moving my things--I'm certain of it. I know just the way I always leave
my belongings. I always put them in the same places and in the same
positions."
She seemed so positive that Pamela was silenced. Anyone else but
Caroline would probably not have noticed that anything had been
disturbed in their room.
"Well--what shall we do?" said Pamela, who really thought that Caroline
was under a delusion. She couldn't see anything wrong with the room.
"If we wake everybody up we shall only scare them--it isn't as if you'd
missed anything. That would be a different matter. I suppose you've
searched all over the room? Of course, you've made sure there's no one
hiding here now?"
"Oh, yes," said Caroline; but to make doubly sure she and Pamela
searched again thoroughly. They looked in the wardrobe, behind the
wardrobe, under the bed, behind the chest of drawers, and in and under
every likely and unlikely place in the room.
"Have you looked in the soap-dish?" said Pamela, jokingly.
But Caroline did not laugh; she continued her search solemnly. Suddenly
an exclamation from her made Pamela wheel round.
"Just fancy that!" said Caroline, still on her knees, after an attempt
to look under the chest of drawers--a space of about six inches from the
ground. "Look here, Pamela! Here's my silver thimble! The one I
couldn't find--under the edge of the carpet beneath this chest of
drawers. And I've looked everywhere for it--but here. It must have
rolled off the back of the chest, and got wedged under the carpet."
"What luck! The search hasn't been wasted after all then," remarked
Pamela, stifling a yawn.
"And it is my wish come true," said Caroline slowly.
"What! About the thimble! Is that what you wished?" cried Pamela.
"Yes," said Caroline. "I didn't know what else to wish--and I couldn't
find my silver thimble that my grandmother gave me--so I thought I'd
wish about that."
"I see," said Pamela, trying hard not to smile. "Well, your wish has
come true. You lucky girl! I only hope the rest of us are as
fortunate."
After this Caroline reluctantly agreed to go to bed, and not to bother
any further about the things in her room being disturbed until the
morning, when Pamela promised to make full inquiries and sift the matter
thoroughly. Pamela felt fairly certain in her own mind that no one had
been in Caroline's room or she would not have let the matter drop so
easily. Both girls being now very tired after their long day in town
they soon dropped into their beds and went off to sleep.
Caroline referred to the matter over breakfast in the morning, thereby
incurring a great deal of attention and questioning from the
others--which made her feel quite important for once in a way. Caroline
was one of those people who could not usually attract much attention
from others, as she was unable to talk interestingly about things. But
this morning she found she was actually being interesting; she liked the
sensation, and meant to make the most of it.
While Pamela and Isobel discussed the matter with Caroline, Beryl, who
had turned very white, sat silent, her half-finished breakfast pushed on
one side; she sat stirring her tea mechanically round and round--only
breaking her silence once to ask Caroline if she had missed anything,
and seemed relieved on hearing that Caroline had not.
"I suppose nobody else's room was disturbed in any way?" said Pamela,
adding, "Mine was all right."
"So was mine," said Isobel.
"And mine," echoed Beryl, quickly.
"Well, we'll just go and ask Ellen if she can throw any light on the
matter, shall we?" said Pamela. "She was the only inmate of this house
who was not up in London yesterday."
Ellen was very interested, but it did not seem as if she could help to
solve the question. She had certainly not been in the room herself; she
had left the house at the same time as they did yesterday, and when she
and Millicent Jackson--the friend with whom she had spent the day--had
come in to fetch the umbrellas to bring to the station in the evening,
they had not been upstairs at all. They had let themselves in at the
back door, gone straight through to the hall, taken the umbrellas out of
the stand, and gone out of the front door. They weren't in the house
five minutes, as they were in a hurry to get to the station in time.
"There, Caroline!" said Isobel. "You see nobody could have been in your
room. You must have moved the things yourself."
But Caroline shook her head.
"Could anyone have slipped in the back door after you--without you
noticing?" she asked Ellen.
"Oh, miss! Well--I never thought of that!" said Ellen, then hesitated.
"Of course, they could have, Miss Caroline--but it's most unlikely. If
anyone had troubled to do that they would have taken something while
they were about it, wouldn't they?"
Caroline shrugged her shoulders.
"All I know is--the things in my room were disturbed," she insisted
doggedly. "And I don't like it."
"How could anyone have slipped in without you seeing, Ellen?" inquired
Pamela.
"Well, Miss Pamela, to be exact," explained Ellen, "me an' Millicent
unlocked the back door and came in, shut the door, and went into the
kitchen, where I struck a match and lit the candle that we keep on the
dresser here. We didn't bother to light the gas as we was going
straight through, and out the front way. Me an' Millicent was talking,
interested-like, as we went into the hall, when Millicent says, 'Oh, did
you lock the back door again?' And I says, 'Oh, no.' And I went back
and locked it.... Then we got the umbrellas and went straight out the
front way.... Now, _do_ you think anyone would have got in just in that
minute before I locked the back door, Miss Pamela? Now _do_ you, Miss
Caroline?"
"It's just possible, of course, but not at all likely," said Pamela.
"Thanks very much, Ellen--as nothing has been missed, I really don't see
any use in pursuing the matter further, Caroline, do you? ... And it's
such a grand morning, let's all go for a good tramp over the hills."
So Pamela dismissed the incident from her mind; and Isobel, putting it
down to "one of the bees in old Caroline's bonnet," soon followed suit.
Ellen and Martha discussed the matter together, and Ellen repeated her
story to Martha several times--each time with more emphasis than the
last; and when she next saw Millicent Jackson she mentioned it to her,
and they talked of it until the subject was exhausted--then as nothing
further happened to make them remember it, they too forgot it. Caroline
remembered it as a grievance for a considerable time, then the
excitement of the coming bazaar caused it to fade into the background.
The only one who did not forget the incident was Beryl, and she had good
reason to remember it--as we shall presently see.
After the visit to London a marked change seemed to come over Beryl;
always pale and nervous, she appeared to grow even paler and more
nervous as the days went by. At times she would emerge from the cloud
of depression which seemed so often to envelop her now and join
light-heartedly in whatever was going on, but these occasions grew more
and more rare.
When Pamela remarked on her paleness one day Beryl put it down to the
weather, saying it made her feel tired. Pamela believed her; had she
not been so absorbed in Elizabeth Bagg and her work she might have
noticed things that would have aroused her suspicions; but she was not
suspicious in any way until one evening Beryl, very awkward and
hesitating, asked Pamela if she would lend her a sovereign. Pamela did
not voice the surprise she showed in her face--surprise because the
pocket-money handed over to each of them by Mr Sigglesthorne had been
quite generous and sufficient for the few expenses the girls would be
likely to incur in Barrowfield during the remainder of their stay.
However, she lent the money at once, and willingly, and asked no
questions--for which Beryl seemed very grateful.
Feeling a little uneasy about the matter, and wishing to help her if
possible, Pamela made several opportunities for Beryl to confide in her
if she had wished to do so. But Beryl did not seem to wish to do so.
*CHAPTER XV*
*ABOUT A BAZAAR AND A MEETING IN THE RUINED WINDMILL*
The bazaar, for which Caroline had been sewing so perseveringly, was
held in the grounds of the Manor House on a beautiful sunny day at the
end of May. Caroline spent a blissful afternoon, dressed in a Japanese
kimono with chrysanthemums in her hair, surrounded by tea-cosies and
cushion-covers and hand-embroidered scarves; and she had quite a brisk
sale at her stall, in spite of exorbitant prices.
The spacious lawn below the terraced flower-garden was a delightful
picture; the soft, velvety grass and the cool shade under the trees that
bordered it making a pleasing background for the dainty kimonoed figures
that tripped to and fro among the bamboo stalls with their white
umbrella-shaped awnings. As the general public began to make its
appearance, the colours in the summer dresses that moved across the lawn
became as variegated as the flower-garden itself.
Lady Prior stood on the terrace and looked down with a pleased smile at
the animated scene beneath her.
