Some day, in the distant future, you may hear cruel things said about
your father--things that may not only be cruel, but false as well, and
which will cause you much suffering. The truth is cruel, but I am going
to tell you the truth now, so that you will know all there is to know,
and will not suffer unnecessarily. I wish for your sake that my life
could be spared until you had grown to years of understanding, but this
I know cannot be.
As I write this you are playing happily on the rug at my feet--such a
little thing you are--my poor little daughter. And you are laughing....
It makes my heart ache to think that when you are old enough to read
this letter, and understand, you may be crying--and I shall not be near
to comfort you.
But we must face things bravely, my dear.... Your father is dead. He
died two months ago in prison. They told me it was pneumonia, but I
know that it was because his heart was broken. (People can die of broken
hearts, you know, Beryl.) When he died he was serving a term of
imprisonment for embezzlement; he stole a large sum of money from his
employers--hoping to be able to pay it back before it was missed, he
said; but he was not able to do this. Never believe that he was a
wicked man, your father; he was tempted--and he could not resist. He
had been with the same firm for many years, and large sums of money
passed through his hands each month. At home there were debts to pay--I
was ill, and you had been ill--and illness uses up so much money; and
your father's salary was not over-high, although his position was a
responsible one. You can see how it happened--how, when an opportunity
occurred when he could easily borrow the money, the temptation was too
much for him....
His employers were very hard on him, in spite of his long and honourable
years of service with them--and he died in prison.
That is all. And if, in the future, you hear additions to this story,
do not believe them, little daughter--they are not true.
Your father was a good man, in my eyes, in spite of everything.
Remember, he did it for us--so that you and I might live and get well
and strong. For me, it was useless.... I know I am dying now. For
you--I am praying for you....
Pamela read the signature of Beryl's mother through a blur of tears.
She was not a girl who cried easily, and she bit her underlip in an
effort to stop it quivering; but the tears forced their way into her
eyes so that she dared not look up at Beryl for a moment. She stared
instead at the old letter in her hands--the letter written over fourteen
years ago, seeing nothing but the white sheet of paper glimmering
through her tears. She did not realize that Beryl was waiting in an
agony of suspense for her to speak, until she looked up at length and
saw Beryl's face.
"Oh, Beryl," was all she could say. And the next moment she had flung
her arms round Beryl, and both girls were crying together.
"You see," said Beryl, after a while, "it isn't that I'm ashamed of my
father--oh, it _isn't_ that, but I couldn't ever explain to Isobel--I
couldn't talk to her about him at all--she'd be all out of sympathy, and
she wouldn't understand a bit.... you understand how I mean, Pamela,
don't you? ... I've never shown this letter to anyone but you. It was
left to me--locked up in an old box with some other things from my
mother, with instructions that I was to open it on my fourteenth
birthday.... I can't tell you how I felt when I first read it--it came
just at a time when I was needing it badly.... But I wouldn't show it
to Isobel for anything--you do understand, Pamela?"
"I think I understand," said Pamela gently. "But, Beryl, dear, about
your school, and the other things, you've let the thought of Isobel's
opinion gain an unreasonable power over you--and you said just now you
didn't really mind what she thought of you?"
"Yes, I know," said Beryl, tearfully. "It's all been so silly, and it
seems sillier when it's talked of even than when I only thought about
it.... Pamela, do you--do you despise me?"
"Of course I don't," replied Pamela promptly.
"Not for anything?"
"Not for anything, you old silly," said Pamela. "And now, look here, I
want us to make a plan together. I was just wondering--what would be
the best thing for you to do about Isobel!"
"How do you mean?"
"Why, we've all got to go on living under this roof together for five
more months, and you can't go on being worried and miserable and
dreading things all that time! Besides, there's no need. We might just
as well all be comfortable together."
"What do you think I'd better do?" asked Beryl. "You see, I can't let
Isobel know that I've been telling her stories all the time--I can't
tell her the truth now. Besides," Beryl's voice was indignant, "what
business is it of hers? She shouldn't question me like she does."
"Of course she shouldn't," agreed Pamela. "But I'm sure it's done
thoughtlessly. She doesn't understand a bit; if she did, she'd be a
deal more kindly. She's not a bad sort really, you know, Beryl. I've
met several girls like her--I think it's the fault of her upbringing."
"She can make people feel so _small_ sometimes, just by the tone of her
voice," said Beryl. "Oh, it's hateful! I--I couldn't bear it."
"Look here," said Pamela, "I'll speak to her, if you like--just give her
a hint not to bother you with questions. I won't tell her anything you
don't want me to. Will you leave it to me--and trust me not to say too
much?"
"Oh, Pamela, it is kind of you. If only you would-- Of course I trust
you-- Just tell her what you think best.... Only I can't help feeling
a coward for not facing things myself...."
"That's all right. It's easier to do it for another person than it is
for oneself," said Pamela. "And now you must go to sleep--you'll look
all washed out in the morning if you don't. And, remember, we've got to
_enjoy_ our stay in this house--let's get all the fun out of it we can,
shall we? ... Don't worry any more about Isobel--it'll be all right, you
just see! ... Good-night, Beryl. And--Beryl--thank you for showing me
your mother's letter."
When Pamela had gone Beryl cried a little more, but they were a
different kind of tears this time, because she had found a friend, and
her heart was full of gratitude.
After this Pamela took the first opportunity that occurred to speak with
Isobel alone. She was not quite sure of the best way to deal with
Isobel, but decided on the whole it would be best to tell her quite
straightforwardly as much as she meant to tell her--arouse her sympathy
and interest, but not her suspicions.
"I say, Isobel," she began, "I know something that I think you will be
interested to hear--about Beryl."
Isobel pricked up her ears immediately.
"What is it?" she asked.
"You know you were wondering why she wore that short-sleeved silk
blouse?"
"Yes," replied Isobel, smiling.
"You remember it amused you because it was unsuitable?"
"Yes," Isobel assented, and laughed.
"Well, Beryl only possesses two blouses in the world, at present--that
silk one and another one; she wears them in turn, poor kiddy--and hates
them both.... Her aunt, with whom she lived, chose them for her. She
hasn't got any others, though she's going to buy some with her
pocket-money now. She's very sensitive about her clothes."
"Oh," said Isobel, looking puzzled; she wondered how Pamela meant her to
take the information.
"Well," said Pamela, looking straight into Isobel's eyes, so that Isobel
presently began to feel vaguely uncomfortable, "I believe she has an
idea that you laugh at them--and it hurts her. So I thought I'd tell
you, because I know you wouldn't want to purposely hurt her."
"No, of course not. I didn't know--" began Isobel.
"She's had rather a rough time on the whole--losing her mother and
father, and being brought up by an aunt with whom she is obviously not
in sympathy----"
"Why, from what she's told me, I don't think she's had a particularly
rough time," Isobel interrupted.
"She makes light of it, no doubt," Pamela replied. "But all the same
she's not had a particularly happy time, and I would like her to be
happy while she is here with us, wouldn't you?"
"Why, of course," agreed Isobel. "Why shouldn't she?"
"She tries to put her unhappy life behind her, but--well, you know,
Isobel, you keep reminding her of it!"
"_I_ keep reminding her! What do you mean?"
"I found her crying last night because you kept worrying her with
questions," said Pamela bluntly.
Isobel flushed.
"Good gracious! How ridiculous! But I only ask her ordinary questions.
Why should she mind that?"
"They're questions about the past unhappy life with her aunt--a time she
wants to forget. You keep reviving it. And if she wants to forget--we
have no right to force her to remember, have we?"
"Of course not," said Isobel, haughtily.
"I didn't mean to tell you about her crying, at first--but I guessed if
you knew you wouldn't let it happen again. It was only because you
didn't know. Where she went to school, what she did at her aunt's,
where she bought her clothes--things like that don't really concern any
of us----"
"Not if there's nothing to hide," said Isobel suddenly. "But it seems
as if there is something in Beryl's case--and so she won't talk about
it."
