"Why, I believe that's the very school a friend of mine went to at
Enfield--that's why I asked you the name. How quaint! I must write and
tell her--that is, when we are allowed by these silly old rules to write
to anyone. She'll be frightfully interested to know I know some one who
went to the same school with her. But I expect you know her; her name
is Brent--Kathleen Brent."
Beryl shook her head. "I don't recall the name," she said. "But what
were you saying at dinner about some one living at the Manor House named
Lady Prior--who is a relation of yours?" asked Beryl all at once,
desperately anxious to change the subject. Her ruse was immediately
successful. Isobel plunged into the trap headlong, leaving behind her,
for the moment, her curiosity concerning Beryl.
"Of course, I don't know for certain that they are relations, but I know
Pater has a cousin or second cousin named Henry who was knighted some
years ago--but it is a branch of the family that we've somehow lost
touch with--they've lived abroad a lot. But I _must_ find out if these
_are_ the same Priors! It's strange! I've never heard Pater mention
that they had a country seat down here--but, as I said, we lost sight of
them, and besides, they may have only returned to England recently. I
must make inquiries and find out all I can--then, of course, if I find
they _are_ my relations--" Isobel chattered on, but Beryl was scarcely
conscious of what she was saying.
Beryl's mind was obsessed by the awkward questions she had just
evaded--the questions about her father, her aunt, and her school. Only
about the last subject had she been forced into telling a direct
untruth, she told herself, trying to remember what she _had_ said to
Isobel about all three subjects; and it was only the name of the school
that had been--incorrect. But it was in vain that Beryl tried to ease
her mind. She knew she had never been inside Rotherington House School
in her life; it was the best school in Enfield for the 'Daughters of
Gentlemen,' and Beryl knew it well by sight and had made use of its name
in a weak moment. Beryl sat on the piano-stool, apparently listening to
Isobel, but raging inwardly--hating herself for telling a lie, and
hating Isobel for driving her into a corner and making her say what she
had. She felt perfectly miserable.
Isobel's flow of conversation was suddenly checked by the entrance of
Caroline.
"I thought I heard some one in here," said Caroline slowly.
"Hullo! Have you finished unpacking yet?" asked Isobel, in a laughing,
sarcastic way.
"Yes, I've practically finished," replied Caroline composedly, seating
herself in a chair by the fire, and bringing some needlework out of a
bag she carried on her arm.
"Oh, you industrious creature! What _are_ you going to do now?"
exclaimed Isobel despairingly.
"I'm just working my initials on some new handkerchiefs," said Caroline
solemnly.
There was no mystery about Caroline, and consequently no incentive to
Isobel's curiosity. She had already found out, while they were waiting
for dinner, where Caroline had been to school, what her father's
occupation was, where she lived, and who made her clothes; and
everything was plain and satisfactory and stolid, and if not exactly
aristocratic, at any rate eminently respectable--like Caroline herself.
Isobel's glance wandered from Caroline, with her smooth plait of hair,
and her long-sleeved, tidy, unbecoming blouse, to Beryl, with her pale,
sensitive face, and white silk blouse with the elbow sleeves that made
her arms look thin and cold this chilly January day. Why didn't she
wear a more suitable blouse, Isobel wondered--and looked down at her own
sensible dark blue _crepe de Chine_ shirt blouse with a sigh of
satisfaction.
"What became of those papers Pamela and I bought this morning?" Isobel
yawned. "I quite forgot--I was going to look in the local rag to see
what was going on in this place--and to see if there is any information
about dancing classes----"
"I think the papers were left in the dining-room," said Beryl. "I'll
get them for you." And she was out of the room before Isobel could say
another word. She felt that if she had sat still on the piano-stool a
minute longer she would have had to do something desperate; pounce on
Isobel and shake her, or snatch the serenely complacent Caroline's
needlework out of her hands and tear it in half. People had no right to
be so complacent; people had no right to be so horribly inquisitive.
Then she shivered at the thought of the scene she might have
created--and dashed out of the room for the newspapers.
She was quickly back with the papers, for which Isobel yawned her thanks
and then proposed to read out some 'tit-bits' for Caroline's benefit.
"For I really do think your mind must want a little recreation, my dear
Caroline," she remarked, "after the fatiguing work it has had in
deciding whether you shall embroider C.W. upon your handkerchiefs or
just plain C."
"I am embroidering C.A.W. upon all of them," said Caroline seriously,
and not in the least offended, stopping to look over the top of her
round spectacles for a moment at the crown of Isobel's fluffy head
bending over the newspaper.
At the first opportunity to slip away unobserved Beryl made her way up
to her bedroom. As soon as she was inside she locked the door, and
throwing herself on the bed she began to cry, her face buried in the
pillow to stifle the sound of her sobs.
*CHAPTER VIII*
*WHICH CONCERNS A VISIT TO INCHMOOR
AND A WOMAN WITH A LIMP*
The following day was dry, with a hint of sunshine in the air, which
tempted the four girls to plan a four-mile walk over the hills to
Inchmoor, the nearest market town. They each wanted to do some shopping,
and Isobel wanted to make inquiries about a 'Dancing Academy' advertised
in the local paper.
So, with great enthusiasm, the girls set about their morning tasks
before they started out--each making her own bed and tidying her room.
Old Martha shook her head and smiled as she crossed the landing, duster
in hand.
"Too good to last," she thought to herself.
True, the enthusiasm did not last longer than a week, but the girls
stuck to their plan nevertheless, and whether they felt enthusiastic or
not they made their beds and tidied their rooms each day without fail;
it became, after a time, a matter of habit.
As Martha crossed the landing and was passing Pamela's bedroom door the
door sprang open and Pamela ran out, almost colliding with Martha, whom
she grasped by the arm.
"Oh, Martha, I'm so sorry. I didn't hurt you, did I?" she cried. "But
you're the very person I wanted. Do come and look out of my window for
a second, and tell me who this is!"
She hurried old Martha across to the window, and pointed out to her a
woman dressed in grey, who was walking briskly away along the green.
"I can't see very well without my glasses," said Martha, peering
intently through the window, while Pamela added a few words of
description of the woman in grey to help Martha to recognize her.
"Oh--_that_ young person," Martha exclaimed suddenly; "well, she isn't
exactly what you might call young--but still-- That's Elizabeth Bagg,
Miss Pamela. Old Tom Bagg's sister."
"Tom Bagg?" queried Pamela, who had not heard the name yet.
"The old cabman what brought your luggage up here the other night, Miss
Pamela."