"The village looks forward so eagerly to this each year," she remarked
to a friend. "You see, there is absolutely nowhere for them to go as a
rule, poor creatures. This is quite an event for them." And she raised
her eyebrows and gave a little rippling laugh.
Meanwhile the poor creatures were spending their money as they were
able, and the local reporter, who was wandering among the stalls, was
mentally calculating how big a sum of money he would be able to announce
in next week's _Observer_ as the result of Lady Prior's Annual Bazaar.
Most of the village seemed out to enjoy itself at all costs; but now and
again one would come across a gloomy individual who looked like an
unwilling victim of this annual institution. In some cases, as one
little old woman grumbled to Caroline, people came because they had been
badgered and worried into promising to attend by one of the industrious
members of the committee.
"And there's so much questioning, and reproachful looks, an' cold stares
afterward--if you don't come," she grumbled, fingering the various
articles on Caroline's stall, "that you come for peace sake.... Though
I'd much rather be sittin' at 'ome an' 'aving a cup of tea in peace and
quietness and restin' my old bones--it's all very well for young folk to
come gallivantin' and spendin' their savings--but when you're old--! ...
'Ow much is this? What is it? Eh? An egg-cosy! ... Oh, give me one of
them six-penny 'air-tidies--it'll do for my daughter in London. I ain't
got no 'air to speak of myself. But my daughter--her 'air comes out in
'andfulls--you ought to see it! ... You've got nothing else for
six-pence, I suppose? No? ... I won't 'ave anything else then."
And the little old woman took the hair-tidy and made her way straight to
the gates, apparently making a bee-line for home, having fulfilled her
duty.
Caroline was not critical--she took things very much as a matter of
course, and did not feel ashamed for the handsomely dressed lady from a
neighbouring village who inquired in a loud voice for the stall where
the 'pore clothes' were for sale. Caroline did not quite understand at
first, until another stall-holder explained that Mrs Lester always
purchased a number of garments to distribute among the deserving poor of
her parish. The garments Mrs Lester bought looked a bit clumsy, and
were made all alike, of rather coarse material, but "she's awfully good
to the poor, you know," Caroline was told; and there the matter ended,
until she recounted the incident to the others when she got home, and
provoked a stormy protest from Pamela against the _way_ in which rich
people were 'good to the poor.'
"Why can't they be more tactful," asked Pamela. "Of course I know lots
of them are--but I mean people like this Mrs Lester."
"Oh, don't be ridiculous, Pamela," said Isobel, laughing. "What do poor
people want with tact? Give them a good meal or a bundle of clothes and
they'll pretend to be grateful and satisfied and all that, and directly
your back is turned they'll grumble because you haven't given them
_more_. They always want more--they don't want tact!"
Pamela stared for a moment at Isobel, who was reclining gracefully on
the sofa, amusement in every line of her face at Pamela's ideas.
"Good gracious, Isobel! I can see a perfectly horrible future in store
for you," Pamela said quietly. "You are going to be another Mrs
Lester."
"What of it?" laughed Isobel. "As long as I am as rich as she is, there
are no horrors for me."
"Anyway, I'm sorry for you," said Pamela earnestly.
"What on earth for?" asked Isobel, slightly nettled.
"Because you'll miss some of the best things in life," replied Pamela.
"Not if I'm rich, I shan't," said Isobel.
Caroline had listened in mild surprise at all this. It had never struck
her that there could be anything to object to in Mrs Lester's attitude.
"Do you know," she said, changing the conversation, "I had to pay for
the hire of my kimono. I hadn't expected to have to pay after giving my
services free, and making so many things for the bazaar. But it all
goes to a good cause, I suppose."
Caroline had rather regretted that none of the other three girls had
been present at the bazaar in the afternoon, to see how rapidly her
tea-cosies had sold; but each of the three had had a different excuse
for not coming. Isobel's absence, of course, was a foregone
conclusion--she would have loved to go, but could not on account of Miss
Crabingway's instructions.
Pamela, as we know, hated bazaars. "Don't ask me to come, Caroline,"
she had said kindly. "But will you take this donation for 'the cause'
and put it in one of the boxes or whatever they have to collect the
money in."
Caroline had had hopes that Beryl, at any rate, would not like to refuse
to come. But lack of money to spend made Beryl desperate, and, although
she was quite resolved in her own mind not to go, she half promised
Caroline she would go, if she felt up to it. She even made a feint of
preparing to go. Then a sudden imaginary attack of neuralgia made it
impossible, and she sent word by Pamela to tell Caroline not to wait,
and went and lay down in her bedroom and pulled down the blind. There
in her cool and darkened room she listened to Caroline departing, and
felt very much ashamed of herself for the story she had made up about
neuralgia.
"But I couldn't explain that I had no money--and why," she made excuses
to herself. "Oh, it isn't fair!"
About a week after the bazaar Isobel went over to Inchmoor alone one day
to Madame Clarence's, a bad toothache compelling Caroline to miss a
lesson for the first time. When her dancing-lesson was over Isobel did
a little shopping, and then went and had tea in a smart and popular
confectioner's, where she could watch all the fashion of the town go by
from her seat near the window. Finding that she had missed her usual
train back to Barrowfield and that there was a long wait before the next
train, she finished her tea leisurely and then started out to walk back
home.
She had got about half-way back when a thunderstorm broke suddenly. And
there was Isobel in a light cotton dress, and a hat that would be
'absolutely ruined' if it got wet, in the middle of a country lane--a
couple of miles from anywhere. She had not paid much attention to the
warning clouds overhead, and when the first growl of thunder was heard
she looked up startled and hastened her footsteps.
A few minutes later the rain started--great slow thunder-spots at first,
and then it came down in torrents. Isobel, casting her eyes hastily
around for some place of shelter, saw on the hill-top the ruined
windmill. She made for this, and dashed in wet and gasping, and found
that although the wind and rain lashed in through the many holes in the
ruin, yet it afforded a considerable amount of protection if she chose
the right corner to stand in. It was fortunate that she did not
remember how Caroline, in spite of her toothache, had come out to the
front door to advise her to take an umbrella with her, or she would have
felt even more out of temper with the world than she did.
The corner she was crouching in was partly hidden from the doorway by a
couple of thick beams of wood which were leaning, like props, from the
walls to the ground. The beams and a pile of dust and bricks formed a
partial screen, but not sufficient to hide her white frock, if anyone
had been present in that deserted spot.
Isobel had been there about five minutes, and the storm showed no signs
of abating, when she heard voices and hurrying feet, and the next
instant two people dashed in at the doorway.
"Here you are, mother, stand this side--and hold the rug round you this
way--it'll protect us a bit," said a deep voice.
"It really _is_ most annoying--the car breaking down like that," said a
woman's voice. "Don't go outside, Harry.... Oh, mind!" She gave a
little shriek at a flash of lightning.
It was not the lightning nor the crash of thunder that followed that
made Isobel's heart thump so madly. The two new-comers--who had not
caught sight of her yet, as they were standing with their backs to
her--were no others than Lady Prior and her son!
Whatever should she do, thought poor Isobel. She was caught in a trap.
If they turned and saw her, as they undoubtedly would do sooner or
later, they would probably speak--and then what was she to do? Of
course they wouldn't know who she was. Surely Miss Crabingway wouldn't
mean her not to speak, under the circumstances. It was so perfectly
silly! ... But old ladies were queer creatures sometimes. And only a
few weeks more--and then the fifty pounds was hers, and she could do
what she liked. Isobel did not want to lose the money just by making
some stupid little mistake a week or so before it was due. She thought
of her Wishing Well wish.... Of course, she could explain just how this
meeting came about, to Miss Crabingway--but would Miss Crabingway
understand?--or was she hoping that most of the girls would break one or
other of the rules, and so lose the money?
All this flashed through Isobel's mind during the few minutes she waited
for the two by the doorway to turn round and discover her. How she
wished--wished most fervently--that they would _not_ turn round. For,
besides the chief reason, Isobel felt she did not wish them to see her
because she must look such 'a sight'--dripping wet, and crumpled, and
blown about, and her hat flopping limply.
