen and scullery with a big larder, and a cosy
little sitting-room, leading out of the kitchen, and set apart for the
use of Martha and Ellen, completed the ground floor.
There seemed to be a good many windows in each room, so it ought to be a
light house in the daytime, Pamela thought; otherwise her first
impression of sombre richness was strengthened after seeing over the
rest of the house. The furniture and fittings were all good and
heavy-looking; the walls were everywhere crowded with pictures--some
originals, some copies of well-known pictures, and some photographic
picture studies of people and places. There were carpets and dark
furniture in every room. And what struck Pamela as being very strange
was that each room in the house had at least one odd-sized piece of
furniture in it--either much too large or much too small to be in
keeping with the rest of the room; and this particular piece, in each
case, seemed to occupy a very prominent position, so that one couldn't
help noticing it. It reminded Pamela of the doll's house belonging to
Olive at home, where the doll's kettle and saucepan were the same size
as the chairs, and too big to stand on the doll's kitchen stove. She
wondered how Miss Crabingway had come to possess these odd bits of
furniture, and was just looking at the extraordinarily small piano-stool
set before the huge grand piano in the drawing-room, when a sudden ring
at the bell announced a fresh arrival, and Martha hurried out of the
room to open the front door.
*CHAPTER IV*
*THE ROOM WITH THE LOCKED DOOR*
Isobel Prior and Caroline Weston had arrived together, having travelled
in the same railway carriage, each ignorant of the fact that the other
was bound for Chequertrees, until the waiting cab at the station had
made this known to them.
"I'm simply _dead_," were the first words Pamela heard as she came out
of the drawing-room to greet the new-comer. The speaker was a
well-dressed, fluffy-haired girl with an aristocratic voice and bearing,
who was standing in the hall amid a pile of luggage.
"Why, that sounds a cheerful beginning! Who is it that's dead?" asked
Pamela laughingly, as she came forward.
The girl stared rather haughtily at Pamela for a second, then smiled and
shook hands.
"Oh, I suppose you are Miss Heath," she said. "I am Miss Prior. I've
had a perfectly impossible journey here to-day, and I'm simply fagged
out and perishingly cold."
"We must get you something hot to drink," said Pamela, "and you must
have a good rest. Would you like to come straight into the dining-room
and have a warm--there's a lovely fire there--or would you rather go up
to your bedroom first?"
"Oh, _please_--a wash and tidy up first," said Isobel. "I must look
such a fright----"
And then Pamela noticed that another girl was standing beside Martha,
just inside the front door. A big plush curtain in the hall almost hid
her from view.
"I'm awfully sorry--I didn't see anyone else had arrived," said Pamela.
"Are you--are you Miss Caroline Weston?"
The girl gazed stolidly at Pamela--a heavily-made girl, plumpish, and
wearing spectacles; she carried a very neat handbag in one hand and a
very neatly rolled umbrella in the other hand.
"Y-e-s," she said, in a slow, drawling voice.
Pamela shook her warmly by the hand, and then offered to take the two
girls upstairs and show them their rooms. As they passed the
drawing-room door Pamela caught sight of Beryl, who was waiting shyly in
the background, and she immediately introduced her to the others.
"Beryl and I have just been shown over the house," Pamela explained.
"We only arrived to-day, of course--a few hours ago--I expect you're too
tired to want to bother to see all round to-night, and if you are you
must go over it in the morning. Then we shall all know our way about,
shan't we? Come along, Beryl, let's take these poor weary travellers up
to their rooms. And, Martha, can we have some hot supper--in about
twenty minutes, please?"
Once again the house was astir with the bustle of welcoming the latest
arrivals. Martha vanished into the kitchen to prepare something hot and
tasty for supper, while Ellen hurried to and fro with warm water for
washing, and carried boxes and parcels upstairs, and lit gases, and
pulled down blinds, and generally made herself useful, while Pamela,
followed by Beryl, showed Isobel and Caroline to their rooms, doing her
best as hostess to make them feel comfortable and at home.
Over supper the four girls became better acquainted. Naturally they
were all very curious to know why Miss Crabingway had invited the four
of them to Chequertrees, and they studied each other with interest,
trying to find an answer to the riddle. Following Pamela's friendly
lead they talked of themselves, and their homes, and the journey to
Barrowfield. That is, all of them talked a good deal with the exception
of Beryl, who still seemed very shy and only spoke when she was
addressed directly.
Pamela was in one of her 'beamy' moods that night. She beamed and
laughed and talked and thoroughly enjoyed herself during supper, not a
little excited by all the strange surroundings and the strange new
acquaintances she was making; perhaps it was her genuine interest in
everything and everybody that made her so jolly a companion--and so
unself-conscious a one. Anyway, she liked girls--nearly all girls--and
they liked her as a rule. Of course she had her dislikes, but on the
whole she got on very well with girls of her own age. How was she going
to like and get on with these girls, all about her own age, who were
sitting at supper with her this evening, she asked herself.