"Oh! That is whom she reminds me of then," Pamela said. "I knew I'd
seen some one like her recently, but do you know, I couldn't think for
the life of me who it was. But tell me--is she an artist? I saw her
carrying an easel--and she dresses very artistically."
"Yes, she do go in for painting a bit, Miss Pamela," said Martha. "But,
poor creature, she don't get much time to herself. She keeps house for
her brother--and him a widderer with six little children--so you may
depend she's got her hands full. How she manages to keep the children
and everything so nice, and yet get her painting done and all, is more'n
I can understand. She gives lessons over at a young ladies' school at
Inchmoor too--twice a week."
"I'd like to get to know her, and see some of her pictures," said
Pamela, watching the figure in grey as it disappeared in the distance.
"She's rather difficult to get to know--keeps herself _to_ herself, if
you know what I mean, Miss Pamela," said Martha.
"I know," Pamela replied. "But people who paint always interest me so
much----"
"I daresay she'd be glad of some one to take an interest in her work--it
isn't much encouragement she gets from her brother, _I_ know--not that
she ever says anything about it; he seems to expect her to be always
cooking and baking and sewing and cleaning for him and the children--and
he don't set any value on her pictures at all. Yet what _is_ nicer, I
always say, than a nice picture to hang on the walls! It makes a place
look furnished at once, don't it?"
Pamela nodded. "Where does she live?" she inquired.
"You know the blacksmith's place, Miss Pamela?--well, half-way up that
lane that runs beside the blacksmith's--a little house on the right-hand
side as you go up is Tom Bagg's, called 'Alice Maud Villa'--out of
compliment to old Tom's aunt what they thought was going to leave them
some money--but she didn't."
"'Alice Maud Villa,'" mused Pamela. "I thought perhaps she lived at
that little white cottage opposite, as I saw her go in there."
"Oh, no, she don't live there," said Martha. "She was probably only
leaving some new-laid eggs or a plaster for Mrs Gresham's
rheumatics--she do have rheumatics something chronic, poor dear. That's
what it was, most likely, Miss Pamela. Elizabeth Bagg is a very
kind-hearted creature."
"I shall do my best to get to know her," said Pamela.
Half an hour later--after a slight delay caused by Caroline being unable
to make up her mind whether she should take her mackintosh as well as
her goloshes and umbrella, and finally deciding to take it in spite of
Isobel's unconcealed mirth--the four girls started off on their walk to
Inchmoor. Beryl and Caroline were introduced to the village by the other
two girls, before they all turned up the lane that led through the
fields, and over the hill, to the market town.
This was the lane that led past the picturesque old windmill that
Millicent Jackson had told Pamela about in the paper-shop; and knowing
this, Pamela had brought a notebook and pencil with her in case she felt
tempted to stop and make a sketch of it while the others went on to
Inchmoor. There was nothing she wanted to get particularly at the shops
in the little town, and a fine day in January was a thing to seize for
sketching--there were so few fine days; and one could always do shopping
in the rain.
The lane that ran between the fields was very pretty even in January,
and Pamela found herself wishing that her brother Michael was with her;
he always appreciated the same scenery as she did, and her thoughts were
with him and those at home while she joined in, more or less at random,
the animated conversation that was going on around her. She dared not
let herself think too much about her home, or such a wave of
homesickness would have engulfed her that she would have wanted to go
straight off to the station and take a through ticket to Oldminster at
once. She felt she could not possibly endure six whole months without a
sight of her mother or any of them.
"But I've got to see this thing through now," she told herself. "I
mustn't be silly. And six months will pass quickly if I've got plenty
to do."
Pamela had thought over her duties as hostess carefully, and was
convinced that it was necessary to have some kind of work for each of
them to do, day by day, if they were not to become bored or irritable
with each other, and if their six months' stay in Barrowfield was to be
a success. Of course, it was too early to be bored with anything
yet--everything was so fresh; but presently, when they had got used to
each other and Barrowfield, she feared things might not run so
easily--unless there was plenty of interesting work to be done. Cut off
from their home interests, they were left with many blank spaces in
their lives which needed filling--and Pamela meant to see that these
spaces were filled; she was a great believer in keeping busy.
Enthusiasm is generally catching. And Pamela's enthusiasm had been
communicated to the other three--which explains Isobel's desire to
interview the principal of the Dancing Academy; and Caroline's
determination to inquire about dress-making lessons in Inchmoor, though
unfortunately she had not been able to find anything about the matter in
the local paper. Beryl was in quest of some musical studies which she
meant to buy out of her three pounds. But enthusiasm can keep at white
heat with but few people; and those who are naturally enthusiastic must
keep the others going--as Pamela was to find out.
The four girls soon began to ascend a steep incline in the lane, with
tall hedges bordering each side now, and separating them from the
fields. Whenever they came to a gate set in a gap between the hedges,
and leading into one or other of the fields, they would stop for a
moment and look over the bars of the gate at the fine view of hills and
woods that unfolded itself before them. They were certainly in the
midst of charming country; even Isobel admitted this involuntarily, and
she rarely if ever expressed any appreciation of scenery.
At length, as they turned a bend in the lane, the old windmill came in
sight.
"What a fine picture it makes!" thought Pamela; then she exclaimed
aloud, "Oh, and there's a pond beside it--Millicent Jackson never
mentioned the pond. It's just exactly what it wants to complete the
picture."
So attracted was Pamela by the windmill, which proved on nearer
inspection to be even more picturesque than it had appeared from a
distance, that she arranged at once to stay behind and make a sketch of
it while the other three went on to Inchmoor.
"And if I've finished before you return I'll come on to the town and
meet you. But if you don't see me wandering round Inchmoor, look for me
here as you come back. You don't mind me staying behind, do you? But I
feel just in the mood to try sketching this old place to-day," Pamela
said.
The others said that of course they did not mind, and after refreshing
each other's memory with the reminder, that five o'clock was the hour
they had told Martha they would be home for 'high tea,' they left Pamela
beside the old mill on the hill-top and started to wend their way down
the lane on the other side, toward the distant spires of Inchmoor, two
miles away.
"Do you know, I've been thinking quite a lot about that locked-up room
next to mine," said Isobel to the other two, as they went along. "Oh,
yes, I know Pamela thinks it wiser not to talk too much about it for
fear of adding 'fuel to the flames' of curiosity! But one can't help
thinking about it! It's so frightfully strange. Now what do you
think--in your own mind, Caroline--what do you think _is_ inside that
room?"
"Well," replied Caroline slowly, "I shouldn't be surprised if Miss
Crabingway kept all her private papers and possessions that she
treasures, and does not want us to use or spoil, locked up inside the
room. I know that's what I'd have done if I'd been Miss Crabingway."