She gathered from the disjointed conversation that was going on that
Lady Prior and her son had been driving home in the motor when the car
had broken down in one of the by-lanes about a hundred yards from the
mill. The storm had come on while the son was trying to mend matters,
and Lady Prior being rather nervous of lightning had been unwilling to
stay in the car covered with rugs, and had insisted on getting under a
roof of some sort where she felt more protected. She had also insisted
on Harry coming with her, and so, covering the motor over, they had
brought a rug and taken shelter inside the windmill. Although Harry had
thought that they would be just as safe if they had remained in the car,
Lady Prior thought otherwise. And so here they were.
Isobel glanced round about to see if there were any possible way of
escape; but there appeared to be none. "Now what shall I do when they
turn round?" she kept asking herself. Had Beryl been in the same
predicament as Isobel all sorts of wild ideas would have been rushing
through her brain. Beryl would have thought of things like this: Should
she pretend she was a foreigner, and could not understand English? Or,
better still, should she pretend she was deaf and dumb? Should she
pretend to have fainted--and so escape from having to speak; but this
might have had awkward consequences if they insisted on taking her home
or to a doctor. Should she pretend to go mad, and tear past them and
out of the door?
But these sorts of ideas did not occur to Isobel, who was not used to
practising deceptions as Beryl was. What Isobel did do was, after all,
the most natural thing. When Lady Prior and Harry turned and caught
sight of her, and Lady Prior gave a little shriek (because the lightning
had unnerved her), and then broke into exclamations and questions,
Isobel, quite unable to control herself, began to cry, her face buried
in her hands. ("And now, I simply can't let them see my face," she
thought to herself. "My nose always goes so red when I cry.... I must
look such an awful fright.... I must keep my face hidden somehow.")
She became aware that Lady Prior was speaking to her in a slightly
condescending voice, forbidding her to cry, and telling her not be
alarmed at the lightning.
"These country creatures are sometimes so frightfully hysterical during
thunderstorms," Isobel heard Lady Prior remark in an undertone to her
son. "I suppose she's a girl from one of the villages around here....
There, there, my good girl, don't cry like that--the storm's almost over
now."
Lady Prior asked her a few more questions--Where did she come from? Had
she far to go home? But receiving no reply she turned to her son,
smiled faintly, and shrugged her shoulders.
Isobel sobbed on. Her feelings beggar description. To be talked to in
such a tone by Lady Prior! To be mistaken for a dowdy, hysterical
village girl by Lady Prior! (But, of course, her wet clothes and
flopping hat and streaky hair must look so positively awful that no
wonder Lady Prior could not tell what she was nor what she looked like.)
Nevertheless, it was the last drop in Isobel's cup of humiliation. Not
for anything on earth would she let them see her face now!
Stealthily she watched for her opportunity. Lady Prior and her son had
moved away from the door because the rain was lashing in too furiously,
and their backs were turned to her again. She edged quietly round the
wall, climbed swiftly over the pile of bricks and dust, and made a
sudden dash for the door.
Lady Prior gave another little shriek and clutched hold of Harry's arm.
Isobel's action had been so sudden and unexpected that before anyone
could stop her she had gained the door and was rushing blindly down the
hill in the pouring rain.
Whether Harry was sent after her she did not know. Probably not, as it
was still raining, and Lady Prior would think the girl was hysterical
beyond control and that it was the best thing to let her run home as
quickly as possible.
Isobel reached home just as the storm was over. Do what she would to
avoid seeing the other girls she could not escape them. They all three
came out into the hall to exclaim over her drenched state and offer
their help, but she kept her head down as much as possible so that they
should not see she had been crying, and hurried off to her room to
change her clothes at once.
She would not look in the glass until she was warm and dry again. She
felt she could not stand this last blow to her self-respect. When she
did see her reflection she was almost her old self again, and the
feeling of humiliation was considerably lightened. She began to feel
somewhat virtuous for not breaking Miss Crabingway's rule, and pleased
with herself for having got out of the predicament without Lady Prior
and Harry suspecting her identity.
*CHAPTER XVI*
*PAMELA'S WISH COMES TRUE*
It would be pleasant to be able to record, now that the visit to
Chequertrees draws to a close, that the four girls had made considerable
progress in the work that they had set themselves to do. But this was
not quite the case.
Caroline had certainly done an immense amount of needlework, but she had
learnt no dressmaking nor 'cutting out'; her needlework was simply a
repetition of work she could already do. And the dancing-lessons she
had attended had scarcely improved her ability, or rather inability, for
dancing; but they were good exercise for her, and had improved her
health. It seemed to Caroline as if she would never be able to learn
some of the dances Madame Clarence taught, not even if she attended the
Academy for twenty years; she did not know why--simply, she could not
grasp them. Sometimes it seemed to Caroline as if her feet were in
league against her; her right foot would come forward and point the toe
when it ought to have remained stationary and let the left foot point
the toe; and her left foot would raise itself up while the right foot
gave a hop, just when they both ought to have been gliding gracefully
along the polished floor.... But in spite of these annoyances Caroline
kept doggedly on with the lessons, and the improvement in her health was
more than compensation for her lack of success as a dancer.
Beryl had advanced a great deal in her musical studies. She had had
time and opportunity to practise and study her theory; time and
opportunity had never been so liberally offered to her before, and now
that they were offered she seized them eagerly--and made the most of
them. She had even tried to compose a few pieces--a waltz, and a march,
and a melody in E flat, a haunting melody which always made her feel
'exaltedly sad' whenever she played it. Beryl thought privately that it
was a beautiful tune, but Isobel, who heard it through the door one day,
told Caroline that she thought it ought to be called 'Green Apples,'
because the treble "sounded like the face one pulls on tasting something
sharp and sour." Caroline was puzzled, and pondered over this for a
long time, and then went to listen outside the door herself. She heard
the tune, and liked it--liked it so much that she went in and asked
Beryl to play it again, much to Beryl's confusion and delight. After
that it became a regular institution; Caroline would take her needlework
into the drawing-room and sit and listen whenever Beryl started to play
her melody in E flat. For some reason or other this particular tune
appealed to Caroline; it made her feel pleasantly melancholy, and she
enjoyed the feeling, and would sit sewing and heaving long sighs at
intervals. If Isobel were anywhere within hearing on these occasions
she was rendered nearly helpless with stifled laughter. "There's poor
old Caroline going in to have some more 'Green Apples,'" she would
giggle, and as the tune proceeded would stuff her handkerchief in her
mouth and fly up to her room and shut herself in. Although this was
only an early attempt at composing, it marked a chapter in Beryl's
musical career, and as she advanced her compositions became more
numerous and were better finished.
Isobel, who had not taken the question of work seriously, had
nevertheless made good progress in her dancing. Naturally a graceful
dancer, she had rapidly picked up the new dances at Madame Clarence's,
and was now one of Madame's 'show pupils'--to the mutual satisfaction of
both of them. It may have been noticed that up to the present time no
mention has been made of Isobel taking any photographs with the camera
she talked of buying; this was because she did not buy a camera until a
fortnight before her stay at Barrowfield came to an end; and then she
went and bought one with a definite purpose in view--the purpose of
giving a gift of some photographs to Miss Crabingway on her return.
Pamela, though she had given most of her spare time to her sketching,
had got through a good deal of reading as well, but not as much as she
had meant to. The best of her sketches she intended to take home with
her in order to show Michael what she had been doing, and what sort of
places she had been seeing, and what she had learnt from Elizabeth Bagg.
There was one thing that all four girls had managed to do, and that was
to keep on good terms with each other with rarely an open disagreement.
"It'll be so much more comfortable for us all if we can manage to put up
with each other--and, after all, it is only for a short time, not for
life," Pamela had remarked on one occasion. And so this sensible
attitude was adopted by all of them. Whenever the smoothly running
wheels of the household got stuck, as they were bound to occasionally, a
little lubricating oil from Martha or Ellen, or one or other of the
girls, soon set them running easily again. The stay at Chequertrees and
the contact of the various temperaments was bound to leave some
impression on each of the girls afterward; it was not to be expected
that it could radically change them, except in small ways. They had all
more or less enjoyed their visit, and it had done them all good, in more
ways than one. Martha and Ellen owned to each other in the kitchen one
evening that they would certainly miss the young life about the place
when the girls had gone.
About a fortnight before the six months came to an end the girls were
sitting in the garden one afternoon having tea under the mulberry tree
at the end of the lawn, when Beryl made a suggestion.
"I was just wondering," she began hesitatingly, "whether we couldn't do
something for Miss Crabingway, as a sort of--well, to show we've had a
nice time here in her house."
"What sort of thing?" asked Caroline, her mind running at once to gifts
of hand-made tea-cosies and cushions.
"A jolly good idea, Beryl," said Pamela. "It would be nice to show her
we'd appreciated the stay here. I know that I, for one, have had a good
time. What could we do, now, for Miss Crabingway?"
"When you say 'do something,' do you mean club together and buy her a
present?--or do you suggest we decorate the house with evergreens and
hang WELCOME HOME in white cotton-wool letters on a red flannel
background?" said Isobel, laughing. "Or does 'do something' mean
getting up an entertainment for her pleasure, in which case you can put
me down for a skirt dance--I've learnt a heavenly new step at Madame
Clarence's--you'll see it when you come to Madame's reception next
week."
"I suppose you end the lessons the week after next?" said Pamela.
"Yes, last time on Tuesday week," replied Isobel. "Of course it's very
unusual to hold dancing-classes all through the summer, as Madame does,
but some of the pupils are awfully keen--and she finds that it pays, I
suppose. But it's the last time I shall be there--Tuesday week."
"Oh, don't let us talk about _last_ and _end_," said Beryl. "I wish it
needn't end--our stay here."
"Do you really?" said Isobel. "Oh, it hasn't been a bad time on the
whole, but I shan't be sorry to get back to town, and the shops and
theatres, and, of course, mater and all the rest of it."
"I shan't mind being home again, though I've had a pleasant stay here,"
remarked Caroline. "I'm sure Pamela is longing to be among her people
again."
"Oh, I am," said Pamela fervently. "I can't tell you how much I'm
looking forward to seeing them. I've had an awfully jolly time here,
though.... And that brings us back to Beryl's suggestion--what can we do
for Miss Crabingway? ... I don't know what you all think about it, but I
should suggest that we each give her something original--give her
something she couldn't buy in a shop in the ordinary way."
"Like--what?" asked Isobel.
"Well, for instance, Caroline could give her a piece of her
hand-embroidered needlework."
"I wish we had thought of this earlier," observed Caroline, "I could
have been working at something, in odd moments, all these weeks."
"You've still got a whole fortnight left, dear child," said Isobel.
"But what can _I_ do for Miss Crabingway? Suggest something, somebody,
please! I can't do embroidery, like Caroline; nor draw pictures, like
Pamela; nor compose music, like Beryl.... By the way, Beryl, you ought
to compose a waltz, and call it 'The Emily Valse,' and dedicate it to
Miss Emily Crabingway, you know. She would be _charmed_, I'm sure."
Beryl flushed quickly, not because she resented Isobel's joke, but
because some such idea as Isobel suggested had flitted for a moment
through her mind (barring the title of the composition).
"And I'll invent a dance which shall be called 'The Crabingway Glide,'
and I'll dance it to your music. There! What do you think of that for
an idea?" Isobel laughed.
"Very good indeed," said Pamela.
And then the four girls began to laugh at each other, and with each
other, and make all sorts of wild and facetious suggestions, until
Martha came to the kitchen window and looked out, wondering what all the
laughter was about. But, in spite of all the joking about it, the idea
was seriously considered, and arrangements made for each to do her best
to give Miss Crabingway something of her own work in appreciation of the
visit to Chequertrees.
It was on this occasion that Isobel finally decided to buy her camera
without delay and get some really interesting snap-shots of the girls
and the house, and have the best photographs enlarged and framed for
Miss Crabingway.
"While we're on the subject," said Pamela, "I should like to give
something or other to Martha and Ellen, wouldn't you? They've looked
after us awfully well--what can we do for them, I wonder?"
They discussed presents for Martha and Ellen, and decided each to make
or buy something suitable within the next fortnight.
Pamela went round to see the Baggs after tea. She knew that it was one
of the days Elizabeth went over to Inchmoor and that she would not be
back home again until seven o'clock, because it was the evening she
stayed later to do her housekeeping shopping. But Pamela did not want
to see Elizabeth herself. She wanted to see her firelight picture,
which she knew was just finished.
The eldest little Bagg girl was setting the table for her father's tea
when Pamela arrived at 'Alice Maud Villa.'
"I'm just going up to Elizabeth's room for something," said Pamela,
after she had helped to lay the table. Tom Bagg was not in yet, but
expected in every minute.
Upstairs in the studio Pamela found Elizabeth's picture--finished. She
stood before it for some minutes, regarding it earnestly.
"Yes, it's the best thing she's ever done," she said to herself. "I'm
sure it is."
To Pamela's eyes the likenesses were excellent; Tom Bagg, with his
ruddy, genial face, sitting in his big arm-chair by the fire, chuckling,
and pointing with the stem of his pipe at his absorbed audience of
children, a habit of his when emphasizing any particular point in the
story. The expressions on the children's faces were delightful. Pamela
laughed softly to herself as she looked at them.
Then she went to the door, opened it, and listened. Tom Bagg had just
come in, and was inquiring when his tea would be ready.
"I'll wait till he's had it," thought Pamela. "He'll be in an extra good
mood then."
She went downstairs and chatted with him while he had his tea, and did
her best to put him in as pleasant a mood as possible. She laughed at
his jokes longer than they deserved, and encouraged him to talk; he was
always happy when talking; and she kept an eye on the children so that
they did nothing to annoy him. Frequently she would glance up at the
clock, anxious to assure herself that Elizabeth was not due home yet.
At length, when Tom Bagg had finished his tea and had got out his pipe
and tobacco pouch, she felt that her opportunity had arrived. She rose,
and with rapidly beating heart went upstairs to the studio and fetched
the firelight picture down. Without a word she placed it on a chair
before the old cabman, who watched her movements with curious surprise.
The little Baggs pressed forward and clustered round the picture, gazing
in astonishment. For a second or two there was dead silence in the room.
"It's Daddy," said one of the children.
"An' us!" cried another shrilly.
"Your sister painted it," said Pamela to Tom Bagg.
Then they all began to talk at once--all, that is, except old Tom Bagg.
Throughout the noisy interlude that followed he remained silent, staring
at the picture. Pamela watched his face anxiously.
Presently he scratched the bald spot on the top of his head, and said
quietly:
"Well, I'm blowed!"
He had never seen any of Elizabeth's portrait studies before, and was
filled with astonishment.
"But it's like me!" he said in surprise, as if that were the last thing
to be expected.
"Of course it is," replied Pamela. "It's meant to be." Then she went
on to explain how Elizabeth had sat and watched him and the children and
then gone away and painted the picture up in her own room. She was
longing to talk about Elizabeth's work with all the enthusiasm she felt
for it, but she purposely kept her voice as quiet as she could, because
she guessed it would be wiser and more effective to let Tom Bagg think
he had discovered for himself how clever his sister really was.
Which is precisely what Tom Bagg came to think he had done. He was much
taken by his own portrait.
"It's not a bad bit of work, eh?" he asked Pamela.
"It's a decidedly good bit of work--it's splendid," she replied.
The more Tom Bagg looked at the picture the more pleased he became with
it.
"No," he said, "it's not at all a bad bit of work."
He stood with his head a little on one side regarding the picture.
And then the front-door latch clicked and Elizabeth Bagg stepped in.
She caught sight of the picture immediately, and looked round the room
astonished, and annoyed.
"Oh, please forgive me," said Pamela, moving toward her. "I--I simply
couldn't help bringing it down..."
"Lizzie," said Tom Bagg, who felt wholeheartedly generous once he was
convinced of anything, "this is not at all a bad bit of work. Why
didn't you tell me you could paint likenesses?"