"Why on earth should there be anything to hide! If she's been
unhappy--why should she wish to talk about it? Let her forget it.
Come, Isobel, I know you'll be a good sport, and not bother her with any
more questions. Let's give her a happy time while she's here, shan't
we? Shake hands on it."
Isobel took Pamela's outstretched hand, but her dignity was still a
little ruffled.
"Beryl seems to have made a lot of fuss--if there's nothing to hide,"
she said in a slightly offended tone.
"Oh, she's only extra sensitive.... Why ever should there be anything
to hide!" repeated Pamela, feeling as if she had not been quite
successful in convincing Isobel. "It's only that she's been
unhappy--and she's been poor. Lack of money makes such a difference in
one's confidence in one's self. It oughtn't to--but it does," she
ruminated. "Anyway, you won't ask her any more questions, will you?"
"I shouldn't think of doing so--after what you've told me," Isobel
replied coldly.
"Thanks so much," said Pamela, with genuine warmth. "We'll give her a
real happy time while she's here."
And if Beryl's happiness had lain in the hands of these two girls, it
would have been assured during the next few months. But, unfortunately,
there was a third person in Barrowfield whose hands were to play an
unexpected part in the future happiness of Beryl.
A black kitten was responsible for introducing Pamela to Elizabeth Bagg.
Pamela found the kitten crying in a field--a soft, purry, rather
frightened little kitten, that had lost its way. Pamela picked it up,
and made inquiries about it in the village. No one seemed to own it,
nor recognize it, at first; and then Aggie Jones, who was leaning out of
her door as usual, said she believed it belonged to the Baggs.
So Pamela went up the little lane by the blacksmith's to inquire. She
soon became aware of the vicinity of 'Alice Maud Villa.' As she walked
along the lane her ears caught the sound of laughter and the shouting of
children's voices, which proceeded from a small house on the right-hand
side; also Pamela's nose informed her that a delicious smell of boiling
toffee came from the same quarter. Then she came to the house, and saw
the name painted over the doorway. It was a very clean-looking little
house, with brightly polished door-knocker and letter-box, and the
curtains were fresh and dainty.
Pamela knocked several times before anyone heard her, the noise inside
the house being so great. Then the door was flung open and a swarm of
little Baggs and a strong smell of cooked toffee came out to greet her.
The return of the kitten was hailed with joy, and Pamela, though glad to
find its home, watched anxiously to see that the children did not pull
the kitten about nor tease it. Pamela was very fond of animals, and had
found the absence of a cat or a dog at Chequertrees very strange. She
watched the little black kitten, and saw that it did not seem at all
afraid of the children, and that, on the other hand, the children
handled it very carefully, in the way that only children who have a real
love for animals can handle a kitten. Pamela was relieved to notice
this; she knew too many cases where a kitten had been thoughtlessly kept
"for the children to play with," a practice she thought most bad for the
children, who were not taught to treat animals kindly, and most cruel
for the little teased kittens. However, there was nothing to worry over
in this case, and when, a moment later, Elizabeth Bagg, in a holland
overall, appeared in the doorway, Pamela, glancing at her pale, strong
face, felt she understood why the children behaved gently to the kitten.
There would be no thoughtless cruelty in the house Elizabeth Bagg ruled
over.
She had a kindly face, with clear grey eyes and a frank expression. It
was strange that with such different features, and with so pale a
complexion, she yet had a strong resemblance to her ruddy-faced brother,
the cabman. Her voice and manners, though, were entirely unlike his.
Her hair, which was jet black, was parted in the centre and brushed
smoothly down each side of her face, and coiled in one thick plait round
her head; it was a quaint style, rather severe, but it suited Elizabeth
Bagg.
Pamela explained about the kitten, and then introduced herself,
mentioning that she was staying at Chequertrees, and then, as was her
usual way, plunged straight to the point that interested her most.
"I have been wanting very much to meet you," Pamela said, "because I
hear that you are an artist. I do a little sketching myself, and I'm
awfully interested in anyone who paints. Would you--would you think it
very impertinent on my part if I asked to see some of your pictures. I
should _love_ to, if you don't mind--but only when it suits you, of
course--not now, if you're busy."
A faint pink had crept into Elizabeth Bagg's cheeks.
"I should be pleased to show you some of my work," she said courteously.
She spoke in a queer, stiff little way, so that until one knew her it
was hard to understand exactly how she felt about anything.
Pamela, for instance, was not at all sure whether Elizabeth Bagg was
pleased by her request or resented it. Whereas Elizabeth Bagg was
really more astonished than anything else, though certainly pleased.
"Would you please come in," Elizabeth continued. "I'm not busy at
present. The children and I have just finished making some toffee. I
promised them last week that we should make some to-day."
"If they were very good, I suppose?" Pamela smiled down at the six
little Baggs, who were standing round, gazing with open-mouthed interest
at her.
"No," replied Elizabeth, to Pamela's surprise; "I had promised it them
in any case."
"It smells delicious, anyway," said Pamela, not knowing quite what to
reply.
"Would you like some when it's cool?" asked the little Bagg girl, who
was least shy and most generous.
"If you can spare a little bit--yes, I would," laughed Pamela.
"The nutty kind--or the un-nutty kind?" anxiously inquired the elder
Bagg boy, in a thick voice. He was rather greedy, and hoped Pamela
would say the un-nutty, as he liked the nutty sort best himself.
Fortunately she did choose the kind he liked least, and he eyed her with
more favour than he had hitherto done.
The eldest of the children, a girl, was about eleven years old, and the
youngest was about five. There were four girls and two boys, and Pamela
noticed that they were all dressed in sensible linen overalls--things
that were strongly made and easily washed. The children seemed to be a
healthy, noisy, happy-go-lucky little crowd; but although Pamela was
fond of children, she did not pay so much attention to the six little
Baggs on this first visit as she did on subsequent occasions. Her
attention was centred on their aunt, and her pictures.
While Elizabeth Bagg took Pamela upstairs to her 'studio' the little
Baggs disappeared into the kitchen to watch the toffee cooling, and with
permission to break some of the toffee that had already set into small
pieces; during which operation long and excited arguments seemed to
occur with great frequency--arguments that more often than not ended in
a scream or a howl. Hearing which, Elizabeth Bagg would put down the
picture she was showing Pamela, and with a muttered apology would vanish
downstairs, and restore peace.
Elizabeth Bagg's 'studio' was really her bedroom, but in the daytime,
when the camp-bedstead was covered with a piece of flowered chintz, and
the rest of the bedroom furniture made as inconspicuous as possible, the
room served very well as a workroom. The walls were whitewashed, making
a good background for Elizabeth's pictures, which were hung thickly all
around. A few had frames--but only a few. Most of them were without.
She seemed to do all kinds of subjects, from landscapes to quaint
studies of children, painted in a bold, unusual style. On an easel by
the window stood Elizabeth's latest study, half finished; Pamela was
surprised to see that it was a painting of the old windmill that she
herself had tried to sketch. As Pamela stood looking at it, she
realized that there was something in Elizabeth Bagg's work that she
herself would never be able to get. "I'm only a dabbler," thought
Pamela to herself. "This is the real thing."
"It's splendid," said Pamela aloud, gazing at the picture with
admiration. "Do you know"--she turned impulsively to Elizabeth, who was
standing behind her--"it makes me feel as if I want to go home, and tear
up all my drawings and start afresh. Your pictures are so--so alive. If
only I could get that _living_ touch into my work. But I feel I'll
never be able to do it--when I think of my own things--and then look at
this."