"You think it's only _things_ then?" Beryl broke in. "Not--not a
person?"
"What do you mean?" cried Isobel instantly, turning to Beryl with great
interest.
Seeing that the other two were waiting eagerly for her reply, Beryl felt
a momentary thrill of importance, and let her imagination run away with
her.
"I mean," she said nervously, "supposing there was a secret entrance
leading into that room--so that a person could get in and out without us
knowing anything about it. And supposing some one occasionally crept
into the room and--and spied on us through the keyhole--just to see what
we were doing."
"Oh, Beryl, what an idea!" gasped Isobel in delight. "Whatever made you
think of that?"
"I don't know--it--it just came into my head," stammered Beryl.
"I don't think it's at all a likely idea," Caroline deliberated.
"Surely one of us would have heard some little sound coming from the
room if there had been anyone inside there! I haven't heard anything
myself. Besides, who would want to spy on us?"
"There's only one person, of course--and that's Miss Crabingway," said
Beryl.
Caroline's eyes grew wide and round with surprise; but Isobel narrowed
hers, and looked at Beryl through the fringe of her eyelashes.
"You don't mean to say," Isobel said incredulously, "that Miss
Crabingway would spend her time ... well, I never! What an idea!"
"But Miss Crabingway's in Scotland, isn't she?" asked Caroline in mild
astonishment. She had been told that Miss Crabingway had gone to
Scotland and had never questioned the matter--of course having no reason
to do so.
"Well--so we're told," said Isobel; then she gave an exaggerated shiver.
"Ugh! I don't like the idea of an eye watching me through the keyhole!"
"We might ask Martha to hang a curtain in front of the door--say we feel
a draught coming through on to the landing," suggested Beryl. "But
really, please don't take this seriously--I only made it all up--in fun,
you know--it isn't a bit possible. I--p'r'aps we ought not to have
talked about it. Pamela said 'fuel for the flames.' ... And it does make
you more curious when you discuss it, doesn't it?"
"I don't know," said Isobel. "_I_ certainly shan't be tempted to look
through the keyhole myself--in _case_ there's anything in your idea, and
Miss Crabingway sees me, and I lose my fifty pounds. But I shall
_listen_, and if I hear any sounds coming from the room----"
Isobel was evidently rather taken with Beryl's suggestion, for she
referred to it more than once before they reached Inchmoor.
When they at last arrived in the busy little market town they decided
that it would probably be quicker for each of them to go about her own
affairs, and then all to meet in an hour's time at a certain tea-shop in
the High Street, where they would have some hot chocolate and sandwiches
to keep them going until they got home again.
"P'r'aps Pamela will have joined us by then," said Beryl hopefully.
Inchmoor was a bustling, cheerful little place, with very broad streets,
plenty of shops, a town hall, and a picture palace.
Beryl quickly discovered a music shop, and here she spent an enjoyable
half-hour turning over a pile of new and second-hand music, and picking
out several pieces that she had long wanted to buy. When she at length
tore herself reluctantly away from the music-seller's, it occurred to
her that perhaps she might buy a new and warmer blouse if she could see
one in a draper's window; but she was not used to buying clothes for
herself and rather dreaded the ordeal of entering a big drapery
establishment when she was not sure what kind of material she preferred,
nor how much she ought to pay for it. She passed and re-passed one
draper's shop, but catching sight of the Wellington-nosed shop-walker,
and a fashionably dressed lady assistant, eyeing her through the glass
door, her courage failed her and she passed on down the street to
another draper's. Here the exasperated tones of a girl serving at the
blouse counter came to Beryl's ears, and she hesitated, lingered for a
few moments looking in the window, and then decided not to bother about
a blouse to-day--there was not much time left before she would have to
meet the others at the tea-shop. She looked about for a clock, and
spying one, found that there was no time left at all, and, inwardly
relieved, she walked briskly away down the street.
In the meantime Isobel had found Madame Clarence's Dancing Academy, and
was now occupied in interviewing no less a personage than Madame
Clarence herself.
The Academy was in a side-street, and was a tall, flat-fronted old house
with a basement and an area; it did not look as if it belonged to
Inchmoor at all, being quite unlike the other houses in its
neighbourhood, which were frankly cottages, or really old-fashioned
country residences. The Academy was an alien; it looked so obviously
the sort of house that is seen in dozens on the outskirts of London. It
gave one the feeling that at some time or other it really must have been
a town house, and that one night it must have stolen away from the
London streets and come down here for a breath of the fresh country air.
And once having reached Inchmoor it had stayed on, lengthening its
holiday indefinitely, until every one had forgotten that it was only to
have been a holiday, and had accepted the Academy as a permanent
resident.
Madame Clarence, who received Isobel in a drawing-room which seemed to
be mostly blue plush, long lace curtains, and ferns, was a small,
bright-eyed woman, dressed in a black and white striped dress. Madame
walked in a springy, dancing manner, and when she was not talking she
was humming softly to herself. She wore a number of rings on her short
white fingers--fingers which were never for a moment still, but were
either playing an imaginary piano on Madame's knee, drumming on the
table, toying with the large yellow beads round Madame's neck, or doing
appropriate actions to illustrate the words Madame said. Madame had grey
hair, though her skin was soft and unwrinkled, except for a certain
bagginess under the eyes.
To all appearances Madame must have been inside the house when it came
down from London, for she gave an impression of being town-bred, and,
judging by her conversation, of having conferred a favour on Inchmoor by
consenting to reside in so unimportant a spot. She said she would be
charmed to have Miss Prior as a pupil, and ran over, for Isobel's
benefit, a long list of names of Society people to whom she claimed to
have given dancing lessons. Isobel was duly impressed and inquired her
fees. After ascertaining what kind of dancing Isobel wished to be
instructed in, Madame said the fee would be three guineas a term; and as
Miss Prior had come when the term was already well advanced, Madame said
she would give her extra private lessons until she caught up with the
rest of the class. This seemed so generous of Madame that Isobel closed
with the offer at once, although the appearance of the Academy was not
quite what she had expected; but still, Isobel reminded herself,
Inchmoor was only a little country town, and it was a marvellous and
fortunate thing to find anyone so exclusive as Madame in such a
backwater. And Isobel wondered how the little dancing-mistress had
drifted here.
Isobel's thoughts were interrupted by Madame rising and offering
personally to conduct her over the dancing-hall, which she proceeded to
do, humming as she led the way into a large room with polished floor,
seats round the walls, and a baby-grand piano; around the piano were
clustered bamboo fern-stands and pedestals, which supported large ferns
growing in pots.