He was evidently greatly struck with the painting, and seemed to admire
it so genuinely, that any annoyance Elizabeth may have felt faded
immediately, and she laughed a little nervously and said she was glad he
liked it.
When Pamela had decided to bring the picture down to show to Tom Bagg
she had not expected her action to do more than make Tom Bagg realize
the talent of his sister, and so make it easier for her to have more
time for her painting. Tom Bagg certainly did realize his sister's
talent at last; but the matter did not end there; he became so pleased
with the picture that the following evening he carried it (without
Elizabeth's permission) down to the 'Blue Boar,' where he proudly
displayed it to his bosom friends, and any strangers who happened to
drop in while he was there, and was much elated by the unanimous praise
it received.
Whether you believe the Wishing Well had anything to do with the sequel
depends on whether you believe in Wishing Wells or not. Pamela
undoubtedly puts it down to the Wishing Well. She had wished that
Elizabeth Bagg's work would gain recognition. And it did. It happened
that a Mr Alfred Knowles, an influential art connoisseur from London,
came into the 'Blue Boar' that evening just when Tom Bagg was showing
the picture to a group of men in the bar-parlour. Mr Knowles listened
with great interest to Tom Bagg's explanations and remarks, and getting
into conversation with the old cabman, questioned him closely about his
sister's work. An introduction to Elizabeth Bagg followed, and Mr
Knowles was so delighted with her pictures that he purchased several and
took them back to town with him; he would have liked to buy the
firelight picture, but Tom Bagg seemed so anxious to keep it that
Elizabeth decided not to part with it, but promised Mr Knowles that she
would have a reproduction made for him as quickly as possible. And so
the original picture of Tom Bagg telling stories to his children was
hung up over the mantel-piece in the living-room of the little cottage
in Long Lane.
Pamela was delighted by the turn events had taken. Had she been able to
see into Elizabeth's future she would have been more delighted still.
For Elizabeth's pictures were to be seen and admired by Mr Knowles'
artistic friends, and she was to get commissions from them for numerous
paintings, so that as time went on she was obliged to give up her
classes at Inchmoor in order to give all her spare time to her painting
at home. And with the money she earned Elizabeth was eventually able to
pay for some one to come and do the housework for her brother, and
washing and mending, and to help look after the children. For, though
Elizabeth achieved in time a small amount of fame, it never altered her
decision to stay and look after her brother and his children.
"I couldn't be happy if I left them now," she would say, when tempted
with the thought of that wonderful room in London. Instead, she rented
a room in Barrowfield, which she turned into a studio, and divided her
days between the studio and her brother's house.
As for Tom Bagg, he was bewildered yet gratified with the state of
affairs; his respect for Elizabeth increased by leaps and bounds as he
saw how highly valued her work became. Gradually he came to wonder if
he and the children were a drag on Elizabeth's career, and once he
offered her her freedom, and was deeply touched by her decision to stay
with him....
And there was to come a day in the future when Pamela and Michael and
Elizabeth Bagg were to pay a visit to the Royal Academy to see
Elizabeth's latest picture hung....
But all this was to happen some years after Pamela's first visit to
Barrowfield was over. Up to the present time Elizabeth's pictures had
just been bought by Mr Knowles--which was sufficient for Pamela to be
able to announce to three interested girls at Chequertrees that her
Wishing Well wish had come true.
*CHAPTER XVII*
*IN WHICH OLD SILAS LAUGHS AND ISOBEL DANCES*
Madame Clarence's reception took place a week before the girls' visit to
Chequertrees came to an end. As one of Madame's 'show' pupils Isobel
was to do a special dance by herself on this occasion; she had been
looking forward to this, and had bought a special dress for the dance,
made of white silk. She had practised the steps and movements of the
dance over and over again before a long mirror in her bedroom, until she
could do the dance to her complete satisfaction. Madame was
enthusiastic over it, and told Isobel privately that she thought she
would be the success of the evening--which pleased Isobel greatly, and
made her determine that she would do her best to make Madame's words
come true.
In her white silk frock, her pretty fluffy hair dressed becomingly and
tied with a soft blue ribbon, she looked very dainty and graceful as she
ran down the stairs to the dining-room for Pamela and Beryl to inspect
her before she put her cloak on.
Caroline, who, of course, was to dance at Madame's reception also (but
not by herself), was "not quite ready yet," she called out to Isobel as
the latter passed the bedroom door on her way down. Caroline was to wear
a white frock too; but white did not suit Caroline's complexion, and the
style of her dress rather emphasized her heavy build and plump arms.
However, as Caroline surveyed herself in the mirror she was not so
concerned about her frock or complexion as she was with the intricacies
of one of the dances she was to take part in that evening. She felt
sure she would never remember a certain twist at one point, and a bow,
and a turn at another, and she felt very glad that she was not going to
dance alone, like Isobel, but only with a crowd of other girls.
Pamela, Beryl, Martha, and Ellen had been invited by Isobel and Caroline
to come as their guests to the reception. Each pupil of Madame's could
bring two friends with them, and Isobel claiming Pamela and Beryl for
her two, Caroline suddenly had the nice idea of inviting Martha and
Ellen.
It was arranged that Isobel and Caroline were to go on ahead of their
guests, as Madame had expressed a wish that all her pupils would arrive
at least half an hour before the visitors were expected, so that
everything and every one would be ready to start promptly to time. It
was just beginning to get dusk when the two girls were actually ready
and waiting for Tom Bagg's cab to arrive so that they could start off.
Pamela, Beryl, Martha, and Ellen were to follow on to Inchmoor by the
seven o'clock train.
The evening was very warm, and as Tom Bagg drove up to the gate, Isobel,
suddenly declaring that she was too hot to put on her cloak, decided to
carry it over her arm and wrap it round her in the cab if she felt
chilly. Caroline did not care how hot she felt; she put on her cloak
and buttoned it up to the neck, telling Isobel she thought she was
foolish and that she might not only catch a cold but would get her dress
soiled in brushing against the cab door, and so on. But Isobel laughed
and asked Caroline if she was going to take her goloshes and umbrella in
case it rained between the front door and the cab at the gate. And so,
with Pamela and Beryl wishing them both good luck, Isobel and Caroline
passed out of the front door and down the garden.
And then a catastrophe happened.
Isobel, who was some way in front of Caroline, was passing a low thick
bush half-way along the path to the gate, and had turned to make some
laughing remark, and wave her hand to Pamela at the front door, when
suddenly a pailful of garden rubbish--mostly weeds with black, wet soil
clinging to their roots--came shooting over the bush, and descended in a
shower all over Isobel and her pretty white silk frock.
[Illustration: A PAILFUL OF GARDEN RUBBISH DESCENDED IN A SHOWER]
Isobel gave a scream, ran a few steps, and then stood stock-still, and
gazed down at her frock and the coat on her arm.
"Oh, it's spoilt--it's absolutely spoilt!" she gasped, whipping out her
handkerchief and trying in vain to rub off the dirty, smeary marks on
her sleeves and skirt. "Oh, Pamela, whatever shall I do? ... But who
_did_ it? Who _did_ it?" she cried, lifting her head angrily, and she
made a dart round the side of the bush.
But there was no one immediately on the other side. About a dozen yards
off, with his back to her, digging methodically away at one of the
flowerbeds was old Silas Sluff.
"Oh!" cried Isobel. "It was you, then, was it? How--how dare-- Oh,
you perfectly horrible creature!"
Silas, being deaf, took no notice, and so she ran forward, stepping
recklessly on his flowerbeds, and confronted him, her eyes blazing with
anger.
By this time the others had come on the scene. Pamela, Beryl, followed
by the dumbfounded Caroline, and presently Martha and Ellen, came
running to learn what had happened and what had caused the delay. Poor
Isobel certainly looked a woebegone sight, with great smears down her
dress and on one cheek, and soil and weeds in her hair. Who would have
believed that the soil would have been so sticky and wet--unless old
Silas had recently been watering the garden, which he didn't appear to
have been doing.
"Look what you've done!" cried Isobel excitedly, pointing to her dress;
but as Silas did not look up, but still went on digging, she suddenly
seized his spade, jerked it out of his hands, and flung it down on the
ground. "Look what you've done!" she repeated.
Old Silas straightened his bent back and looked at the dress in silence.
"You'll have to pay for this, my man!" Isobel raised her voice and spoke
loudly and distinctly.
"Eh?" said old Silas, whose deafness appeared to be worse than usual
to-day. Then he added, "Who will?"
"You," cried Isobel. "You'll have to pay for a new dress in place of
this one you've spoilt."
Here Pamela joined in. After a great deal of difficulty, for the old
gardener seemed extraordinarily deaf and stupid, he was made to
understand that he was being accused of throwing a pailful of rubbish
over Isobel.
"And you did it _purposely_," added Isobel.
"Oh, Isobel, wait a minute," said Pamela. "Perhaps he didn't know you
were passing--perhaps he didn't hear you."
Old Silas was apparently not so deaf after all, for he caught this
remark, and looking at Isobel's dress and seeing that his handiwork was
even better than he had expected it to be, he decided in his own mind to
retire now from this awkward scene in the manner most to his advantage;
after all, he thought, there were four, five, six of them as witnesses
against him here, and if they complained to Miss Crabingway he might be
dismissed--which would not suit him at all.
"'Ere," he said at length, "what's that you sez I done? Eh? Well, I
_did_ throw a pail of rubbidge over the 'edge jus' now--I'm not a-goin'
to say as 'ow I didn't--but I thrown it on to the rubbidge 'eap....
Where I alwus throw it--all on to the path in a 'eap and then sweep it
up afterwuds.... I never 'eard no one comin' along the path--I'm that
'ard of 'earing, yer know.... I never 'eard no one..."
"But it's not usual for you to throw the rubbish over like that without
looking, is it?" asked Pamela.
But Silas stoutly maintained that it was, though nobody in the little
group around him had seen him do such a thing before to-day. Ellen, in
the background, squeezed Martha's arm and winked, whispering in her ear,
"Of _course_ he done it for the purpose. I told you he'd have his
revenge on Miss Isobel for saucing him in the garden when she first came
here, didn't I now?"
Meanwhile Silas stubbornly held to his point that he thought he was
throwing the weeds on the rubbish heap, and that he had not heard Isobel
coming past.
"Well, Isobel," said Pamela, "it won't do any good to prolong this
argument--and time's flying past. Let's hurry in and see what we can do
to the dress--or you must wear one of mine. And, Beryl, will you explain
to Tom Bagg and ask him in to wait for twenty minutes--we mustn't be
longer than that." Then she turned to Silas. "I think," she said, "that
at any rate you might apologize----"
"Apologize! What good will that do! I don't want an apology from
_him_," cried Isobel. "I'm too disgusted with him--besides, I _know_ he
did it purposely. He's just telling lies, because he is frightened now
at what he's done.... But if the dress is ruined beyond repair he shall
pay for it--I don't care what he says.... I'll make him pay, if--if I
have to go to law about it." And without waiting for anything further
Isobel turned on her heel and marched away into the house, followed by
Pamela, who was secretly longing to laugh at old Silas's expression and
Isobel's theatrical outburst. In a few moments the group round Silas
dispersed.
Silas stood for a while scratching the top of his head and looking at
the ground where Isobel had stood, then he picked up his spade and
resumed his digging.
Presently he began to chuckle. "I said I'd learn 'er," he told himself.
"An' I _did_ learn 'er. Nice and slimy and wet them weeds were--an',
after all, I _did_ only throw 'em on a rubbidge 'eap. That's what she
is."
Why old Silas had not taken his revenge on Isobel before this it is
impossible to say. He had not thought out any clear plan for a long
time, but had waited for an idea, and when he had got one he had turned
it over in his mind with relish for some time, and then begun to look
around for an opportunity--and, at length, to-day he had found one.
While Tom Bagg waited in the hall, and Caroline wandered about asking if
she could be of any use, Pamela and Beryl, finding that Isobel's dress
could not be remedied unless it was thoroughly washed and ironed,
quickly got out a white muslin frock of Pamela's and set to work to make
it fit Isobel. Pamela was more Isobel's build than either of the other
two girls, and so her dress was not such a bad fit, and with the aid of
a needle and cotton, and some safety pins and a pair of scissors, it
soon began to look presentable on Isobel. Of course it did not look as
pretty on Isobel as her own white silk had done--but it was fortunate
that Pamela had even a white muslin frock ready to lend Isobel in this
emergency. Martha and Ellen lent a hand, hurrying to and fro, looking
for pins and scissors, and helping Isobel to brush the soil out of her
hair and re-do it. For although they all knew that Isobel's conduct
toward old Silas had been very rude and trying, to say the least of it,
yet they all felt sorry for her that he had chosen just this occasion to
punish her for her treatment of him so many months ago.
There was no time to talk much--they all worked hard, and within half an
hour Isobel and Caroline were safely packed away inside Tom Bagg's cab
and were jogging briskly along the road to Inchmoor.
Of course Pamela, Beryl, Martha, and Ellen had missed the seven o'clock
train, and when they arrived at the Dancing Academy, and were shown into
the big dancing-hall, a great number of people were already assembled,
and the first part of the programme had begun. Madame, who had received
all her guests in the doorway and had shaken hands with each one, had
now disappeared behind the door at the back of the raised platform at
the end of the hall. The four late arrivals managed to squeeze through
the crowd that filled the lower half of the hall, and at length found
seats where they could obtain a good view of the evening's proceedings.
A glance round the hall conveyed the impression that Madame's receptions
must be very popular affairs; there was scarcely a vacant seat to be
seen. Most of the audience were relatives of the pupils or friends, or
prospective pupils, but there were a number of people who were
outsiders--people who had received a pressing and urgent invitation from
Madame at the last minute; for always before her receptions Madame would
be suddenly seized with an unreasonable fear that the hall would be
empty of onlookers, or only half filled, and so she would send out a
score or so of these pressing and flattering invitations at random, and
in a frantic hurry, a couple of days before the reception took place.
And generally a few of these last-minute visitors would turn up.
The upper half of the hall, including the raised platform at the end,
was reserved for the dancers, the baby-grand piano being well concealed
by bamboo fern-stands and pots of flowering shrubs, so that the music
arose, apparently, from a bank of greenery and flowers. Prettily shaded
lights were suspended at intervals from the ceiling.
Pamela and Beryl gathered from the conversation going on around them
that they had missed Madame's opening speech and the first dance, and
now the second dance was just about to start. A tall, thin lady in a
black evening dress, with lace frills at her elbows, and wearing
pince-nez and a rather bored expression, appeared from the door at the
back of the platform, and descending behind the ferns and bamboo stands,
began to play a lively barn-dance on the piano. It was a good piano,
all except one note in the bass which was out of tune, and made a
curious burring noise whenever it was played on; and this particular
note seemed to recur again and again in the barn-dance, so that Beryl
always associated the music of that evening with this particular bass
note, and could hear it, in her head, whenever Madame's name was
mentioned.
Twelve girls all dressed in white, and twelve youths in regulation
evening-dress, took part in the barn-dance, which was enthusiastically
applauded by the audience. This was followed by a graceful,
old-fashioned minuet and several solo dances, each of which Martha said
was nicer than the one before. But of all the dances, there were just
three that the onlookers from Chequertrees remembered best. The first
was Isobel's dance, the second a flower-dance in which Caroline took
part, and the third a weird dance done by Madame Clarence herself.
Isobel's dance was a great success, as Madame had prophesied. Almost up
to the moment when she first appeared on the platform Isobel had been
feeling out of humour and disappointed on account of her white silk
dress; but directly she started to dance she forgot all her troubles,
and, smiling happily, she floated lightly across the platform, swaying,
turning, tapping with her small white shoes, and daintily holding the
skirt of Pamela's white muslin frock. It was sheer pleasure to watch
Isobel's graceful movements, and she seemed to be enjoying the dance so
thoroughly, that every one else felt they were enjoying it too. Could
old Silas have seen her smiling light-heartedly as she danced across the
hall he would never have recognized her as the same girl who had stood
before him a few hours previously, savagely angry. Pamela and Beryl
were astonished at the change in Isobel; they had not expected her to be
able to throw her annoyance off so completely.
At the end of the dance a storm of applause broke out, and Isobel was
encored again and again. Back she came, blushing and smiling and
bowing--a transformed Isobel, her eyes bright with excitement. The
success of the evening! That's what she had hoped to be--and that was
what she was. As she bowed her acknowledgments after her encore dance,
her smiling gaze, wandering round the faces of the audience, lighted on
the faces of two girls, whom she recognized as Lady Prior's daughters;
they were applauding her enthusiastically, Isobel saw to her delight.
On the other side of the platform door Caroline waited, listening to the
applause that was greeting Isobel, and she couldn't help thinking that
it was rather a shame that no applause like this was ever given to the
most choice piece of needlework imaginable. She tried to conjure up
visions of rapturously applauding audiences encoring an embroidered
tea-cosy, but it was impossible to picture it, and she sighed heavily.
"And yet the tea-cosy is much more useful than a dance," she thought.
Isobel might have argued that a dance, in giving a hundred people a few
minutes' genuine pleasure and happiness was of more use than a tea-cosy,
but Caroline would never have agreed with her. Thinking of the many
hours she had sat over her needlework, and the delicate stitchery she
had done, for which she had received nothing more than an occasional
word of praise, Caroline felt all at once aggrieved, realizing the
unfairness of things in general. She couldn't remember feeling like
this before, and marvelled at herself. Why had she got this sudden
desire for praise? Perhaps it was the knowledge that the dance in which
she was to appear came next on the programme, and she knew that she was
no good at dancing. She wondered why Madame had insisted on her taking
part in this dance; Madame liked every one of her pupils to appear on
the occasions when she gave a reception, providing, of course, that they
were passable dancers. She thought Caroline a passable dancer, and so
she was until she forgot her steps. And Caroline felt convinced she was
going to forget them on this occasion; she wished she had, on the
present occasion, that sense of capability she would have felt if she
had been going on the platform with a needle and thread in her hand.
Caroline felt so sure she would forget a certain part of the
flower-dance that, of course, she did forget it. With twenty other
girls, each carrying a trail of artificial roses, she danced on to the
platform and down the upper part of the hall. All went well for a time.
Every time she danced past the place where Martha was sitting she was
conscious that Martha nodded and beamed encouragingly at her, and felt
somewhat cheered by this attention on Martha's part. And then, when the
critical part of the dance arrived--whether it was that Caroline was
giddy with whirling round and round, or whether it was because she had
thought to herself, "Now, this is where I shall go wrong," will never be
known--but after a brief but vivid impression that she was dancing up
the side of the wall, and that the audience were spinning round and
round her like a gigantic top, Caroline found herself alone in the
middle of the hall, with her feet tangled in a trail of artificial roses
and her hair tumbling about her face.
The audience was clapping and laughing. Caroline was overcome with
confusion and, flushing painfully, tried to disentangle herself from the
roses. The other girls were grouped together in a final tableau at the
other end of the hall, beside the platform. They were all tittering
with laughter too. Caroline made a desperate effort, and, disentangling
herself, dashed across to them and tried to obscure herself among the
twenty. And in another minute the dance was over and they were all
'behind the scenes' again.
Madame received her with honeyed words, but the tone of her voice was
acid. She had thought that Caroline's dancing would pass at least
unnoticed, and now it had been noticed in a very unenviable way.
Poor Caroline! She felt both ashamed and sorry for herself. "I knew I
should never remember that part," was all she could say--and thereafter
remained quiet and sulky, brooding over the 'ridiculous sketch' she must
have looked before all that laughing audience. "I never did like
dancing," she said to herself later, "and now I hate it."
Fortunately Madame Clarence's own dance followed soon after Caroline's
blunder, and the impression made by Madame was such as to sweep
everything else into the background for the time being.
It certainly was a remarkable dance, and one that Madame had invented
herself. Madame was dressed in a startling black frock embroidered with
gold, and wore yellow earrings and a long chain of yellow beads, and
bright yellow shoes and stockings. Madame's expressive hands played a
great part in the dance, which, as previously mentioned, was
remarkable--far more remarkable than beautiful. It seemed to Ellen, who
gazed spellbound, as if Madame must surely end by breaking her neck, or
one of her legs, so full of twists and curves was the dance; indeed, at
times it was all Ellen could do to keep herself from giving little
shrieks or crying 'oo-er' aloud. However, she enjoyed it immensely, and
so did the rest of the audience, judging by the applause Madame received
and the huge bouquets which suddenly appeared and were handed up to her
as she came to bow her thanks, smiling delightedly and kissing her hand
to the audience.
During the evening there was an interval in which coffee and cakes were
handed round, and everybody became very chatty, and Madame wandered
about among her guests conversing and receiving compliments. Ellen
seemed to be fascinated by Madame, and followed her movements around the
hall admiringly.
Beryl watched the evening's proceedings with sad, preoccupied eyes. She
smiled and talked brightly enough when anyone spoke to her, but her face
in repose wore an anxious, worried look. During the previous week her
moods of depression had been very frequent, and worse than usual, for
even her music had been neglected and the piano had been closed and
silent. She was enjoying the evening at Madame Clarence's, but she was
not by any means at ease. Pamela had noticed this and was a little
puzzled. That Beryl was far from anxious for their six months' stay at
Chequertrees to come to an end Pamela was aware; and she did not doubt
that Beryl dreaded Miss Crabingway's return, because it meant Enfield
and Aunt Laura for Beryl; but she felt that there was something more
than the coming parting to account for Beryl's preoccupied manner and
avoidance of any confidential talk with her.
Madame Clarence's successful evening coming at length to a close, Madame
stood at the door again and shook hands effusively with her guests as
they passed out, receiving more compliments, and herself telling every
one how "vewy, vewy kind it was of them to come."
During the journey home Caroline was wrapped in gloom, but Isobel was in
high good spirits and chatted and laughed excitedly, all thoughts of old
Silas having been driven from her head--until the following morning when
she returned the muslin dress to Pamela.
Finding, on examination, that her own silk dress was not irretrievably
spoiled, but would come up as good as new when washed, Isobel decided to
take no further steps to show her displeasure toward Silas.
"He's not worth taking any more bother about," Isobel decided, partly
because she really felt that, and partly because she did not know
exactly what to do to punish him--beyond reporting him to Miss
Crabingway, which might lead to awkward questions about her own conduct,
she realized.
And so Silas Sluff heard no more about the rubbish heap.
*CHAPTER XVIII*
*THE DOOR IS UNLOCKED*
A couple of days before Miss Crabingway was due to return Beryl made an
opportunity to speak to Pamela about the money she had borrowed.
"I haven't got it on me at present, Pamela," said Beryl. "But I'll be
sure to let you have it back. I'll send it to you by post, without
fail. It was awfully good of you.... I have got your address, haven't
I? Oh, yes, I wrote it down in my note book."
"That's all right. Don't worry about that--any time will do," said
Pamela. "If I could help you in any way----"
But Beryl thanked her and assured her that everything was all right, and
hurriedly changed the subject.
Miss Crabingway was expected home on the Friday morning, so the girls
made all their final preparations on the Thursday evening, and Pamela
and Beryl and Isobel (Caroline was busy packing) spent an hour after tea
in picking flowers and arranging them in every room in the house.
"Why, it's like as if the garden 'as come inside the house," cried
Martha, passing through the hall as Pamela was arranging a big bowl of
roses on a small table by the front door.
"Aren't they lovely?" said Pamela, burying her nose in them. "And we
don't seem to have robbed the garden a bit--there are heaps more.... I
always think flowers give one such a welcome, don't you, Martha? ... And
these are going to stand on the mat, as it were, and be the first to
shake hands with Miss Crabingway to-morrow, to welcome her home."
But, after all, it was not the bowl of roses that welcomed Miss
Crabingway home; it was a pot of shaggy yellow chrysanthemums that stood
inside the french windows of the drawing-room that night. Pamela did not
know this, though, until the following morning, after breakfast.
Pamela noticed, when she put her head inside the kitchen door on her way
to breakfast that Martha and Ellen were whispering together in a
subdued, excited way, and that they stopped at once on catching sight of
her and went hastily on with their work.
"I'm just bringing the coffee in, Miss Pamela," said Ellen.
While Martha took the boiled eggs out of the saucepan with a
self-conscious expression on her face, and in her efforts to appear
unconcerned dropped one, and it broke on the kitchen floor. In the
unnecessary energy she put into the work of clearing it up she was able
to hide her embarrassment and regain her composure.
This was not lost on Pamela, who felt that there was a certain
atmosphere of mystery in the kitchen--which was entirely foreign to the
light, sunny room, with its shining brass and purring kettle, and
delicious smell of baking bread.
"Is anything the matter, Martha?" she could not help asking, when calm
was restored and the broken egg replaced. "There's nothing wrong, is
there?"
Martha and Ellen exchanged quick glances, and then Martha laughed.
"Why, bless my heart, why should there be?" she replied. "Of course
there's nothing wrong." And she laughed again.
But Pamela felt vaguely uneasy--why, she did not know. She ate her
breakfast thoughtfully, and did not talk half so much as she usually did
at breakfast-time. All the girls were more silent than usual, as if the
coming events of the day were already casting their shadows over them.
As soon as breakfast was finished Martha appeared suddenly in the
dining-room doorway and said,
"I was to ask you all if you would please step up and see Miss
Crabingway now.... She is in her own room...."
The girls looked at each other in astonishment. Miss Crabingway here!
In her own room! The locked-up room? When did she arrive? None of
them had heard her come.
They turned to Martha with a dozen questions, but Martha only smiled
mysteriously and shook her head.
"Miss Crabingway arrived late last night," she said when there was a
pause in the questioning; "so late that she did not knock at the front
door, in case she woke you all up ..."
"Then how--?" Isobel began.
"I heard some one tap on the french windows in the drawing-room, just as
I was going to lock up for the night.... It was Miss Crabingway," said
Martha.
"But why--" said Isobel.
Martha moved out of the doorway. "Miss Crabingway is waiting for you,"
she said.
The girls had all risen, and were standing round the table.
"Yes, we'd better go," said Pamela.
But none of them moved for a moment. They were gradually readjusting
their plans to meet the present occasion--their plans for welcoming Miss
Crabingway, which were all spoilt now. Instead of being able to catch a
glimpse of her before she saw them--being able to watch her enter the
garden gate, and come up the path to the front door--here she was in
their midst, ready to welcome _them_.... And they had meant to put on
their pretty summer dresses--and here they were with only their morning
blouses and skirts on.... However, there was no time to change
now--Miss Crabingway was waiting to see them. It was useless to try to
remember all the things they had meant to say and do before meeting Miss
Crabingway--there was no time for regrets. Before they realized what was
happening they were mounting the stairs in solemn, single file, Pamela
leading the way and Caroline bringing up the rear--while Martha stood at
the foot of the staircase, an enigmatical smile on her face.
Outside the room door which had been locked to them for so long the
girls stopped. All was silent within. Each of the girls felt as if the
loud beating of her heart must be heard by the other three. They were
all rather nervous. What would they see on the other side of the
door?--the door which they had so religiously avoided going near, until
now. What would Miss Crabingway be like?--Miss Crabingway, who had made
such queer rules for them during their stay in her house.
Pamela knocked gently on the door with her knuckles.
The sound of a chair leg scraping on the floor inside could be heard,
and then a voice said "Come in." So Pamela turned the door handle and
the four girls went in.
Each of the girls, at some time or other during the last six months, had
imagined the meeting with Miss Crabingway at the end of their visit; the
imagined meetings had been dramatic or comfortable, according to the
girls' moods or temperaments; but none of them had imagined anything
like the meeting that actually occurred. To begin with, no one had
thought of it taking place in the locked-up room, curiously enough.
Miss Crabingway, who had been sitting at the farther end of the room in
a low wicker chair beside a table littered with papers, rose as they
entered and stood gazing toward them intently. For the space of half a
minute she stood quite silent, taking stock of her four visitors--and
they stood gazing at her.
Quite unlike Pamela's imagined picture of her, Miss Crabingway was small
and thin, about fifty years of age, with exceedingly bright eyes and
bushy white hair. Her nose was large and aquiline, of the variety
generally termed roman. It is supposed that people with large noses
have strength of will and character; it may have been Miss Crabingway's
nose that indicated her character, but it was certainly her eyes that
appeared to be the most compelling _force_ about her; they were eager,
restless, keenly-alive-looking brown eyes. After the girls had noticed
her eyes and nose and hair, and her thin-lipped wide mouth, they became
aware that Miss Crabingway was dressed in a coat and skirt of some soft
dark brown material. It was odd to see Miss Crabingway dressed, with
the exception of a hat, as if to go out of doors at this time in the
morning; at least, it seemed odd to the girls, who had expected to find
her having breakfast in bed, perhaps, or, at any rate, sitting in a
flannel dressing-gown.
There was no time at present to take in the details of the 'locked-up
room,' but the first impression was one of sombreness with regard to the
furnishings, and although it was an airy room, with a very high ceiling
and four windows, yet it seemed a dark room on account of the ivy which
grew round the windows, and even across the panes in some parts. Then
it was gradually borne in upon the girls that nearly everything in the
room was duplicated!
There were two four-poster beds with exactly the same coloured hangings
and draperies, two chests of drawers, two ottomans (gay and modern and
chintz-covered), two wicker-chairs, two small round tables, two
fire-places--one at each end of the long room--and two carpets which met
in the centre of the floor, two high wardrobes, and so on--so that
whenever one caught sight of something fresh, one immediately looked
round for its double--and was sure to find it. The ornaments on the two
mantelpieces were exactly the same.... All this fascinated one so
strangely that Pamela even found herself about to look round for two
Miss Crabingways.
But there was only one Miss Crabingway, and her keen eyes travelled from
one to another of the girls, and then quickly returning to look again at
Beryl, remained staring at her critically.
Then all of a sudden she began to talk as if continuing a conversation
with the girls which had already been in progress for some time. The
girls hardly took in what she said--they were so surprised--but
afterward, when they tried to remember, it seemed to have been something
about red serge and water-cress, and the difficulty of living in rooms
up six pairs of stairs, if you were a plumber and suffered from
rheumatism.... When they thought this over seriously, it seemed too
silly; but, nevertheless, it was certainly the impression the girls got
of Miss Crabingway's torrent of conversation. The manner in which Miss
Crabingway appeared to be continuing some discussion with them puzzled
the four girls greatly at first; afterward, they learnt that this was
one of Miss Crabingway's little peculiarities--she never publicly
recognized the existence of introductions and farewells, but on seeing a
fresh arrival would continue a conversation as if the new-comer had been
there all the time. She would greet some one who had been absent for
years as if he or she had just walked down the garden to see how the
lettuces were growing and had then wandered back into the house again.
It was an odd trick of Miss Crabingway's, and an inconvenient one
sometimes, besides being bewildering. Yet it gave a curious impression
that Miss Crabingway was with you all the time, and that she had been
watching you throughout the years with those eager eyes of hens. In the
same manner she declined to say good-bye, always giving the impression
that she was coming along with you--in fact, would catch you up in a few
minutes, before you reached the station. It was only when you had been
talking with her for some time that you discovered that she did realize
there were such things as absence, time, and space.
"However," Miss Crabingway continued, "I want to have a short talk with
you all.... But why stand by the door, my dear girls? There are plenty
of chairs, and an ottoman here by the window."
At this invitation the girls crossed the room and seated themselves in
chairs and on the ottoman, which held two--Beryl and Caroline.
"We are very pleased to meet you, Miss Crabingway, and we want to
thank--" Pamela began, when Miss Crabingway broke in suddenly.
"What was the date yesterday?" she asked.