"I am more than double your age," said Elizabeth Bagg steadily, though
her heart was beating rapidly at these, the first words of genuine
praise and encouragement that she had had for a long time. "I have been
working for many years past."
"That's not it," said Pamela, shaking her head. "There's something in
your pictures, that if you had not got it _in_ you, no amount of
practice would produce. I can't explain any better than that--but you
know what I mean, don't you? I think your work's fine.... Have you
ever exhibited any of your pictures anywhere?"
Elizabeth Bagg shook her head.
"No," she replied, and a tinge of colour crept into her cheeks again.
"Oh, but you _should_," said Pamela, enthusiastically, looking at a
charming study of a little girl in a red tam-o'-shanter.
Pamela's enthusiasm affected Elizabeth Bagg strangely. She felt
suddenly much younger than she had felt for years past. It was so long
since anyone had noticed her pictures. Her days were spent in household
duties for her brother and the children (just as Martha had told
Pamela), with every spare half hour snatched for her painting. Some
days, when she knew there would be no half hour to spare, Elizabeth
would get up very early in the morning to continue a picture, and would
feel all the fresher to face the work afterward, knowing that her
picture was progressing, surely if slowly. Twice a week she gave
painting lessons at a 'School for the Daughters of Gentlemen' in
Inchmoor, a practice at which her brother had ceased to grumble when he
found it brought her in a few shillings a week. He considered her
'daubing' a fearful waste of time; she had far better be employed in
making a tasty apple-pie or mending the children's stockings, he
thought--work for which Elizabeth received her 'board and lodging.' Old
Tom Bagg flattered himself that he was good-naturedly indulgent to
Elizabeth's little hobby, nevertheless Pamela noticed that there were no
pictures of Elizabeth's anywhere about the house--they were all packed
away in her own room.
Pamela did not know of the gratitude Elizabeth felt toward her; she only
knew that she admired Elizabeth's pictures immensely, and felt a keen
interest in the painter of them.
As Elizabeth said she would like very much to see some of Pamela's work,
Pamela arranged to bring some round the following day.
And so the friendship began.
When Pamela reached Chequertrees that evening she wrote a long post-card
home--for the first month was just ended. Surely there was never a card
with so much written on it before--unless it was the card she received
from home the following day, telling her that all was well at
Oldminster.
*CHAPTER XI*
*THE WISHING WELL*
For a while things settled down into smoothly running order. Now that
the first month had passed the days seemed to slip by in an amazing
fashion--as they generally do after the newness of strange surroundings
has worn off. The four girls got on very well together on the whole; of
course, there were occasional little breezes--which was only natural
considering that four such different temperaments were thrown constantly
into each other's society; but the breezes never gathered into a
tempest, and always, before long, the sun was out again.
One of the breezes sprang up during the sixth week on account of a
protest Isobel made regarding Caroline's choice of puddings. It was
Caroline's turn again to arrange the week's meals, and it must certainly
be admitted that to choose suet roly-poly on Monday and Thursday, apple
dumplings on Tuesday, and boiled treacle roll on Wednesday and Friday,
was, to say the least of it, asking for trouble. But when on the
Saturday a solidly substantial Christmas pudding appeared, it was too
much for Isobel, and she protested vigorously at the stodginess of
Caroline's puddings.
Caroline, looking up from the solid slice of pudding on her plate, took
the remarks badly, and after a few sullen replies got decidedly annoyed.
She was making the most of her week, she said, because she knew she
would not get another pudding worth calling a pudding until her turn
came round again. Even the glories of Isobel's elaborate puddings--with
cream and crystallized cherries on top--had failed to rouse any
enthusiasm in Caroline. Those kinds of pudding were all right to look
at, but they had 'no insides' to them, commented Caroline, as she passed
her plate for a third helping of Christmas pudding.
Martha's patience and willingness in making the various kinds of pudding
chosen were things to be marvelled at; but she seemed to take great
pride and pleasure in showing her skill at cooking whatever the girls
required. To be sure, there was no lack of praise for her from the four
girls, who thoroughly appreciated her efforts to do her best for them.
"It always does me good to go and have a talk with Martha," Pamela would
say. "She's so cheerful--and so willing and unselfish. Nothing is any
trouble to her."
Martha never demurred at nor criticized any of the puddings chosen--not
even Caroline's recurring choice of roly-polies, though she looked a
trifle anxious and made them as light as possible.
"And on Friday we'll have boiled treacle roll," Caroline had informed
her.
"And what's nicer!" Martha had replied, unaware of the chorus of muffled
groans on the other side of the kitchen door, as three girls, rolling
their eyes in an exaggerated manner, crept stealthily away along the
passage.
Then on the Saturday had come Isobel's protest. Caroline maintained that
she had a right to choose any puddings she liked during her week, and
while quite agreeing with her as to this point, Pamela mentioned that
she thought it would be more considerate of Caroline if she would make
her choice a little less 'suety.' They discussed the matter thoroughly,
and finally came to an agreement, Caroline undertaking to vary her
choice if the others promised to have the kind of pudding that was
_really_ a pudding on one day in each week. And so matters were
arranged and the breeze blew over.
In spite of lack of encouragement or interest from the others, Caroline
had sent in her name to Lady Prior's secretary as one who was willing to
make things for the bazaar. And there had followed a day when two
ladies of the organizing committee had called to see Caroline to talk
about the articles that were most needed for the various stalls. It was
a blissfully important day for Caroline, and she had dreams that night
of crocheted cosy-covers, and little pink silk pin-cushions, and
afterward, until the bazaar took place, was scarcely ever seen without
knitting-needles or sewing of some kind or other in her hands.
The two committee ladies were both very large ladies, and were so well
wrapped up in cloaks and scarves for motoring that they looked even
larger than they really were. They drove up to the front gate in a very
large motor car, and being ushered into the drawing-room by the
respectful Ellen, both sat down on the small couch, which they succeeded
in completely obscuring. They were both exceedingly amiable, and
discussed matters in rather loud and assured voices with the bashful
Caroline, who not only promised to make a number of things for the
bazaar, but was eventually persuaded to preside at one of the stalls.
"All the stall-holders are to wear Japanese costumes. A charming idea,
don't you think so?" smiled one of the ladies.
"A very, very sweet idea," said the other. "Of course, there will be no
bother of getting the costumes ready; we are arranging to hire a number
for the day. You'll have to come up and choose which one you like when
the time draws near."
Caroline smiled, and said she thought it a nice idea. Fortunately, the
fact that the Japanese style, with chrysanthemums in her hair, would not
suit her in the least did not occur to Caroline. She was not a vain girl
with regard to her appearance, though she was rather proud of her
accomplishments in the sewing line.
But when Isobel heard about the Japanese costume for Caroline she nearly
suffocated herself with laughter at the picture her mind's eye presented
her with of solemn Caroline in a butterfly kimono and chrysanthemums
pinned coquettishly above each ear. However, Caroline was not within
hearing when Isobel learnt the news from Beryl, so no harm was done.
Isobel would have liked to join in the bazaar herself, but until she
knew for certain about her relationship with the family at the Manor
House, she decided that it was better not to lay herself open to the
chance of meeting Lady Prior. Of course she had questioned Martha about
the Priors, but nothing Martha could tell her shed any light on the
Priors' connexions, as Sir Henry was practically a new-comer to
Barrowfield, having bought the Manor House on the death of the late
owner a few years ago.
As a rule Martha was a useful mine of information on people and places
in Barrowfield, and many an interesting morsel of gossip had come to the
girls through Martha.
It was through her, for instance, that they first heard of the Wishing
Well.
One evening when Pamela was showing Martha a sketch she had made of an
old barn and some pine trees, Martha said:
"Why, that's near the top of Long Lane, isn't it?--near where the
Wishing Well is! And a very handsome picture it makes, to be sure."
"The Wishing Well!" said Pamela. "Where's that? It sounds exciting."