"This floor is a perfect dweam to dance on," Madame informed Isobel.
"I'm sure you will enjoy it."
After exchanging one or two polite and complimentary remarks with
Madame, and having arranged to come over to the Academy every Tuesday
morning and every Friday afternoon, Isobel was about to depart when
Madame said:
"It is a long way for you to come fwom Bawwowfield alone--have you not a
fwiend who would care to come with you and take lessons also?"
Isobel had not thought of this before, but told Madame Clarence she
would see if she could arrange for a friend to come with her, admitting
that she would certainly prefer it to coming alone.
On her way to the tea-shop she turned the idea over in her mind, and
speculated on the likelihood of one of the other girls joining her. She
had not much hope of Pamela (whom she would have preferred), because she
did not seem to be interested in dancing and wanted all her spare time
for her sketching and reading. Beryl was a doubtful person--no, Isobel
thought it unlikely that Beryl would join. Caroline--Isobel smiled to
herself at the idea of slow, clumsy Caroline dancing. "It would do her
a world of good though," she thought to herself. "And, anyway, though
I'm not frightfully keen on her company, she'd be better than no one."
She would put the matter to all three, Isobel decided, and see if any of
them seemed inclined to join her.
She found Caroline and Beryl waiting at the tea-shop for her, and the
three of them went in and ordered hot chocolate and sandwiches. They
chose a table near the window so that they were able to watch all that
went on in the street outside.
Caroline was rather sulky over the meal because she had failed to find
out anything at all about dressmaking classes in Inchmoor, and was
consequently disappointed. Such classes did not seem to exist, and she
had spent her hour in fruitless inquiries, and in trying to get a
certain kind of embroidery silk to match some that she already had. The
silk had been unobtainable also, and Caroline's time had been wasted on
disappointing quests. This was not the time to talk about dancing;
Isobel had the wisdom to know this, but nevertheless she was dying to
talk about it. She forbore, however, in her own future interests.
"I suppose nobody's seen Pamela yet?" Isobel observed. "We shall find
her still sketching those few old bricks, I expect--unless she's found
it too cold to sit still! And my goodness! won't she be hungry by this
time!"
"Could we take a couple of sandwiches along with us, do you think?"
suggested Beryl. "In case she would like to have them."
"Not a bad idea," said Isobel.
So that is what they did. The short January day was already well
advanced, and a chilly little breeze had sprung up by the time they
emerged from the tea-shop. Isobel and Caroline fastened their furs
snugly round their throats, and Beryl buttoned up her coat collar. Then
the three girls started briskly off toward Barrowfield.
Meanwhile, Pamela, when the other three left her, had first of all
explored the mill and then settled down to her work. That the mill was
partly ruined and wholly deserted made matters perfect, according to
Pamela's ideas. She wandered up to the open doorway and looked inside.
Bricks and dust and broken timber within--nothing else. It was quite
light inside, owing to the many holes in the walls. Pamela stepped
cautiously in, picking her way through the dust and dried leaves that
had drifted in, and over the loose bricks and wooden laths, and
clambering on to a small mound of accumulated dust and rubbish she
looked through one of the holes in the wall at the magnificent sweep of
country stretching away downhill to the little cup in the hill-side
where Barrowfield lay. She could see the smoke rising up from the
houses in the village; and beyond this, on the farthest side of the cup,
a range of tree-clad hills closed the view. Barrowfield was not in a
valley, but in a little hollow among the hills.
On the other hand, Inchmoor, which could be located from a hole in the
other side of the windmill, was certainly down in a valley; the road
leading to the market town was only visible for a short distance beyond
the mill; it twisted and curved and then dived out of sight--to become
visible again far in the distance when about to enter Inchmoor. Pamela,
gazing from the hill-top, could not see anything of the three girls on
their way to Inchmoor, as they were already hidden from her sight by a
bend in the road.
But when she went back to her former position and took a final look over
Barrowfield way before starting work, her eye caught sight of a figure
coming rapidly up the hill, along the lane which the girls had just
traversed. Being the only living thing in sight at the moment, Pamela
watched the figure until it was hidden from her sight for a few minutes
by the tall hedges that grew at the sides of the lane. She was not
particularly interested in the figure, but had noticed casually that it
was a woman, and that the woman appeared to have a slight limp. When
she lost sight of her Pamela came out of the old windmill, and taking up
the position she had chosen for making her sketch, she got everything
ready and set to, and was soon absorbed in her work.
How long she had been sketching before she became aware that some one
was standing watching her Pamela did not know. It was probably a
considerable time, but she was so engrossed in what she was doing that
she had not heard footsteps passing in the lane behind her--footsteps
that ceased suddenly, while a woman dressed all in black and wearing a
black hat with a heavy veil over her face, and a thick silk muffler
wound round her neck and shoulders, stopped and stood gazing with a
strange and curiously vindictive look at the unconscious Pamela.
Suddenly, without any other reason except that queer, sub-conscious
feeling that one is being watched, Pamela shivered and looked quickly
round over her shoulder--and saw the woman in the lane.
As soon as Pamela stirred the woman turned her head away and moved on,
hastily limping forward up the hill.
Pamela, in accordance with the usual country custom, called out in a
friendly tone, "Good-day."
The woman made no reply, but continued her limping walk, and was quickly
out of sight.
"I suppose she didn't hear. P'r'aps she's deaf," said Pamela to
herself, and thought no more about it.
Could she have seen the expression on the woman's face as she stood in
the lane a few minutes earlier, watching, Pamela would not have resumed
her work with a mind as free from curiosity as she did.
*CHAPTER IX*
*ISOBEL MAKES TROUBLE*
Pamela had just finished her sketch, and had begun to be aware that a
chilly breeze was blowing down her neck, and that her hands were cold,
when the sound of voices came floating toward her; she suddenly realized
that it must have been a long time ago when the other girls had left
her. And then she heard Isobel's voice exclaiming:
"Why, she's still here! Good gracious, Pamela, you don't mean to say
you're still drawing those old bits of wood and bricks! ... Well!" The
voice ended on a note of despair that was meant to signify Isobel's
conviction that Pamela was qualifying for an asylum. "You must be
frightfully hungry," Isobel continued, as the three girls came up to
Pamela.
Then it was that Pamela woke up to the fact that she was hungry--very
hungry, and very glad of the sandwiches which Beryl now produced and
handed over to her.
"I say, that was thoughtful of you. Thanks so much," she smiled at
Beryl.
"Did you finish your sketch? May I see it?" asked Beryl shyly.