She felt vaguely sorry for Beryl, as if she wanted to protect her,
because Beryl seemed so painfully shy and ill at ease; her clothes were
cheap-looking and unsuitable for the time of year.
Isobel seemed to Pamela to be slightly disdainful of everything and
everybody; she had a habit of over-emphasizing unimportant words when
she talked, and appeared at times to exaggerate too much. Her clothes
were well chosen and evidently of very good material, and well tailored.
Her features, framed by her pretty, fluffy hair, were clear-cut and
refined; she would have been a pretty girl had it not been for her eyes,
which were deep-set and a trifle too close together. She talked a good
deal about her 'mater' and 'pater,' and her brother Gerald and his
motor-car.
Caroline, beside Isobel, looked very plain, and almost dowdy, in spite
of the fact that her clothes were good--the reason being that her
clothes did not suit her at all. She had no idea how to make the best
of herself; her one great idea was to be neat at all costs. Her
drab-coloured hair was brushed back smoothly, in a most trying fashion;
and never by any chance would she have a button or hook missing from any
of her clothing, nor a hole in her stocking--and this was a credit to
her, because she worked as slowly with her needle as she did with
everything else, though it must be owned that she was very fond of
sewing. Very slow, very methodical, very neat--such was Caroline. "I
believe she even dusts and wraps up in tissue paper each needle and pin
and reel of cotton after she has finished with it," was Isobel's opinion
after she had known her a week; and although this may sound like one of
Isobel's exaggerated remarks, yet it was nearer the truth than she
herself dreamt when she said it.
What acquaintance had Miss Crabingway had with these three girls, Pamela
wondered. And what had made her choose them--and herself. They made an
oddly assorted quartette.
As they were rising from the supper-table she asked them whether any of
them knew Miss Crabingway well, and learnt to her surprise that none of
them had more than the slightest acquaintance with her. Neither Isobel
not Caroline could remember ever seeing Miss Crabingway, and Beryl said
vaguely that she had seen her once--a long time ago. Beryl said she
believed that her mother had been a friend of Miss Crabingway's, many
years back. Isobel said her mater had met Miss Crabingway abroad--had
happened to stay in the same hotel--about six years ago. An uncle of
Caroline's, so she informed them, had once done some business
transactions with Miss Crabingway, and had corresponded with her since,
at intervals.
"Well, I can't make it out at all," thought Pamela to herself. "Why
Miss Crabingway should have invited us--four girls--practically
strangers to her--to come and stay at her house while she is away.... I
can't see any reason for it.... Anyway, I suppose we shall know when she
returns."
The supper having considerably revived Isobel, she said she would like
to see over the house before she went to bed; and Caroline, having no
objection ready against this suggestion (except that she was half asleep
in her chair), found herself joining in this tour of inspection and
stolidly taking stock of the house that was to be her home for the next
six months.
In a whispered aside to Pamela Isobel pronounced the dining-room
wall-paper 'hideous' and the drawing-room decorations 'perfectly
awful'--both remarks being overhead by Ellen, who glared at the back of
Isobel's head in silent indignation at this reflection on her mistress's
taste. It was certainly not good manners on Isobel's part, but she was
not over-sensitive about other people's feelings, and was rarely aware
of the fact when her words or tone of voice had hurt or given offence.
On the first floor landing Pamela pointed out the locked door. The
girls knew that they were forbidden to try to open it, or look through
the keyhole, their instructions being the same as Pamela's.
[Illustration: ON THE FIRST FLOOR LANDING PAMELA POINTED OUT THE LOCKED
DOOR]
"And to think that one little action--just kneeling down and putting
your eye to the keyhole--would make you lose fifty pounds!" exclaimed
Isobel. "It's not worth losing all that money just for curiosity, is
it?"
"Rather not," said Pamela. "I vote that we all keep away from that door
as if the paint on it were poisonous to touch."
"I'm sorry my room's next to it," Isobel went on, "but it doesn't really
matter--though I like to keep as far away from temptation as I can ...
not that I _want_ to look inside, but--you know the feeling--just
because I know I mustn't----"
"I know the feeling," agreed Pamela. "But don't you think it would be
wisest not to talk about it any more, or we shall all be dreaming about
it to-night."
Ellen, who was leading the way up to the top floor where her own room
and Martha's room were situated, pricked up her ears at this.
"Dreams go by contrary," she said to herself mechanically, and,
apparently, without meaning. Besides being a mine of information on
melancholy events, Ellen was a great believer in dreams, possessing as
many as ten 'dream books,' which she consulted frequently on the meaning
of her dreams. Ellen believed also in fortune-telling by tea-leaves, and
lucky stars, and the like. And many a time she had made even
Martha--who knew her little ways and generally laughed tolerantly at
her--turn 'goose-flesh' at the terrible fate she would read out for
Martha and herself from the tea-leaves left in their cups.
"Do you believe it's possible to _dream_ what is inside that room--I
mean dream truly--if you set your mind on it just before going to
sleep?" Isobel asked of Pamela, as she glanced round the bath-room.
Caroline, who was examining everything in the bath-room closely and
minutely, as was her habit, raised her head as if to speak, but Pamela,
who had her back turned to her and did not see her mouth open, replied:
"I don't know. I'm afraid I'm not an expert on dreams--I hardly ever
dream myself."
"Wouldn't it be fun," suggested Isobel, as they all made their way
downstairs again, "if each of us tried hard to dream what was inside the
room--and then tell each other what dreams we had had, in the
morning--and when Miss Crabingway comes back we will see if any of us
are right."
"Oh, I don't know," said Pamela. "Somehow I don't think we'd better
even try to dream what is inside the room. Perhaps it isn't quite fair
to--to--I don't know how to put it-- Anyway, I think it would be better
if we left the subject entirely alone, don't you?"
Again Caroline opened her mouth and was about to say something, when
Isobel burst in with,
"Oh, but Miss Crabingway didn't say we were not to _dream_ about it, did
she? ... That would be impossible to forbid.... But still, perhaps it's
best not to meddle with the subject. It's not worth losing fifty pounds
over, anyway."
Beryl, although she had accompanied the others over the house, had not
spoken a word since they left the dining-room, but she had listened to
all that was going on with much interest. Here was another girl,
Isobel, who seemed quite at home among strangers in a strange house,
thought Beryl; but she did not envy Isobel; she was vaguely afraid of
her. Caroline appeared more at her ease than Beryl had expected her to
be; though Caroline seemed to others slow and awkward, she was not aware
of this herself, and so was not made uneasy on that score. Caroline did
not know her own failings, while Beryl was keenly alive to _her_
own--and suffered accordingly.
As the four girls bid each other good-night a few minutes later,
Caroline found the opportunity she had been waiting for, and mentioned
something that had been fidgeting her since her arrival.
"Oh--er--do you know if my room has been well aired?" she asked slowly,
reminding Pamela irresistibly of an owl as she gazed solemnly through
her spectacles. "I'm rather subject to chills--and mother told me to be
sure and see that my bedroom had been well aired."
Fortunately Martha was able to assure her on this point, and Caroline
went upstairs apparently content. But before she went to sleep she
thoroughly fingered the sheets and pillow-cases to satisfy herself that
Martha was a strictly truthful person.
When, at length, every one had retired and all was quiet, a little
breeze arose in the garden and scurried round the house, whispering
excitedly among the ivy leaves. But though the breeze ruffled and
agitated the cloak of ivy, it had no power to stir the old house
beneath, which stood, grim and unmoved, brooding in silence over the
strangers within its walls.
*CHAPTER V*
*MAKING PLANS*
In the morning, as soon as breakfast was over, Pamela held an informal
'council meeting' in the drawing-room.
"I thought we'd better just talk over some sort of plan for organizing
things, so that we shall all be as comfortable as possible," she said,
leaning her elbow on the small round table before her and resting her
chin in the palm of her hand. "You see, it isn't as if there was a real
hostess here--you know what I mean--it isn't as if we could drop into
the ordinary life of the household. Here we are--four strangers
yesterday, four acquaintances to-day--and we've got to live and work and
play together for the next six months. Now what are the best
arrangements to make, so that we'll all have a good time? It's left
entirely in our hands. Anybody got any suggestions?" She looked
smilingly round at the other three girls.
Isobel was the only one who answered.
"Of course we didn't know _what_ we should be expected to do when we
came here," she said. "It was all such an _awful_ hurry and
scramble--there was no time to think of anything."
"I know," agreed Pamela. "But now we are here, we'd better have some
sort of plan, don't you think--so as to leave each other as free as
possible--I do hate tying people down to time and--and things--but we'll
have to have some sort of arrangements about meals, for instance, or
else we'll keep Martha and Ellen busy all day long. Luckily, we've got
hardly any housekeeping difficulties. I had a talk with Martha and
Ellen this morning, before breakfast, and they're going on with their
work just as usual. Martha does all the cooking and washing, and Ellen
does the general work. But I expect four girls in the house will make a
good bit of difference! So I propose that we each make our own bed and
tidy our own room every morning--and Ellen will clean the rooms out once
a week. It won't take each of us long of a morning. What do you say?"
Beryl agreed at once; and Isobel, though she said she wasn't _used_ to
doing housework, promised to do her best; Caroline was understood to say
she preferred making her own bed because other people never made a bed
to her satisfaction.
Having settled this little point, Pamela went on:
"As regards shopping--Martha says she always sees about getting in
provisions, but she would like us to say what we'd like for breakfasts,
and dinners, and so on. She says Miss Emily Crabingway left a sum of
money with her for purchasing enough food for the next three months;
after that time has elapsed, Mr Joseph Sigglesthorne is to send on a
further sum--enough for the final three months. You see that's all
arranged for us; but we've got to choose the meals, and I thought it
would be a good plan if we took it in turns, each week--first one, then
the other--to draw up a list of meals for the week. Write it all out,
and take it in to Martha. What do you think? Martha likes the idea."
"I'm quite willing, but I don't believe I could think of enough variety
for a week straight off," said Beryl.
"Oh, yes, you could," said Pamela, "with the help of Mrs Beeton's
Cookery Book--there are no end of hints in there. Martha has a copy of
the book on a shelf in the kitchen; she'll lend it to us. She says it's
very useful, but rather too extravagant for her liking, with its 'break
eight eggs and beat them well,' and 'take ten eggs' and 'take six eggs'
and so on. Martha says she always looks up a recipe in Mrs Beeton's,
and then makes it her own way (which is always quite different)."
"As long as you don't choose boiled haddock every morning," said Isobel,
"and don't give us lamb chops and mashed potatoes every
dinner-time--with rice pudding to follow--I'm sure we'll none of us try
to assassinate you on the quiet."
"I don't mind taking my turn at choosing the meals," said Caroline,
thinking tenderly of suet roly-poly.
"And I'll do what I can," remarked Isobel, more in her element when
choosing work for others to perform than in doing work herself. She had
momentary visions of how she would astonish the others by the
magnificence of her menus; none of the 'homely' dishes for Isobel; with
the aid of Mrs Beeton, who knows what might not be accomplished in the
way of exclusive and awe-inspiring dishes. "But _you_ choose the first
week's meals, _do_," she begged Pamela.
As this suggestion was proposed, seconded, and carried unanimously by
the others, Pamela agreed, and so the matter was settled.
"Having now disposed of our housekeeping duties," Pamela laughed, "now
what are we going to do with the rest of our time? Had any of you any
idea of keeping up studies, or attending classes, or anything of that
sort? You see we are left idle--to act entirely on our own
initiative--without any suggestions or arrangements whatever on Miss
Crabingway's part. And I know that, speaking for myself, I don't want
to idle away the next six months."
"_I_ shouldn't mind being idle," observed Isobel. "In fact mater said
the six months' rest would do me no harm. I was just going back to
college, you know, when we heard from Miss Crabingway--and of course all
my plans were upset--but I didn't mind so much with the prospect of a
lovely, lazy holiday at Barrowfield. But still, if you are all going to
take up some sort of work, I suppose I must, as well.... I should be
bored to death with my own company--if you are all going to work."
"I only suggest a few hours' work each day," reminded Pamela. "It makes
the day seem so much more satisfactory when one has _done_ something."
The question of what to study, and how to study, gave much food for
discussion; but the subject was prevented from taking too serious a turn
by Isobel's constant stream of facetious remarks on the kind of work she
would take up. She seemed to think it a huge joke; though Caroline, who
was apt to take things literally, was much perturbed at the numerous
studies Isobel proposed, until she realized that Isobel was only making
fun all the time.
"I should prefer to keep up my music," said Beryl, presently. "And
study hard at theory, harmony, and counterpoint--and if it wouldn't
annoy anyone--perhaps I could practise on the piano here. I--I should
love that."
"Of course it wouldn't annoy anyone, would it?" Pamela appealed to the
other two, who said that it certainly wouldn't annoy them.
"It isn't as if it were the five-finger exercise--thump--thump--thump,"
added Caroline cautiously.
"Well, we should _hope_ you'd got beyond that," said Isobel to Beryl,
who flushed nervously.
"Oh, yes," she hastened to assure them.
"There are worse things than the five-finger exercise," broke in Pamela.
"I have a sister at home who knows _one_ piece, and whenever she gets
near the piano she sits down and plays it--thumps it, I should
say--because she 'knows we love it,' she says. We always howl at her,
on principle, and the nearest of us swoops down on her, and bears her,
protesting, out of the room."
The others laughed with Pamela at this recollection of hers, and
attention was distracted from Beryl, much to her relief.
"Well," said Pamela, "for myself--I am going to do a heap of
reading--especially historical books; and I want most of all to continue
my sketching. I'm very fond of dabbling in black and white
sketching--and I want lots of practice. I've brought with me some books
about it--to study."
"Oh, you _energetic_ people," yawned Isobel. "It makes me tired to
think of the work you're going to do."
"What are you going to do?" Pamela asked, turning to Caroline.
"Well," drawled Caroline, "I like doing needlework better than
anything."
Isobel put her handkerchief to her mouth to hide a smile. Fortunately
Caroline was not looking at her, but Beryl was. Caroline went on
undisturbed.
"I'm not fond of reading or books, but I've been thinking--if there were
any classes near by, on dressmaking--cutting out and all that, you
know--that I could attend, I wouldn't mind that; but anyway I've got
plenty of plain needlework to go on with. I brought a dozen
handkerchiefs in my box to hem and embroider--and I've got a tray-cloth
to hem-stitch."
"Mind you don't overtax your brain, my dear," muttered Isobel, giggling
into her handkerchief.
"Eh?" asked Caroline, not catching her remark.
"Nothing," said Isobel. "I was only wondering what work I could do."
"I daresay you'll be able to find some dress-making classes, Caroline,"
said Pamela. "We'll go out and buy a local paper and see what's going
on. But, Isobel, what are _you_ going to do?" Pamela asked, looking
across at Isobel.
"Ah me!" sighed Isobel. "Well, if I must decide, I'll decide on
dancing. I'm frightfully keen on dancing, you know. I'll attend
classes for that if you like--that is, if there are such things as
dancing classes in this sleepy little place.... I might do a bit of
photography too. I didn't bring my camera--but perhaps I can buy a new
one--it's great fun taking snapshots."
"If there are no classes in Barrowfield there is almost sure to be a
town within a few miles, where we can get what we want," Pamela said.
Matters now being settled as far as was possible at the present moment,
Pamela said she was going out to look round the village, and Isobel
immediately said she would go with her as she wanted to buy some buttons
for her gloves. Beryl would have liked to go with Pamela, but felt
sensitive about visiting the village for the first time in Isobel's
company--for more than one reason; so she said she would go and unpack
her box and get her music books out, and look round the village later
on. Caroline also elected to stay and unpack and put her room in order.
So Pamela and Isobel started off together.
They had been gone but five minutes when the post arrived with a
registered letter addressed to Pamela.
"Ah," said Martha knowingly, as she laid the letter in the tray on the
hall-stand.
*CHAPTER VI*
*MILLICENT JACKSON GIVES SOME INFORMATION*
"What a one-eyed sort of place this is," said Isobel inelegantly, as she
came out of the village drapery establishment and joined Pamela, who was
waiting on the green outside.
"I was just thinking how charming the little village looks," said
Pamela, "clustering round this wide stretch of green with the pond and
the ducks. And look at the lanes and hills and woods rising in the
background! It _is_ picturesque."
"Oh, it may be frightfully picturesque and all that," Isobel replied,
"but picturesqueness won't provide one with black pearl buttons to sew
on one's gloves. Would you believe it--not one of these _impossible_
shops keeps such things. 'Black pearl buttons, miss. I'm sorry we
haven't any in stock. Black _bone_--would black bone do--or a fancy
button, miss?'" Isobel mimicked the voice of the 'creature' (as she
called her) who served in the tiny draper's shop.
"Well, I suppose they're not often asked for black pearl," said Pamela,
as they moved on. "And wouldn't black bone do?"
"Black _bone_!" said Isobel disdainfully.
"Well, you can't expect to find Oxford Street shops down here in
Barrowfield," smiled Pamela. "And it's jolly lucky there aren't such
shops, or Barrowfield would be a _town_ to-morrow. Still, is there
anywhere else you'd like to try?"
"No, I shan't bother any more to-day," Isobel sighed. "I did want
them--but I'll wear my other gloves till I can get the buttons to match
the two I've lost.... How people do _stare_ at one here. Look at that
old woman over there--And, oh, do look at the butcher standing on his
step _glaring_ at us! He looks as if his eyes might go off 'pop' at any
moment, doesn't he?"
Although Isobel pretended to be annoyed, she really rather enjoyed the
attention she and Pamela were attracting. Naturally the village was
curious about these strange young ladies who had come to stay at Miss
Crabingway's house. Thomas Bagg had given his version of the arrivals
last night as he chatted with the landlord of the 'Blue Boar,' and had
professed to know more about the matter than he actually did. In acting
thus he was not alone, for most of the village pretended to know
something of the reason why Miss Emily Crabingway had suddenly gone
away, and why her house was occupied by four strange young ladies. In
reality nobody knew much about it at all. It speaks well for Martha and
Ellen that they were not persuaded to tell more than they did; maybe
they didn't know more; maybe they _did_, but wouldn't say. The village
gossips shook their heads at the closeness of these two trusted servants
concerning their mistress's affairs.... And so Pamela and Isobel
attracted more than the usual attention bestowed on strangers in
Barrowfield--the bolder folk (like the butcher) staring unabashed from
their front doors, while the more retiring peeped through their
curtains.
Barrowfield itself was certainly very picturesque; no wonder it appealed
to Pamela's artistic eye. Surrounded by tree-clad hills, the village lay
jumbled about the wide green--in the centre of which was a pond with
ducks on it; white-washed cottages, old houses, quaint little shops, and
inns with thatched roofs, stood side by side in an irregular circle.
Seen from one of the neighbouring hills you might have fancied that
Barrowfield was having a game of Ring-o'-Roses around the green, while
the little odd cottages dotted here and there on the hill-sides looked
longingly on, like children who have not been invited to play but who
might at any moment run down the slopes and join in. The square-towered
church and the Manor House, both on a hill outside the magic ring, stood
watching like dignified grown-up people.
Chequertrees was one of the biggest houses in the circle around the
green, and a few dozen yards beyond its gate a steep tree-lined avenue
led up to the big house of the neighbourhood--the Manor House, where
lived the owners of most of the land and property in Barrowfield. The
Manor House was about a quarter of a mile beyond the village, and stood
half-way up the avenue, at the top of which was the square-towered
church. Close beside the church, but so hidden among trees as to be
invisible until you were near at hand, was the snug vicarage.
The railway station at which the girls had arrived on the previous
evening was a mile and a half away on a road that led out from the
opposite end of the green to where Chequertrees stood. Several lanes
climbed up from the green and wound over the hills to towns and villages
beyond--the nearest market town being four miles distant if you went by
the lane, six miles if you followed the main road that ran past the
station.
Of course Pamela and Isobel would not have known all this on their first
short walk round Barrowfield had they not fallen into conversation with
the girl who served in the newsagent's, and who was only too ready to
impart information to them when they went in to buy a local newspaper.
She was a large-boned girl with a lot of big teeth, that showed
conspicuously when she talked; she eyed curiously, and not without envy,
the well-cut clothes and 'stylish' hats that the two girls were wearing.
Pamela noticed that the girl wore a brooch made of gold-wire twisted
into the name 'Millicent,' and as 'Jackson' was the name painted over
the shop outside, she tacked it on, in her own mind, as Millicent's
surname.
It being still early in the day Millicent Jackson's toilet was not
properly finished--that is to say, she did not appear as she would later
on about tea-time, with her hair frizzed up and wearing her brown serge
skirt and afternoon blouse. Her morning attire was a very
unsatisfactory affair. Millicent wore all her half-soiled blouses in
the mornings, and her hair was straight and untidily pinned up; she had
a black apron over her skirt, and her hands, which were not pretty at
the best of times, looked big and red, and they were streaked with
blacking as if she had recently been cleaning a stove. Poor Millicent,
she found it impossible to do the housework and appear trim and tidy in
the shop at the same time. She discovered herself suddenly wishing that
the young ladies had postponed their visit till the afternoon, when she
would have been dressed. But there were compensations even for being
'caught untidy'; for could she not see that young Agnes Jones across the
way peering out of her shop door, overcome with curiosity, and would she
not dash across to Millicent as soon as the young ladies had departed,
to know all about the interview! So it was with mixed feelings that
Millicent kept the young ladies talking as long as she could.
"Yes, it's a vurry ole church, and vurry interestin'," said Millicent
for the third time. "But uv course you ain't been in these parts long
enough, miss, for you to 'ave seen everything yet, 'ave you, miss?"
"No, we only arrived last night," said Pamela in a friendly way.
"You don't say!" exclaimed Millicent in great astonishment; although
Thomas Bagg had been in the shop a few hours back and told her all about
their arrival. "Oh, well, uv course, miss--!" she broke off and waited
expectantly.
But Pamela's next remark was disappointing.
"I think it's an awfully interesting-looking village altogether," she
said. "Whereabouts is the ruined mill you mentioned just now? Very far
from the village? I wonder if we have time to go and see it this
morning."
"It's a goodish way," said Millicent reluctantly. "Well, about two mile
over that way," she pointed toward the back of the shop. "Along the
lane that goes through the fields.... I expect you'd find it vurry
muddy in the lane after all the rain we've been 'aving."
"Oh, I don't mind that," said Pamela, but Isobel wrinkled up her nose
and looked down at her dainty shoes. "But have we time before
lunch--um--no, it's half-past twelve now--what a shame! ... Never mind!
I must go along to-morrow if I can. I feel I don't want to use up all
the country too quickly--it's so nice exploring." She smiled at
Millicent, and gathered up the papers she had bought.
"Oh, by the way, who lives at the Manor House?" asked Isobel, addressing
Millicent, directly, for the first time; her voice was slightly
condescending--it was the voice she always adopted unconsciously when
addressing those she considered her 'inferiors'; she did not mean to be
unkind--she had been taught, by those who should have known better, to
talk like that to servants and tradespeople. But Pamela, whose
upbringing had been very different, frowned as she heard the tones; they
jarred on her.
However, Millicent did not seem to notice anything amiss.
"Sir Henry and Lady Prior, miss," answered Millicent.
Isobel raised her eyebrows and gave a short laugh. "Prior! That's
strange! I wonder if they're any relation to me," she said to Pamela.
"I must try to find out." She turned to Millicent again. "Sir _Henry_
Prior, you said?"
"Yes, miss," said Millicent, looking at Isobel with fresh interest.
(Here was a choice tit-bit to tell Aggie Jones.)
"H'm," said Isobel. "Yes--I know pater had a cousin Henry--I shouldn't
be at _all_ surprised--Wouldn't it be delightful, Pamela, if it turns
out to be this cousin----"
She broke off, feeling that until she was sure it would be wiser not to
talk too much before Millicent, who was listening, with wide eyes and
open mouth. To say just so much, and no more, was agreeably pleasant to
Isobel, and made her feel as though, to the rest of the world, she was
now enveloped in an air of romantic mystery. As far as Millicent
represented the world, this was true. Millicent at once scented romance
and mystery--for surely to be related to a titled person, and not to
know it, is mysteriously romantic! She looked at Isobel with greater
respect.... Pamela's voice brought her suddenly back to the everyday
world again--the shop, the papers, and the fact that she was untidy and
not dressed; she noticed with sudden distaste the blacking on her hands
and hid them under her apron.
"Who lives in that pretty little white cottage opposite to
Chequertrees?" Pamela was asking. "I'm sure it must be some one
artistic--it's all so pleasing to the eye--it took my fancy this morning
as I came out."
"The little white cottage--" began Millicent.
"With the brown shutters," finished Pamela.
"Oh, yes, I know the one you mean, miss," said Millicent. "Mrs Gresham
lives there, miss. I don't know that she's an artist--she lets
apartments in the summer--and has teas in the garden, miss. Does vurry
nicely in the season with visitors, but she's terrible took up with
rheumatics in the winter--has it something chronic, she does. But she's
a nice, respectable person--always has her daily paper reg'lar from us."
"Her garden must look lovely in the summer," remarked Pamela. "There
are some fine old Scotch fir trees in it, I noticed." She had already
taken note of these particular trees by the cottage, for sketching later
on; they were the only Scotch firs that she had seen in Barrowfield so
far.
As she and Isobel walked across the green on their way back to
Chequertrees the picturesque blacksmith's forge claimed her attention,
and she stopped to admire it. As she did so a woman came down the lane
beside the forge, and passing in front of the two girls walked quickly
over the green. Pamela's attention was immediately attracted to her,
firstly because she was carrying an easel (also a basket, and a bag,
evidently containing a flat box); secondly, because she was dressed very
quaintly in a grey cloak and a small grey hat of original design;
thirdly, because she went into the garden gate of the little white
cottage opposite Chequertrees; and lastly, because, as the woman turned
to latch the gate after her, Pamela caught sight of her face.
"Who _does_ she remind me of?" said Pamela. "I'm sure I've seen some one
like her----"
But Isobel was not listening to Pamela.
"If Sir Henry Prior is related to us, mater will be frightfully
interested to hear what----"
But Pamela was not listening to Isobel.
"Oh, p'r'aps she doesn't live there then--I wonder," said Pamela, as the
woman in grey, after handing the basket in at the front door of the
cottage and speaking a few words to somebody inside, who was invisible
to Pamela, came quickly out of the gate again and hurried away down the
village, the easel under one arm and the bag under the other.
"Who _does_ she remind me of?" puzzled Pamela, as she and Isobel turned
in at the gate of Chequertrees.
*CHAPTER VII*
*BERYL GOES THROUGH AN ORDEAL*
When Pamela opened the registered envelope that was waiting for her she
found inside twelve pounds in postal orders, and a short note from Mr
Joseph Sigglesthorne informing her that Miss Crabingway had desired him
to send this pocket-money for her to share between 'the three other
young ladies' and herself. That was three pounds each--the pocket-money
for the next three months. To those girls who already had some
pocket-money in their purses this little addition came as a pleasant,
though not unduly exciting, surprise; to those who had little or no
money of their own the three pounds was very welcome indeed.
Pamela shared out the money, wrote a note of acknowledgment to Mr
Sigglesthorne, and then retired into the 'study,' after dinner was over,
with a copy of Mrs Beeton, a paper and pencil, and a business-like frown
on her face.
"Nobody must disturb me for half an hour," she said, in mock solemnity,
"for I am going to do most important work--make out a week's list of
_meals_."
Caroline was not likely to disturb anyone, as she had betaken herself
upstairs to her bedroom again to continue arranging her belongings. The
morning had not been long enough for her to finish unpacking properly,
she said.
Beryl, who besides being quicker than Caroline had also less to unpack,
had finished her room long ago; so this afternoon she wandered into the
drawing-room, and closing the door after her carefully, crossed over to
the piano.
The drawing-room with its long French windows leading into the garden
was about the pleasantest room in the house. It was lighter than most
of the other rooms, and there were fewer hangings about, which was a
good thing for the piano, Beryl thought. "I wonder if it would disturb
anyone if I played," she said to herself, opening the piano and stroking
the keys with her fingers. The house seemed suddenly so quiet--she
hardly liked to break the silence; she feared somebody coming in to see
who was playing, for Beryl was nervous at playing before others,
although she loved music and could play very well. She would have to
make a beginning _some time_, she told herself, if she really meant to
practise--so why not now? But still she hesitated, her fingers
outstretched on the keys.
She could hear faintly, the sound being muffled behind closed doors, the
clatter of dishes in the kitchen--Martha and Ellen washing up. Pamela
was in the study, she knew, and Caroline was upstairs; but where was
Isobel? Beryl wished she knew where Isobel was. She had a dread of
Isobel coming in to disturb her, and she would be sure to come, out of
curiosity, if she heard the piano.... Beryl felt suddenly annoyed with
herself. Why should she care who came in--if she really _meant_ to
practise----
Beryl began to play--softly at first; but as she became gradually
absorbed in the music, her touch grew firmer and the notes rang out
clearly, and she forgot all about anyone hearing--forgot everything but
the music. The only time Beryl quite lost her self-consciousness was
when she was playing or listening to music.
She played on, happily absorbed, when suddenly her former fears were
realized; the door handle clicked and some one put her head round the
door.
"Oh, it's you, is it?" said Isobel's voice; and Isobel pushed the door
open and came in.
Beryl stopped playing, and swung round on the stool.
"This room's not so bad when one gets used to it," said Isobel, walking
across to the French window and pushing the curtains back; she stood
looking out into the garden. "Anyway, it's better than that perfectly
hideous dining-room. What awful taste Miss Crabingway must have! I
really don't know whether I shall be able to endure it for six whole
months." She threw herself on the couch beside the window and yawned.
Isobel felt rather bored this afternoon. Caroline was still
unpacking--besides, who wanted to talk to Caroline?--Pamela was still
busy, and waved threateningly to anyone who looked into the study,
keeping her eyes fixed on Mrs Beeton. There was no one but Beryl to
talk to. Isobel was rather curious about Beryl, because she seemed so
unwilling to talk about herself and her home.
"I suppose you learnt music at college?" Isobel observed, studying
Beryl's slight, stooping figure, as she sat with her back to the piano,
her pale face gazing rather anxiously at her questioner.
"No--oh, no," said Beryl.
"Did you have a music master--or mistress--at home, then?"
"No," said Beryl. "Mother taught me a little--and I--and I picked up
the rest for myself."
Isobel raised her eyebrows.
"We had a frightfully handsome music-master at our college at Rugford,"
said Isobel. "Most of the girls raved over him--but I'm not so keen on
Roman noses myself.... What college are you at?"
"Oh ... Just a school--near where we live--at Enfield," replied Beryl;
and Isobel saw to her surprise that Beryl was blushing.
"You've never been away from home then--to boarding-school?" Isobel
suggested.
Beryl shook her head.
"Oh, it's great sport," said Isobel. "But you want plenty of spare cash
to stand midnight feasts to the other girls, and have a bit of fun.
Pater and Gerald used to come down in the car and fetch me home for
week-ends sometimes, by special permission; and sometimes one or two of
the girls would be invited to come with me. The girls were awfully keen
on getting invitations to our place; they used to 'chum-up' to me, and
really almost beg for invitations. And you should have heard them
simply rave about Gerald.... There was one girl, I remember, who
practically implored me to ask her home for the holidays--but she wasn't
a lady--I don't know how she managed to get into the college--the Head
was awfully particular as a rule. This girl was only there one term,
though, and then the Head wrote and told her people that she could not
continue at the college-- Well, what do you think they found out about
her? ... She was a _Council_ school girl! And her parents said she had
been educated 'privately' at home! I suppose her father had scraped up
a little money and wanted her to finish off at our college--to get a
sort of polish. But we weren't having any-- Good gracious! What a
colour you've got!" she broke off, and gazed at Beryl, whose cheeks were
scarlet.
"It's--I'm rather hot," said Beryl. "What are 'midnight feasts'?" she
asked hurriedly.
"Oh, they're picnics we have in the dormitories after all the lights are
out and we're supposed to be in bed," Isobel explained, still eyeing
Beryl curiously. "We choose a moonlight night, or else smuggle in a
couple of night-lights with the cake, and fruit, and chocolates. It's
frightfully exciting--because at any moment we may get caught."
"What happens if you are?" inquired Beryl.
"Well--we never were--not while I was there.... I wonder if I shall go
back for a term or two when my visit here is ended?" Isobel mused.
"Will you be going back again to your school after you leave here?"
"No, I don't think so," said Beryl, who was now quite pale again.
"Did you get up to any larks? Were there any boarders at your school?"
Isobel persisted.
"No," Beryl answered. "It was only a day school. We didn't have any
special larks."
"Didn't you like the school?"
"Not very much. It was all right."
"Why? Weren't the girls nice?"
"Oh, they were nice enough," said Beryl. "It was a nice school. But
nothing specially exciting ever happened. Just work."
"Um ... I shouldn't have liked that," said Isobel. "By the way, your
father and mother are dead, aren't they?"
Beryl nodded.
"Many years ago?" asked Isobel.
"Ever so many years, it seems to me," Beryl replied very quietly.
"Was your father a musician?" Isobel went on.
"No," answered Beryl. "Why?"
"Oh, no reason. I only wondered. What was his profession, then?"
Beryl gazed at her in silence, and Isobel thought perhaps she did not
understand.
"His work, I mean. What did he do for a living? Or had he independent
means?"
"He--I don't know what he did--he went to the City every day," Beryl
ended lamely; her face was ghastly white. "It's so long ago--I can't
remember--I was only very young when he died."
This seemed to satisfy Isobel for a time, and she began talking of her
brother Gerald and his taste in hosiery, until presently she began to
inquire about the aunt with whom Beryl said she lived at Enfield. But
on this subject Beryl was decidedly reticent, and answered vaguely, and
as often as possible in monosyllables, so that Isobel could gain little
or nothing from her questionings. All she gleaned was that Beryl's
'Aunt Laura' lived at Enfield, and that she was a widow, with one
daughter about eighteen years old, whose name was also 'Laura.'
Presently the conversation veered round to schools again, and Isobel
asked,
"By the way, what was the name of your school at Enfield?"