"Well, you know as you gets near the top of Long Lane," said Martha,
busily stoning raisins into a basin that stood on the kitchen table, "on
your right hand, as you're going up, you pass a white gate that leads
into a field and an old disused chalk quarry--there's poppies and long
grass growing all about in the summer--and there's a few trees at the
top of the field, at the head of the scooped-out chalk-pit.... Well, a
few yards inside the gate, on your left, and almost hidden by an
overhanging hedge, is the well. You probably wouldn't notice it if you
wasn't looking for it! But there it is, as sure as I'm sitting here,
stoning these raisins--and Ellen will tell you the same as it's the
truth I'm speaking."
"And why is it called a Wishing Well?" inquired Pamela.
"Oh, there's some old story that if you was to write a wish on a piece
of paper and throw it into the well on a moonlight night, whatever you
wished would come true," Martha chuckled. "But I don't know as I
believes it--though I _did_ have a wish that way once--in my young days,
mind you----"
"And did it come true?" asked Pamela, eagerly.
"Well, no--I can't say it did," replied Martha, "but then, according to
the story it was my fault. I ought to have kept it secret, and I went
and spoke it out to some one, not thinking like--and so it didn't come
true."
"Didn't you wish again ever?"
Martha shook her head. "You can only wish once--according to the story
... but mind you, I don't say there's any truth in it, one way or the
other."
"But don't you know anyone else who has wished and who has had their
wish granted?" asked Pamela, to whom the idea appealed strongly.
"I can't truthfully say I do--not for certain," said Martha. "Though I
knows several what have _said_ such and such a thing has happened
because they wished it to--down the well--and it's their wish come
true.... But how do I know they're speaking the truth? Eh? They
mustn't tell what they've wished till it does come true, or else it
won't come true at all. And when a thing happens, it's easy enough to
say you wished it to, isn't it? ... So you see you can't rely on no
one--not knowing how honest they are--but can only try for yourself and
see."
"I should love to have a wish," said Pamela, gazing thoughtfully into
the glowing kitchen fire. "I like to _believe_ I believe in Wishing
Wells, and goblins and spells and enchantments and things like that, but
I'm not really sure that I _do_.... Anyway, I think we might all go up
Long Lane on a moonlight night, and have a wish--_just in case_ it
really is a Wishing Well.... I'm sure Beryl will love the idea--they
all will, I think. You'll tell us just what to do, won't you, Martha?"
Martha laughed. "Yes, indeed," she said. "But, mind you, I don't say
there's anything in it."
The outcome of this conversation was an excursion up Long Lane a few
nights later when the moon was at the full. All four girls entered into
the spirit of the adventure in high spirits, though Caroline rather
spoilt the romantic glamour that Pamela had conjured up by insisting on
wearing her goloshes in case she got her feet wet in the damp grass.
"Oh, Caroline, how _can_ you! We ought not to speak of such things as
goloshes--practical, matter-of-fact, everyday goloshes--in the same
breath as Wishing Wells," said Pamela, in a mock tragic voice. "But
still, I suppose it's very sensible of you," she added, laughing.
The four girls started off up Long Lane, chatting and laughing, each
with a piece of paper and pencil to write her wish when the well was
reached. It would be so much more romantic, Pamela said, to write it
beside the well in the moonlight, rather than beside the dining-room
table in the gaslight.
"I hope you each know what you're going to wish," said Isobel. "It'll
be too chilly to stand about making up our minds when we get there."
Long Lane stretched from the blacksmith's forge, that stood on the same
side of Barrowfield Green as Chequertrees, past Tom Bagg's house, and up
the hill to a small inn, and a handful of scattered cottages a mile and
a half away. The lane was set with high hedges on either side, and was
a gradual ascent all the way.
As the girls drew near the top end, and the gate leading to the chalk
quarry came in sight, they fell silent, each trying to put into shape
the wish she was going to write in a few minutes.
The well was much as Martha had described, though even more hidden and
overgrown with trails of creeper from a high bank of shrubs above it
than they had expected to find. Pamela was obliged to draw the trails
aside before they could see the dark, still water.
"Can you see the moon reflected in the water? We must make sure of
that," reminded Beryl.
Long white clouds were drifting slowly across the face of the moon, but
as they passed, and the moon emerged again, her reflection could be seen
in the well.
"Yes," said Pamela. "So--now--quick--let's write our wishes and wrap a
stone inside the papers so that they'll sink--and drop them in the water
while the moon's out." She looked up overhead. "It'll be clear for a
few minutes now, but there are more clouds coming slowly--a long way
off--and if they reach her we shall have to wait some minutes for them
to pass."
A hurried search for convenient-sized stones was made; and then,
silence, while they wrote down their wishes, using the top bar of the
white gate as a writing-desk.
Pamela was the first to finish. At first Pamela had thought of wishing
something for Michael; then she had thought of wishing that she could
paint as well as Elizabeth Bagg; but "Michael and I are young," she had
told herself, "and we've plenty of years to work in--but Elizabeth Bagg
is getting old, and she's losing heart--I'll wish something for her....
I'll wish that somebody with influence, who can appreciate Elizabeth
Bagg's artistic talent, may see some of her pictures, and that she may
soon obtain the recognition which she well deserves." This was the gist
of Pamela's wish. Wrapping a stone inside her paper, she threw it into
the well--the moon's reflection scattering into a hundred shimmers and
ripples as the stone splashed into the dark water and sank.
Isobel was the next ready. "I wish that I may do nothing to forfeit my
fifty pounds," she had written, and her 'wish' followed quickly in the
track of Pamela's.
For a wonder Caroline was finished third; but she knew when she started
out exactly what she was going to wish. It concerned a little matter
that had been fidgeting her careful soul for the last two days. "I wish
I may find my silver thimble." Such was Caroline's wish, and it
journeyed down after the other two just as Beryl finished writing hers.
Beryl had taken longer because she had had some difficulty in framing
her wish, although when finished it seemed quite straightforward enough.
"I wish I may never have to go back and live with Aunt Laura again,"
Beryl had written.
"Hurry up, and throw yours in, Beryl--the clouds are coming over," said
Pamela, as she and Caroline and Isobel wandered a few paces away toward
the chalk quarry. They were talking casually together when a slight
scream from Beryl made them turn hastily round.
Beryl was running swiftly away from the well and toward the gate, which
she pushed open, and ran into the lane.
The three other girls quickly followed and soon overtook her.
"Beryl! Wait a minute! Wait for us! What's the matter?" they called
as they ran.
Beryl stopped running directly she heard their voices, and came to a
standstill. She was looking very pale and scared as they came up to
her.
"Whatever is the matter, old girl?" asked Pamela, taking hold of Beryl's
arm.
"Oh, Pamela," she said, "I had just thrown my wish in the well, when the
bush--the big overhanging bush close above--gave a rustle, and I heard
some one laugh--such a horrid laugh--as if some one was hiding there,
watching us. I--it gave me such a turn--I just ran--I didn't notice
where you were--I just ran for the gate, to get away quickly."
Beryl seemed quite unnerved, and it was in vain that the others tried to
persuade her that it was only her imagination.
"Shall we all go back together and make sure," suggested Pamela, not
very enthusiastically it must be owned; but the others were certain it
would not be wise to do this.
"It might be some horrible old tramp asleep in the hedge," said Isobel.
"No. Let's get home--it's getting chilly--and we couldn't do any good
really by going back, could we?"
So they all linked arms, and made their way home, where Martha was
waiting up for them with a jug of hot milk.
*CHAPTER XII*
*IN WHICH ELIZABETH BAGG PAINTS A PICTURE
AND ISOBEL HEARS SOME PLEASANT NEWS*
Pamela's friendship with the Bagg family developed rapidly, and she
became a frequent visitor to 'Alice Maud Villa'--much to Isobel's
amazement; Isobel was more than amazed, she was scandalized.