Pamela brought the drawing out. "But I'm not a bit satisfied with it,"
she said.
"Oh, I think it's splendid," said Beryl, gazing admiringly at Pamela's
picture of the old windmill and the pond.
It was certainly well done; Pamela's style was uncommon, and her
treatment of the subject bold and decided. She had talent, undoubtedly,
but how far this talent would take her, time alone would show. Pamela
was very ambitious, but very critical of her own work, and though full
of enthusiasm over a picture while at work upon it, was rarely satisfied
with it when finished, which was a very good thing, as it always spurred
her on to try to do better. However, Beryl, who was no judge of
pictures, thought Pamela's sketch was perfect.
Not until they reached home and were sitting round the fire after 'high
tea' did Isobel remember that she had meant to buy a camera in Inchmoor.
"I must get it when I go over to Madame Clarence's for my first lesson,"
she said. "It will be amusing to keep a photographic record of my visit
here."
She had told them all about Madame during the walk home, and now tried
to persuade one of them to join her in having dancing-lessons. Nothing
definite was settled that night, and Isobel left them to think the
matter over.
The following day the girls made an attempt to start on their programme
of work. Caroline put in a couple of hours sewing. Beryl practised and
copied out some music. And Pamela got out her sketch-book. But what
was poor Isobel to do without a Madame Clarence, or a camera at hand?
She wandered round the garden for a time, and then she went indoors and
talked to Caroline; but finding this too dull, she roamed round the
house--keeping a safe distance from the locked door--and went in and out
of various rooms, and stood looking out of windows and yawning, until
she was almost bored to tears. It was curious, she thought to herself,
that the very sight of other people working made her restless and
disinclined to settle down to read or write or sew or do anything at
all.
Unfortunately this seemed to be the case throughout her stay at
Chequertrees; she never wanted to work when other people were working,
and consequently there were frequent interruptions from her. Pamela
found that the only time she could work indoors undisturbed was when
Isobel was over in Inchmoor at her dancing-lessons. Isobel was one of
those unhappy people who cannot entertain themselves, but who always
want somebody else to be entertaining them.
On this first occasion, when the other three were working and Isobel
yawning, Pamela bore it as long as she could, then, packing her
sketching materials away with a sigh of regret, she invited Isobel to
come out and do a bit of gardening with her. Isobel hated gardening,
but it meant some one to talk to, and so she jumped at the idea eagerly.
Pamela was not over-fond of gardening, she knew very little about it,
but anything was better than hearing Isobel's restless feet wandering
about and listening to her audible sighs and yawns.
Out of doors it was rather cold, so they wrapped up warmly, and set to
work to 'tidy up a bit' in the garden at the back of the house.
For a while all went well and Isobel chatted away to her heart's
content, while Pamela tied up some withered-looking plants (whose name
she did not know) with a length of twine she had found in the kitchen.
Martha was upstairs getting dressed for the afternoon when the two girls
started on their new occupation, and Ellen was out shopping in the
village, otherwise Pamela and Isobel might have been warned about old
Silas Sluff. As it was, they continued their gardening, blissfully
unconscious that old Silas was just round the corner of the gravel path,
behind the privet hedge that separated the vegetable garden from the
lawn and flowers.
"I think," said Pamela, "this old bush ought to be trimmed a bit--I
wonder if there's a pair of shears handy.... Is this the right time of
year to cut it though? ... What do you think?"
"Oh, I expect so," said Isobel at random, knowing nothing about it.
"Any time would be all right with those sturdy old bushes--I don't know
where the shears are, but here's a pair of old scissors I brought out
from the kitchen--they'd do, wouldn't they? Here, let me do a bit of
trimming. And, do you know, mater had promised me and Gerald that in
any case we should..." She continued a lengthy story that she had
started to recount for Pamela's benefit.
And then old Silas came round the privet hedge to fetch his wheelbarrow.
He came to an abrupt standstill when he caught sight of the two girls,
and stared, open-mouthed, his hat pushed back on his head and his watery
blue eyes wide with astonishment. He had had no idea that there was
anyone in the garden; he had not heard any talking, as he was afflicted
with deafness.
"'Ere!" was all he said, when he recovered from his surprise.
Pamela and Isobel started, and turned round at once.
They beheld a very wrinkled little old man, with a ruddy complexion and
a tuft of white beard under his chin; he wore a green baize apron, to
protect his clothes from the soil, and had a vivid pink shirt with
sleeves rolled up to the elbow. As the girls returned his gaze
steadily, they saw his face begin to work and twitch with indignation.
"'Ere!" he said again.
"I beg your pardon," said Pamela.
"What do you want, my good man?" inquired Isobel, haughtily.
"'Ere! Wot yer doin' to that there bush? You leave it be, my gels!"
called Silas.
Isobel's eyebrows were raised in indignant surprise.
"Why--we're only doing a little gardening! What is it? Who are you?"
asked Pamela, unaware that old Silas was deaf.
"'Ere's me--done this gardin--man and boy--for forty year--and I don't
'ave no interference," cried Silas.
"Oh, I suppose you are Miss Crabingway's gardener?" said Pamela.
"Leave it be, my gels," was all Silas replied. "If you'd _arxed_ me I'd
a-given you summat to do--but not that bush--you oughter arxed me
first."
"How dare you speak to us like that--" began Isobel, angrily.
But Pamela interrupted with, "It's no good, Isobel, I think he's deaf.
He doesn't seem to hear anything we say."
"I don't care whether he's deaf or not deaf--I won't be spoken to like
that by a servant. Such impertinence!" cried Isobel.
Silas meanwhile had continued talking without a pause, while he advanced
slowly down the path toward them.
Pamela moved forward to meet him, and raising her voice tried to make
him understand what they were doing and who they were.
"I'm sorry if you think we've done any harm to the garden--but I don't
think we have, you know," she cried. "And we didn't know Miss
Crabingway had a gardener."
Silas caught the last sentence. This indeed was adding insult to
injury, though Pamela had not meant to be in the least insulting.
"Didn't--know--Miss--Crabingway--had a gardener," repeated Silas,
amazed. "Why--I done this gardin----man and boy--forty year, I 'ave.
Don't it _look_ like it?" he demanded.
"Yes, it does--of course it does," answered Pamela, trying to appease
him.
"Well then--" he began, then caught sight of Isobel treading on the side
of the garden bed. "'Ere! Get orf that, my gel," he cried. "You're
crushin' them li'l plants."
This was too much for Isobel. The gruff, disrespectful tones, the
ordering manner, and the 'my gel,' made her suddenly enraged, and her
temper got beyond her control.
"How--how dare you!" she flared up. "This is no more your garden than
it is--than it is mine, and _I won't_ be spoken to like this!"
As her words seemed to be making no impression on Silas, she
deliberately stamped on the little plants; then, her temper being
properly roused, she turned and snatching at a branch of the bush behind
her she twisted and bent it and snapped it off, and flung it on to the
pathway.
"There!" she panted. "_Now_ perhaps you will understand that _I will
not_ tolerate your insolent manner."
With her head high in the air, and her cheeks burning, she walked
haughtily away into the house.
Old Silas was dumbfounded.
"Oh, how silly!" cried Pamela, ashamed for Isobel. "I'm so sorry she
did that."
Old Silas's watery blue eyes were still more watery as he stooped down
and tried with gentle hands to remedy the mischief that Isobel had done
to the little plants. Pamela knelt down on the path to help him, and
was bending over the garden bed when all at once she heard the old
gardener give a chuckle. She glanced round in surprise. Silas was
wagging his head from side to side and chuckling to himself. The plants
were not very much damaged, and the bush--well, it would grow again.
But it was not these discoveries that filled old Silas's soul with glee.
"Who'd a thought it!" he chuckled. "There's a high sperrit for yer!
'Oighty-toighty is it, my gel? Ho! Hall right! We shall see. Ole
Silas Sluff'll learn yer to darnse on 'is gardin. You wait!"
He took no more notice of Pamela, but seemed absorbed in his own
thoughts, and when Pamela left him and went indoors he was still giving
occasional chuckles and muttering to himself.
"What made you do it?" Pamela said to Isobel afterward. "It didn't do
any good----"
"But the man was preposterous!" said Isobel.
"I know he spoke gruffly, but I don't think he meant to be rude," said
Pamela. "It's just his manner."
"Then it's time he learnt better," Isobel replied. "I don't know what
the world's coming to, I'm sure, with all these inferior creatures
setting up to teach----"
"If you count Silas Sluff your inferior, you should be sorry for him and
set to work to show him how to behave, instead of----"
"If he were my gardener I'd dismiss him on the spot," Isobel said.
Pamela realized the uselessness of continuing the discussion any further
at present, and so the subject was dropped for the time being.
"I ought to have warned you, Miss Isobel," said Martha, when she heard
the story. "Old Silas is that touchy-like--but no one takes no notice
of what he says. He's worked about these parts for years as a jobbing
gardener. But no one takes no notice of him. At present he comes and
works two days a week for Miss Crabingway, and the other four days he
gives a extra hand up at the Manor House. He lodges down in the
village--next door but three to the blacksmith--nice little
house--overlooks the stables of the 'Blue Boar' from the back windows."
But when Martha recounted the incident to Ellen, over supper that night,
Ellen remembered previous occasions when Silas had been put out with
people, and, thinking of his subsequent revenges, her only comment on
the story was, "Oo-er!"
The first dinner of Pamela's choosing was voted a great success by
Isobel and Beryl. Caroline, who always liked to be as accurate as
possible in her remarks, said she would have liked the pudding to have
been a little more 'substantial'; chocolate _souffle_ was very tasty,
but there was no inside to it. Caroline had a strong preference for
solid puddings--as the other three were to learn when Caroline's turn
for arranging meals came round. Meal-times had been fixed so as to give
everybody at Chequertrees as much freedom as possible. Breakfast was at
8 a.m. and dinner was at 6.30 p.m., and between those hours there was
sometimes lunch at 12.30--and sometimes there was not. If the girls
were going out for the day they would get lunch out, or take some
sandwiches with them. A tea-tray, daintily set for four, with milk,
sugar, tea-pot, spirit kettle, and a plate of cakes, was always to be
found in the drawing-room in the afternoons, so that the girls could
make a cup of tea when they fancied it; and Martha and Ellen were thus
left free in the afternoons. This had been one of Pamela's ideas, and
had astonished Martha, who had protested that it was no trouble for her
to get them a cup of tea; but Pamela had insisted, and when Martha got
used to the arrangement she appreciated it very much. It was good to
know that the whole afternoon was her own, and that she would not be
disturbed. A glass of hot milk just before bedtime was the last meal of
the day.
By the end of January the four girls had settled down fairly comfortably
in their new surroundings. Isobel had had her first dancing-lessons at
the Academy, which she enjoyed immensely, although she had not been able
to persuade one of the other girls to join her yet. Pamela had started
an ambitious piece of work--a picture of Chequertrees, as seen from the
front garden--which she meant to work on from time to time whenever the
weather did not tempt her to go farther afield than the garden; she
wanted to take a picture of Chequertrees home with her, so that Mother
and Michael could see what the house was like--the house where she had
spent six months away from them. Beryl had kept up her practice each
day, and spent a good deal of time studying books on theory,
composition, and the biographies of great musicians. And Caroline had
finished her handkerchiefs and had started on a linen brush and comb
bag.
One evening after dinner the four girls were in the drawing-room, Pamela
deeply engrossed in a historical story, Beryl copying some music into a
manuscript music-book, Caroline sewing as usual, and Isobel reclining on
the couch by the crackling fire and dividing her time between yawning
and glancing at the _Barrowfield Observer_; presently she gave an
exclamation of surprise, and sat up, rustling the paper.
"Listen to this, girls!" she cried. "The local newsrag informs its
readers that Sir Henry and Lady Prior and family return to the Manor
House next week, and that Lady Prior wishes it stated that the annual
bazaar and garden fete (in aid of the Barrowfield Cottage Hospital) will
be held as usual at the end of May, and that those who intend making
gifts for the stalls at the bazaar should send in their names to her
ladyship's secretary, Miss Daleham, as soon as possible. That's where
_I_ come in!" Isobel continued. "That will be the best way to introduce
myself to their notice.... So they'll be coming back to the Manor House
next week, will they? Isn't it ripping?"
"I love bazaars," said Caroline, slowly and with relish; she saw in her
mind's eye a vista of neatly hemmed handkerchiefs, with initials worked
in the corners; plump pin-cushions, dorothy bags, hair-tidies, cushion
covers with frills, tea-cosies, all worked by hand. Already she could
see these things spread alluringly out on a stall for sale, with neat
little tickets stuck on them. "I'll send in my name to make something,"
she added.
She did not see Isobel frown as she picked up her newspaper again.
"Bazaars," said Pamela over the top of her book, "I don't like bazaars.
They are places where you get the least value for the greatest amount of
money spent. I'd always rather give my money willingly to any good
cause or fund--rather than buy something I didn't want at a price it
wasn't worth--just so that I could _see_ something for the money I was
giving in this roundabout way to a deserving object."