"I simply can't understand Pamela," confided Isobel to Caroline. "What
can she find in those Baggs? Even if Elizabeth Bagg can sketch a
bit--it's no excuse; they're not the _sort_ of people Pamela should like
to mix with. After all, Tom Bagg is only the village cabman! You can't
get away from the fact, can you now? You know what I mean--they're not
Pamela's sort somehow--I really am surprised at her taste."
But Isobel never said anything like this to Pamela. There was a certain
air about Pamela at times that even Isobel respected, an air which, in
the present case, made Isobel feel instinctively that Pamela would not
brook any interference with her friendship with Elizabeth Bagg. So
Isobel did not criticize openly Pamela's attitude toward the Baggs; but
she criticized, and wondered, and was amazed in private to Caroline,
whenever she thought fit.
There were two things that Isobel was trying to avoid. One was meeting
old Silas Sluff in the garden, and the other was, asking any more
questions of Beryl. To avoid old Silas was fairly easy, as he seemed to
be trying to keep out of her sight as much as possible. To refrain from
questioning Beryl was hard at first, but, although at times intensely
curious about some incident or other in connection with Beryl, Isobel
remembered that she must be a sport, and managed to keep her tongue
quiet. It needed a great effort sometimes, but she succeeded, which
must certainly be put down to Isobel's credit.
As far as Pamela was concerned Isobel's approval or disapproval of her
friendship with the Baggs never worried her in the least. The matter
never even crossed her mind. She spent many happy hours in Elizabeth
Bagg's 'studio' watching Elizabeth paint, or finishing a sketch of her
own, helped on by valuable hints and suggestions from Elizabeth, who
greatly encouraged Pamela in her work; just as Pamela helped Elizabeth
by her interest and genuine admiration for Elizabeth's painting.
Sometimes, when they were both at work in the studio, Pamela would begin
to argue with Elizabeth over her attitude toward her brother Tom and his
views on her painting.
"He's no right to call it 'wasting time,'" Pamela would protest. "He
ought to be _made_ to understand what splendid work you are
doing--valuable work, too, if I'm not mistaken."
"He doesn't care for pictures at all," Elizabeth would reply. "And it's
no good crossing him--he's been very kind to me, you know, and has given
me a roof over my head, and food to eat; I only have to buy my own
clothes and my painting materials out of the money I earn by teaching;
he provides everything else."
"But look what you do for him in return--cooking, washing, cleaning, and
last, but by no means least, looking after his six children for him. How
you manage to do it all I'm sure I don't know! And yet he doesn't even
recognize that the work you love most is done up here--here in your
studio--at all odd moments of the day. And he calls this 'wasting
time.'" Pamela gave a short laugh. "Oh, it makes me so indignant," she
said.
But her arguments were always in vain. Elizabeth would never make the
smallest attempt toward making her brother respect her art, but would
continue to go on as usual after Pamela had left, smiling quietly to
herself at Pamela's enthusiasm and indignation.
"She is very young," Elizabeth would say to herself, and then give a
sigh at the remembrance of when she herself was young and enthusiastic
and indignant, when she had dreamed of doing great things in the world
of art--long before her sister-in-law had died, and she had come to keep
house for her brother. Then, when she was young, it had been an invalid
mother who had claimed all her attention, so that she had never had time
nor opportunities to make friends with young people of her own
age--young people who had interests in common with herself. She had
painted and drawn in her spare time, and had even had a couple of terms
at an art school, in the days before her mother had become a helpless
invalid. Then, when her mother had died, it had been Elizabeth's
intention to take a room in London by herself and set resolutely to work
to earn a living by her painting; but before this plan could be put into
execution news came that her aunt (Alice Maud) had met with an accident,
and Elizabeth was asked to go and nurse her. She went. Elizabeth
planned many things during her life, but other people always seemed to
step in and alter the plans--and Elizabeth allowed them to be altered,
and drifted into the new plans with little or no resistance. That was
Elizabeth's chief failing, her inability to strike out for herself. As
far as art was concerned it was a loss, but her relatives had certainly
gained in having so willing and conscientious a worker to look after
them in their illnesses. For it was always somebody who was ill that
sent for Elizabeth. First, her mother, then her aunt, and finally, just
when her thoughts were once again free to turn toward the room in
London, her sister-in-law had begged her to come and look after her
house and the children as she was taken dangerously ill. So Elizabeth
came. And when her sister-in-law died she could not find it in her
heart to refuse her brother Tom's request to stay with him and look
after his six little motherless children.
Elizabeth used sometimes to dream about the wonderful room she had meant
to have in London--the room where she liked to imagine that she would
have painted pictures that would have brought her fame and wealth. As
she grew older she began to doubt whether she ever would have painted
pictures good enough or marketable enough even to pay for the rent of
the room. She began to regret her want of initiative--after she had met
Pamela. She regretted that she had all along allowed her own affairs to
drift. Why had she always allowed others to rule her life, she
wondered. She had worked hard at her pictures--and then done nothing
with them when they were finished. There were scores of them packed one
on top of the other on the shelves of a big cupboard in her studio.
Having got permission to look through this pile of pictures one day,
Pamela discovered that Elizabeth was decidedly clever at portrait
painting; the likenesses of one or two of the village folk, whom Pamela
knew by sight, and of Tom Bagg, and of several of the little Baggs, were
very well done indeed; and she asked Elizabeth why she did not do more
of this kind of work.
"I haven't done any portraits for a long time," was all that Elizabeth
replied. "I don't know why."
The discovery of this branch of Elizabeth's skill set Pamela thinking.
Apart from his annoying indifference to his sister's talent Tom Bagg was
a genial, good-natured, and quite likeable man, Pamela thought. She
liked him more particularly after discovering him one evening sitting by
the fire in his living-room, smoking, and telling a long fairy story to
his children, who were gathered around him listening, enthralled. It
was only occasionally that Daddy could be got to tell them a story; but
when he chose he could tell a very good story indeed. Perhaps that was
one of the reasons why he was so popular at the 'Blue Boar.' Ensconced
in a chimney-corner seat in the old-fashioned parlour of the 'Blue
Boar,' he would puff away at his pipe, and yarn to a few bosom friends
and occasional strangers for an hour at a stretch, much to the amusement
of his audience. At home he was just as popular as a story-teller, and
the children would listen enchanted to his tales of adventure, of
fairies, and of pirates--and when he came to the humorous parts, where
he always stopped to chuckle and shake before he told them the joke, the
children could hardly contain their impatience, and while he paused
aggravatingly to take a pull at his pipe and chuckle again, they would
shower eager questions upon him, giving him no peace until he resumed
the tale.
Elizabeth Bagg, when she was not upstairs in her studio, would sit in a
corner by the fire on these occasions, mending stockings by firelight,
and listening to the story, glancing up now and then at the cheerful,
ruddy face of the teller, and at the children sitting on the hearth-rug,
on the arms of his chair, and on his knees, all listening intently. The
story-telling was always done by firelight; directly the gas was lit, it
was supper and bedtime.
Pamela was present at more than one of these story-telling evenings.
Old Tom Bagg was used to talking before strangers and new-comers, and
her presence made no difference to him. He was always polite, and
pleased to see Pamela, and never seemed outwardly surprised at her
friendship with Elizabeth, though sometimes he would scratch the bald
spot on his head and wonder to himself.
The first time Pamela saw the group in the firelit room listening to the
story-telling she was struck with an idea, which she afterward
communicated to Elizabeth.
"It would make a simply ripping picture--and you're so good at
likenesses--I wonder you don't do it," she urged.
And, after a while, Elizabeth Bagg did do it. She set to work up in her
studio, and began on a picture of Tom Bagg sitting in a firelit room
telling a story to the children around him.
"Get the expression on his face when he's chuckling," said Pamela.
So Elizabeth watched him and caught the chuckling expression and
transmitted it to her picture.
"_Absolutely_," was the delighted Pamela's verdict when she saw it; and
her enthusiasm roused Elizabeth to put her best work into the painting,
although she had no future plans for it when it was finished. Possibly
it would have drifted finally into the cupboard in her studio.
Elizabeth, with her tiresome lack of initiative, would have taken no
further trouble with the picture after it was done.
But Pamela had a plan for the firelight picture which she did not
mention to Elizabeth Bagg, but waited eagerly for the completion of the
painting.
Meanwhile Isobel, unable to get Pamela or Beryl to join in having
dancing-lessons with her, had at length, much to her own surprise,
prevailed on Caroline to come to Madame Clarence's with her twice a
week. As Caroline sat over her sewing so much, and had very little
exercise, these visits to the Dancing Academy probably did her a great
deal of good. Not that she enjoyed dancing; but being persuaded that it
was good for her health, she took her lessons regularly and solemnly,
just as she would have taken medicine twice daily after meals had she
thought she should do so. Although Isobel (to use her own expression)
was not 'frightfully keen' on Caroline, yet she found her useful in yet
another way besides being a companion to travel with to and from
Inchmoor.
When Isobel heard that Sir Henry and Lady Prior and family had returned
to the Manor House, she lived for a few days in a state of pleasurable
expectation, from which state she was presently transported into one of
intense joy. For she discovered that the Manor House Priors actually
were connected with her--though very distantly, it must be confessed.
And Caroline was the medium through whom she learnt this eventful piece
of news.
Finding that Caroline was the only one of the girls likely to get into
immediate touch with Lady Prior, through the bazaar work-party meetings
which Caroline had begun to attend, Isobel asked her if she would take
the first opportunity of speaking to Lady Prior, and informing her that
Isobel Prior, who was staying at Chequertrees, would have liked beyond
anything to help at the bazaar only she was afraid she was restricted
from doing so by the instructions of Miss Crabingway, who had said that
none of the girls staying at Chequertrees were to visit or be visited by
any relations whatsoever; and Isobel thought it possible that she might
be a relation of Lady Prior's. Of course, Isobel impressed upon Caroline
that she was to be sure to say that Miss Crabingway did not know that
this restriction of hers might apply in any way to Lady Prior, or she
would assuredly not have made such a rule. Then Isobel asked Caroline
to explain all about Miss Crabingway's whim, and to make matters quite
clear to her ladyship. She also wrote down for Caroline all the facts
about the Prior family-tree that she knew, giving her father's full
name, and age, and profession, and the names of his various brothers,
cousins, uncles, and so on.
All this Caroline faithfully related to Lady Prior in due course, and
came back from her first interview with the news that Lady Prior was
going to consult Sir Henry about it, and would tell Caroline what he
said at the next meeting, as she did not know any of the Christian names
of the gentlemen Caroline had mentioned, but was quite amused at Miss
Crabingway's queer instructions.
Isobel was somewhat chilled by this news, and wondered to herself
whether the 'dowdy-looking' Caroline had prejudiced her case in Lady
Prior's eyes.
"Of course, never having seen me she may think I'm something of the same
class as the friend I choose to act as my deputy," thought Isobel to
herself, and eyed the unconscious Caroline with secret disfavour.
However, Caroline returned from the next bazaar meeting with better
news. Sir Henry had informed Lady Prior that Mr Gerald Prior of
Lancaster Gate and Ibstone House, Lower Marling, was a third cousin of
his, whom he had never seen, though he had heard of him. This put fresh
heart into Isobel, and she went to church the following Sunday to see
what the Priors looked like--though she took care to keep a safe
distance in case any unforeseen accident should happen, and she should
meet them. She wondered what the mater would do under the
circumstances. But, contemplating that when the six months elapsed she
would be free to go and visit these new-found relatives, and be fifty
pounds the richer for the waiting, she decided that it was wiser to
wait, especially as Lady Prior now knew the circumstances and would
understand.
So she gazed on the Prior pew from a distance, and noted with pride the
rich and fashionable clothes its occupants wore, and the respect the
family seemed to awaken in the other members of the congregation.
Though Isobel did not want to own it, even to herself, she was somewhat
disappointed in the facial appearance of her father's third cousin and
his family. Sir Henry himself was small and pompous, with sandy hair
and moustache, and his broad, pinkish face was plentifully besprinkled
with freckles; he wore glasses which were rather troublesome to keep on
the flat bridge of his wide, short nose. His eyebrows were invisible
from a distance, but his gold watch-chain and the diamond in the gold
ring on the little finger of his right hand sparkled and glistened in
the sunshine that streamed through the stained-glass windows.
Lady Prior was well preserved and had evidently been pretty in her
youth, but now she was inclined to be plump, and had developed a
double-chin, and a florid complexion; her mouth was too small for the
rest of her features, making her nose look too prominent; her eyes were
large and good. The two daughters of the house next claimed Isobel's
attention; they were upright, pleasant-looking girls with their mother's
features, but their father's colouring--freckles included. Nevertheless
there was a certain air about them which Isobel could find no more
fitting term for than 'distinguished.' She had learnt from Caroline
that there was also a son of the house, but he was not present that
morning in church.
Isobel gazed from afar, and then went home to Chequertrees feeling
rather out of humour with everything and everybody because of the 'silly
whim' of Miss Crabingway's which had cut her off from these desirable
relations.
When the girls had almost completed the third month of their stay at
Chequertrees Martha reminded them that they would possibly receive a
communication from Mr Joseph Sigglesthorne shortly, with whom Miss
Crabingway had left instructions concerning the replenishing of the
funds of the household. Supplies were running out, Martha said, and she
hoped they would hear promptly.
But several days went by and no word came from Mr Sigglesthorne (for the
very good reason that he had forgotten all about them).
Then one morning a letter posted in Scotland arrived from Miss Emily
Crabingway. It was very brief, and merely instructed Pamela, Beryl,
Isobel, and Caroline to go up to London with Martha on the day following
the receipt of letter, and deliver the envelope which was enclosed to Mr
Joseph Sigglesthorne at his rooms in Fig Tree Court, Temple, E.C.
"What can this mean?" said Pamela, after she had read the letter to
Martha.
Martha smiled and shook her head. "Unless it is that Miss Crabingway
knows what a forgetful gentleman Mr Sigglesthorne is, and wants to give
him a shock by sending you all to remind him," she suggested.
It may as well be stated here that this was not Martha's own idea, but
one communicated to her in a recent note from Miss Crabingway.
As this would be the first journey to town that the girls had made since
they came to Barrowfield, they were rather excited and pleased, and set
about making plans for the morrow's journey in high good spirits; they
recalled for each other's benefit their previous meeting with Mr
Sigglesthorne. It was decided to lock up the house, as Ellen said
rather than stay at home alone all day she would go and visit some
friends in the village, who had been begging her to come and see them
for a long time, and would meet their train at the station on their
return. This matter being satisfactorily arranged, and time-tables
consulted, clothes overlooked and holes in gloves mended, the four girls
ended the day with another dance in the drawing-room to celebrate their
'one day's release' from Barrowfield, as Isobel put it.
The next day was fine and warm, though a few mackerel clouds high in the
sky made it difficult to dissuade Caroline from putting on her goloshes
and taking an umbrella. Poor Caroline, her little fads were always
being laughed at by the other three! But she took all their remarks
very good-naturedly as a rule. Her umbrella she did eventually abandon,
reluctantly, but she took a small canvas bag with her, which she said
contained her purse and handkerchief, and some knitting to do in the
train. But there was more in it than these things; the bulge at the
side of the bag was a very tightly-rolled, light-weight mackintosh, and
the bulge at the bottom was the much-ridiculed goloshes. Caroline did
not explain the bulges, and the girls were too busy with their own
affairs by the time she came downstairs with her bag to bother to tease
her any more.
And so the four girls and Martha set out to visit Mr Joseph
Sigglesthorne.
*CHAPTER XIII*
*MR JOSEPH SIGGLESTHORNE FORGETS THE DATE*
The journey to town was accomplished swiftly and comfortably, and was
enlivened every now and then by Martha's remarks on the changes that had
come over the country they passed through in the train since she was a
girl. She made a quaint little figure in her black bonnet, trimmed with
jet beads, and her best black cape with the silk fringe round it, and
her black serge skirt. Her kindly grey eyes and wrinkled face were
alight with interest as she sat beaming and chatting with Beryl and
Pamela, while Caroline steadily knitted, and Isobel in the farther
corner gazed out of the window. Although she liked Martha well enough,
she rather wished that Miss Crabingway had sent the four of them to town
alone.
When they arrived at Marylebone station the girls learnt to their
surprise that Martha had never been in the tube railway in her life, and
was somewhat chary and suspicious of this mode of travelling; however,
encouraged by Pamela and Beryl, who each linked hold of one of her arms,
she was persuaded to enter the lift, which she mistook at first for the
train, until matters were explained to her.
They changed at Charing Cross on to the District Railway and were soon
at the Temple Station, and after one or two inquiries at length found
themselves walking up Middle Temple Lane _en route_ for Fig Tree Court.
It is not one of the prettiest courts, Fig Tree Court, although it has
such a picturesque name. There is no fig-tree growing there now, though
if there had been one Mr Sigglesthorne would not have been able to see
it, as his windows were so begrimed with dust and dirt that nothing was
clearly visible through them. The window-cleaners, if ever he employed
them, must surely have charged him three times the usual amount to get
his windows clean again. As for Martha, directly she set eyes on them
her hands itched to get hold of a wash-leather.
Mr Sigglesthorne lived on the first floor, and they were soon outside
the door with his name printed on it in large black letters. Pamela
knocked with a double rat-tat. All was silent within for a few moments,
then the creak of an inner door and a shuffling step could be heard.
The latch clicked and the front door was opened just enough for a hand
and arm to be thrust out.
The five visitors stood gazing in silent surprise at the open hand--a
hand obviously waiting for something to be placed in its grasp. They
stood thus, looking first at the hand and then at each other, and Isobel
was just about to laugh outright when a voice behind the door exclaimed
impatiently:
"Hurry up, milkman! Half-pint, as usual."
At this Isobel could control herself no longer, but burst out laughing,
and the others, unable to resist, joined in as well.
This caused the door to be opened wider, and a very shocked and
surprised Mr Joseph Sigglesthorne was revealed, who stared open-mouthed
in pained astonishment at the laughing group outside.
Pamela was the first to recover herself. "Oh, Mr Sigglesthorne," she
said, "I'm so sorry--please excuse us, but Miss Crabingway told us to
come and give you this letter."
"Well, to be sure! But please excuse me--I was so--if I may say
so--taken aback for the moment--" stammered Mr Sigglesthorne. "But
please to step inside--step inside." He held the door open wide.
The five visitors stepped inside as requested, almost filling up the
narrow little passage from which the two rooms of Mr Sigglesthorne's
flat opened. Mr Sigglesthorne closed the front door, and led the way to
his living-room, begging them all to come in and be seated. He was
still rather bewildered by the suddenness of his visitors' appearance,
and was thrown into confusion on finding that there was only one chair
in the room that was not too rickety to be used. He handed this with
great politeness to Pamela, who promptly passed it on to Martha, who was
too respectful to think of sitting down till all the others had found
seats.
"It's quite all right," said Pamela. "May I sit on this box? Thanks.
It'll do splendidly. You sit down, Martha--you'll be tired."
Finally, an old oak chest being cleared of numberless papers and books
and brought forward for Isobel and Caroline, and a pile of six big
Encyclopaedias placed one on top of the other serving as a seat for
Beryl, Mr Sigglesthorne sat down on the corner of the coal-scuttle,
comforting himself with the thought that things might have been
worse--although he wished he had not left his bunch of collars on the
mantelshelf. Strange that this should have worried him, for on the
whole the mantelshelf was the least untidy part of the room.
Martha's neat and tidy soul positively ached when she looked round Mr
Sigglesthorne's living-room. One of the first things she noticed was a
big round table in the centre of the room on which were stacked books
and papers in a litter of untidiness and confusion; there were several
bundles of newspapers, and cardboard boot-boxes without lids, containing
a variety of interesting articles from press-cuttings and collar-studs
to india-rubber and knots of string. On the top of the highest pile of
papers reposed Mr Sigglesthorne's top-hat. The table was so littered
that it was impossible to think of it ever being used for any other
purpose than that of a home of refuge for old papers. Underneath the
table, partly obscured by the faded green table-cloth that hung all
aslant, was a Tate sugar-box containing--what? Coal, probably--but
Martha could not be quite sure of that. Bookshelves lined the walls,
and here again confusion reigned. Hardly a single book stood upright; a
few, here and there, made a faint appearance of doing so, but for the
most part they had given up the struggle long ago and just sprawled
across the shelves anyhow--some upside down, some back to
front--separated every few yards by some useful kitchen utensil, such as
a toasting-fork, a small hand-brush, a pepper-box, a shovel, a couple of
saucepan lids, and so on. There were no books at all on one of the
shelves, but a mass of letters and envelopes filled the space. A broken
rocking-chair beneath one of the two windows that lighted the room held
a box of tools and Mr Sigglesthorne's topcoat, and the desk under the
other window supported a tray with the remnants of a chop on a plate, a
cup half full of cold coffee, and a tin of condensed milk with a spoon
sticking out of it; two inkpots and a blotting-pad, and numerous pens,
pencils, notebooks, and stacks of papers occupied the rest of the desk.
In the hearth were a pair of old boots, a teapot, and three bundles of
firewood.
It looked as if Mr Sigglesthorne was in the habit of placing things down
just wherever he happened to be at the moment--which was handy at the
time, but caused much confusion and delay in the long run; though it may
have added a little variety to his life to find his belongings where he
least expected them.
Mr Sigglesthorne, with his Shakespearean forehead shining in a
distinguished manner, sat on the coal-scuttle polishing his glasses and
gazing nervously round at his guests. His black velvet jacket, minus a
button, wanted brushing, and his dark grey trousers were creased and
baggy; altogether he looked shabby and unimposing--except for his
forehead, which just, as it were, kept his head above water.
"Now, if I may be permitted to see Miss Crabingway's note?" he said.
"You must excuse my room being slightly untidy--a bachelor's misfortune,
you know, Miss Pamela."
"What a lot of books you have," said Pamela.
"Are you a lawyer?" asked Isobel.
"Heaven forbid!" said Mr Sigglesthorne. "No, miss. But I am rather
a--bookworm. Ha! Ha! Yes, that's what I am--a bookworm."
This idea seemed to afford him much private amusement, until putting on
his glasses and opening Miss Crabingway's note his eyes fell on the
contents, and he at once became grave. It was just as if Miss
Crabingway were standing before him, speaking.
"Well, Joseph Sigglesthorne," the note ran, "so you have forgotten, as I
knew you would. There is no excuse--I gave you three calendars, which
you have not hung on the wall, by the by, but have stowed away out of
sight--you've forgotten where."
(This was quite true, as Mr Sigglesthorne realized, as he stroked the
back of his head and tried to recall what he had done with the
calendars.)
"The money I trusted you with is overdue. Kindly hand the deal box and
key to Miss Pamela there, and ask her to take out the notes."
"Ah, yes," said Mr Sigglesthorne aloud, as if Miss Crabingway were
indeed in the room waiting for him to apologize. "Very thoughtless of
me, I'm sure."
It may be thought remarkable that Mr Sigglesthorne should have
remembered where the deal box was. But Mr Sigglesthorne always
remembered where he had put money--a peculiarity of his that Miss
Crabingway knew well.
And now he was full of remorse at having failed Miss Crabingway in
regard to the date--for she had paid him well to remember. Mr
Sigglesthorne's clothes and surroundings might have led one to think
that he was none too well off, but this idea would have been wrong--with
regard to the present, at any rate. Besides Miss Crabingway's money
payments, he had lately got some 'research' work--this latter fact he
mentioned to his visitors with some pride, and partly to account for the
piles of papers abounding everywhere. He left them to think this piece
of news over while he retired to another room to fetch the deal box.
While he was gone Martha rolled her eyes upward, and raised her hands in
despair.
"How I _should_ like to set to and tidy up a bit for him, poor
gentleman," she sighed.
"It's more than I'd like to do," said Isobel. "_What_ a muddle!"
"He'd probably be annoyed if anyone upset his research papers," said
Pamela. "But, good gracious! I don't know how he can ever find
anything again--once he puts it down."
"He probably doesn't find it again," said Isobel, laughing.
As for Caroline, with whom neatness was almost a passion, she was fairly
numbed by the scene before her, and could only sigh deeply and shake her
head. Beryl was always shy in strange places, and, whatever her
thoughts, she kept silent.
Mr Sigglesthorne shortly returned, and with renewed apologies for
forgetting to bring the box down to Barrowfield presented a small deal
box and key to Pamela, requesting her to open it. Inside were a number
of bank-notes, which she was told to take out and distribute--so much to
Martha for housekeeping expenses and so much to herself and each of the
other girls for 'pocket money.' Having done this, she signed a receipt
and placed it in the box, which Mr Sigglesthorne locked and took away
again.
Finding that they did not know the Temple well, Mr Sigglesthorne
insisted on putting on his coat and top-hat and coming out with them.
Pamela protested that they did not wish to take him away from his
research work, but he vowed he would have plenty of time if he returned
within half an hour. So he trotted beside them, talking and waving his
hand, first on one side and then the other, giving them a very confused
idea of the plan of the Temple and its history. But, at any rate, Mr
Sigglesthorne enjoyed himself. And when he finally left them in the
Strand, with more apologies, Pamela saw him disappear toward the Temple
again with a smile on her face that had more of regret in it than
amusement; but her regret was evidently not shared by Isobel, who said:
"Well, thank goodness! Now we can get on, and enjoy ourselves."
They did a round of sight-seeing to make the most of the day in town,
and had dinner at a restaurant, where Martha, though very nervous, was
nevertheless very critical, in her own mind, about the dishes served.
She guessed she could make better white sauce than was served at this
place, though she was curious to know how the cream pudding was made.
The girls wished they had arranged to end up the day at a theatre, but
they had not thought of this in time to let Ellen know, and she would be
at Barrowfield station waiting at nine o'clock. So they were obliged to
relinquish this idea, with much regret.
As they turned away from the restaurant Pamela suddenly gave a
start--stood stock still for a moment, then, bending her head, hurried
on. She had caught a glimpse of her father just getting into a bus.
The sight of him caused a great wave of longing and home-sickness to
rush over her, so that it was all she could do to restrain herself from
running back toward him. To her embarrassment she found that her eyes
were full of tears. He looked just the same dear old father. She had
not realized till now how badly she had wanted to see them all at home
again; she knew she had wanted them, but had stifled the longing as much
as possible. She wondered how her mother looked--and Michael--and the
others. The post-card she received from home each month was crammed
full of news--but even so, post-cards are very unsatisfying things.
As her agitation became obvious to her companions, and they inquired
what was the matter she was obliged to explain a little.
"I didn't realize how _badly_ I wanted to see my people again--till I
saw him," she concluded.
"Well, half the time is up now," said Isobel. "I think it was a very
silly restriction of Miss Crabingway's-- But there you are! And fifty
pounds is not to be sneezed at, is it?"
Much to every one's dismay, except Caroline's, it now began to
rain--suddenly and heavily--and a rush was made for the nearest tube
station. Caroline hastily donned her mackintosh, and stopping in a
doorway slipped on her goloshes, before she ran through the rain to the
tube. Her triumph was short-lived, however, because once inside the
tube they were under cover all the way until they arrived at Barrowfield
station, very sleepy and chilly with sitting still so long in the train.
Ellen was at the station, and she had actually brought umbrellas for
them. Secretly, although not an ill-natured girl, Caroline had
half-hoped they would have had to tramp home through the rain--then
perhaps they wouldn't have teased her another time, she thought.
However, under the umbrellas they walked--the village fly being engaged
elsewhere that evening, otherwise Thomas Bagg would have been hired to
take them home.
And then Beryl would not have bumped into some one--also under an
umbrella--who was coming from the village toward the station.
As a rather high wind was blowing it was necessary to hold an umbrella
down close over the top of your head, and so Beryl did not notice anyone
coming toward her till her umbrella caught against another umbrella;
both umbrellas were lifted for a moment--and in that moment Beryl saw a
woman looking at her from under the other umbrella, a woman who frowned
and put her forefinger to her lips as if enjoining silence.
[Illustration: A WOMAN WHO FROWNED AND PUT HER FOREFINGER TO HER LIPS]
Beryl stifled a scream and ran quickly forward and joined the others,
keeping as close to Pamela as she could till they reached home.
While the woman, with a quick backward glance at the receding group,
continued on her way, limping hurriedly up the hill.
*CHAPTER XIV*
*CAROLINE MAKES A DISCOVERY*
Pamela was just dropping off to sleep that night when some one tapped on
her bedroom door. She roused herself, and called out:
"Who's there?"
"May I come in a minute? It's only I--Caroline," the answer came in a
loud whisper.
"Oh--yes--yes--come in," she said, sitting up, only half awake as yet.
Caroline came in, a lighted candle in her hand. She was fully dressed,
and had not even untied her hair. She looked a bit scared and puzzled.
Closing the door softly behind her she crossed to the side of Pamela's
bed.
"I'm sorry to disturb you," she said solemnly, "but I didn't think you'd
be in bed yet--I haven't even started to get undressed--I--I don't like
the look of my room!"
"Don't like the look of your room! Whatever do you mean, Caroline?"
Pamela rubbed her eyes.
"Well, some one's been moving things. There are several things out of
their usual places. I--I believe somebody has been in the room while
we've been out to-day!"
Pamela was wide awake now.
"Oh, Caroline,--you don't mean burglars? There's nothing missing, is
there? Has anything been taken?"
"No. Not so far as I can see," replied Caroline. "But things have been
disturbed."
"I'll come in with you and have a look," said Pamela, springing up and
hastily donning dressing-gown and slippers. "H'sh. We mustn't wake the
others unless it's necessary. They're all so tired."
"I didn't notice anything just at first," said Caroline, as they entered
her room.
"I don't notice anything now," remarked Pamela, looking round at the
neat and orderly chamber.
"Wait a minute," said Caroline. "Look here--" and she pulled open one
of the drawers in her dressing-table.
"Well?" said Pamela, who could see nothing amiss with the contents of
the drawer.
"Well!" echoed Caroline rather indignantly, "I never leave my drawers
like this. See--these gloves were folded together in that corner--and
these ribbons here--and I always keep my handkerchiefs on top of each
other at this side--These handkerchiefs are all arranged anyhow. I
_know_ I didn't leave them like this! ... And look here--on the
mantelpiece--these photo frames have been shifted--and on this chair by
the window my brown scarf which I left folded on the seat was on the
floor!"
"Oh, come," said Pamela. "That might easily have slid off. The main
point is--is there anything missing?"