Caroline gazed at her in astonishment.
"I think bazaars are splendid things for helping charities," she said
slowly. "I don't think of them as you do----"
"Oh, what does it matter about the bazaar," broke in Isobel. "What
really matters to me is that it's a chance to make the acquaintance of
my probable relatives. I wonder if there are any daughters in the
family about my age?"
But Caroline, who was not attending to Isobel for the moment, threaded
another needle, and went steadily on with her line of argument.
"People buy much more at a bazaar than they would in the usual way," she
informed Pamela.
"And they pay much more than they would in the usual way," laughed
Pamela.
"And so more money is collected for the charity," urged Caroline.
"I doubt it," said Pamela. "You think of all the time and money spent
in the making of the articles for the stalls--and the arrangements and
correspondence in connection with the bazaar. Now if the cost of all
that were put into one side of the scales, and the amount of money taken
at the bazaar put into the other side of the scales, I think I know
which side would weigh heavier."
"No," Caroline shook her head; "I don't think you do. Each person who
helps gives a little time and money to the making of the things, which
are afterward sold all together for a substantial sum. It seems to me a
very good way to raise money."
"But it's such a wasteful system," objected Pamela. "If people gave
what money they could spare straight to the good cause they wished to
benefit, and then spent their time on doing more useful work than
stuffing pin-cushions and writing out tickets for bazaars, I'm sure it
would be more practical."
"But people won't do things that way," said Beryl, joining in for the
first time. "Though I quite agree with you, Pamela, in disliking
bazaars."
"Anyway," said Isobel, impatiently, because she had again lost the reins
of the conversation, "although I don't care 'tuppence' about bazaars,
one way or the other, I'm going to this one for reasons I've already
stated. You see I'm quite honest about it--I only want an excuse for
meeting my long-lost, or perhaps I should say new-found, relations."
Pamela, looking across at Isobel, suddenly realized something, and
marvelled that it had not occurred to her before; maybe it was because
she had not paid much attention to Isobel's chatter about Lady
Prior--had not taken it seriously; but now that she heard the Priors
were returning, and that Isobel was going to take the first opportunity
of meeting them, she cried impulsively,
"Why, Isobel, you _can't_! Don't you remember that we all had to
promise Miss Crabingway not to visit or invite to this house 'any
relations whatsoever'!"
A look of dismay flashed across Isobel's face.
"Oh," her voice dropped in quick disappointment; but the next moment she
recovered. "But perhaps they're not my relatives after all," she said,
hardly knowing whether she wished they were or were not. "Oh, bother
those silly old restrictions!" she cried irritably. "But what can I do?
How can I find out if they are my relatives or not unless I meet them?"
Pamela thought awhile. "Well--appoint a deputy--some one to go and find
out for you," she suggested, half sorry for Isobel on account of her
obvious disappointment, and half amused at her keenness to claim
relationship with these titled folk of the neighbourhood. Pamela felt
sure that Isobel would not dream of trying to claim kinship with the
village bootmaker, or grocer, if his name happened to be Prior.
But Pamela's suggestion did not suit Isobel at all; half the excitement
would be lost if some one else had all the introductory moves to do.
"Oh, I don't think Miss Crabingway's silly old rule could possibly apply
to Lady Prior," said Isobel.
"Why not?" asked Pamela.
"Well--you see--it's different somehow--you see they are strangers to me
at present, even if they _are_ my relatives. And I can't see how it
would matter if I get to know them. Miss Crabingway must mean relatives
one already knows."
"Not necessarily, I'm afraid," said Pamela.
"Well, what shall I do?" asked Isobel, blankly.
"If you are really anxious to settle the matter, I'm afraid a deputy is
the only course open to you. Of course, if they are your relations you
must simply ignore them; if they're not, you can cultivate their
acquaintance or not, just as you like," Pamela said, trying her best to
be helpful to Isobel, as she could see the problem appeared to be of
great moment to her.
"Oh, but I couldn't ignore Lady Prior in any case, could I?" said
Isobel.
"You must settle that matter yourself," replied Pamela, quietly. "But I
think it would be breaking your word to Miss Crabingway if you visit
'any relations whatsoever.'"
Isobel was quiet for a while, thinking the matter over.
"Um! Well, I'll have to see," she said presently, and fell silent
again, making plans for the future.
The other three resumed their occupations, and for a while there were no
sounds in the room but the rustle of paper, the scratching of a pen, and
the little plucking noise of Caroline's needle as it moved in and out of
the stiff linen she was sewing.
By and by Beryl got up and went out of the room to fetch another sheet
of music from her box upstairs. This interruption caused Isobel to
break silence again by making several remarks to Caroline concerning
Beryl's attire.
"And why ever she wears such short-sleeved blouses this cold weather,
I'm sure I don't know," she ended.
"They don't look like new ones. Perhaps she's had them some time,"
suggested Caroline.
"Yes. Certainly the style looks a bit out of date," said Isobel,
laughing. "I wonder her people didn't get her some new ones when they
knew she was coming here, instead of sending her in old-fashioned things
like that."
Pamela, deep in her book, became suddenly aware of the turn the
conversation had taken, and fearing Beryl might return and overhear
(because Isobel was thoughtlessly talking in her usual clear,
penetrating voice), she clapped her book to, and jumped up, saying:
"What do you say to a tune--and, oh, I know--a little dance--to tire us
out before we go to bed. May I have the pleasure, mam'selle? Get up,
Isobel, I want to push the couch out of the way to make more room. Come
and show us what you learnt at Madame Clarence's on Friday?"
Isobel, welcoming any diversion for a change, willingly helped to push
the furniture out of the way, and very soon she was waltzing round the
room to the strains of a haunting melody that Pamela was playing on the
piano. Caroline, although she protested that she could not dance, was
made to join in by Isobel.
"I'll show you, come on!" Isobel insisted; and to the accompaniment of
Pamela's tune and much laughter and joking from Isobel (all of which
Caroline took very good-temperedly), Caroline was piloted round the
room, moving ponderously and ungracefully in the mazes of a waltz.
"Of course you're not _obliged_ to dance on my feet, dear child,"
groaned Isobel, laughingly. "It would make a little variety for you if
you danced on the carpet just _occasionally_, you know. Take care,
you'll knock that chair over! Look out, Pamela, we're coming past you!"
It was to this laughing, animated scene that Beryl returned. Pamela,
looking over her shoulder, took a hurried glance at Beryl's face, and
was satisfied. "I'm so glad. She didn't overhear Isobel then," she
thought. But Pamela was wrong.
However, Beryl, having had time to cool her tell-tale cheeks before she
came in, joined in now as if quite unconscious; and when, presently,
Ellen appeared with four glasses of hot milk on a tray (followed by
Martha, who was curious to see what was going on), Beryl was playing a
lively Irish jig on the piano, and Pamela and Isobel were dancing
furiously in the middle of the room; while Caroline sat gasping on the
couch, fanning herself with the _Barrowfield Observer_, and recovering
from the polka Isobel had just been trying to teach her.
"I like to see young things dance and enjoy theirselves," observed
Martha, as she and Ellen stood in the doorway for a few minutes,
watching.
"It's a long time since there was any dancing in this house," said
Ellen.
"Yet what's nicer!" replied Martha, beaming into the room.
*CHAPTER X*
*PAMELA BEFRIENDS BERYL AND MEETS ELIZABETH BAGG*
On looking back at the first months' happenings at Barrowfield, there
were two incidents that always stood out clearly from all the rest in
Pamela's mind; they made a deep impression on her at the time, and
afterward influenced her actions considerably. The first of these
incidents was the confession Beryl made to her; and the second, the
beginning of her friendship with Elizabeth Bagg.
Passing Beryl's door on her way to bed one night Pamela caught the sound
of sobbing. She stood still, listening; the sounds were faint, but
unmistakable. What should she do? She hesitated for a moment, then
tapped on the door; then, as no one answered, and the sobbing continued
without a break, Pamela turned the handle and went in.
A candle on the dressing-table lighted up the figure of Beryl, still
fully dressed, stretched on the bed, her face buried in the pillows.
"Why, Beryl! Beryl! What's the matter? Can I help you, dear?" Pamela
closed the door, and, crossing the room, laid her hand on Beryl's
shaking shoulders.
Beryl sprang up as if she had been shot.
"Oh! I didn't hear anybody--Oh! Pamela!" and she burst out crying
again--not noisily, but in an intense, quiet way, that frightened
Pamela.
"Are you ill, Beryl? Shall I go and fetch Martha?" she asked anxiously.
Beryl shook her head. "No, no," she sobbed. "I--I'll be all right--in
a--in a minute. Wait a minute."
Pamela waited patiently, sitting on the edge of the bed, her arm round
Beryl's shoulders. "Poor old girl," she said once.
Presently Beryl became calmer, and began to murmur apologetically,
"It's so silly of me. I'm so sorry if I gave you a start--I didn't hear
you come in--I thought I'd locked the door--and I couldn't help crying
again when I saw you--I was all worked up so. Please forgive me--being
so silly--only--only I was so miserable." And here the tears began
afresh.
"Don't, Beryl, you'll make yourself ill if you cry like that. I wish I
could help you-- What is it? Won't you tell me? _Do_ trust me, if
it's anything I can help you in--I would be so glad to help you. Do
tell me what it is," urged Pamela.
For a moment Beryl felt inclined to prevaricate, and say that she was
merely overtired, or depressed, and so account for the fit of crying;
but the longing to share her troubles with some one--and that some one
the most sympathetic person she knew at present--conquered her usual
reticence. She feared losing Pamela's respect, and yet she felt as if
Pamela would somehow understand her.
"Is it that you're longing to go home?" asked Pamela kindly, quite
unprepared for the emphasis with which Beryl replied:
"Oh, _no_."
"I believe I know," said Pamela, remembering one or two occasions
recently in which Isobel figured as the cause of discomfiture to Beryl.
"Some one has been bothering you about things that don't concern them in
the least.... I shouldn't mind about that if I were you."
"You must think it silly of me--I wish I didn't care--and I don't
really," Beryl explained in a confused way. "I care much more what you
think about me than I do what Isobel thinks about me. It's what _I_ do,
when she keeps questioning me, that upsets me." Beryl paused, and
rubbed her eyes with her handkerchief, then said suddenly, "When she
bothers me with questions I--it makes me tell _lies_! ... And, oh,
Pamela," she sobbed, "I do _hate_ myself for doing it." She went on to
explain more fully, pausing every now and again to dab her eyes, or blow
her nose, or cry a little bit more; and Pamela, piecing the broken
sentences together, began to understand what had been taking place.
"She's always asking me about my school--and I haven't told her the
truth about that," said Beryl. "When father and mother died, and left me
in the charge of my aunt, aunt was not able to afford much for me, so
she sent me to a _council_ school. That's where I was educated! And I
haven't the courage to tell Isobel this, because she might despise me,
as she seems to despise all people who have been to such schools. I
know it's stupid of me, and I despise myself for being afraid to tell
her. But having once said I'd been to another sort of school I have to
keep on inventing things about it--about a place I've never been to--and
I feel so horrid all the time.... And then, she ridicules my clothes--I
know she does--and I can't help it--I haven't any others at present;
some that I wear are my cousin's left-off ones--I'd never have chosen
them myself.... Then she's always asking about my--my father and
mother--and the aunt I lived with, after they died.... Aunt Laura keeps
a little shop in Enfield, where her daughter--Cousin Laura--helps her to
serve behind the counter. And I haven't told Isobel this because she
always speaks of 'shop-people' with such contempt.... We lived very
roughly at Enfield, and Aunt Laura was always shouting, and I couldn't
bear the slovenly way we had meals. Oh, I've hated it all, and hated
having it always thrust before my mind by Isobel's questions, and hated
myself for deceiving everybody. I've felt all the time as if I've been
out of place--pretending to be used to a nicely-kept household, when I'm
not.... I've sometimes almost wished that Miss Crabingway had never
invited me here--and yet, I love being here.... Oh, I'm sure you'll
think I'm ridiculous for making such a fuss about these things, but you
can't think what a lot I've _felt_ them--and how I've dreaded Isobel
finding out."
Beryl paused. "But most of all I've dreaded--" she began, and then
stopped, "I've dreaded--" she was having great difficulty in getting her
words out now, "I've--dreaded--her knowing--about my father. He--he
died--in _prison_." She was not crying now, but gazing with wide,
frightened eyes into Pamela's face. "I _must_ tell you--I _must_ tell
you the rest--it wouldn't be fair not to. Wait a minute."
Beryl put her hand inside her blouse and drew out a little key attached
to a long black cord; scrambling hurriedly to her feet she went across
to a drawer in the dressing-table and brought out a small black box; she
unlocked this, and quickly found what she wanted. It was a letter,
written in faint, thin writing, which she brought over and placed in
Pamela's hands.
"Read it," said Beryl, and stood holding the lighted candle just behind
Pamela's shoulder so that she could see to read the following letter: