.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 47471
   :PG.Title: The Girls of Chequertrees
   :PG.Released: 2014-11-26
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Marion St John Webb
   :MARCREL.ill: Percy Tarrant
   :DC.Title: The Girls of Chequertrees
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1918
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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THE GIRLS OF CHEQUERTREES
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   .. _`PAMELA READ THE SIGNATURE OF BERYL'S MOTHER THROUGH A BLUR OF TEARS`:

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      :alt: PAMELA READ THE SIGNATURE OF BERYL'S MOTHER THROUGH A BLUR OF TEARS (*P.* 120)

      PAMELA READ THE SIGNATURE OF BERYL'S MOTHER THROUGH A BLUR OF TEARS (*P.* `120`_)

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      THE GIRLS OF
      CHEQUERTREES

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      BY

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      MARION ST JOHN WEBB

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      AUTHOR OF
      'THE LITTLEST ONE' 'THE LITTLEST ONE AGAIN' 'KNOCK THREE TIMES'
      'THE HOUSE WITH THE TWISTING PASSAGE'
      ETC.

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      ILLUSTRATED BY
      PERCY TARRANT

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      GEORGE G. HARRAP & CO. LTD.
      LONDON CALCUTTA SYDNEY

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      *First published September 1918
      by GEORGE G. HARRAP & CO. LTD.
      39-41 Parker Street, Kingsway, London, W.C.2
      Reprinted February 1923*

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      *Printed in Great Britain by Turnbull & Spears, Edinburgh*

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   CONTENTS

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   CHAPTER

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I.  `THE WINDOW OPPOSITE`_
II.  `PAMELA RECEIVES A STRANGE INVITATION`_
III.  `BERYL`_
IV.  `THE ROOM WITH THE LOCKED DOOR`_
V.  `MAKING PLANS`_
VI.  `MILLICENT JACKSON GIVES SOME INFORMATION`_
VII.  `BERYL GOES THROUGH AN ORDEAL`_
VIII.  `WHICH CONCERNS A VISIT TO INCHMOOR AND A WOMAN WITH A LIMP`_
IX.  `ISOBEL MAKES TROUBLE`_
X.  `PAMELA BEFRIENDS BERYL AND MEETS ELIZABETH BAGG`_
XI.  `THE WISHING WELL`_
XII.  `IN WHICH ELIZABETH BAGG PAINTS A PICTURE AND ISOBEL HEARS SOME PLEASANT NEWS`_
XIII.  `MR JOSEPH SIGGLESTHORNE FORGETS THE DATE`_
XIV.  `CAROLINE MAKES A DISCOVERY`_
XV.  `ABOUT A BAZAAR AND A MEETING IN THE RUINED WINDMILL`_
XVI.  `PAMELA'S WISH COMES TRUE`_
XVII.  `IN WHICH OLD SILAS LAUGHS AND ISOBEL DANCES`_
XVIII.  `THE DOOR IS UNLOCKED`_
XIX.  `BERYL CONFESSES`_
XX.  `A NEW BEGINNING`_

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   ILLUSTRATIONS

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`PAMELA READ THE SIGNATURE OF BERYL'S MOTHER THROUGH A BLUR OF TEARS`_ *Frontispiece*

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`ON THE FIRST FLOOR LANDING PAMELA POINTED OUT THE LOCKED DOOR`_

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`A WOMAN WHO FROWNED AND PUT HER FOREFINGER TO HER LIPS`_

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`A PAILFUL OF GARDEN RUBBISH DESCENDED IN A SHOWER`_





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.. _`THE WINDOW OPPOSITE`:

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   THE GIRLS OF CHEQUERTREES

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   CHAPTER I

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   THE WINDOW OPPOSITE

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On a cold, damp January evening a woman
sat in the dusk of a fire-lit room gazing
through the window.  For half an hour
she had been sitting there fidgeting impatiently
with her hands and feet every few minutes, but
never moving from the position she had taken up
by the window.  Her expectant gaze was centred on
the outline of a house that stood on the opposite
side of the village green at Barrowfield.

From the window, or for the matter of that from
the green or the road that encircled the green, little
could be seen of the house, as the high ivy-topped
walls which surrounded the garden guarded it jealously
from prying eyes.  It was only through the tall
iron-rail gate set into an arch in the stone wall that
you could ascertain that the house was flat-fronted
and square, a house entirely covered with ivy, out
from whose dark, rustling leaves many windows
peered like deep-set eyes.  A broad gravel path
swept from the gate to a flight of white steps that
led up to the front door.  The garden, stretching
away on either side of the path, appeared to be
thick and bushy with shrubs and tall old trees.

This much the woman at the window had observed
from the gate, and now she was sitting—waiting.

A little breeze sprang up and scurried through
the ivy leaves as if it and they were whispering
together about something.  Although the house
seemed silent, it was not deserted, for presently, as
it grew darker, a light appeared in one of the lower
windows and a blind was drawn—a red blind
through which the light glowed, seeming to
increase in strength as the house gradually faded
into the dusk and was lost to sight.

The woman who was watching sighed and nervously
bit the nail of her thumb.

"That's where she is," she muttered to herself,
gazing at the red blind.

At that moment the sound of wheels and jingling
bells became audible, and a light flickered at
the top of the main road that led down to the
village from the station.  The woman frowned and
strained her eyes toward the dancing light on the
road.  It was the station cab approaching, jogging
along at its usual pace, slowly but surely, with stout
old Tom Bagg, the driver, snugly ensconced on the
box-seat.

Outside the gate of the ivy-covered house the
cab came to a stand-still, and a young girl alighted.
She was plainly visible as she paused beneath the
street lamp outside the gate before entering the
dark garden, followed by Tom Bagg much beladen
and struggling with boxes.  In a few minutes the
old cabman came out again, and the cab jogged
away back to the station.

The woman who had watched all this intently
then moved away from the window, and, limping
slightly as she walked, made her way to the fire.
Crouching down on the hearth she poked the fire
into a blaze and warmed her cold hands—her eyes
fixed broodingly on the leaping flames.  After a
while she pulled a chair toward her and sank into
it—still with her eyes on the fire, lost in thought.

She was aroused from her reverie by the sound
of wheels and jingling bells again, heralding the
return of the cab.  Instantly she got up, limped
back to the window, and peered out.

Once more the cab stopped at the gate of the
ivy-covered house, and this time two girls got out
and passed through the garden gate, followed by
Tom Bagg still more beladen and struggling beneath
boxes and parcels and travelling rugs.

The woman watched until old Tom Bagg had
departed again, then she gave an odd, short laugh,
and for a while stared gloomily out at the closed
iron-rail gate in the wall opposite.

Presently she said to herself, "Well—now we
shall see!"

Then she pulled down her blind.





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.. _`PAMELA RECEIVES A STRANGE INVITATION`:

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   CHAPTER II


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   PAMELA RECEIVES A STRANGE INVITATION

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A few days before the incident occurred
which is recorded in the previous chapter,
Pamela Heath was standing at the dining-room
window of her home in Oldminster (a town
about forty miles from Barrowfield).  Pamela, like
the woman who sat watching the ivy-covered house,
was also gazing through a window—but on to a
very different scene: morning, a bright January
morning, and a busy stream of people passing up
and down the sunny street.

Pamela was a tall, slim girl, about sixteen years
old; she was very pleasant to look at with her
curly, chestnut-coloured hair, tied at her neck with
a brown ribbon bow, and her brown eyes and clear
complexion, which were emphasized by the dark
green dress she was wearing.  Strictly speaking
Pamela would not have been called pretty—in the
sense that regular features stand for prettiness;
her nose was a tiny bit square at the tip, and the
distance from her nose to her upper lip was a trifle
more than beauty experts would allow, and her
mouth was a little too wide for prettiness.  But
those who met Pamela for the first time found her
expression of frank good-humour far more attractive
than mere prettiness.  And when she was in one
of her 'beamy' moods (as her brother Michael used
to call them)—that is, when she was vivaciously
talking, and laughing, and keenly interested in
making other people enjoy themselves—then she
was irresistible.  However grudgingly you
admitted it, you found you *had* to confess to yourself
that you were enjoying yourself—when Pamela was
'beamy.'

This sunny Saturday morning when we first see
Pamela she stands drumming on the window-pane
with her fingers, watching for Michael to come
round the corner of the street from the post-office,
where he has been to post their father's Saturday
morning letters.  Michael is her elder brother—a
year older than Pamela—and the two are great
chums.  There are two sisters and another brother
younger than Pamela, but they will be introduced
by and by, as Pamela is not thinking of them at
the moment; she is thinking of Michael, and wishing
he would hurry up so that they might start off
on their sketching expedition.

They were both fond of sketching, and used to
tramp out on Saturday mornings with their sketch-blocks
and pencils (and some sandwiches and fruit
in a satchel) and try to picture some of the beautiful
scenery outside Oldminster.

But there was to be no sketching for either of
them this morning.  For on his way to the house
where Pamela lived was a little old man, with a
very high bald forehead, and a top hat, and a shiny
black coat—and the news he was bringing was to
drive all thoughts of sketching from their minds
for some time to come.

Long afterward Pamela remembered every detail
of this Saturday morning, all the little familiar
sounds going on in the house—the clatter of dishes
downstairs; the murmur of Mother's and Doris's
voices in the hall, and John's high, childish tones
asking them some question—and then their
laughing at him.  Father's typewriter could be heard
faintly clicking away in the study, and in the
drawing-room Olive was playing the only tune
she knew on the piano.  The butcher's cart came
clattering down the street and pulled up next door.

Pamela stopped drumming on the window and,
pushing it open, leant out to see if Michael was
coming.  Then it was she caught sight of a rather
round-shouldered old man in a top hat hurrying
down the street, stopping every other second to
peer closely at the numbers on the gates.  When
he reached Pamela's gate he not only stopped and
looked at the number but, straightening himself
up, he pushed the gate open and came in.

Pamela withdrew her head hastily and stepped
back into the room.

"Whoever can this be?" she thought.  "He
looks rather shabby, poor soul—I wonder if he's
come begging or trying to sell machine needles."

But the little old man's business had nothing to
do with either of these things, as Pamela was soon
to find out.  A few minutes later she found herself
in her father's study being introduced to Mr Joseph
Sigglesthorne, whose mild blue eyes and nervous
manner ill accorded with the businesslike news
which he was endeavouring to convey.  Mr and
Mrs Heath and Pamela sat facing the nervous little
man, who had removed his top hat of course, and
now exposed the high bald forehead which gave
him, so he fancied, a slight resemblance to Shakespeare.
Slight though it was, this resemblance gave
Mr Joseph Sigglesthorne a considerable amount of
happiness; it always made him feel more important
directly he took his hat off.

"Perhaps I ought to say, first of all," began Mr
Sigglesthorne, producing a pair of spectacles from
his coat pocket and commencing to polish them
nervously with his handkerchief, "that I—that I
am—you will excuse me, sir, *and* madam," he turned
to Mr and Mrs Heath and inclined his head, "that—I
was going to say, I have the honour to be a kind
of distant relation of a distant relation of yours."
He rubbed the glasses a little quicker.  "You
remember Miss Emily Crabingway, doubtless.  The
lady is, if I am not mistaken, a fourth cousin
to—to madam here?"  He inclined his head again
toward Mrs Heath.

"Emily Crabingway!  Why, yes," said Mrs
Heath.  "But I haven't seen her for years—quite
twelve years I should think."

"So she says, madam, so she says," continued
Mr Sigglesthorne.  "Well—I am her second cousin
once removed, if I may say so—and she has
entrusted me with a little—er—a little transaction—I
mean proposal, or rather suggestion—er—with
regard to your daughter Pamela."  Mr
Sigglesthorne was still polishing his glasses energetically.
"Miss Emily Crabingway is obliged to go up to
Scotland—on business.  That was all I had to tell
you about that part, I believe—yes, that's correct—on
*business*, she said.  She will be away for six
months..."  He hesitated, his eyes on the top
of the window curtains behind Mr Heath's head.
"Yes—six months—and during that time she
wants to know if Miss Pamela will go and live at
her house in Barrowfield, and look after it for
her—and—" he went on, emphasizing each word
as if repeating a lesson, "certain conditions being
undertaken by Miss Pamela, and fulfilled
properly—Miss Crabingway will—er—bestow upon the
young lady a sum of—if I may say so—a not
inconsiderable sum—er—in short, fifty pounds."  Mr
Sigglesthorne removed his gaze from the top of
the curtains to Mr Heath's boots, which he appeared
to study intently for a space.

Mr and Mrs Heath exchanged surprised glances,
but Pamela was looking wonderingly at Mr Sigglesthorne's
magnificent forehead, and did not move.
Before any of them could speak Mr Sigglesthorne
resumed:

"If Miss Pamela agrees to accept the offer she
would be required to sign this paper, promising to
obey certain instructions of Miss Crabingway's;
but doubtless you would like to read it—I have it
here in my pocket."

Mr Sigglesthorne stopped polishing his glasses,
and resting them on the top of his hat, which lay
on a chair beside him, he felt in his coat pocket.
But his memory had played him false; it was the
wrong pocket.  He turned the contents out, but
not finding what he sought he tried another pocket,
fumbling with nervous, clumsy fingers, and
producing various papers and envelopes and odd bits
of string.  The longer he searched the more nervous
he got.  "Tut! tut!" he kept saying to himself.
"But how careless of me!  Tut! tut!  Exceedingly
annoying!"

Mrs Heath tried to ease the situation by
murmuring something polite, but Pamela was suddenly
seized with an intense desire to start laughing.  Mr
Sigglesthorne looked so funny and perplexed, and
he kept dropping his papers on the floor in his
nervousness, and once he knocked his hat down,
and the glasses too.  Pamela, almost choking with
the effort of keeping her face straight, was glad
of the opportunity of rescuing the hat and placing
it back on the chair; she was thankful to be able
to do anything at all instead of sitting still and
trying to keep serious.  Mr Sigglesthorne's apologies
and thanks for his hat were profuse.

At length, after going through five pockets, Mr
Sigglesthorne found what he wanted, to
everybody's relief.

"Perhaps I should mention," he said, as he
handed an envelope across to Pamela, "that Miss
Crabingway is inviting three other young
girls—somewhere about Miss Pamela's age—to stay at
her house also—but you will see about that, though,
in the letter."

Pamela opened the envelope and spread out the
sheet of paper it contained so that her mother and
father could read it at the same time.  It was a
sheet of foolscap paper covered with black, spiky
handwriting, writing which Mrs Heath recognized
as Miss Emily Crabingway's from the Christmas
card she received from her every year, the
interchange of Christmas cards being the only
communication she had held with this distant cousin
of hers for the last twelve years.

"Read it aloud, Pamela," said her father.  So
Pamela read the following letter:

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CHEQUERTREES,
   BARROWFIELD,
      *January 3rd*

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DEAR PAMELA,

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Although I have not seen you since you were
four years old, I have a fancy that I should like you to
come to Barrowfield and look after my house and its
inmates while I am away on business....

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Here Mr Sigglesthorne smiled and nodded his
head vigorously, and leaning back in his chair
began to polish his glasses again.

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... I shall be away for six months, and during that
time—if you agree to come—you must promise to
obey the following instructions.  You will please sign
your name under them and give the paper to Mr
Sigglesthorne, who is acting for me in this matter, as
I am unable to come and visit you myself owing to my
urgent call from home.

These are the instructions to be obeyed:

1.  While you are staying under my roof you are not
to visit, nor invite to the house, any relatives
whatsoever.

2.  No letters are to be written home, but one
postcard every month may be sent; and you may
only receive post-cards, no letters, from your
relatives—and then only one card each month.

3.  On no account may you try to open the locked-up
room at the end of the first floor landing.
Nor may you peer through the keyhole.

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A faint chuckle escaped Mr Sigglesthorne, a
fleeting, scarcely audible chuckle which he suffocated
immediately.  There was a blank space after the
'instructions' for Pamela to sign her name; and
then a few more lines ended the letter.

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I am leaving my two trusted servants, Martha and
Ellen, to cook, and clean the house.  When I return
at the end of six months I will hand over to
you—providing you have not broken any of the above
conditions—the sum of £50, which is deposited
meanwhile with my banker.  (Enclosed you will find
banker's guarantee for same.)

I am likewise offering the same sum of money to
three other girls who are being asked to come and
stay at my house, and to whom I want you to act
as hostess.  The girls' names are: Beryl Cranswick,
Isobel Prior, and Caroline Weston.

Send me a wire to reach me by Saturday evening
saying whether you accept this invitation or not.  If
you accept you must arrive at Barrowfield not later
than Tuesday next.

Trusting you will be sensible and wire 'yes,'

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Yours sincerely,
   EMILY CRABINGWAY

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There was silence for a few moments when Pamela
finished reading.  She handed the banker's guarantee
across to her father, who took it without a
word.

"Well!" queried Mr Sigglesthorne, polishing
nervously.

"Well," said Mrs Heath, "I think we must
have a little time to consider the matter."

"Why does Miss Crabingway want to cut me
off from you all like that, Mother, for six whole
months?" burst out Pamela.

Mrs Heath shook her head and looked across
at Mr Sigglesthorne, who, catching her inquiring
glance, shook his head also.

"I know no more than I have told you, madam,"
he said.  "Miss Crabingway sent for me—she has
been very good to me occasionally, when I have
been temporarily embarrassed for money—if you
will excuse my introducing such a subject—and
asked me to go and see the parents of the young
ladies she wished to invite, and present them
personally with her letter and instructions.  I have
already seen one of the young ladies——"

"And is she willing to come—the one you've
seen?" asked Pamela.

"She is going to make up her mind and wire
to-day to Miss Crabingway, and if she wires 'yes'
she will post on to me the paper of instructions,
duly signed, to my address by Monday morning."  Mr
Sigglesthorne stood up and began gathering
his belongings together preparatory to taking his
leave.  "I will leave you my address; will you
kindly send me your paper, if you decide to accept?
Unfortunately, you have very little time to
consider the matter—only a few hours—as Miss
Crabingway is expecting your wire this evening....
Now is there anything more you would like to ask
me, madam, or sir?" he asked politely.

But although Mrs Heath put one or two anxious
questions, he could throw no further light on the
matter than before.

"I think—if you will forgive my saying so—that
it is just a whim—a fancy on Miss Crabingway's
part.  I feel sure your daughter will be well
cared for at Barrowfield—and if she does not
like it (although I suppose I shouldn't say this)
she can always come home—and forfeit the fifty
pounds, can't she?"

"Yes, that's true," said Mrs Heath.

"H'm, h'm ... yes—anyway, we can talk the
matter over together and wire by this afternoon,"
said Mr Heath.

"This is my address," said Mr Sigglesthorne,
handing Pamela a thumbed and dog-eared visiting-card
on which was printed: "Joseph Sigglesthorne,
Fig Tree Court, Inner Temple, London."  "And
now, if you will kindly excuse me, I must hurry
away, as I have other visits to pay this morning."

Mrs Heath invited him to stay and have some
refreshment before he went, but he declined,
saying that he must lose no time in informing the other
young ladies of Miss Crabingway's invitation.  So
shaking hands all round he departed, leaving them
not a little perplexed.

No sooner was he gone than Doris and Michael
burst into the study, anxious to know what the
queer little old man's business with Pamela could
be.  They were soon told all about it, and read
Miss Crabingway's letter with much curiosity.

Doris, who was a year younger than Pamela,
was as unlike her sister in looks as she was in
temperament.  Doris was pale, very pale, with very
fair hair and eyelashes, and light blue eyes.  She
was inclined to be pessimistic and over-anxious
about most things, and lived up to this reputation
on the present occasion.

Michael, with handsome features, an infectious
laugh, and chestnut-coloured hair (like Pamela's),
was nothing if not optimistic; he and Pamela
were always getting sighed over by Doris because
of the levity shown by them over things which
Doris considered "too important to be laughed
at."  But to-day Michael's optimism seemed to
have suddenly deserted him, and he put down Miss
Crabingway's letter in silence.

Pamela was watching his face anxiously.  "What
do you think about it, Michael?" she asked.

"I don't know.  I suppose it's all right.  What
do you think about it yourself, Pam?" he said.
("Six whole months!  And only a few miserable
post-cards!  Whatever was old Miss Crabingway
thinking of!" said Michael to himself.)

"After all, it's a very simple matter," said Mr
Heath.  "Pamela to look after Miss Crabingway's
house for six months.  There's nothing in that.
Six months' rest from her studies won't harm her,
and she can keep up her sketching and take some
books with her....  It'll be quite a holiday."

"It's only those restrictions about not being
allowed to see any of us—and—and that curious
mention of a locked door..." said Mother.

"Ah, yes!  I don't like the sound of that at all,"
said Doris, shaking her head.

"Oh, come now—it may be only her private and
personal belongings she's put in that room," said
Mr Heath.

"It *might* be, of course," said Doris, in a tone
that implied that nothing was more unlikely.

"Of course that must be it," continued Mr Heath
(from whom Michael and Pamela inherited their
optimism).  "Miss Crabingway wouldn't want all
those strange girls upsetting her personal things....
And remember the fifty pounds—it'll be most
useful for Pamela.  But still, you must decide
yourself, Pamela, what you would rather do."

"I *don't* want to go—and I *do*—if you know
what I mean," said Pamela.

They understood what she meant.  But the
matter had to be decided immediately, and so they
all sat down and began to discuss it from each and
every point of view, until at length, after much
hesitation, Pamela made up her mind to accept
Miss Crabingway's invitation.

Later in the day she and Michael walked round
to the post-office and sent off the wire to
Barrowfield; and Pamela also sent the signed paper off
to Mr Sigglesthorne.

During the next few days Pamela lived in a state
of excited rush and hurry.  There seemed so much
to be done, so many friends to see and say
good-bye to; so many clothes to get ready and pack;
so much shopping to do; and then there were a
hundred and one odd jobs that she meant to attend
to before she went away, and never got time to see
to any of them after all.  Everybody seemed very
kind and anxious to help her as much as they could.
Even John and twelve-year-old Olive begged to be
allowed to help, and proposed that they should
take a hand at packing Pamela's trunk.  Olive,
indeed, could not be persuaded that her help was
not needed until she had been pacified with the
gift of Pamela's glove-box and a scent satchet to
keep for herself.  That was always the easiest
way to divert Olive's ambitions—make her a
present of something you didn't want and she quickly
forgot what she had been clamouring for a few
minutes earlier.  John, who was two years younger
than Olive, was the 'baby' of the family in name
only.  John was sturdy, noisy, and emphatic in
all he said and did—and was not so easily put off
with gifts.  He would accept the gift and then go
on asking for the other thing as well.  Fortunately
he was not so insistent on helping to pack as on
being allowed to sit on the lid of the trunk to squash
it down when it was full and about to be locked.
This little matter was easily arranged, and when
everything was quite ready he was called in, asked
to be so obliging as to cast his weight on to the top
of the trunk—which he did with great alacrity—and
the trunk was locked in triumph.

On the Monday night Mother came into Pamela's
bedroom and wished her an extra good-night.

"Be sure to come home if you are unhappy,
dear.  Or if you are ill or anything—let me
know—and bother the old fifty pounds," said
Mother.  "Promise me, Pamela—or I shall be so
unhappy."

So Pamela promised.  "But I'm sure to be all
right, Mother, and you're not to worry about me
at all, dear.  But do take care of yourselves, all
of you, till I come back."

Pamela said good night quite cheerfully, but
after her mother had gone downstairs again she
found that she did not feel cheerful a bit.  She
began to think things like "This is the last time
I shall sleep in my own little room," and "This is
the last time I shall hear Michael whistling on
his way upstairs," until she made herself cry.
Then she scolded herself for being so silly, and fell
asleep.





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.. _`BERYL`:

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   CHAPTER III


.. class:: center medium bold

   BERYL

.. vspace:: 2

When Pamela alighted at Barrowfield
station on the Tuesday afternoon
daylight was beginning to fade and a fine
drizzling rain had set in.  She gazed round the
deserted platform, and gave a shiver as a chilly
little breeze rustled past her, stirring the loose bits
of paper on the stone paving and making the
half-closed door of the General Waiting Room creak
dismally as it pushed it farther open.  Pamela
had been sitting for an hour and a half in the train,
and she felt cold and stiff and suddenly depressed.
She was the only passenger to get out at Barrowfield,
and the only living soul about the place as
far as she could see was a porter, who now came
strolling down the platform and took charge of her
luggage.

"Where to, miss?" inquired the porter; and
his voice at once reminded Pamela of the voice of
a man who used to come round selling muffins in
Oldminster, and this made her conjure up an
instant's vision of home and Mother and Michael
and all of them sitting round the fire while Doris
toasted muffins for tea.  It was a ridiculous thing
to think of at this moment, but she could not help
it.  How she wished she were at home, toasting
muffins....  But the man was waiting.

"Miss Crabingway's house, Chequertrees," she
answered.  "Is it far from here?"

"'Bout a mile an' 'arf, Chequertrees is," said
the porter.

"Oh, dear," said Pamela.  "Well, can I get a
cab or anything?"

Before the porter could reply the sound of heavy
footsteps was heard on the wooden floor of the
station entrance, and the next moment Tom Bagg
hove into sight.  Of course Pamela did not know
what his name was then, though she knew it well
enough afterward; you could not help knowing
it if you stayed in Barrowfield more than a couple
of hours, because Mr Bagg was a local celebrity.
However, all Pamela knew at present was that a
fat, burly man with an enormous waterproof cape
and a waterproof hat stood before her.  Here was
the very person she wanted—the Barrowfield
cab-man.  He touched his hat with a fat forefinger.

"Evenin', miss.  Ascuse me, but are you the
young lady for Chequertrees?" he asked.

When Pamela had informed him that she was,
he told her that he had had instructions from Miss
Crabingway to convey her and her luggage from
the station.

So Pamela got into the welcome cab outside,
and was driven away through the dusk.  She
could not see much through the blurred and
steaming windows, and the little she could make out
appeared to be all hedges and trees.  Presently
she could feel that the cab was going downhill,
then the pace slackened and it seemed to climb a
little, then for a long time (or so it seemed to
Pamela) the cab jogged along on level ground.
The slow pace at which the cab moved along,
the impossibility of seeing anything through the
windows, and her impatience to reach her journey's
end, made it seem a very long mile and a half from
the station.

All at once the cab stopped with a violent jerk.
And here was Chequertrees, at last.  Tom Bagg
clambered down from his seat and held the cab
door open while Pamela got quickly out.  He
smiled genially down at her, and then pulled the
iron bell-chain outside the gate of the house.

While Tom Bagg got her boxes down from the
cab Pamela gazed at the house which was to be her
home for the next six months.  She could not see
very much of the house from the gate—a tall
iron-barred gate set into a high wall topped with ivy.
There was a long and wide gravel path up to the
front door, and Pamela could see that the house
was covered with ivy and had many windows.
The garden struck her as being a lovely place for
hide-and-seek, on account of its thick bushes and
number of big trees.  As she passed through the gate
and made her way along the path, the cabman
following with her luggage, she saw that there was
a light in one of the windows behind a red blind.

She had no time to notice anything else before
the front door was opened by a middle-aged servant
in white cap and apron.

"Oh, I'm Miss Heath—Pamela Heath," said
Pamela, as the maid waited silently.

"Oh, please come in, miss," said the maid.
"Miss Crabingway told us to expect you."

Pamela stepped in, then turned to the cabman,
remembering his fare; but she was told that he
had already been paid by Miss Crabingway, and
was going back to meet the next down train and
fetch another young lady to the house—"What I
was told you was expecting here," he said to the
maid.

"That's right," she replied.  "Two more young
ladies we are expecting to-night."

"Oh, aye.  Two it might be—one for certain.
*I* remember.  Good evenin', miss."  And depositing
Pamela's boxes in the hall the cabman took
his departure.

Pamela then became aware that another white-aproned
servant was standing at the back of the
hall, waiting to receive her; she was quite an
elderly woman with white hair.  Directly Pamela
caught sight of her kind, motherly old face, the
feeling of depression that had been with her ever
since she had got out at Barrowfield station fell
away from her, and she felt at home.  This was
Martha, she learnt, and Ellen it was who had opened
the front door.  In the few minutes' talk Pamela
had with them before being shown upstairs to her
bedroom to take off her outdoor things and have
a wash, she gathered that Miss Crabingway had
departed yesterday morning, and had left word
that all orders were to be taken from Miss Pamela,
"just as if it was Miss Crabingway herself that
was telling us what to do," volunteered Ellen.  It
made Pamela feel awfully young and inefficient
and responsible to hear these two elderly,
experienced housekeepers asking *her* for orders.

"Oh, you'll please go on just as usual, won't
you? ... It's all so strange and new to me—I
do hope you'll help me to do things right.
I'll have to come and talk things over with you
presently," she said.

And though Ellen declared in tones of great
solemnity that anything that she could do to be of
use to Miss Pamela would be done with pleasure,
yet it was the kindly smile in Martha's eyes that
comforted Pamela.  Things would be all right, she
felt, so long as Martha was there.

Pamela felt a great liking for Martha from the
first—she seemed such a sensible, cheerful soul;
and the more Pamela got to know about her
afterward the more she respected and trusted her.
Ellen she was not so sure about, though she grew
to like her later on, in spite of her melancholy
expression and tone of voice.  Pamela was not
long in discovering that Ellen had grown to enjoy
her melancholy as other people enjoy their
happiness.  It was an art in which Ellen certainly
excelled.  She could relate at great length, when in
the mood, all the various strokes of bad fortune that
had fallen on her numerous relatives and acquaintances,
and all the illnesses they had suffered
from, and died of, and her favourite recreation
was wandering round old churchyards and
exclaiming over the early age at which numbers of
people died.

But though Martha and Ellen might be opposite
temperamentally, yet they certainly united in
making Pamela very welcome on her arrival at
Chequertrees, and she found them most kind and
willing and anxious to make her comfortable.
Ellen carried her boxes up to the bedroom, while
Martha bustled about, getting hot water for her
to wash, and pulling down blinds and lighting the
gas.

As soon as Pamela was left alone in her bedroom
she threw off her hat and sat down on a chair and
looked about her, taking stock of her new
surroundings.  Of course she had not had time to
notice much so far, but as she had passed through
the square hall and up the soft-carpeted stairs to
her bedroom, which was on the first floor landing,
she had got an impression of a house well furnished,
but sombre.  There were a great many thick
plush curtains hanging over doors and at windows,
and the walls were crowded with pictures, most
of them having heavy dark frames.  And now,
this room, which Miss Crabingway had said was
to be Pamela's bedroom—well, it was handsomely
furnished and clean, but to Pamela's eyes, used
to her airy, sparsely furnished little room at home
with its fresh white paint, oak furniture, and plain
green linoleum, this room seemed dark and
overcrowded.  The bedroom suite was dark mahogany,
and had as one of its pieces a huge wardrobe with
two glass doors which filled almost the entire length
of one wall; it was evidently intended, originally,
for a much larger room than the one it was in at
present; here it towered over the other furniture
like a bullying giant.  The bedstead, dressing-table,
and washstand, although they were of dark
mahogany, were evidently not of the same set
as the wardrobe.  Pamela observed that the
wallpaper was an all-over floral design in various shades
of green and raised gold roses; the gloomy,
old-fashioned fireplace, with its marble mantelpiece,
on which were arranged a score of old china
ornaments and photo frames, and a massive marble
clock, was the chief feature of the wall opposite
the wardrobe.  The window-curtains, the duchess
set on the dressing-table, and the coverlet on the
bed were the only touches of white to relieve the
general sombreness that prevailed.  Pamela was
sorry to see that there was a thick soft carpet
on the floor—she hated carpets in bedrooms.  As
she wandered round the room she was to occupy
for many a day to come, becoming acquainted with
it from various angles, she sighed; everything
looked solid, expensive, and subdued, but it did
not please her eye at all (though she had to admit
to herself that everything seemed very comfortable
nevertheless).

The clothes you choose, and the furniture you
choose to surround yourself with, are an index of
your character to a stranger.  To Pamela, who
could not remember ever seeing Miss Crabingway,
this room was an introduction.  Of Miss Crabingway's
character she knew nothing, but in her
mind's eye she pictured Miss Crabingway fond
of solid, expensive things, as large and dark, with
rich, black, rustling dresses, and gold brooches,
and a lot of thick gold rings set with large stones
on her fingers.  Her face she could not imagine—except
that it would be massive and well preserved.
Pamela never could imagine people's faces, in her
mind's eye; she could conjure up people's figures
and movements clearly—but the faces were always
dim and misty.  It sometimes worried her that
even her mother's face or Michael's refused to be
clearly recalled when she was away from them.
Of course she knew their features by heart, and
every twist and turn of their heads—but she could
not see their features in her mind's eye.

Having imagined Miss Crabingway, therefore,
as well as she was able, she hastily flung off her
outdoor things, washed her hands and face and
brushed her hair, and prepared to go downstairs.
She was wearing her artistic, dark green frock,
and as she stood a moment with her hand on the
door knob taking a final glance round the room,
she looked as fresh and clear-eyed a specimen of
girlhood as one could wish to see.

She made her way downstairs, and seeing an
open door and a lighted room on the left of the
hall, she entered.  It was, as she had expected,
the dining-room.  Dark, sombre furniture again,
and rich hangings; there was a cheerful fire
burning in the grate, and a white cloth, and cups and
saucers on the table hinted at tea in the near
future.

Pamela had come in silently, her footsteps making
no sound on the thick carpet, and it was not until
she had been standing for a few seconds inside the
doorway that she noticed that there was some one
already in the room—some one who had evidently
not seen, nor heard, Pamela enter.

Crouching by the fire, and almost hidden by a
big arm-chair that stood on the rug, was a girl;
she had her back to the door and did not move as
Pamela stood watching for a moment.  The girl's
thin hands were stretched out to the blaze as if
she were cold, and her head leant against the side
of the chair; she made no sound, but there was
something in her attitude that suggested great
dejection and loneliness.

Pamela was just about to go forward when a
slight sound between a sob and a sigh escaped the
figure, and Pamela paused.  She felt that it would
make the girl embarrassed to think that she had
been watched and overheard.  So Pamela backed
stealthily out of the room (hoping she wouldn't
run into Ellen or Martha), and crept up the stairs
again; she waited a moment on the landing, shut
her bedroom door with a snap, then came running
downstairs, humming and patting the banisters
with her hand as she came—so as to give warning
of her approach.

She entered the dining-room.  The girl was
sitting in the arm-chair now, and stood up nervously
as Pamela came in.  She was a pale, thin girl,
with large dark eyes and black hair, and her
movements were nervous and jerky.  She wore a
dark-coloured skirt and a white silk blouse with
short sleeves to the elbow, which made her look
very cold, and emphasized the thinness of her arms.

The two girls gazed at each other for a second,
then Pamela gave a friendly smile.

"As there's no one here to introduce us, we'll
introduce ourselves, shall we?  I'm Pamela Heath,"
she said.

"I'm Beryl Cranswick," said the girl, smiling shyly.

Pamela held out her hand, and they shook hands.

"I'm so glad to meet you," said Pamela.  "I
suppose we are the first two to arrive."

"I suppose so," said Beryl, which did not help
matters forward at all.

"What time did you arrive?" asked Pamela.
"I came by the four o'clock train from Marylebone."

"I arrived here this afternoon about three,"
Beryl informed her.

"Oh, you've been here a long time then—it's
just gone six now.  I didn't know you were here
when I came—they didn't mention it to me....
But have you had any tea yet?"

Beryl shook her head.

"Why—why ever not?" said Pamela, in surprise,
ringing the bell by the fireplace.  "We'll
have some at once, shall we?"

"They did ask me if I'd have some—but I said
I'd wait.  I—I didn't like to—to bother
them—till you came," stammered Beryl.

"Why, you must have been awfully cold and
hungry after that long railway journey; you
*should* have had a cup of tea and something—I'm
sure it wouldn't have been a bit of trouble to them,"
said Pamela, seizing the poker and stirring up the
fire.  "Sit down and have a good warm—you
look quite cold still.  We'll soon have this fire
... there! that's better."

Ellen appeared at this moment, in answer to
the bell.

"Oh, could we have some tea, please?" said
Pamela.  "What time are the other arrivals
expected, can you tell me?"

"I don't know, miss," replied Ellen.  "At
least, not for certain—sometime to-day, that's
all Miss Crabingway told us.  The last down train
gets in at Barrowfield at midnight."

"Oh, I see.  Well, it's no good waiting for them,
I suppose—we'd better have tea now in case they
don't arrive till midnight," said Pamela.

"Very well, miss.  I'll bring it in at once," and
Ellen departed.

It was rather a queer experience for Pamela,
playing hostess in this strange house to strange
people, but her frank, easy manners helped her
considerably.

Beryl, in Pamela's position, would have suffered
agonies of indecision and nervousness, and she
felt thankful she was not in Pamela's shoes, though
she certainly envied the unself-conscious ease with
which Pamela managed things.  They were really
quite small, insignificant things, but to Beryl,
very self-conscious and timid, they would have
caused much dismay.  Beryl was passing through
a stage of acute self-consciousness, not due to vanity
in the slightest, but to nerves.  Even to eat in
public was a misery to her; although she was aware
that she was scrupulously particular in the way
she drank or ate her food, yet she hated having
to have meals with other people; she always felt
that they were watching her—criticizing her.

And so, when she and Pamela had tea together
for the first time, she hardly ate or drank anything.
Unfortunately, by accident, she got a plum jam
stone in her mouth and did not like to remove
it, suffering much discomfort in consequence until
Pamela's attention being distracted to the window
blind behind her for a moment, Beryl quickly
conveyed the stone to her plate again, and finished
her tea in peace.  Pamela, who was as fastidious
as anyone in her table manners, was yet quite easy,
and appeared to enjoy a huge tea with comfort
and daintiness combined.  Beryl certainly did envy
her that evening.  She wondered what Pamela
would have done if she had got a plum stone in her
mouth—and rather wished this could happen so
that she might see how easily Pamela would act.
But Beryl's luck was out; no such opportunity
occurred.

Over tea Pamela gave Beryl a long account of
her home and people, and then began making
inquiries about Beryl's home.  But Beryl was
strangely reticent, and only stated a few bald facts.
She was an orphan, she said; no brothers—no
sisters—and her father and mother had been dead
many years; her aunt, with whom she lived, had
her home just outside London—at Enfield.  Beryl
said she had never been to boarding-school;
no, she didn't go out much—didn't know many
people—they lived very quietly—and so on.  From
Beryl's manner Pamela gathered that she did not
wish to discuss her home or aunt, so the matter
was dropped, and Pamela suggested that when
tea was over they should ask Martha or Ellen to
show them over the house, so that they would
know their way about.

Both Martha and Ellen professed themselves
delighted to show them over the house, and so
both of them accompanied the two girls on a
tour of inspection.  Martha, who liked to do
things thoroughly while she was about it, insisted
on them seeing every room and cupboard from
top to bottom of the house, with the exception,
of course, of the locked-up room at the end of the
first floor landing.

On this landing there were five rooms: the
locked-up room ran right across the front of
the house, the locked door being opposite the
stair-head; on either side of the landing were two
rooms—all four to be used as bedrooms for the
girls, each having a separate room to herself.
The rooms allotted to Pamela and Isobel Prior were
on the left, Isobel's adjoining the locked room;
Beryl's room was opposite to Pamela's, and her
next-door neighbour was to be Caroline Weston.

Another flight of stairs, starting near by Beryl's
door, led up to Martha's and Ellen's rooms, the
bath-room and airing cupboards, and another spare
bedroom.

The ground floor included the dining-room (which
we have already seen) and, on the opposite side of
the hall, a large drawing-room with French windows
that led into the garden.  Next door to the
dining-room, and at the back of the house, was a queer
little room with books all round the walls, a huge
writing-desk (much too large for the rest of the
furniture), half a dozen odd chairs, an old spinning-wheel,
and a glass cabinet full of curiosities.  This
was called the 'study,' Martha said, where Miss
Crabingway read or attended to her correspondence;
but, in spite of the books, it looked more like an
interesting museum of odds and ends.  A spacious
kitchen and scullery with a big larder, and a cosy
little sitting-room, leading out of the kitchen, and
set apart for the use of Martha and Ellen,
completed the ground floor.

There seemed to be a good many windows in
each room, so it ought to be a light house in
the daytime, Pamela thought; otherwise her first
impression of sombre richness was strengthened
after seeing over the rest of the house.  The
furniture and fittings were all good and heavy-looking;
the walls were everywhere crowded with pictures—some
originals, some copies of well-known pictures,
and some photographic picture studies of people
and places.  There were carpets and dark furniture
in every room.  And what struck Pamela as being
very strange was that each room in the house had
at least one odd-sized piece of furniture in
it—either much too large or much too small to be in
keeping with the rest of the room; and this
particular piece, in each case, seemed to occupy a
very prominent position, so that one couldn't help
noticing it.  It reminded Pamela of the doll's
house belonging to Olive at home, where the doll's
kettle and saucepan were the same size as the
chairs, and too big to stand on the doll's kitchen
stove.  She wondered how Miss Crabingway had
come to possess these odd bits of furniture, and
was just looking at the extraordinarily small
piano-stool set before the huge grand piano in the
drawing-room, when a sudden ring at the bell announced a
fresh arrival, and Martha hurried out of the room
to open the front door.





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.. _`THE ROOM WITH THE LOCKED DOOR`:

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   CHAPTER IV


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE ROOM WITH THE LOCKED DOOR

.. vspace:: 2

Isobel Prior and Caroline Weston had arrived
together, having travelled in the same railway
carriage, each ignorant of the fact that the
other was bound for Chequertrees, until the waiting
cab at the station had made this known to them.

"I'm simply *dead*," were the first words Pamela
heard as she came out of the drawing-room to greet
the new-comer.  The speaker was a well-dressed,
fluffy-haired girl with an aristocratic voice and
bearing, who was standing in the hall amid a pile
of luggage.

"Why, that sounds a cheerful beginning!  Who
is it that's dead?" asked Pamela laughingly, as
she came forward.

The girl stared rather haughtily at Pamela for
a second, then smiled and shook hands.

"Oh, I suppose you are Miss Heath," she said.
"I am Miss Prior.  I've had a perfectly impossible
journey here to-day, and I'm simply fagged out
and perishingly cold."

"We must get you something hot to drink,"
said Pamela, "and you must have a good rest.
Would you like to come straight into the dining-room
and have a warm—there's a lovely fire
there—or would you rather go up to your bedroom
first?"

"Oh, *please*—a wash and tidy up first," said
Isobel.  "I must look such a fright——"

And then Pamela noticed that another girl was
standing beside Martha, just inside the front door.
A big plush curtain in the hall almost hid her from
view.

"I'm awfully sorry—I didn't see anyone else
had arrived," said Pamela.  "Are you—are you
Miss Caroline Weston?"

The girl gazed stolidly at Pamela—a heavily-made
girl, plumpish, and wearing spectacles; she
carried a very neat handbag in one hand and a
very neatly rolled umbrella in the other hand.

"Y-e-s," she said, in a slow, drawling voice.

Pamela shook her warmly by the hand, and then
offered to take the two girls upstairs and show them
their rooms.  As they passed the drawing-room
door Pamela caught sight of Beryl, who was waiting
shyly in the background, and she immediately
introduced her to the others.

"Beryl and I have just been shown over the
house," Pamela explained.  "We only arrived
to-day, of course—a few hours ago—I expect you're
too tired to want to bother to see all round
to-night, and if you are you must go over it in the
morning.  Then we shall all know our way about,
shan't we?  Come along, Beryl, let's take these
poor weary travellers up to their rooms.  And,
Martha, can we have some hot supper—in about
twenty minutes, please?"

Once again the house was astir with the bustle
of welcoming the latest arrivals.  Martha vanished
into the kitchen to prepare something hot and
tasty for supper, while Ellen hurried to and fro
with warm water for washing, and carried boxes
and parcels upstairs, and lit gases, and pulled down
blinds, and generally made herself useful, while
Pamela, followed by Beryl, showed Isobel and
Caroline to their rooms, doing her best as hostess
to make them feel comfortable and at home.

Over supper the four girls became better
acquainted.  Naturally they were all very curious
to know why Miss Crabingway had invited the
four of them to Chequertrees, and they studied
each other with interest, trying to find an answer
to the riddle.  Following Pamela's friendly lead
they talked of themselves, and their homes, and
the journey to Barrowfield.  That is, all of them
talked a good deal with the exception of Beryl,
who still seemed very shy and only spoke when she
was addressed directly.

Pamela was in one of her 'beamy' moods that
night.  She beamed and laughed and talked and
thoroughly enjoyed herself during supper, not a
little excited by all the strange surroundings and
the strange new acquaintances she was making;
perhaps it was her genuine interest in everything
and everybody that made her so jolly a companion—and
so unself-conscious a one.  Anyway, she
liked girls—nearly all girls—and they liked her as
a rule.  Of course she had her dislikes, but on the
whole she got on very well with girls of her own
age.  How was she going to like and get on with
these girls, all about her own age, who were sitting
at supper with her this evening, she asked herself.

She felt vaguely sorry for Beryl, as if she wanted
to protect her, because Beryl seemed so painfully
shy and ill at ease; her clothes were cheap-looking
and unsuitable for the time of year.

Isobel seemed to Pamela to be slightly
disdainful of everything and everybody; she had
a habit of over-emphasizing unimportant words
when she talked, and appeared at times to
exaggerate too much.  Her clothes were well chosen and
evidently of very good material, and well tailored.
Her features, framed by her pretty, fluffy hair,
were clear-cut and refined; she would have been
a pretty girl had it not been for her eyes, which
were deep-set and a trifle too close together.  She
talked a good deal about her 'mater' and 'pater,'
and her brother Gerald and his motor-car.

Caroline, beside Isobel, looked very plain, and
almost dowdy, in spite of the fact that her clothes
were good—the reason being that her clothes did
not suit her at all.  She had no idea how to make
the best of herself; her one great idea was to be
neat at all costs.  Her drab-coloured hair was
brushed back smoothly, in a most trying fashion;
and never by any chance would she have a button
or hook missing from any of her clothing, nor a
hole in her stocking—and this was a credit to her,
because she worked as slowly with her needle as
she did with everything else, though it must be
owned that she was very fond of sewing.  Very
slow, very methodical, very neat—such was
Caroline.  "I believe she even dusts and wraps up in
tissue paper each needle and pin and reel of cotton
after she has finished with it," was Isobel's opinion
after she had known her a week; and although
this may sound like one of Isobel's exaggerated
remarks, yet it was nearer the truth than she
herself dreamt when she said it.

What acquaintance had Miss Crabingway had
with these three girls, Pamela wondered.  And
what had made her choose them—and herself.
They made an oddly assorted quartette.

As they were rising from the supper-table she
asked them whether any of them knew Miss
Crabingway well, and learnt to her surprise that none
of them had more than the slightest acquaintance
with her.  Neither Isobel not Caroline could
remember ever seeing Miss Crabingway, and Beryl
said vaguely that she had seen her once—a long
time ago.  Beryl said she believed that her mother
had been a friend of Miss Crabingway's, many
years back.  Isobel said her mater had met Miss
Crabingway abroad—had happened to stay in the
same hotel—about six years ago.  An uncle of
Caroline's, so she informed them, had once done
some business transactions with Miss Crabingway,
and had corresponded with her since, at intervals.

"Well, I can't make it out at all," thought
Pamela to herself.  "Why Miss Crabingway should
have invited us—four girls—practically strangers
to her—to come and stay at her house while she
is away....  I can't see any reason for it....
Anyway, I suppose we shall know when she returns."

The supper having considerably revived Isobel,
she said she would like to see over the house before
she went to bed; and Caroline, having no objection
ready against this suggestion (except that she
was half asleep in her chair), found herself joining
in this tour of inspection and stolidly taking stock
of the house that was to be her home for the next
six months.

In a whispered aside to Pamela Isobel pronounced
the dining-room wall-paper 'hideous' and
the drawing-room decorations 'perfectly
awful'—both remarks being overhead by Ellen, who
glared at the back of Isobel's head in silent
indignation at this reflection on her mistress's taste.
It was certainly not good manners on Isobel's
part, but she was not over-sensitive about other
people's feelings, and was rarely aware of the fact
when her words or tone of voice had hurt or given
offence.

On the first floor landing Pamela pointed out
the locked door.  The girls knew that they were
forbidden to try to open it, or look through the
keyhole, their instructions being the same as
Pamela's.

.. _`ON THE FIRST FLOOR LANDING PAMELA POINTED OUT THE LOCKED DOOR`:

.. figure:: images/img-046.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: ON THE FIRST FLOOR LANDING PAMELA POINTED OUT THE LOCKED DOOR

   ON THE FIRST FLOOR LANDING PAMELA POINTED OUT THE LOCKED DOOR

"And to think that one little action—just
kneeling down and putting your eye to the
keyhole—would make you lose fifty pounds!" exclaimed
Isobel.  "It's not worth losing all that money
just for curiosity, is it?"

"Rather not," said Pamela.  "I vote that we
all keep away from that door as if the paint on it
were poisonous to touch."

"I'm sorry my room's next to it," Isobel went
on, "but it doesn't really matter—though I like
to keep as far away from temptation as I can ... not
that I *want* to look inside, but—you know the
feeling—just because I know I mustn't——"

"I know the feeling," agreed Pamela.  "But
don't you think it would be wisest not to talk about
it any more, or we shall all be dreaming about it
to-night."

Ellen, who was leading the way up to the top
floor where her own room and Martha's room were
situated, pricked up her ears at this.

"Dreams go by contrary," she said to herself
mechanically, and, apparently, without meaning.
Besides being a mine of information on melancholy
events, Ellen was a great believer in dreams,
possessing as many as ten 'dream books,' which she
consulted frequently on the meaning of her dreams.
Ellen believed also in fortune-telling by
tea-leaves, and lucky stars, and the like.  And many
a time she had made even Martha—who knew her
little ways and generally laughed tolerantly at
her—turn 'goose-flesh' at the terrible fate she would
read out for Martha and herself from the tea-leaves
left in their cups.

"Do you believe it's possible to *dream* what is
inside that room—I mean dream truly—if you
set your mind on it just before going to sleep?"
Isobel asked of Pamela, as she glanced round the
bath-room.

Caroline, who was examining everything in the
bath-room closely and minutely, as was her habit,
raised her head as if to speak, but Pamela, who
had her back turned to her and did not see her
mouth open, replied:

"I don't know.  I'm afraid I'm not an expert
on dreams—I hardly ever dream myself."

"Wouldn't it be fun," suggested Isobel, as they
all made their way downstairs again, "if each of
us tried hard to dream what was inside the
room—and then tell each other what dreams
we had had, in the morning—and when Miss
Crabingway comes back we will see if any of us
are right."

"Oh, I don't know," said Pamela.  "Somehow
I don't think we'd better even try to dream what
is inside the room.  Perhaps it isn't quite fair
to—to—I don't know how to put it—  Anyway, I
think it would be better if we left the subject
entirely alone, don't you?"

Again Caroline opened her mouth and was
about to say something, when Isobel burst in with,

"Oh, but Miss Crabingway didn't say we were
not to *dream* about it, did she? ... That would
be impossible to forbid....  But still, perhaps
it's best not to meddle with the subject.
It's not worth losing fifty pounds over, anyway."

Beryl, although she had accompanied the others
over the house, had not spoken a word since they
left the dining-room, but she had listened to all
that was going on with much interest.  Here was
another girl, Isobel, who seemed quite at home
among strangers in a strange house, thought Beryl;
but she did not envy Isobel; she was vaguely
afraid of her.  Caroline appeared more at her ease
than Beryl had expected her to be; though
Caroline seemed to others slow and awkward, she was
not aware of this herself, and so was not made
uneasy on that score.  Caroline did not know her
own failings, while Beryl was keenly alive to *her*
own—and suffered accordingly.

As the four girls bid each other good-night a
few minutes later, Caroline found the opportunity
she had been waiting for, and mentioned
something that had been fidgeting her since her
arrival.

"Oh—er—do you know if my room has been
well aired?" she asked slowly, reminding Pamela
irresistibly of an owl as she gazed solemnly through
her spectacles.  "I'm rather subject to chills—and
mother told me to be sure and see that my bedroom
had been well aired."

Fortunately Martha was able to assure her on
this point, and Caroline went upstairs apparently
content.  But before she went to sleep she
thoroughly fingered the sheets and pillow-cases to
satisfy herself that Martha was a strictly truthful
person.


When, at length, every one had retired and all
was quiet, a little breeze arose in the garden and
scurried round the house, whispering excitedly
among the ivy leaves.  But though the breeze
ruffled and agitated the cloak of ivy, it had no
power to stir the old house beneath, which stood,
grim and unmoved, brooding in silence over the
strangers within its walls.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`MAKING PLANS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V


.. class:: center medium bold

   MAKING PLANS

.. vspace:: 2

In the morning, as soon as breakfast was over,
Pamela held an informal 'council meeting'
in the drawing-room.

"I thought we'd better just talk over some sort
of plan for organizing things, so that we shall all
be as comfortable as possible," she said, leaning
her elbow on the small round table before her and
resting her chin in the palm of her hand.  "You
see, it isn't as if there was a real hostess here—you
know what I mean—it isn't as if we could drop
into the ordinary life of the household.  Here we
are—four strangers yesterday, four acquaintances
to-day—and we've got to live and work and play
together for the next six months.  Now what are
the best arrangements to make, so that we'll all
have a good time?  It's left entirely in our hands.
Anybody got any suggestions?"  She looked
smilingly round at the other three girls.

Isobel was the only one who answered.

"Of course we didn't know *what* we should be
expected to do when we came here," she said.
"It was all such an *awful* hurry and scramble—there
was no time to think of anything."

"I know," agreed Pamela.  "But now we are
here, we'd better have some sort of plan, don't
you think—so as to leave each other as free as
possible—I do hate tying people down to time
and—and things—but we'll have to have some sort
of arrangements about meals, for instance, or else
we'll keep Martha and Ellen busy all day long.
Luckily, we've got hardly any housekeeping
difficulties.  I had a talk with Martha and Ellen this
morning, before breakfast, and they're going on
with their work just as usual.  Martha does all the
cooking and washing, and Ellen does the general
work.  But I expect four girls in the house will
make a good bit of difference!  So I propose that
we each make our own bed and tidy our own room
every morning—and Ellen will clean the rooms out
once a week.  It won't take each of us long of a
morning.  What do you say?"

Beryl agreed at once; and Isobel, though she
said she wasn't *used* to doing housework, promised
to do her best; Caroline was understood to say
she preferred making her own bed because other
people never made a bed to her satisfaction.

Having settled this little point, Pamela went on:

"As regards shopping—Martha says she always
sees about getting in provisions, but she would like
us to say what we'd like for breakfasts, and dinners,
and so on.  She says Miss Emily Crabingway left
a sum of money with her for purchasing enough
food for the next three months; after that time
has elapsed, Mr Joseph Sigglesthorne is to send on
a further sum—enough for the final three months.
You see that's all arranged for us; but we've got
to choose the meals, and I thought it would be a
good plan if we took it in turns, each week—first
one, then the other—to draw up a list of meals for
the week.  Write it all out, and take it in to
Martha.  What do you think?  Martha likes the idea."

"I'm quite willing, but I don't believe I could
think of enough variety for a week straight off,"
said Beryl.

"Oh, yes, you could," said Pamela, "with the
help of Mrs Beeton's Cookery Book—there are no
end of hints in there.  Martha has a copy of the
book on a shelf in the kitchen; she'll lend it to us.
She says it's very useful, but rather too extravagant
for her liking, with its 'break eight eggs and beat
them well,' and 'take ten eggs' and 'take six eggs'
and so on.  Martha says she always looks up a
recipe in Mrs Beeton's, and then makes it her own
way (which is always quite different)."

"As long as you don't choose boiled haddock
every morning," said Isobel, "and don't give us
lamb chops and mashed potatoes every dinner-time—with
rice pudding to follow—I'm sure we'll none
of us try to assassinate you on the quiet."

"I don't mind taking my turn at choosing the
meals," said Caroline, thinking tenderly of suet
roly-poly.

"And I'll do what I can," remarked Isobel, more
in her element when choosing work for others to
perform than in doing work herself.  She had
momentary visions of how she would astonish the
others by the magnificence of her menus; none of
the 'homely' dishes for Isobel; with the aid of
Mrs Beeton, who knows what might not be accomplished
in the way of exclusive and awe-inspiring
dishes.  "But *you* choose the first week's meals,
*do*," she begged Pamela.

As this suggestion was proposed, seconded, and
carried unanimously by the others, Pamela agreed,
and so the matter was settled.

"Having now disposed of our housekeeping
duties," Pamela laughed, "now what are we going
to do with the rest of our time?  Had any of you
any idea of keeping up studies, or attending classes,
or anything of that sort?  You see we are left
idle—to act entirely on our own initiative—without
any suggestions or arrangements whatever on Miss
Crabingway's part.  And I know that, speaking
for myself, I don't want to idle away the next six
months."

"*I* shouldn't mind being idle," observed Isobel.
"In fact mater said the six months' rest would do
me no harm.  I was just going back to college,
you know, when we heard from Miss Crabingway—and
of course all my plans were upset—but I
didn't mind so much with the prospect of a lovely,
lazy holiday at Barrowfield.  But still, if you are
all going to take up some sort of work, I suppose
I must, as well....  I should be bored to death
with my own company—if you are all going to work."

"I only suggest a few hours' work each day,"
reminded Pamela.  "It makes the day seem so
much more satisfactory when one has *done* something."

The question of what to study, and how to study,
gave much food for discussion; but the subject
was prevented from taking too serious a turn by
Isobel's constant stream of facetious remarks on
the kind of work she would take up.  She seemed
to think it a huge joke; though Caroline, who was
apt to take things literally, was much perturbed at
the numerous studies Isobel proposed, until she
realized that Isobel was only making fun all the time.

"I should prefer to keep up my music," said
Beryl, presently.  "And study hard at theory,
harmony, and counterpoint—and if it wouldn't
annoy anyone—perhaps I could practise on the
piano here.  I—I should love that."

"Of course it wouldn't annoy anyone, would it?"
Pamela appealed to the other two, who said that it
certainly wouldn't annoy them.

"It isn't as if it were the five-finger
exercise—thump—thump—thump," added Caroline
cautiously.

"Well, we should *hope* you'd got beyond that,"
said Isobel to Beryl, who flushed nervously.

"Oh, yes," she hastened to assure them.

"There are worse things than the five-finger
exercise," broke in Pamela.  "I have a sister at
home who knows *one* piece, and whenever she gets
near the piano she sits down and plays it—thumps
it, I should say—because she 'knows we love it,'
she says.  We always howl at her, on principle,
and the nearest of us swoops down on her, and
bears her, protesting, out of the room."

The others laughed with Pamela at this recollection
of hers, and attention was distracted from Beryl,
much to her relief.

"Well," said Pamela, "for myself—I am going
to do a heap of reading—especially historical books;
and I want most of all to continue my sketching.
I'm very fond of dabbling in black and white
sketching—and I want lots of practice.  I've brought
with me some books about it—to study."

"Oh, you *energetic* people," yawned Isobel.  "It
makes me tired to think of the work you're going
to do."

"What are you going to do?" Pamela asked,
turning to Caroline.

"Well," drawled Caroline, "I like doing needlework
better than anything."

Isobel put her handkerchief to her mouth to hide
a smile.  Fortunately Caroline was not looking
at her, but Beryl was.  Caroline went on undisturbed.

"I'm not fond of reading or books, but I've
been thinking—if there were any classes near by,
on dressmaking—cutting out and all that, you
know—that I could attend, I wouldn't mind that;
but anyway I've got plenty of plain needlework to
go on with.  I brought a dozen handkerchiefs in
my box to hem and embroider—and I've got a
tray-cloth to hem-stitch."

"Mind you don't overtax your brain, my dear,"
muttered Isobel, giggling into her handkerchief.

"Eh?" asked Caroline, not catching her remark.

"Nothing," said Isobel.  "I was only wondering
what work I could do."

"I daresay you'll be able to find some dress-making
classes, Caroline," said Pamela.  "We'll go
out and buy a local paper and see what's going on.
But, Isobel, what are *you* going to do?" Pamela
asked, looking across at Isobel.

"Ah me!" sighed Isobel.  "Well, if I must decide,
I'll decide on dancing.  I'm frightfully keen on
dancing, you know.  I'll attend classes for that if
you like—that is, if there are such things as dancing
classes in this sleepy little place....  I might do
a bit of photography too.  I didn't bring my
camera—but perhaps I can buy a new one—it's great fun
taking snapshots."

"If there are no classes in Barrowfield there is
almost sure to be a town within a few miles, where
we can get what we want," Pamela said.

Matters now being settled as far as was possible
at the present moment, Pamela said she was going
out to look round the village, and Isobel
immediately said she would go with her as she wanted to
buy some buttons for her gloves.  Beryl would
have liked to go with Pamela, but felt sensitive
about visiting the village for the first time in Isobel's
company—for more than one reason; so she said
she would go and unpack her box and get her music
books out, and look round the village later on.
Caroline also elected to stay and unpack and put
her room in order.  So Pamela and Isobel started
off together.

They had been gone but five minutes when the
post arrived with a registered letter addressed to
Pamela.

"Ah," said Martha knowingly, as she laid the
letter in the tray on the hall-stand.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`MILLICENT JACKSON GIVES SOME INFORMATION`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VI


.. class:: center medium bold

   MILLICENT JACKSON GIVES SOME INFORMATION

.. vspace:: 2

"What a one-eyed sort of place this is,"
said Isobel inelegantly, as she came
out of the village drapery establishment
and joined Pamela, who was waiting on the green
outside.

"I was just thinking how charming the little
village looks," said Pamela, "clustering round this
wide stretch of green with the pond and the ducks.
And look at the lanes and hills and woods rising in
the background!  It *is* picturesque."

"Oh, it may be frightfully picturesque and all
that," Isobel replied, "but picturesqueness won't
provide one with black pearl buttons to sew on
one's gloves.  Would you believe it—not one of
these *impossible* shops keeps such things.  'Black
pearl buttons, miss.  I'm sorry we haven't any in
stock.  Black *bone*—would black bone do—or a
fancy button, miss?'"  Isobel mimicked the voice
of the 'creature' (as she called her) who served
in the tiny draper's shop.

"Well, I suppose they're not often asked for
black pearl," said Pamela, as they moved on.
"And wouldn't black bone do?"

"Black *bone*!" said Isobel disdainfully.

"Well, you can't expect to find Oxford Street
shops down here in Barrowfield," smiled Pamela.
"And it's jolly lucky there aren't such shops, or
Barrowfield would be a *town* to-morrow.  Still, is
there anywhere else you'd like to try?"

"No, I shan't bother any more to-day," Isobel
sighed.  "I did want them—but I'll wear my
other gloves till I can get the buttons to match the
two I've lost....  How people do *stare* at one
here.  Look at that old woman over there—And,
oh, do look at the butcher standing on his step
*glaring* at us!  He looks as if his eyes might go
off 'pop' at any moment, doesn't he?"

Although Isobel pretended to be annoyed, she
really rather enjoyed the attention she and Pamela
were attracting.  Naturally the village was curious
about these strange young ladies who had come to
stay at Miss Crabingway's house.  Thomas Bagg
had given his version of the arrivals last night as
he chatted with the landlord of the 'Blue Boar,'
and had professed to know more about the matter
than he actually did.  In acting thus he was not
alone, for most of the village pretended to know
something of the reason why Miss Emily Crabingway
had suddenly gone away, and why her house
was occupied by four strange young ladies.  In
reality nobody knew much about it at all.  It speaks
well for Martha and Ellen that they were not
persuaded to tell more than they did; maybe they
didn't know more; maybe they *did*, but wouldn't
say.  The village gossips shook their heads at the
closeness of these two trusted servants concerning
their mistress's affairs....  And so Pamela and
Isobel attracted more than the usual attention
bestowed on strangers in Barrowfield—the bolder
folk (like the butcher) staring unabashed from their
front doors, while the more retiring peeped through
their curtains.

Barrowfield itself was certainly very picturesque;
no wonder it appealed to Pamela's artistic eye.
Surrounded by tree-clad hills, the village lay jumbled
about the wide green—in the centre of which was
a pond with ducks on it; white-washed cottages,
old houses, quaint little shops, and inns with
thatched roofs, stood side by side in an irregular
circle.  Seen from one of the neighbouring hills
you might have fancied that Barrowfield was
having a game of Ring-o'-Roses around the green,
while the little odd cottages dotted here and there
on the hill-sides looked longingly on, like children
who have not been invited to play but who might
at any moment run down the slopes and join in.
The square-towered church and the Manor House,
both on a hill outside the magic ring, stood watching
like dignified grown-up people.

Chequertrees was one of the biggest houses
in the circle around the green, and a few dozen
yards beyond its gate a steep tree-lined avenue
led up to the big house of the neighbourhood—the
Manor House, where lived the owners of most of
the land and property in Barrowfield.  The Manor
House was about a quarter of a mile beyond the
village, and stood half-way up the avenue, at the
top of which was the square-towered church.  Close
beside the church, but so hidden among trees as to
be invisible until you were near at hand, was the
snug vicarage.

The railway station at which the girls had arrived
on the previous evening was a mile and a half away
on a road that led out from the opposite end of
the green to where Chequertrees stood.  Several
lanes climbed up from the green and wound over
the hills to towns and villages beyond—the nearest
market town being four miles distant if you went
by the lane, six miles if you followed the main road
that ran past the station.

Of course Pamela and Isobel would not have
known all this on their first short walk round
Barrowfield had they not fallen into conversation with the
girl who served in the newsagent's, and who was only
too ready to impart information to them when they
went in to buy a local newspaper.  She was a
large-boned girl with a lot of big teeth, that showed
conspicuously when she talked; she eyed curiously,
and not without envy, the well-cut clothes and
'stylish' hats that the two girls were wearing.

Pamela noticed that the girl wore a brooch made
of gold-wire twisted into the name 'Millicent,' and
as 'Jackson' was the name painted over the shop
outside, she tacked it on, in her own mind, as
Millicent's surname.

It being still early in the day Millicent Jackson's
toilet was not properly finished—that is to say, she
did not appear as she would later on about tea-time,
with her hair frizzed up and wearing her brown
serge skirt and afternoon blouse.  Her morning
attire was a very unsatisfactory affair.  Millicent
wore all her half-soiled blouses in the mornings,
and her hair was straight and untidily pinned up;
she had a black apron over her skirt, and her hands,
which were not pretty at the best of times, looked
big and red, and they were streaked with blacking
as if she had recently been cleaning a stove.  Poor
Millicent, she found it impossible to do the
housework and appear trim and tidy in the shop at the
same time.  She discovered herself suddenly wishing
that the young ladies had postponed their visit
till the afternoon, when she would have been dressed.
But there were compensations even for being 'caught
untidy'; for could she not see that young Agnes
Jones across the way peering out of her shop door,
overcome with curiosity, and would she not dash
across to Millicent as soon as the young ladies had
departed, to know all about the interview!  So it
was with mixed feelings that Millicent kept the
young ladies talking as long as she could.

"Yes, it's a vurry ole church, and vurry interestin',"
said Millicent for the third time.  "But uv
course you ain't been in these parts long enough,
miss, for you to 'ave seen everything yet, 'ave you,
miss?"

"No, we only arrived last night," said Pamela
in a friendly way.

"You don't say!" exclaimed Millicent in great
astonishment; although Thomas Bagg had been
in the shop a few hours back and told her all about
their arrival.  "Oh, well, uv course, miss—!"
she broke off and waited expectantly.

But Pamela's next remark was disappointing.

"I think it's an awfully interesting-looking village
altogether," she said.  "Whereabouts is the ruined
mill you mentioned just now?  Very far from the
village?  I wonder if we have time to go and see
it this morning."

"It's a goodish way," said Millicent reluctantly.
"Well, about two mile over that way," she pointed
toward the back of the shop.  "Along the lane
that goes through the fields....  I expect you'd
find it vurry muddy in the lane after all the rain
we've been 'aving."

"Oh, I don't mind that," said Pamela, but Isobel
wrinkled up her nose and looked down at her dainty
shoes.  "But have we time before lunch—um—no,
it's half-past twelve now—what a shame! ... Never
mind!  I must go along to-morrow if I can.
I feel I don't want to use up all the country too
quickly—it's so nice exploring."  She smiled at
Millicent, and gathered up the papers she had
bought.

"Oh, by the way, who lives at the Manor House?"
asked Isobel, addressing Millicent, directly, for the
first time; her voice was slightly condescending—it
was the voice she always adopted unconsciously when
addressing those she considered her 'inferiors';
she did not mean to be unkind—she had been
taught, by those who should have known better,
to talk like that to servants and tradespeople.
But Pamela, whose upbringing had been very
different, frowned as she heard the tones; they
jarred on her.

However, Millicent did not seem to notice anything
amiss.

"Sir Henry and Lady Prior, miss," answered Millicent.

Isobel raised her eyebrows and gave a short
laugh.  "Prior!  That's strange!  I wonder if
they're any relation to me," she said to Pamela.
"I must try to find out."  She turned to Millicent
again.  "Sir *Henry* Prior, you said?"

"Yes, miss," said Millicent, looking at Isobel
with fresh interest.  (Here was a choice tit-bit to
tell Aggie Jones.)

"H'm," said Isobel.  "Yes—I know pater had
a cousin Henry—I shouldn't be at *all* surprised—Wouldn't
it be delightful, Pamela, if it turns out
to be this cousin——"

She broke off, feeling that until she was sure it
would be wiser not to talk too much before Millicent,
who was listening, with wide eyes and open mouth.
To say just so much, and no more, was agreeably
pleasant to Isobel, and made her feel as though, to
the rest of the world, she was now enveloped in an
air of romantic mystery.  As far as Millicent
represented the world, this was true.  Millicent at once
scented romance and mystery—for surely to be
related to a titled person, and not to know it, is
mysteriously romantic!  She looked at Isobel with
greater respect....  Pamela's voice brought her
suddenly back to the everyday world again—the
shop, the papers, and the fact that she was untidy
and not dressed; she noticed with sudden distaste the
blacking on her hands and hid them under her apron.

"Who lives in that pretty little white cottage
opposite to Chequertrees?" Pamela was asking.
"I'm sure it must be some one artistic—it's all so
pleasing to the eye—it took my fancy this morning
as I came out."

"The little white cottage—" began Millicent.

"With the brown shutters," finished Pamela.

"Oh, yes, I know the one you mean, miss," said
Millicent.  "Mrs Gresham lives there, miss.  I don't
know that she's an artist—she lets apartments in
the summer—and has teas in the garden, miss.
Does vurry nicely in the season with visitors, but
she's terrible took up with rheumatics in the winter—has
it something chronic, she does.  But she's a
nice, respectable person—always has her daily paper
reg'lar from us."

"Her garden must look lovely in the summer,"
remarked Pamela.  "There are some fine old Scotch
fir trees in it, I noticed."  She had already taken
note of these particular trees by the cottage, for
sketching later on; they were the only Scotch firs
that she had seen in Barrowfield so far.

As she and Isobel walked across the green on
their way back to Chequertrees the picturesque
blacksmith's forge claimed her attention, and she
stopped to admire it.  As she did so a woman came
down the lane beside the forge, and passing in front
of the two girls walked quickly over the green.
Pamela's attention was immediately attracted to
her, firstly because she was carrying an easel (also
a basket, and a bag, evidently containing a flat
box); secondly, because she was dressed very
quaintly in a grey cloak and a small grey hat of
original design; thirdly, because she went into the
garden gate of the little white cottage opposite
Chequertrees; and lastly, because, as the woman
turned to latch the gate after her, Pamela caught
sight of her face.

"Who *does* she remind me of?" said Pamela.
"I'm sure I've seen some one like her——"

But Isobel was not listening to Pamela.

"If Sir Henry Prior is related to us, mater will
be frightfully interested to hear what——"

But Pamela was not listening to Isobel.

"Oh, p'r'aps she doesn't live there then—I
wonder," said Pamela, as the woman in grey,
after handing the basket in at the front door of
the cottage and speaking a few words to somebody
inside, who was invisible to Pamela, came quickly
out of the gate again and hurried away down the
village, the easel under one arm and the bag under
the other.

"Who *does* she remind me of?" puzzled Pamela,
as she and Isobel turned in at the gate of Chequertrees.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`BERYL GOES THROUGH AN ORDEAL`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VII


.. class:: center medium bold

   BERYL GOES THROUGH AN ORDEAL

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When Pamela opened the registered
envelope that was waiting for her she
found inside twelve pounds in postal
orders, and a short note from Mr Joseph
Sigglesthorne informing her that Miss Crabingway had
desired him to send this pocket-money for her to
share between 'the three other young ladies' and
herself.  That was three pounds each—the
pocket-money for the next three months.  To those girls
who already had some pocket-money in their purses
this little addition came as a pleasant, though not
unduly exciting, surprise; to those who had little
or no money of their own the three pounds was very
welcome indeed.

Pamela shared out the money, wrote a note of
acknowledgment to Mr Sigglesthorne, and then
retired into the 'study,' after dinner was over,
with a copy of Mrs Beeton, a paper and pencil, and
a business-like frown on her face.

"Nobody must disturb me for half an hour,"
she said, in mock solemnity, "for I am going to
do most important work—make out a week's list
of *meals*."

Caroline was not likely to disturb anyone, as she
had betaken herself upstairs to her bedroom again
to continue arranging her belongings.  The morning
had not been long enough for her to finish unpacking
properly, she said.

Beryl, who besides being quicker than Caroline
had also less to unpack, had finished her room long
ago; so this afternoon she wandered into the
drawing-room, and closing the door after her
carefully, crossed over to the piano.

The drawing-room with its long French windows
leading into the garden was about the pleasantest
room in the house.  It was lighter than most of the
other rooms, and there were fewer hangings about,
which was a good thing for the piano, Beryl thought.
"I wonder if it would disturb anyone if I played,"
she said to herself, opening the piano and stroking
the keys with her fingers.  The house seemed
suddenly so quiet—she hardly liked to break the
silence; she feared somebody coming in to see
who was playing, for Beryl was nervous at playing
before others, although she loved music and could
play very well.  She would have to make a beginning
*some time*, she told herself, if she really meant
to practise—so why not now?  But still she
hesitated, her fingers outstretched on the keys.

She could hear faintly, the sound being muffled
behind closed doors, the clatter of dishes in the
kitchen—Martha and Ellen washing up.  Pamela
was in the study, she knew, and Caroline was
upstairs; but where was Isobel?  Beryl wished
she knew where Isobel was.  She had a dread of
Isobel coming in to disturb her, and she would be
sure to come, out of curiosity, if she heard the
piano....  Beryl felt suddenly annoyed with
herself.  Why should she care who came in—if
she really *meant* to practise——

Beryl began to play—softly at first; but as she
became gradually absorbed in the music, her touch
grew firmer and the notes rang out clearly, and she
forgot all about anyone hearing—forgot everything
but the music.  The only time Beryl quite lost
her self-consciousness was when she was playing
or listening to music.

She played on, happily absorbed, when suddenly
her former fears were realized; the door handle
clicked and some one put her head round the door.

"Oh, it's you, is it?" said Isobel's voice; and
Isobel pushed the door open and came in.

Beryl stopped playing, and swung round on the stool.

"This room's not so bad when one gets used to
it," said Isobel, walking across to the French window
and pushing the curtains back; she stood looking
out into the garden.  "Anyway, it's better than
that perfectly hideous dining-room.  What awful
taste Miss Crabingway must have!  I really don't
know whether I shall be able to endure it for six
whole months."  She threw herself on the couch
beside the window and yawned.

Isobel felt rather bored this afternoon.  Caroline
was still unpacking—besides, who wanted to talk
to Caroline?—Pamela was still busy, and waved
threateningly to anyone who looked into the study,
keeping her eyes fixed on Mrs Beeton.  There was
no one but Beryl to talk to.  Isobel was rather
curious about Beryl, because she seemed so
unwilling to talk about herself and her home.

"I suppose you learnt music at college?" Isobel
observed, studying Beryl's slight, stooping figure,
as she sat with her back to the piano, her pale face
gazing rather anxiously at her questioner.

"No—oh, no," said Beryl.

"Did you have a music master—or mistress—at
home, then?"

"No," said Beryl.  "Mother taught me a
little—and I—and I picked up the rest for myself."

Isobel raised her eyebrows.

"We had a frightfully handsome music-master
at our college at Rugford," said Isobel.  "Most of
the girls raved over him—but I'm not so keen on
Roman noses myself....  What college are you at?"

"Oh ... Just a school—near where we live—at
Enfield," replied Beryl; and Isobel saw to
her surprise that Beryl was blushing.

"You've never been away from home then—to
boarding-school?" Isobel suggested.

Beryl shook her head.

"Oh, it's great sport," said Isobel.  "But you
want plenty of spare cash to stand midnight feasts
to the other girls, and have a bit of fun.  Pater and
Gerald used to come down in the car and fetch
me home for week-ends sometimes, by special
permission; and sometimes one or two of the girls
would be invited to come with me.  The girls were
awfully keen on getting invitations to our place;
they used to 'chum-up' to me, and really almost
beg for invitations.  And you should have heard
them simply rave about Gerald....  There was
one girl, I remember, who practically implored me
to ask her home for the holidays—but she wasn't
a lady—I don't know how she managed to get into
the college—the Head was awfully particular as a
rule.  This girl was only there one term, though,
and then the Head wrote and told her people that
she could not continue at the college—  Well, what
do you think they found out about her? ... She
was a *Council* school girl!  And her parents said
she had been educated 'privately' at home!  I
suppose her father had scraped up a little money
and wanted her to finish off at our college—to get
a sort of polish.  But we weren't having any—  Good
gracious!  What a colour you've got!" she
broke off, and gazed at Beryl, whose cheeks were
scarlet.

"It's—I'm rather hot," said Beryl.  "What are
'midnight feasts'?" she asked hurriedly.

"Oh, they're picnics we have in the dormitories
after all the lights are out and we're supposed to
be in bed," Isobel explained, still eyeing Beryl
curiously.  "We choose a moonlight night, or
else smuggle in a couple of night-lights with the
cake, and fruit, and chocolates.  It's frightfully
exciting—because at any moment we may get caught."

"What happens if you are?" inquired Beryl.

"Well—we never were—not while I was there....
I wonder if I shall go back for a term or two
when my visit here is ended?" Isobel mused.

"Will you be going back again to your school after
you leave here?"

"No, I don't think so," said Beryl, who was now
quite pale again.

"Did you get up to any larks?  Were there any
boarders at your school?" Isobel persisted.

"No," Beryl answered.  "It was only a day
school.  We didn't have any special larks."

"Didn't you like the school?"

"Not very much.  It was all right."

"Why?  Weren't the girls nice?"

"Oh, they were nice enough," said Beryl.  "It
was a nice school.  But nothing specially exciting
ever happened.  Just work."

"Um ... I shouldn't have liked that," said
Isobel.  "By the way, your father and mother are
dead, aren't they?"

Beryl nodded.

"Many years ago?" asked Isobel.

"Ever so many years, it seems to me," Beryl
replied very quietly.

"Was your father a musician?" Isobel went on.

"No," answered Beryl.  "Why?"

"Oh, no reason.  I only wondered.  What was
his profession, then?"

Beryl gazed at her in silence, and Isobel thought
perhaps she did not understand.

"His work, I mean.  What did he do for a living?
Or had he independent means?"

"He—I don't know what he did—he went to
the City every day," Beryl ended lamely; her face
was ghastly white.  "It's so long ago—I can't
remember—I was only very young when he died."

This seemed to satisfy Isobel for a time, and she
began talking of her brother Gerald and his taste
in hosiery, until presently she began to inquire
about the aunt with whom Beryl said she lived at
Enfield.  But on this subject Beryl was decidedly
reticent, and answered vaguely, and as often as
possible in monosyllables, so that Isobel could gain
little or nothing from her questionings.  All she
gleaned was that Beryl's 'Aunt Laura' lived at
Enfield, and that she was a widow, with one
daughter about eighteen years old, whose name was
also 'Laura.'

Presently the conversation veered round to
schools again, and Isobel asked,

"By the way, what was the name of your school
at Enfield?"

Beryl hesitated but a moment, then said,
"Rotherington House School."

"Why, I believe that's the very school a friend
of mine went to at Enfield—that's why I asked
you the name.  How quaint!  I must write and
tell her—that is, when we are allowed by these silly
old rules to write to anyone.  She'll be frightfully
interested to know I know some one who went
to the same school with her.  But I expect you
know her; her name is Brent—Kathleen Brent."

Beryl shook her head.  "I don't recall the name,"
she said.  "But what were you saying at dinner
about some one living at the Manor House named
Lady Prior—who is a relation of yours?" asked
Beryl all at once, desperately anxious to change
the subject.  Her ruse was immediately successful.
Isobel plunged into the trap headlong, leaving
behind her, for the moment, her curiosity concerning
Beryl.

"Of course, I don't know for certain that they
are relations, but I know Pater has a cousin or
second cousin named Henry who was knighted
some years ago—but it is a branch of the family
that we've somehow lost touch with—they've lived
abroad a lot.  But I *must* find out if these *are* the
same Priors!  It's strange!  I've never heard Pater
mention that they had a country seat down here—but,
as I said, we lost sight of them, and besides,
they may have only returned to England recently.
I must make inquiries and find out all I can—then,
of course, if I find they *are* my relations—"  Isobel
chattered on, but Beryl was scarcely conscious of
what she was saying.

Beryl's mind was obsessed by the awkward
questions she had just evaded—the questions
about her father, her aunt, and her school.  Only
about the last subject had she been forced into
telling a direct untruth, she told herself, trying to
remember what she *had* said to Isobel about all
three subjects; and it was only the name of the
school that had been—incorrect.  But it was in
vain that Beryl tried to ease her mind.  She
knew she had never been inside Rotherington
House School in her life; it was the best school
in Enfield for the 'Daughters of Gentlemen,' and
Beryl knew it well by sight and had made use of
its name in a weak moment.  Beryl sat on the
piano-stool, apparently listening to Isobel, but
raging inwardly—hating herself for telling a lie,
and hating Isobel for driving her into a corner
and making her say what she had.  She felt
perfectly miserable.

Isobel's flow of conversation was suddenly checked
by the entrance of Caroline.

"I thought I heard some one in here," said
Caroline slowly.

"Hullo!  Have you finished unpacking yet?"
asked Isobel, in a laughing, sarcastic way.

"Yes, I've practically finished," replied Caroline
composedly, seating herself in a chair by the fire,
and bringing some needlework out of a bag she
carried on her arm.

"Oh, you industrious creature!  What *are* you
going to do now?" exclaimed Isobel despairingly.

"I'm just working my initials on some new
handkerchiefs," said Caroline solemnly.

There was no mystery about Caroline, and consequently
no incentive to Isobel's curiosity.  She
had already found out, while they were waiting
for dinner, where Caroline had been to school, what
her father's occupation was, where she lived, and
who made her clothes; and everything was plain
and satisfactory and stolid, and if not exactly
aristocratic, at any rate eminently respectable—like
Caroline herself.

Isobel's glance wandered from Caroline, with
her smooth plait of hair, and her long-sleeved, tidy,
unbecoming blouse, to Beryl, with her pale, sensitive
face, and white silk blouse with the elbow sleeves that
made her arms look thin and cold this chilly January
day.  Why didn't she wear a more suitable blouse,
Isobel wondered—and looked down at her own
sensible dark blue *crêpe de Chine* shirt blouse with
a sigh of satisfaction.

"What became of those papers Pamela and I
bought this morning?" Isobel yawned.  "I quite
forgot—I was going to look in the local rag to see
what was going on in this place—and to see if there
is any information about dancing classes——"

"I think the papers were left in the dining-room,"
said Beryl.  "I'll get them for you."  And she was
out of the room before Isobel could say another
word.  She felt that if she had sat still on the
piano-stool a minute longer she would have had
to do something desperate; pounce on Isobel
and shake her, or snatch the serenely complacent
Caroline's needlework out of her hands and tear it
in half.  People had no right to be so complacent;
people had no right to be so horribly inquisitive.
Then she shivered at the thought of the scene she
might have created—and dashed out of the room
for the newspapers.

She was quickly back with the papers, for
which Isobel yawned her thanks and then proposed
to read out some 'tit-bits' for Caroline's benefit.
"For I really do think your mind must want a
little recreation, my dear Caroline," she remarked,
"after the fatiguing work it has had in deciding
whether you shall embroider C.W. upon your
handkerchiefs or just plain C."

"I am embroidering C.A.W. upon all of them,"
said Caroline seriously, and not in the least offended,
stopping to look over the top of her round spectacles
for a moment at the crown of Isobel's fluffy head
bending over the newspaper.

At the first opportunity to slip away unobserved
Beryl made her way up to her bedroom.  As soon
as she was inside she locked the door, and throwing
herself on the bed she began to cry, her face buried
in the pillow to stifle the sound of her sobs.





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.. _`WHICH CONCERNS A VISIT TO INCHMOOR AND A WOMAN WITH A LIMP`:

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   CHAPTER VIII


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   WHICH CONCERNS A VISIT TO INCHMOOR
   AND A WOMAN WITH A LIMP

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The following day was dry, with a hint of
sunshine in the air, which tempted the
four girls to plan a four-mile walk over
the hills to Inchmoor, the nearest market town.
They each wanted to do some shopping, and Isobel
wanted to make inquiries about a 'Dancing
Academy' advertised in the local paper.

So, with great enthusiasm, the girls set about
their morning tasks before they started out—each
making her own bed and tidying her room.

Old Martha shook her head and smiled as she
crossed the landing, duster in hand.

"Too good to last," she thought to herself.

True, the enthusiasm did not last longer than a
week, but the girls stuck to their plan nevertheless,
and whether they felt enthusiastic or not they
made their beds and tidied their rooms each day
without fail; it became, after a time, a matter of
habit.

As Martha crossed the landing and was passing
Pamela's bedroom door the door sprang open and
Pamela ran out, almost colliding with Martha,
whom she grasped by the arm.

"Oh, Martha, I'm so sorry.  I didn't hurt you,
did I?" she cried.  "But you're the very person
I wanted.  Do come and look out of my window
for a second, and tell me who this is!"

She hurried old Martha across to the window,
and pointed out to her a woman dressed in
grey, who was walking briskly away along the
green.

"I can't see very well without my glasses," said
Martha, peering intently through the window,
while Pamela added a few words of description of
the woman in grey to help Martha to recognize her.
"Oh—*that* young person," Martha exclaimed
suddenly; "well, she isn't exactly what you might
call young—but still—  That's Elizabeth Bagg,
Miss Pamela.  Old Tom Bagg's sister."

"Tom Bagg?" queried Pamela, who had not
heard the name yet.

"The old cabman what brought your luggage
up here the other night, Miss Pamela."

"Oh!  That is whom she reminds me of then,"
Pamela said.  "I knew I'd seen some one like her
recently, but do you know, I couldn't think for
the life of me who it was.  But tell me—is she an
artist?  I saw her carrying an easel—and she
dresses very artistically."

"Yes, she do go in for painting a bit, Miss Pamela,"
said Martha.  "But, poor creature, she don't get
much time to herself.  She keeps house for her
brother—and him a widderer with six little
children—so you may depend she's got her hands full.
How she manages to keep the children and everything
so nice, and yet get her painting done and
all, is more'n I can understand.  She gives lessons
over at a young ladies' school at Inchmoor
too—twice a week."

"I'd like to get to know her, and see some of her
pictures," said Pamela, watching the figure in grey
as it disappeared in the distance.

"She's rather difficult to get to know—keeps
herself *to* herself, if you know what I mean, Miss
Pamela," said Martha.

"I know," Pamela replied.  "But people who
paint always interest me so much——"

"I daresay she'd be glad of some one to take an
interest in her work—it isn't much encouragement
she gets from her brother, *I* know—not that she
ever says anything about it; he seems to expect
her to be always cooking and baking and sewing
and cleaning for him and the children—and he
don't set any value on her pictures at all.  Yet
what *is* nicer, I always say, than a nice picture to
hang on the walls!  It makes a place look furnished
at once, don't it?"

Pamela nodded.  "Where does she live?" she inquired.

"You know the blacksmith's place, Miss Pamela?—well,
half-way up that lane that runs beside the
blacksmith's—a little house on the right-hand side
as you go up is Tom Bagg's, called 'Alice Maud
Villa'—out of compliment to old Tom's aunt what
they thought was going to leave them some
money—but she didn't."

"'Alice Maud Villa,'" mused Pamela.  "I
thought perhaps she lived at that little white cottage
opposite, as I saw her go in there."

"Oh, no, she don't live there," said Martha.
"She was probably only leaving some new-laid eggs
or a plaster for Mrs Gresham's rheumatics—she do
have rheumatics something chronic, poor dear.
That's what it was, most likely, Miss Pamela.
Elizabeth Bagg is a very kind-hearted creature."

"I shall do my best to get to know her," said
Pamela.

Half an hour later—after a slight delay caused
by Caroline being unable to make up her mind
whether she should take her mackintosh as well as
her goloshes and umbrella, and finally deciding to
take it in spite of Isobel's unconcealed mirth—the
four girls started off on their walk to Inchmoor.
Beryl and Caroline were introduced to the village
by the other two girls, before they all turned up
the lane that led through the fields, and over the
hill, to the market town.

This was the lane that led past the picturesque
old windmill that Millicent Jackson had told
Pamela about in the paper-shop; and knowing
this, Pamela had brought a notebook and pencil
with her in case she felt tempted to stop and make
a sketch of it while the others went on to Inchmoor.
There was nothing she wanted to get particularly
at the shops in the little town, and a fine day
in January was a thing to seize for sketching—there
were so few fine days; and one could always do
shopping in the rain.

The lane that ran between the fields was very
pretty even in January, and Pamela found
herself wishing that her brother Michael was with
her; he always appreciated the same scenery as
she did, and her thoughts were with him and those
at home while she joined in, more or less at random,
the animated conversation that was going on
around her.  She dared not let herself think too
much about her home, or such a wave of homesickness
would have engulfed her that she would have
wanted to go straight off to the station and take a
through ticket to Oldminster at once.  She felt she
could not possibly endure six whole months without
a sight of her mother or any of them.

"But I've got to see this thing through now,"
she told herself.  "I mustn't be silly.  And six
months will pass quickly if I've got plenty to do."

Pamela had thought over her duties as hostess
carefully, and was convinced that it was necessary
to have some kind of work for each of them to do,
day by day, if they were not to become bored or
irritable with each other, and if their six months'
stay in Barrowfield was to be a success.  Of course,
it was too early to be bored with anything
yet—everything was so fresh; but presently, when they
had got used to each other and Barrowfield, she
feared things might not run so easily—unless
there was plenty of interesting work to be done.
Cut off from their home interests, they were left
with many blank spaces in their lives which needed
filling—and Pamela meant to see that these spaces
were filled; she was a great believer in keeping busy.

Enthusiasm is generally catching.  And Pamela's
enthusiasm had been communicated to the other
three—which explains Isobel's desire to
interview the principal of the Dancing Academy; and
Caroline's determination to inquire about dress-making
lessons in Inchmoor, though unfortunately
she had not been able to find anything about the
matter in the local paper.  Beryl was in quest of
some musical studies which she meant to buy out
of her three pounds.  But enthusiasm can keep at
white heat with but few people; and those who are
naturally enthusiastic must keep the others
going—as Pamela was to find out.

The four girls soon began to ascend a steep incline
in the lane, with tall hedges bordering each side
now, and separating them from the fields.  Whenever
they came to a gate set in a gap between the
hedges, and leading into one or other of the fields,
they would stop for a moment and look over the
bars of the gate at the fine view of hills and
woods that unfolded itself before them.  They were
certainly in the midst of charming country; even
Isobel admitted this involuntarily, and she rarely
if ever expressed any appreciation of scenery.

At length, as they turned a bend in the lane, the
old windmill came in sight.

"What a fine picture it makes!" thought Pamela;
then she exclaimed aloud, "Oh, and there's a pond
beside it—Millicent Jackson never mentioned the
pond.  It's just exactly what it wants to complete
the picture."

So attracted was Pamela by the windmill, which
proved on nearer inspection to be even more
picturesque than it had appeared from a distance,
that she arranged at once to stay behind and make
a sketch of it while the other three went on to
Inchmoor.

"And if I've finished before you return I'll come
on to the town and meet you.  But if you don't
see me wandering round Inchmoor, look for me here
as you come back.  You don't mind me staying
behind, do you?  But I feel just in the mood to
try sketching this old place to-day," Pamela said.

The others said that of course they did not mind,
and after refreshing each other's memory with the
reminder, that five o'clock was the hour they had
told Martha they would be home for 'high tea,'
they left Pamela beside the old mill on the hill-top
and started to wend their way down the lane on
the other side, toward the distant spires of
Inchmoor, two miles away.

"Do you know, I've been thinking quite a lot
about that locked-up room next to mine," said
Isobel to the other two, as they went along.  "Oh,
yes, I know Pamela thinks it wiser not to talk too
much about it for fear of adding 'fuel to the flames'
of curiosity!  But one can't help thinking about
it!  It's so frightfully strange.  Now what do you
think—in your own mind, Caroline—what do you
think *is* inside that room?"

"Well," replied Caroline slowly, "I shouldn't
be surprised if Miss Crabingway kept all her private
papers and possessions that she treasures, and does
not want us to use or spoil, locked up inside the
room.  I know that's what I'd have done if I'd
been Miss Crabingway."

"You think it's only *things* then?" Beryl broke
in.  "Not—not a person?"

"What do you mean?" cried Isobel instantly,
turning to Beryl with great interest.

Seeing that the other two were waiting eagerly
for her reply, Beryl felt a momentary thrill of
importance, and let her imagination run away
with her.

"I mean," she said nervously, "supposing there
was a secret entrance leading into that room—so
that a person could get in and out without us
knowing anything about it.  And supposing some
one occasionally crept into the room and—and
spied on us through the keyhole—just to see what
we were doing."

"Oh, Beryl, what an idea!" gasped Isobel in
delight.  "Whatever made you think of that?"

"I don't know—it—it just came into my head,"
stammered Beryl.

"I don't think it's at all a likely idea," Caroline
deliberated.  "Surely one of us would have heard
some little sound coming from the room if there
had been anyone inside there!  I haven't heard
anything myself.  Besides, who would want to spy
on us?"

"There's only one person, of course—and that's
Miss Crabingway," said Beryl.

Caroline's eyes grew wide and round with surprise;
but Isobel narrowed hers, and looked at Beryl
through the fringe of her eyelashes.

"You don't mean to say," Isobel said incredulously,
"that Miss Crabingway would spend her
time ... well, I never!  What an idea!"

"But Miss Crabingway's in Scotland, isn't she?"
asked Caroline in mild astonishment.  She had been
told that Miss Crabingway had gone to Scotland and
had never questioned the matter—of course having
no reason to do so.

"Well—so we're told," said Isobel; then she
gave an exaggerated shiver.  "Ugh!  I don't like
the idea of an eye watching me through the
keyhole!"

"We might ask Martha to hang a curtain in
front of the door—say we feel a draught coming
through on to the landing," suggested Beryl.  "But
really, please don't take this seriously—I only made
it all up—in fun, you know—it isn't a bit possible.
I—p'r'aps we ought not to have talked about it.
Pamela said 'fuel for the flames.' ... And it does
make you more curious when you discuss it, doesn't
it?"

"I don't know," said Isobel.  "*I* certainly shan't
be tempted to look through the keyhole myself—in
*case* there's anything in your idea, and Miss
Crabingway sees me, and I lose my fifty pounds.
But I shall *listen*, and if I hear any sounds coming
from the room——"

Isobel was evidently rather taken with Beryl's
suggestion, for she referred to it more than once
before they reached Inchmoor.

When they at last arrived in the busy little
market town they decided that it would probably
be quicker for each of them to go about her own
affairs, and then all to meet in an hour's time at
a certain tea-shop in the High Street, where they
would have some hot chocolate and sandwiches
to keep them going until they got home again.

"P'r'aps Pamela will have joined us by then,"
said Beryl hopefully.

Inchmoor was a bustling, cheerful little place,
with very broad streets, plenty of shops, a town
hall, and a picture palace.

Beryl quickly discovered a music shop, and here
she spent an enjoyable half-hour turning over a
pile of new and second-hand music, and picking
out several pieces that she had long wanted to buy.
When she at length tore herself reluctantly away
from the music-seller's, it occurred to her that
perhaps she might buy a new and warmer blouse
if she could see one in a draper's window;
but she was not used to buying clothes for herself
and rather dreaded the ordeal of entering a
big drapery establishment when she was not
sure what kind of material she preferred, nor
how much she ought to pay for it.  She passed
and re-passed one draper's shop, but catching
sight of the Wellington-nosed shop-walker, and a
fashionably dressed lady assistant, eyeing her
through the glass door, her courage failed her
and she passed on down the street to another
draper's.  Here the exasperated tones of a
girl serving at the blouse counter came to
Beryl's ears, and she hesitated, lingered for a
few moments looking in the window, and then
decided not to bother about a blouse to-day—there
was not much time left before she would
have to meet the others at the tea-shop.  She
looked about for a clock, and spying one, found that
there was no time left at all, and, inwardly
relieved, she walked briskly away down the street.

In the meantime Isobel had found Madame
Clarence's Dancing Academy, and was now occupied
in interviewing no less a personage than Madame
Clarence herself.

The Academy was in a side-street, and was a
tall, flat-fronted old house with a basement and an
area; it did not look as if it belonged to
Inchmoor at all, being quite unlike the other houses
in its neighbourhood, which were frankly cottages,
or really old-fashioned country residences.  The
Academy was an alien; it looked so obviously the
sort of house that is seen in dozens on the outskirts
of London.  It gave one the feeling that at some
time or other it really must have been a town house,
and that one night it must have stolen away from
the London streets and come down here for a breath
of the fresh country air.  And once having reached
Inchmoor it had stayed on, lengthening its holiday
indefinitely, until every one had forgotten that it
was only to have been a holiday, and had accepted
the Academy as a permanent resident.

Madame Clarence, who received Isobel in a
drawing-room which seemed to be mostly blue
plush, long lace curtains, and ferns, was a small,
bright-eyed woman, dressed in a black and white
striped dress.  Madame walked in a springy, dancing
manner, and when she was not talking she was
humming softly to herself.  She wore a number of
rings on her short white fingers—fingers which
were never for a moment still, but were either
playing an imaginary piano on Madame's knee,
drumming on the table, toying with the large yellow
beads round Madame's neck, or doing appropriate
actions to illustrate the words Madame said.
Madame had grey hair, though her skin was soft
and unwrinkled, except for a certain bagginess
under the eyes.

To all appearances Madame must have been
inside the house when it came down from London,
for she gave an impression of being town-bred,
and, judging by her conversation, of having
conferred a favour on Inchmoor by consenting to reside
in so unimportant a spot.  She said she would be
charmed to have Miss Prior as a pupil, and ran
over, for Isobel's benefit, a long list of names of
Society people to whom she claimed to have given
dancing lessons.  Isobel was duly impressed and
inquired her fees.  After ascertaining what kind of
dancing Isobel wished to be instructed in, Madame
said the fee would be three guineas a term; and
as Miss Prior had come when the term was already
well advanced, Madame said she would give her
extra private lessons until she caught up with
the rest of the class.  This seemed so generous of
Madame that Isobel closed with the offer at once,
although the appearance of the Academy was not
quite what she had expected; but still, Isobel
reminded herself, Inchmoor was only a little country
town, and it was a marvellous and fortunate thing
to find anyone so exclusive as Madame in such a
backwater.  And Isobel wondered how the little
dancing-mistress had drifted here.

Isobel's thoughts were interrupted by Madame
rising and offering personally to conduct her over
the dancing-hall, which she proceeded to do,
humming as she led the way into a large room with
polished floor, seats round the walls, and a
baby-grand piano; around the piano were clustered
bamboo fern-stands and pedestals, which supported
large ferns growing in pots.

"This floor is a perfect dweam to dance on,"
Madame informed Isobel.  "I'm sure you will
enjoy it."

After exchanging one or two polite and complimentary
remarks with Madame, and having arranged
to come over to the Academy every Tuesday morning
and every Friday afternoon, Isobel was about to
depart when Madame said:

"It is a long way for you to come fwom Bawwowfield
alone—have you not a fwiend who would
care to come with you and take lessons also?"

Isobel had not thought of this before, but told
Madame Clarence she would see if she could arrange
for a friend to come with her, admitting that she
would certainly prefer it to coming alone.

On her way to the tea-shop she turned the idea
over in her mind, and speculated on the likelihood
of one of the other girls joining her.  She had not
much hope of Pamela (whom she would have preferred),
because she did not seem to be interested
in dancing and wanted all her spare time for her
sketching and reading.  Beryl was a doubtful
person—no, Isobel thought it unlikely that Beryl
would join.  Caroline—Isobel smiled to herself at
the idea of slow, clumsy Caroline dancing.  "It
would do her a world of good though," she thought
to herself.  "And, anyway, though I'm not frightfully
keen on her company, she'd be better than no
one."  She would put the matter to all three,
Isobel decided, and see if any of them seemed
inclined to join her.

She found Caroline and Beryl waiting at the
tea-shop for her, and the three of them went in and
ordered hot chocolate and sandwiches.  They chose
a table near the window so that they were able to
watch all that went on in the street outside.

Caroline was rather sulky over the meal because
she had failed to find out anything at all about
dressmaking classes in Inchmoor, and was
consequently disappointed.  Such classes did not seem
to exist, and she had spent her hour in fruitless
inquiries, and in trying to get a certain kind of
embroidery silk to match some that she already
had.  The silk had been unobtainable also, and
Caroline's time had been wasted on disappointing
quests.  This was not the time to talk about
dancing; Isobel had the wisdom to know this,
but nevertheless she was dying to talk about it.
She forbore, however, in her own future interests.

"I suppose nobody's seen Pamela yet?" Isobel
observed.  "We shall find her still sketching those
few old bricks, I expect—unless she's found it too
cold to sit still!  And my goodness! won't she be
hungry by this time!"

"Could we take a couple of sandwiches along
with us, do you think?" suggested Beryl.  "In
case she would like to have them."

"Not a bad idea," said Isobel.

So that is what they did.  The short January
day was already well advanced, and a chilly little
breeze had sprung up by the time they emerged
from the tea-shop.  Isobel and Caroline fastened
their furs snugly round their throats, and Beryl
buttoned up her coat collar.  Then the three girls
started briskly off toward Barrowfield.

Meanwhile, Pamela, when the other three left her,
had first of all explored the mill and then settled
down to her work.  That the mill was partly ruined
and wholly deserted made matters perfect, according
to Pamela's ideas.  She wandered up to the open
doorway and looked inside.  Bricks and dust and
broken timber within—nothing else.  It was quite
light inside, owing to the many holes in the walls.
Pamela stepped cautiously in, picking her way
through the dust and dried leaves that had drifted
in, and over the loose bricks and wooden laths, and
clambering on to a small mound of accumulated
dust and rubbish she looked through one of the
holes in the wall at the magnificent sweep of country
stretching away downhill to the little cup in the
hill-side where Barrowfield lay.  She could see
the smoke rising up from the houses in the village;
and beyond this, on the farthest side of the cup, a
range of tree-clad hills closed the view.  Barrowfield
was not in a valley, but in a little hollow among the
hills.

On the other hand, Inchmoor, which could be
located from a hole in the other side of the windmill,
was certainly down in a valley; the road leading
to the market town was only visible for a short
distance beyond the mill; it twisted and curved
and then dived out of sight—to become visible
again far in the distance when about to enter
Inchmoor.  Pamela, gazing from the hill-top, could not
see anything of the three girls on their way to
Inchmoor, as they were already hidden from her sight
by a bend in the road.

But when she went back to her former position
and took a final look over Barrowfield way before
starting work, her eye caught sight of a figure
coming rapidly up the hill, along the lane which
the girls had just traversed.  Being the only living
thing in sight at the moment, Pamela watched the
figure until it was hidden from her sight for a few
minutes by the tall hedges that grew at the sides
of the lane.  She was not particularly interested in
the figure, but had noticed casually that it was a
woman, and that the woman appeared to have a
slight limp.  When she lost sight of her Pamela
came out of the old windmill, and taking up the
position she had chosen for making her sketch, she
got everything ready and set to, and was soon
absorbed in her work.

How long she had been sketching before she
became aware that some one was standing watching
her Pamela did not know.  It was probably a
considerable time, but she was so engrossed in what
she was doing that she had not heard footsteps
passing in the lane behind her—footsteps that
ceased suddenly, while a woman dressed all in
black and wearing a black hat with a heavy veil
over her face, and a thick silk muffler wound round
her neck and shoulders, stopped and stood gazing
with a strange and curiously vindictive look at the
unconscious Pamela.

Suddenly, without any other reason except that
queer, sub-conscious feeling that one is being
watched, Pamela shivered and looked quickly round
over her shoulder—and saw the woman in the
lane.

As soon as Pamela stirred the woman turned her
head away and moved on, hastily limping forward
up the hill.

Pamela, in accordance with the usual country
custom, called out in a friendly tone, "Good-day."

The woman made no reply, but continued her
limping walk, and was quickly out of sight.

"I suppose she didn't hear.  P'r'aps she's deaf,"
said Pamela to herself, and thought no more
about it.

Could she have seen the expression on the woman's
face as she stood in the lane a few minutes earlier,
watching, Pamela would not have resumed her work
with a mind as free from curiosity as she did.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ISOBEL MAKES TROUBLE`:

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   CHAPTER IX


.. class:: center medium bold

   ISOBEL MAKES TROUBLE

.. vspace:: 2

Pamela had just finished her sketch, and
had begun to be aware that a chilly breeze
was blowing down her neck, and that her
hands were cold, when the sound of voices came
floating toward her; she suddenly realized that it
must have been a long time ago when the other
girls had left her.  And then she heard Isobel's
voice exclaiming:

"Why, she's still here!  Good gracious, Pamela,
you don't mean to say you're still drawing those
old bits of wood and bricks! ... Well!"  The
voice ended on a note of despair that was meant
to signify Isobel's conviction that Pamela was
qualifying for an asylum.  "You must be frightfully
hungry," Isobel continued, as the three girls
came up to Pamela.

Then it was that Pamela woke up to the fact
that she was hungry—very hungry, and very glad
of the sandwiches which Beryl now produced and
handed over to her.

"I say, that was thoughtful of you.  Thanks so
much," she smiled at Beryl.

"Did you finish your sketch?  May I see it?"
asked Beryl shyly.

Pamela brought the drawing out.  "But I'm not
a bit satisfied with it," she said.

"Oh, I think it's splendid," said Beryl, gazing
admiringly at Pamela's picture of the old windmill
and the pond.

It was certainly well done; Pamela's style was
uncommon, and her treatment of the subject bold
and decided.  She had talent, undoubtedly, but
how far this talent would take her, time alone
would show.  Pamela was very ambitious, but
very critical of her own work, and though full of
enthusiasm over a picture while at work upon it,
was rarely satisfied with it when finished, which
was a very good thing, as it always spurred her on
to try to do better.  However, Beryl, who was no
judge of pictures, thought Pamela's sketch was
perfect.

Not until they reached home and were sitting
round the fire after 'high tea' did Isobel remember
that she had meant to buy a camera in Inchmoor.

"I must get it when I go over to Madame
Clarence's for my first lesson," she said.  "It will
be amusing to keep a photographic record of my
visit here."

She had told them all about Madame during the
walk home, and now tried to persuade one of them
to join her in having dancing-lessons.  Nothing
definite was settled that night, and Isobel left them
to think the matter over.

The following day the girls made an attempt
to start on their programme of work.  Caroline
put in a couple of hours sewing.  Beryl practised
and copied out some music.  And Pamela got out
her sketch-book.  But what was poor Isobel to do
without a Madame Clarence, or a camera at hand?
She wandered round the garden for a time, and then
she went indoors and talked to Caroline; but finding
this too dull, she roamed round the house—keeping
a safe distance from the locked door—and went in
and out of various rooms, and stood looking out of
windows and yawning, until she was almost bored
to tears.  It was curious, she thought to herself,
that the very sight of other people working made
her restless and disinclined to settle down to read
or write or sew or do anything at all.

Unfortunately this seemed to be the case
throughout her stay at Chequertrees; she never wanted
to work when other people were working, and
consequently there were frequent interruptions from
her.  Pamela found that the only time she could
work indoors undisturbed was when Isobel was
over in Inchmoor at her dancing-lessons.  Isobel
was one of those unhappy people who cannot
entertain themselves, but who always want
somebody else to be entertaining them.

On this first occasion, when the other three were
working and Isobel yawning, Pamela bore it as
long as she could, then, packing her sketching
materials away with a sigh of regret, she invited
Isobel to come out and do a bit of gardening with
her.  Isobel hated gardening, but it meant some one
to talk to, and so she jumped at the idea eagerly.
Pamela was not over-fond of gardening, she knew
very little about it, but anything was better than
hearing Isobel's restless feet wandering about and
listening to her audible sighs and yawns.

Out of doors it was rather cold, so they wrapped
up warmly, and set to work to 'tidy up a bit' in
the garden at the back of the house.

For a while all went well and Isobel chatted
away to her heart's content, while Pamela tied up
some withered-looking plants (whose name she did
not know) with a length of twine she had found in
the kitchen.  Martha was upstairs getting dressed
for the afternoon when the two girls started on
their new occupation, and Ellen was out shopping
in the village, otherwise Pamela and Isobel might
have been warned about old Silas Sluff.  As it was,
they continued their gardening, blissfully
unconscious that old Silas was just round the corner of
the gravel path, behind the privet hedge that
separated the vegetable garden from the lawn and
flowers.

"I think," said Pamela, "this old bush ought
to be trimmed a bit—I wonder if there's a pair
of shears handy....  Is this the right time
of year to cut it though? ... What do you
think?"

"Oh, I expect so," said Isobel at random, knowing
nothing about it.  "Any time would be all right
with those sturdy old bushes—I don't know where
the shears are, but here's a pair of old scissors I
brought out from the kitchen—they'd do, wouldn't
they?  Here, let me do a bit of trimming.  And,
do you know, mater had promised me and Gerald
that in any case we should..."  She continued a
lengthy story that she had started to recount for
Pamela's benefit.

And then old Silas came round the privet hedge
to fetch his wheelbarrow.  He came to an abrupt
standstill when he caught sight of the two girls,
and stared, open-mouthed, his hat pushed back on
his head and his watery blue eyes wide with
astonishment.  He had had no idea that there was anyone
in the garden; he had not heard any talking, as
he was afflicted with deafness.

"'Ere!" was all he said, when he recovered from
his surprise.

Pamela and Isobel started, and turned round at once.

They beheld a very wrinkled little old man, with
a ruddy complexion and a tuft of white beard
under his chin; he wore a green baize apron, to
protect his clothes from the soil, and had a vivid
pink shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbow.  As
the girls returned his gaze steadily, they saw his
face begin to work and twitch with indignation.

"'Ere!" he said again.

"I beg your pardon," said Pamela.

"What do you want, my good man?" inquired
Isobel, haughtily.

"'Ere!  Wot yer doin' to that there bush?
You leave it be, my gels!" called Silas.

Isobel's eyebrows were raised in indignant surprise.

"Why—we're only doing a little gardening!  What
is it?  Who are you?" asked Pamela, unaware that
old Silas was deaf.

"'Ere's me—done this gardin—man and boy—for
forty year—and I don't 'ave no interference,"
cried Silas.

"Oh, I suppose you are Miss Crabingway's
gardener?" said Pamela.

"Leave it be, my gels," was all Silas replied.
"If you'd *arxed* me I'd a-given you summat to
do—but not that bush—you oughter arxed me first."

"How dare you speak to us like that—" began
Isobel, angrily.

But Pamela interrupted with, "It's no good,
Isobel, I think he's deaf.  He doesn't seem to hear
anything we say."

"I don't care whether he's deaf or not deaf—I
won't be spoken to like that by a servant.  Such
impertinence!" cried Isobel.

Silas meanwhile had continued talking without
a pause, while he advanced slowly down the path
toward them.

Pamela moved forward to meet him, and raising
her voice tried to make him understand what they
were doing and who they were.

"I'm sorry if you think we've done any harm
to the garden—but I don't think we have, you
know," she cried.  "And we didn't know Miss
Crabingway had a gardener."

Silas caught the last sentence.  This indeed
was adding insult to injury, though Pamela had
not meant to be in the least insulting.

"Didn't—know—Miss—Crabingway—had a gardener,"
repeated Silas, amazed.  "Why—I done
this gardin——man and boy—forty year, I 'ave.
Don't it *look* like it?" he demanded.

"Yes, it does—of course it does," answered
Pamela, trying to appease him.

"Well then—" he began, then caught sight of
Isobel treading on the side of the garden bed.
"'Ere!  Get orf that, my gel," he cried.  "You're
crushin' them li'l plants."

This was too much for Isobel.  The gruff,
disrespectful tones, the ordering manner, and the 'my
gel,' made her suddenly enraged, and her temper
got beyond her control.

"How—how dare you!" she flared up.  "This
is no more your garden than it is—than it is mine,
and *I won't* be spoken to like this!"

As her words seemed to be making no impression
on Silas, she deliberately stamped on the little
plants; then, her temper being properly roused,
she turned and snatching at a branch of the bush
behind her she twisted and bent it and snapped it
off, and flung it on to the pathway.

"There!" she panted.  "*Now* perhaps you will
understand that *I will not* tolerate your insolent
manner."

With her head high in the air, and her cheeks
burning, she walked haughtily away into the house.

Old Silas was dumbfounded.

"Oh, how silly!" cried Pamela, ashamed for
Isobel.  "I'm so sorry she did that."

Old Silas's watery blue eyes were still more
watery as he stooped down and tried with gentle
hands to remedy the mischief that Isobel had done
to the little plants.  Pamela knelt down on the
path to help him, and was bending over the garden
bed when all at once she heard the old gardener
give a chuckle.  She glanced round in surprise.
Silas was wagging his head from side to side and
chuckling to himself.  The plants were not very
much damaged, and the bush—well, it would grow
again.  But it was not these discoveries that filled
old Silas's soul with glee.

"Who'd a thought it!" he chuckled.  "There's
a high sperrit for yer!  'Oighty-toighty is it, my
gel?  Ho!  Hall right!  We shall see.  Ole Silas
Sluff'll learn yer to darnse on 'is gardin.  You
wait!"

He took no more notice of Pamela, but
seemed absorbed in his own thoughts, and when
Pamela left him and went indoors he was still
giving occasional chuckles and muttering to himself.

"What made you do it?" Pamela said to Isobel
afterward.  "It didn't do any good——"

"But the man was preposterous!" said Isobel.

"I know he spoke gruffly, but I don't think he
meant to be rude," said Pamela.  "It's just his
manner."

"Then it's time he learnt better," Isobel replied.
"I don't know what the world's coming to, I'm
sure, with all these inferior creatures setting up to
teach——"

"If you count Silas Sluff your inferior, you should
be sorry for him and set to work to show him how
to behave, instead of——"

"If he were my gardener I'd dismiss him on the
spot," Isobel said.

Pamela realized the uselessness of continuing the
discussion any further at present, and so the subject
was dropped for the time being.

"I ought to have warned you, Miss Isobel," said
Martha, when she heard the story.  "Old Silas is
that touchy-like—but no one takes no notice of
what he says.  He's worked about these parts for
years as a jobbing gardener.  But no one takes no
notice of him.  At present he comes and works
two days a week for Miss Crabingway, and the
other four days he gives a extra hand up at the
Manor House.  He lodges down in the village—next
door but three to the blacksmith—nice little
house—overlooks the stables of the 'Blue Boar'
from the back windows."

But when Martha recounted the incident to
Ellen, over supper that night, Ellen remembered
previous occasions when Silas had been put out with
people, and, thinking of his subsequent revenges,
her only comment on the story was, "Oo-er!"


The first dinner of Pamela's choosing was voted
a great success by Isobel and Beryl.  Caroline, who
always liked to be as accurate as possible in her
remarks, said she would have liked the pudding
to have been a little more 'substantial'; chocolate
*soufflé* was very tasty, but there was no inside
to it.  Caroline had a strong preference for solid
puddings—as the other three were to learn when
Caroline's turn for arranging meals came round.
Meal-times had been fixed so as to give everybody
at Chequertrees as much freedom as possible.
Breakfast was at 8 a.m. and dinner was at 6.30 p.m.,
and between those hours there was sometimes lunch
at 12.30—and sometimes there was not.  If the
girls were going out for the day they would get lunch
out, or take some sandwiches with them.  A tea-tray,
daintily set for four, with milk, sugar, tea-pot,
spirit kettle, and a plate of cakes, was always
to be found in the drawing-room in the afternoons,
so that the girls could make a cup of tea when they
fancied it; and Martha and Ellen were thus left
free in the afternoons.  This had been one of
Pamela's ideas, and had astonished Martha, who
had protested that it was no trouble for her to get
them a cup of tea; but Pamela had insisted, and
when Martha got used to the arrangement she
appreciated it very much.  It was good to know
that the whole afternoon was her own, and that
she would not be disturbed.  A glass of hot milk
just before bedtime was the last meal of the day.

By the end of January the four girls had settled
down fairly comfortably in their new surroundings.
Isobel had had her first dancing-lessons at the
Academy, which she enjoyed immensely, although
she had not been able to persuade one of the other
girls to join her yet.  Pamela had started an
ambitious piece of work—a picture of Chequertrees,
as seen from the front garden—which she meant
to work on from time to time whenever the weather
did not tempt her to go farther afield than the
garden; she wanted to take a picture of
Chequertrees home with her, so that Mother and Michael
could see what the house was like—the house
where she had spent six months away from them.
Beryl had kept up her practice each day, and spent
a good deal of time studying books on theory,
composition, and the biographies of great musicians.
And Caroline had finished her handkerchiefs and
had started on a linen brush and comb bag.

One evening after dinner the four girls were in
the drawing-room, Pamela deeply engrossed in a
historical story, Beryl copying some music into a
manuscript music-book, Caroline sewing as usual,
and Isobel reclining on the couch by the crackling
fire and dividing her time between yawning and
glancing at the *Barrowfield Observer*; presently
she gave an exclamation of surprise, and sat up,
rustling the paper.

"Listen to this, girls!" she cried.  "The local
newsrag informs its readers that Sir Henry and
Lady Prior and family return to the Manor House
next week, and that Lady Prior wishes it stated
that the annual bazaar and garden fête (in aid of
the Barrowfield Cottage Hospital) will be held as
usual at the end of May, and that those who intend
making gifts for the stalls at the bazaar should send
in their names to her ladyship's secretary, Miss
Daleham, as soon as possible.  That's where *I*
come in!" Isobel continued.  "That will be the
best way to introduce myself to their notice....
So they'll be coming back to the Manor House
next week, will they?  Isn't it ripping?"

"I love bazaars," said Caroline, slowly and with
relish; she saw in her mind's eye a vista of neatly
hemmed handkerchiefs, with initials worked in the
corners; plump pin-cushions, dorothy bags,
hair-tidies, cushion covers with frills, tea-cosies, all
worked by hand.  Already she could see these
things spread alluringly out on a stall for sale, with
neat little tickets stuck on them.  "I'll send in
my name to make something," she added.

She did not see Isobel frown as she picked up
her newspaper again.

"Bazaars," said Pamela over the top of her book,
"I don't like bazaars.  They are places where you
get the least value for the greatest amount of money
spent.  I'd always rather give my money willingly
to any good cause or fund—rather than buy
something I didn't want at a price it wasn't worth—just
so that I could *see* something for the money I was
giving in this roundabout way to a deserving object."

Caroline gazed at her in astonishment.

"I think bazaars are splendid things for helping
charities," she said slowly.  "I don't think of
them as you do——"

"Oh, what does it matter about the bazaar,"
broke in Isobel.  "What really matters to me is
that it's a chance to make the acquaintance of my
probable relatives.  I wonder if there are any
daughters in the family about my age?"

But Caroline, who was not attending to Isobel
for the moment, threaded another needle, and went
steadily on with her line of argument.

"People buy much more at a bazaar than they
would in the usual way," she informed Pamela.

"And they pay much more than they would in
the usual way," laughed Pamela.

"And so more money is collected for the charity,"
urged Caroline.

"I doubt it," said Pamela.  "You think of all
the time and money spent in the making of the
articles for the stalls—and the arrangements and
correspondence in connection with the bazaar.
Now if the cost of all that were put into one side
of the scales, and the amount of money taken at
the bazaar put into the other side of the scales, I
think I know which side would weigh heavier."

"No," Caroline shook her head; "I don't think
you do.  Each person who helps gives a little time
and money to the making of the things, which
are afterward sold all together for a substantial
sum.  It seems to me a very good way to raise money."

"But it's such a wasteful system," objected
Pamela.  "If people gave what money they could
spare straight to the good cause they wished to
benefit, and then spent their time on doing more
useful work than stuffing pin-cushions and writing
out tickets for bazaars, I'm sure it would be more
practical."

"But people won't do things that way," said
Beryl, joining in for the first time.  "Though I
quite agree with you, Pamela, in disliking bazaars."

"Anyway," said Isobel, impatiently, because she
had again lost the reins of the conversation,
"although I don't care 'tuppence' about bazaars,
one way or the other, I'm going to this one for
reasons I've already stated.  You see I'm quite
honest about it—I only want an excuse for meeting
my long-lost, or perhaps I should say new-found,
relations."

Pamela, looking across at Isobel, suddenly realized
something, and marvelled that it had not occurred
to her before; maybe it was because she had not
paid much attention to Isobel's chatter about
Lady Prior—had not taken it seriously; but now
that she heard the Priors were returning, and that
Isobel was going to take the first opportunity of
meeting them, she cried impulsively,

"Why, Isobel, you *can't*!  Don't you remember
that we all had to promise Miss Crabingway not
to visit or invite to this house 'any relations
whatsoever'!"

A look of dismay flashed across Isobel's face.

"Oh," her voice dropped in quick disappointment;
but the next moment she recovered.  "But
perhaps they're not my relatives after all," she
said, hardly knowing whether she wished they
were or were not.  "Oh, bother those silly old
restrictions!" she cried irritably.  "But what can
I do?  How can I find out if they are my relatives
or not unless I meet them?"

Pamela thought awhile.  "Well—appoint a
deputy—some one to go and find out for you," she
suggested, half sorry for Isobel on account of her
obvious disappointment, and half amused at her
keenness to claim relationship with these titled
folk of the neighbourhood.  Pamela felt sure that
Isobel would not dream of trying to claim kinship
with the village bootmaker, or grocer, if his name
happened to be Prior.

But Pamela's suggestion did not suit Isobel at
all; half the excitement would be lost if some one
else had all the introductory moves to do.  "Oh,
I don't think Miss Crabingway's silly old rule
could possibly apply to Lady Prior," said Isobel.

"Why not?" asked Pamela.

"Well—you see—it's different somehow—you see
they are strangers to me at present, even if they
*are* my relatives.  And I can't see how it would
matter if I get to know them.  Miss Crabingway
must mean relatives one already knows."

"Not necessarily, I'm afraid," said Pamela.

"Well, what shall I do?" asked Isobel, blankly.

"If you are really anxious to settle the matter,
I'm afraid a deputy is the only course open to you.
Of course, if they are your relations you must simply
ignore them; if they're not, you can cultivate their
acquaintance or not, just as you like," Pamela said,
trying her best to be helpful to Isobel, as she could
see the problem appeared to be of great moment
to her.

"Oh, but I couldn't ignore Lady Prior in any
case, could I?" said Isobel.

"You must settle that matter yourself," replied
Pamela, quietly.  "But I think it would be
breaking your word to Miss Crabingway if you visit
'any relations whatsoever.'"

Isobel was quiet for a while, thinking the matter over.

"Um!  Well, I'll have to see," she said presently,
and fell silent again, making plans for the
future.

The other three resumed their occupations, and
for a while there were no sounds in the room but the
rustle of paper, the scratching of a pen, and the
little plucking noise of Caroline's needle as it moved
in and out of the stiff linen she was sewing.

By and by Beryl got up and went out of the room
to fetch another sheet of music from her box
upstairs.  This interruption caused Isobel to break
silence again by making several remarks to Caroline
concerning Beryl's attire.

"And why ever she wears such short-sleeved
blouses this cold weather, I'm sure I don't know,"
she ended.

"They don't look like new ones.  Perhaps she's
had them some time," suggested Caroline.

"Yes.  Certainly the style looks a bit out of date,"
said Isobel, laughing.  "I wonder her people didn't
get her some new ones when they knew she was
coming here, instead of sending her in old-fashioned
things like that."

Pamela, deep in her book, became suddenly
aware of the turn the conversation had taken, and
fearing Beryl might return and overhear (because
Isobel was thoughtlessly talking in her usual clear,
penetrating voice), she clapped her book to, and
jumped up, saying:

"What do you say to a tune—and, oh, I know—a
little dance—to tire us out before we go to bed.
May I have the pleasure, mam'selle?  Get up,
Isobel, I want to push the couch out of the way
to make more room.  Come and show us what you
learnt at Madame Clarence's on Friday?"

Isobel, welcoming any diversion for a change,
willingly helped to push the furniture out of
the way, and very soon she was waltzing round
the room to the strains of a haunting melody
that Pamela was playing on the piano.  Caroline,
although she protested that she could not dance,
was made to join in by Isobel.

"I'll show you, come on!" Isobel insisted; and
to the accompaniment of Pamela's tune and much
laughter and joking from Isobel (all of which
Caroline took very good-temperedly), Caroline was
piloted round the room, moving ponderously and
ungracefully in the mazes of a waltz.

"Of course you're not *obliged* to dance on my
feet, dear child," groaned Isobel, laughingly.  "It
would make a little variety for you if you danced
on the carpet just *occasionally*, you know.  Take
care, you'll knock that chair over!  Look out,
Pamela, we're coming past you!"

It was to this laughing, animated scene that
Beryl returned.  Pamela, looking over her shoulder,
took a hurried glance at Beryl's face, and was
satisfied.  "I'm so glad.  She didn't overhear Isobel
then," she thought.  But Pamela was wrong.

However, Beryl, having had time to cool her
tell-tale cheeks before she came in, joined in now
as if quite unconscious; and when, presently,
Ellen appeared with four glasses of hot milk on a
tray (followed by Martha, who was curious to see
what was going on), Beryl was playing a lively Irish
jig on the piano, and Pamela and Isobel were
dancing furiously in the middle of the room; while
Caroline sat gasping on the couch, fanning herself
with the *Barrowfield Observer*, and recovering
from the polka Isobel had just been trying to
teach her.

"I like to see young things dance and enjoy
theirselves," observed Martha, as she and Ellen
stood in the doorway for a few minutes, watching.

"It's a long time since there was any dancing in
this house," said Ellen.

"Yet what's nicer!" replied Martha, beaming into the room.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`PAMELA BEFRIENDS BERYL AND MEETS ELIZABETH BAGG`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER X


.. class:: center medium bold

   PAMELA BEFRIENDS BERYL AND MEETS ELIZABETH BAGG

.. vspace:: 2

On looking back at the first months'
happenings at Barrowfield, there were two
incidents that always stood out clearly
from all the rest in Pamela's mind; they made
a deep impression on her at the time, and afterward
influenced her actions considerably.  The first of
these incidents was the confession Beryl made to
her; and the second, the beginning of her friendship
with Elizabeth Bagg.

Passing Beryl's door on her way to bed one night
Pamela caught the sound of sobbing.  She stood
still, listening; the sounds were faint, but
unmistakable.  What should she do?  She hesitated
for a moment, then tapped on the door; then, as no
one answered, and the sobbing continued without
a break, Pamela turned the handle and went in.

A candle on the dressing-table lighted up the
figure of Beryl, still fully dressed, stretched on the
bed, her face buried in the pillows.

"Why, Beryl!  Beryl!  What's the matter?
Can I help you, dear?"  Pamela closed the door,
and, crossing the room, laid her hand on Beryl's
shaking shoulders.

Beryl sprang up as if she had been shot.

"Oh!  I didn't hear anybody—Oh!  Pamela!"
and she burst out crying again—not noisily, but in
an intense, quiet way, that frightened Pamela.

"Are you ill, Beryl?  Shall I go and fetch
Martha?" she asked anxiously.

Beryl shook her head.  "No, no," she sobbed.
"I—I'll be all right—in a—in a minute.  Wait
a minute."

Pamela waited patiently, sitting on the edge of
the bed, her arm round Beryl's shoulders.  "Poor
old girl," she said once.

Presently Beryl became calmer, and began to
murmur apologetically,

"It's so silly of me.  I'm so sorry if I gave you
a start—I didn't hear you come in—I thought
I'd locked the door—and I couldn't help crying
again when I saw you—I was all worked up
so.  Please forgive me—being so silly—only—only
I was so miserable."  And here the tears
began afresh.

"Don't, Beryl, you'll make yourself ill if you
cry like that.  I wish I could help you—  What
is it?  Won't you tell me?  *Do* trust me, if it's
anything I can help you in—I would be so glad
to help you.  Do tell me what it is," urged Pamela.

For a moment Beryl felt inclined to prevaricate,
and say that she was merely overtired, or depressed,
and so account for the fit of crying; but the longing
to share her troubles with some one—and that
some one the most sympathetic person she knew
at present—conquered her usual reticence.  She
feared losing Pamela's respect, and yet she felt as
if Pamela would somehow understand her.

"Is it that you're longing to go home?" asked
Pamela kindly, quite unprepared for the emphasis
with which Beryl replied:

"Oh, *no*."

"I believe I know," said Pamela, remembering
one or two occasions recently in which Isobel
figured as the cause of discomfiture to Beryl.
"Some one has been bothering you about things
that don't concern them in the least....  I
shouldn't mind about that if I were you."

"You must think it silly of me—I wish I didn't
care—and I don't really," Beryl explained in a
confused way.  "I care much more what you
think about me than I do what Isobel thinks about
me.  It's what *I* do, when she keeps questioning
me, that upsets me."  Beryl paused, and rubbed
her eyes with her handkerchief, then said suddenly,
"When she bothers me with questions I—it makes
me tell *lies*! ... And, oh, Pamela," she sobbed,
"I do *hate* myself for doing it."  She went on to
explain more fully, pausing every now and again
to dab her eyes, or blow her nose, or cry a little bit
more; and Pamela, piecing the broken sentences
together, began to understand what had been taking
place.

"She's always asking me about my school—and
I haven't told her the truth about that," said Beryl.
"When father and mother died, and left me in the
charge of my aunt, aunt was not able to afford much
for me, so she sent me to a *council* school.  That's
where I was educated!  And I haven't the courage
to tell Isobel this, because she might despise me,
as she seems to despise all people who have been
to such schools.  I know it's stupid of me, and I
despise myself for being afraid to tell her.  But
having once said I'd been to another sort of school
I have to keep on inventing things about it—about
a place I've never been to—and I feel so horrid all
the time....  And then, she ridicules my clothes—I
know she does—and I can't help it—I haven't
any others at present; some that I wear are my
cousin's left-off ones—I'd never have chosen them
myself....  Then she's always asking about my—my
father and mother—and the aunt I lived with,
after they died....  Aunt Laura keeps a little
shop in Enfield, where her daughter—Cousin
Laura—helps her to serve behind the counter.
And I haven't told Isobel this because she always
speaks of 'shop-people' with such contempt....
We lived very roughly at Enfield, and Aunt Laura
was always shouting, and I couldn't bear the
slovenly way we had meals.  Oh, I've hated it
all, and hated having it always thrust before my
mind by Isobel's questions, and hated myself for
deceiving everybody.  I've felt all the time as if
I've been out of place—pretending to be used to
a nicely-kept household, when I'm not....  I've
sometimes almost wished that Miss Crabingway
had never invited me here—and yet, I love being
here....  Oh, I'm sure you'll think I'm ridiculous
for making such a fuss about these things, but you
can't think what a lot I've *felt* them—and how
I've dreaded Isobel finding out."

Beryl paused.  "But most of all I've dreaded—"
she began, and then stopped, "I've dreaded—" she
was having great difficulty in getting her words
out now, "I've—dreaded—her knowing—about my
father.  He—he died—in *prison*."  She was not
crying now, but gazing with wide, frightened eyes
into Pamela's face.  "I *must* tell you—I *must* tell
you the rest—it wouldn't be fair not to.  Wait a
minute."

Beryl put her hand inside her blouse and drew
out a little key attached to a long black cord;
scrambling hurriedly to her feet she went across to
a drawer in the dressing-table and brought out a
small black box; she unlocked this, and quickly
found what she wanted.  It was a letter, written
in faint, thin writing, which she brought over and
placed in Pamela's hands.

"Read it," said Beryl, and stood holding the
lighted candle just behind Pamela's shoulder so
that she could see to read the following letter:

.. vspace:: 2

MY DEAR LITTLE DAUGHTER,

.. vspace:: 1

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....

.. vspace:: 2

.. _`120`:

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.

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE WISHING WELL`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XI


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE WISHING WELL

.. vspace:: 2

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."

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`IN WHICH ELIZABETH BAGG PAINTS A PICTURE AND ISOBEL HEARS SOME PLEASANT NEWS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XII


.. class:: center medium bold white-space-pre-line

   IN WHICH ELIZABETH BAGG PAINTS A PICTURE
   AND ISOBEL HEARS SOME PLEASANT NEWS

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`MR JOSEPH SIGGLESTHORNE FORGETS THE DATE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   MR JOSEPH SIGGLESTHORNE FORGETS THE DATE

.. vspace:: 2

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
Encyclopædias 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.

.. _`A WOMAN WHO FROWNED AND PUT HER FOREFINGER TO HER LIPS`:

.. figure:: images/img-168.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: A WOMAN WHO FROWNED AND PUT HER FOREFINGER TO HER LIPS

   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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CAROLINE MAKES A DISCOVERY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIV


.. class:: center medium bold

   CAROLINE MAKES A DISCOVERY

.. vspace:: 2

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?"

"Nothing so far," replied Caroline.  "But some
one *has* been in here 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.





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.. _`ABOUT A BAZAAR AND A MEETING IN THE RUINED WINDMILL`:

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   CHAPTER XV


.. class:: center medium bold

   ABOUT A BAZAAR AND A MEETING IN THE RUINED WINDMILL

.. vspace:: 2

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!"

.. vspace:: 2

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.





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.. _`PAMELA'S WISH COMES TRUE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVI


.. class:: center medium bold

   PAMELA'S WISH COMES TRUE

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`IN WHICH OLD SILAS LAUGHS AND ISOBEL DANCES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVII


.. class:: center medium bold

   IN WHICH OLD SILAS LAUGHS AND ISOBEL DANCES

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. _`A PAILFUL OF GARDEN RUBBISH DESCENDED IN A SHOWER`:

.. figure:: images/img-208.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: A PAILFUL OF GARDEN RUBBISH DESCENDED IN A SHOWER

   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.





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.. _`THE DOOR IS UNLOCKED`:

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   CHAPTER XVIII


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   THE DOOR IS UNLOCKED

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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.

Pamela, taken aback for a moment, replied,
"Oh—the 27th, I think."

"Ah," said Miss Crabingway.  "Yes, I'm glad
I sent Joseph Sigglesthorne that telegram.  He
never can remember dates—especially after the
8th of each month.  They always send him in
two rashers of bacon every morning for his breakfast
during the first week in each month—after that
they give him boiled eggs every day until the end
of the month, and it becomes so monotonous that
he can't distinguish one day from another.  It's
certainly rather confusing, isn't it?  I've told him
I'd change the restaurant or coffee-house, or
whatever it is that supplies him with breakfast;
but he's used to it, and he doesn't like change—so
it's no good my talking or giving him calendars—I
just send him a telegram."

Miss Crabingway seated herself and began rustling
and sorting the papers on the little table in front
of her.

"And now," she continued in her decisive voice,
flashing a glance round her puzzled audience, and
once again looking last and longest at Beryl, "I
didn't ask you to come up here in order to
discuss Joseph Sigglesthorne's breakfast—as you will
doubtless guess.  I asked you here to tell you a
true story, and, if you please, don't speak to me
until I've finished."

Without more ado Miss Crabingway gave a dry
little cough and began hurriedly:

"There was an elderly person who was rich,
and lonely—" she paused for a second, then
added with emphasis, "and crotchety!  Yes,
that's what she was, though most of her acquaintances
called her eccentric, and quaint—out of
politeness....  As she grew older she grew
more and more lonely; and realizing one day
(when she was feeling ill and depressed) that she
couldn't take her money with her when she
died, she determined that she would make use
of it now and give some benefit and enjoyment
to herself, and, if possible, to others....
She—she had taken a great fancy to a young girl
she had come across recently—the daughter of a
very old and valued friend who died some years
back....  And what made her particularly—crotchety,
was that she had wanted to adopt
this girl, and the girl's relatives had refused.  For
what reason, it is impossible to say!  For the
relatives were not over-rich, nor over-fond
of the girl....  Probably it was because the
relatives were not offered enough money....
Anyway, the elderly person had a quarrel with
the relatives, and the elderly person went off
in a huff, which she afterward regretted—and
would have gone back and said so, only
about this time some urgent business affairs
called her away from home.  Before she went
she thought of a plan whereby she could give the
young girl she liked a rest from her relatives,
and at the same time help her to develop her
character.  For the elderly person had long
cherished a belief that most young girls in their
early teens would do better in after life if
they had a chance to develop their characters,
for a time, away from the influence of their
parents or guardians....  Having heard of
three other young girls whom she thought it
would be interesting to try the experiment on,
the elderly person sent out invitations to all
four, adding a little inducement, in the shape of a
sum of money, to each."

Miss Crabingway, having now touched on a subject
in which she was evidently greatly interested,
went on to express her ideas about character
development at some length, adding that when she
was a girl herself she had suffered from
character-suppression, and had been cramped and moulded
by her own parents so that she had not an idea
nor opinion of her own all the years she lived under
their influence.

"I was merely an echo," she said, "and all my
thoughts and opinions were second-hand."

Miss Crabingway's roman nose seemed to be
contradicting these words even as they were
uttered, but her keen, earnest eyes assured one that
she was speaking the truth.

"I think there comes a time," she went on,
"when it is best for every girl to think and act for
herself—to get used to relying on herself, and not
on others.  This does not mean being rebellious,
you know—it means just clear thinking, and acting
self-reliantly."

So absorbed did Miss Crabingway become in her
theory that she forgot all about the 'elderly person'
and slipped unconsciously into the first person,
mentioning the little girl she had wanted to adopt
by name.  Even before she mentioned the name
the other three girls had guessed who it was, and
several quiet and curious glances had been cast in
the direction of Beryl as she sat, silent and pale,
her eyes on the ground.  The girls had expected
that Miss Crabingway was going to say something
special about Beryl by the way her glance kept
wandering to Beryl's face, studying it affectionately,
yet anxiously.

"You see, I was anxious to try the experiment,
but most of all I was anxious to obtain congenial
companions for—for Beryl," Miss Crabingway
continued.  "I induced Beryl's relatives to allow her
to come and stop at the house while I was
away—it doesn't matter how I induced them....
And then I made a few rules; one for the purpose
of keeping these relatives from worrying Beryl—of
course it was a little hard on you other girls,
perhaps..."

("I should think it was," thought Isobel to herself.)

"... But it was only for a short while, and
it would help to develop character—and, after all,
elderly people *will* have their little fads and
whims—especially if they're eccentric," she said the last
word a little bitterly, as if recalling some one's
opinion of her.  "Well, the plan has worked out
fairly successfully, I hope....  Whether your
visit here has strengthened your characters—only
the future can show.  I shall never know—because
I did not know you before—but you will each be
able to judge for yourself....  I hope very much
that it has helped you all, and done you all good....
Of one thing I feel sure—it has done this old
house good to have fresh young people about the
rooms and up and down the stairs.  The place
had grown old and grave and silent through
long association with old and silent people.
It needed some laughter and young
voices..."  Miss Crabingway paused.  "I have had
constant news of you all, from Martha ... and
Martha says everything has gone along all
right?"

There was a questioning note in Miss Crabingway's
voice as she paused again and scanned the intent
young faces before her; so that presently Pamela,
catching the inquiring gaze directed on herself,
said:

"I—I think it has—I hope it has—anyway, I
have enjoyed being here very much, and it has
done me good—in many ways.  Though being
cut off from home was awfully hard to get used
to...."

She had scarcely realized yet that her feelings,
or in fact the feelings of any of them excepting
Beryl, were a matter of secondary importance to
Miss Crabingway.  Beryl was the chief reason for
the invitation to stay at Chequertrees, for the rules
drawn up for them to observe during their stay,
for the offer of fifty pounds each.  It was all
done for Beryl's sake, for Beryl's happiness.  It was
difficult at first to readjust one's outlook and see
things from this new point of view....  But why
had Miss Crabingway chosen Pamela to act as
hostess?  Possibly because when she saw Beryl
and 'took a fancy to her' she recognized that
Beryl was not the sort of girl to like the position,
and so had relieved her of the responsibility
and left her free to devote herself to whatever
work she preferred and to develop her character
unfettered.  To Pamela, Isobel, and Caroline it
seemed an elaborate yet simple explanation of their
invitation to Chequertrees.  In order to achieve
her ends Miss Crabingway seemed to have taken
unnecessary trouble, the three girls thought; but,
of course, they were not acquainted with Miss
Crabingway's 'eccentric' ways, neither did they
know the nature of one of the relatives of
the little girl Miss Crabingway had wished to adopt.

There were still some questions that the girls
wanted answered.  What had the locked door
got to do with the story?  And how did Miss
Crabingway know that they would prove
'congenial' companions for Beryl?—as a matter of
fact all of them had not.  It was surely rather
risky to invite them without seeing them?

"I should like to say that I think Pamela
has been a splendid hostess," remarked Caroline,
suddenly and unexpectedly.

This was echoed at once by Isobel and Beryl.

"I'm glad to hear you say that," said Miss
Crabingway, smiling.  "I knew Pamela's mother,
and I knew her grandmother—and I felt sure I
was safe in choosing Pamela.  Of course there was
a risk—a great risk; you might have turned out
a dreadful set of girls! ... But Martha would
have told me if anything had been going wrong—and
I should have managed to come down from
Scotland for a week-end to see for myself....
I—I want to hear now what you think of my plan?"

She looked across at Beryl; but Beryl's eyes were
on the ground and she was silent.

Isobel and Caroline both said they considered
it a great success; they had enjoyed themselves
immensely.  And then Isobel went on to tell Miss
Crabingway about Sir Henry and Lady Prior, and
how the rule about relatives had placed her in
an awkward predicament—at which Miss Crabingway
seemed much amused, to Isobel's concealed
annoyance.

"Ah, well, never mind," said Miss Crabingway,
"you can soon put matters right.  Lady Prior
is coming here this afternoon."

"This afternoon!" echoed Isobel.

"Yes.  I have sent out invitations to a few friends
I thought you might all like to meet to-day—that's
why I thought we would have this little
'business' talk this morning....  And so
you—you have had a happy time here—have you,
Beryl?"  Miss Crabingway put the direct question
looking earnestly across at Beryl, who was still
sitting motionless, her face very pale.

"I—I think you planned everything very well,"
stammered Beryl.  She said no more, but sat gazing
miserably before her at the opposite wall.  A
tremendous struggle was going on in Beryl's mind;
she was working herself up to do a thing she shrank
from with all her might.  "I must do it *now—now*.
I owe it to her," the thought pricked her
conscience.  "Why not tell Pamela, and get her
to explain to Miss Crabingway—or ask to speak to
Miss Crabingway alone," urged another thought.
"But the other girls are sure to hear in the
end—and get the story a roundabout way—probably
exaggerated," she argued to herself.  "Oh, but
it is so hateful—telling it before them all—and it
will hurt *her* to hear that I am the only one of
the four of us who has failed her...  Much
better speak out now—it'll be much the best in
the end....  Oh, but I can't....  I haven't
got the courage...."  And so the struggle
went on.

"And now we come to the real business of the
day," said Miss Crabingway.  "I must just ask
you each a question or so about the rules I drew
up, and then we shall know what to do when
Mr Sigglesthorne arrives this afternoon."

She then went on to ask each girl if she had tried
to find out what was in the locked-up room.  And
one after the other each gave her word of honour
that she had not.

A smile flickered across Miss Crabingway's face.
"Then Joseph Sigglesthorne has lost," she said.
"And I'm very glad.  You can see what the room
contains—only my personal belongings and papers.
When I locked them up I had a small wager with
Joseph Sigglesthorne regarding the curiosity of
girls.  He said one or more of you *would* look
through the keyhole, in spite of everything—I
said you would *not* ... and I have won.  He now
owes me a photograph of himself," Miss Crabingway
laughed to herself.  "He has never been taken
before, and hates the idea—but the loser pays, and
go to the photographer he must.  I'm sure it will
be a dreadful likeness—and I shall frame it and
hang it on the wall as his punishment....  I
suppose you wonder why I chose Joseph Sigglesthorne
as my deputy—to bring my invitation to
each of you.  Eh?"

"Well, we did rather wonder," admitted Pamela.

"I couldn't come myself, being so rushed for time,
and so I chose the shrewdest person I knew.  I
knew I could trust him to see what kind of girls
you were—but had I known for certain how wrong
he would be about 'girls' curiosity' I don't think
I should have trusted him....  I knew he would
appear a bit singular, but I didn't mind that....
What did it matter?  The whole idea was just
an eccentric old woman's whim—and your parents
allowed you to humour me, as I hoped they would."  And
here Miss Crabingway began to chuckle, and
she went on chuckling until she was obliged to
get out her handkerchief and dry her eyes.  The
girls meanwhile sat looking on, uncomfortable,
and not knowing whether it would be more polite
to laugh also or keep serious.  Miss Crabingway
puzzled them; one minute she was quite business-like
and sensible, and the next she was talking in
an apparently inconsequent way.  When she had
dried her eyes and become serious again, Miss
Crabingway went on to question them about the
other rule she had made, and said she supposed
that none of them had seen, spoken, or written
more than post-cards to their various relatives.

"I have seen Lady Prior—but not spoken;
I've told you all about that, haven't I?" said
Isobel.

"Yes—yes—oh, that's all right," replied Miss
Crabingway.

And Isobel knew that her Wishing Well wish had
come true, and that she had not done anything
to forfeit her fifty pounds.

Both Pamela and Caroline said they had strictly
observed the rule, Pamela mentioning, at the same
time, how she had caught sight of her father in
London.

"Oh, of course, that's all right.  Quite
unavoidable—quite.  That's good then, so far...."  She
turned to Beryl, but before she could speak, Beryl,
who looked ghastly white, stood up suddenly.

"There's something I want to tell you all," she said.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`BERYL CONFESSES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIX


.. class:: center medium bold

   BERYL CONFESSES

.. vspace:: 2

Beryl looked down at the surprised and
inquiring faces gazing up at her, and her
new-found courage flickered for a moment—and
she had thought the struggle for courage was
over; but only for a moment did she pause and
twist her fingers nervously together.  Now she
had burnt her boats she must go through with it.

"I—I—oh, Miss Crabingway—I didn't know—I
never guessed you wanted me—but I can see
things clearly now.  You thought out such a kind
plan to help me a bit and give me happiness—and
I have been happy here—in spite of everything.
But—oh, how can I tell you—I have failed you,
the only one of the four of us who has failed you.
Instead of growing stronger in character I have
grown weaker—I know I have....  I have been
so afraid to tell the truth.  I thought—I thought
Isobel would despise me if she knew I'd been to a
Council school..."

Isobel started.

"... if she knew my Aunt Laura kept a small
and shabby shop and served behind the counter;
if she knew," her voice dropped, "where my father
died....  I felt out of place in this house at first
among these others who had nice clothes and
manners—my clothes were all wrong....  Pamela—Pamela
has been a brick—I told her something
about all this, and she helped me not to mind.  But
I've said so many things that were not true since
I've been here—I'm telling the truth now, though,
I am indeed.  And, oh, I'm so sorry—I couldn't
help it—but I—I have seen and spoken to my
Aunt Laura several times since I've been here."

"What!" exclaimed Miss Crabingway.  Had,
then, the thing that she had taken such trouble
to avoid happened after all?

"Yes," said Beryl.  "A few weeks ago I came
suddenly face to face with her one dark night—the
night we returned from London, in the
rain—you remember?"  She half turned toward
Pamela, then went on quickly: "I didn't speak
to her then.  I was frightened, and ran on quickly
to join the others who were a little way ahead.
When I got home I discovered that while we had
all been out my Aunt Laura must have got into
the house and made her way to my bedroom, where
she had left a note for me."

Caroline leant forward at this point.

"You were quite right in thinking some one had
been in your room that night, Caroline.  She
mistook it for mine, and in rummaging about to
see if she could find any indication to show that
it was my room she disarranged some of your things.
I'm so thankful she didn't take anything from
your room—she might have done, you know, but
luckily you hadn't left any money lying about.
It was money she wanted.  In the note which she
was afraid to send through the post, but left in my
room instead, she told me that I must let her have
five pounds immediately, or she would be
summoned—and might have to go to prison.  And
then what would people think of me, she said, living
in luxury and letting my aunt, who had brought
me up like her own daughter, go to prison!  The
money was very urgently needed, she said, and
she told me where and when I could meet her
outside the village and hand her the money....
So I met her," Beryl went on in a dreary voice,
"and handed her the money I had recently received as
pocket-money—but it wasn't enough....  Afterward
she wanted more money—and at last I had to
borrow a pound from Pamela—who was good enough
to trust me and ask no questions—and I lent this
to my aunt as well.  She made me promise, on my
honour, never to tell a soul about this money-lending,
or about her speaking to me, as if I did I should lose
the fifty pounds, and it was very important that I
should not do this, she said; no one would ever know
about her coming to see me—for, of course, no one
knew her in the village.  When she came down to
Barrowfield she would generally stop the night,
sometimes two nights, at that little cottage
opposite—so that she could watch me, and wait her
opportunity to get money.  She knew she could frighten
me into doing what she wanted—and she did
frighten me—shadowed me—followed me about....
It was she who was up at the Wishing Well
that night, Pamela—do you remember?  Aunt
Laura only came down here occasionally—whenever
she wanted more money.  For a long time after
I was here I never dreamt she was anywhere near
the village....  I—I think, from what she has
said to me, that she thought it very unfair for me to
have anything that Cousin Laura couldn't share—and
was awfully angry because I couldn't give
her more money; she had got it into her head
that there was a lot of money to be had here, and
she hated the idea of Pamela, Isobel, and Caroline
having any money that might have come to
me—and so to her, and Cousin Laura....  Oh,
Miss Crabingway, I never knew the truth about
you wanting to adopt me."  Beryl had hard work
to keep her voice steady.  "She never told me you
had wanted to adopt me....  But it's a good job
you didn't—now that you know what I am....
Oh, I hate myself," she burst out passionately,
and the tears which she had kept back for so long
sprang to her eyes and began rolling, unheeded,
down her cheeks.  "It's all been such a muddle of
little deceitful things—and all for a few wretched
sovereigns....  I've broken my word to you,
and I've broken my promise to my aunt, and told
you everything now—and may this be the last
promise I shall ever break."

Poor Beryl had been so long in fear of her Aunt
Laura and what she might do, and had brooded
on the whole matter so much, that she had
exaggerated everything in her own mind until it had
assumed giant proportions; she felt she had
forfeited all right to respect from the others, and had
spoilt the great chance of her life—the chance of
being adopted by Miss Crabingway.  Beryl had
certainly been weak, and had told stories, and had
broken her word to Miss Crabingway and to her
aunt—still, that was the extent of her misdoings.

Miss Crabingway, looking at her, thought that
things had been made too hard for Beryl.  If only
there had been somebody to stand by her and help
her—Miss Crabingway pulled herself up sharply.
Had she made a mistake in thinking that all girls
need to develop their character without any
outside help and control?  It might answer in three
cases out of four; but there was always the fourth
case—the girl who had not had the advantages of
a happy, fearless childhood.  It was fear, fear of
some one or something, that made people deceitful
and made them tell untruths.  Miss Crabingway
felt a rush of keen disappointment that her plans
had been spoilt, that the one girl for whom she
had taken so much trouble had failed her.  And
yet Miss Crabingway felt that she herself was more
to blame than Beryl.  She might have known that
Beryl's aunt would try to obtain money from the
child, if she thought she had any.  She might have
known that Beryl would not have had an upbringing
that would have taught her to be frank
and fearless if it came to keeping her word to Miss
Crabingway and facing the consequences of her
aunt's wrath, had Beryl refused to answer her
request for money....  Beryl had been outspoken
enough now that the end had come ... and the
consequences...?

Meanwhile the silence which had followed her
last words had become unbearable to Beryl.
Burying her face in her hands—she was crying in
earnest now—she passed quickly out of the room,
and the door clicked sharply behind her.

Pamela half rose, as if to follow her.

"Yes, do," said Miss Crabingway huskily, and
stood up herself.  "Tell her—everything will be
all right.  Poor child!  She's not to blame—it's
I—I might have known her Aunt Laura wouldn't
leave her alone....  Where did she say the woman
stayed? ... I wonder if she's there now by any
chance? ... I'm going to see."

And while Pamela went in search of Beryl
Miss Crabingway strode hatless across the green
in search of the woman with the limp, leaving
Caroline and Isobel to discuss the whole affair in
detail.

.. vspace:: 2

What Miss Crabingway said to Beryl's aunt, whom
she found on the verge of departure from the little
white cottage with the green shutters, it is not
necessary to record.  It is sufficient that she gave
Aunt Laura so stern a dressing-down that at the end
of half an hour Aunt Laura was reduced to a meek
acceptance of Miss Crabingway's terms.  The aunt
confessed to Miss Crabingway how, when Beryl
had come to Barrowfield, she had followed her down
by the next train, and by good fortune had
discovered the little house opposite Chequertrees where
apartments were to be had.  And so she had put up
there from time to time while her daughter Laura
looked after the shop at Enfield, so that she could
watch what Beryl was doing 'playing the lady'
while her poor Cousin Laura served bacon and
rice and currants in the stuffy little shop.  On
Cousin Laura's account, "poor, dear, good girl,"
she seemed to resent greatly Miss Crabingway's choice
of Beryl, and thought she was justified in getting
all she could from Beryl, considering that she had
brought her up like her own daughter ever since
Beryl's mother had died.

"And now she's spoilt all her chances—and
mine as well," said Aunt Laura.  "Tell her to
pack up her things and come home with me in
half an hour.  I was just about to start off myself,
not knowing——"

"That I would be back sooner than you expected—you
didn't wish to meet me, I presume?" said
Miss Crabingway.

"You bet," said Aunt Laura, inelegantly.  "My
poor little Laura's worked to death in the shop,
so you go and tell that haughty miss to pack up
quick and come along home with me."

But nothing was further from Miss Crabingway's
mind.  She was determined to give Beryl another
chance.  And so she told Aunt Laura, much to
the latter's surprise.  They talked the matter over
again, and after much haggling on Aunt Laura's
part, and threats on Miss Crabingway's part, and
arguments on both sides, they at length came
to a hard and fast agreement.

The result of which was that Miss Crabingway
returned to Chequertrees to greet Beryl as her
newly-adopted niece, while Aunt Laura limped away to
the station with her purse a little heavier than
when she came, and took the train back to Enfield
and Cousin Laura.  She limped away out of Beryl's
life and out of this story once and for all.

And so Beryl's Wishing Well wish came true.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A NEW BEGINNING`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XX


.. class:: center medium bold

   A NEW BEGINNING

.. vspace:: 2

That same day, in the afternoon, a group
of happy people were gathered on the
lawn chatting together in Miss Crabingway's
garden—for the guests she had invited were
no others than Pamela's mother and Michael and
Doris; Isobel's mater and brother Gerald, and
Lady Prior and her two daughters; and Caroline's
mother—a plump, placid little soul, remarkably
like her daughter in appearance.  Miss Crabingway
had thought this little surprise would please the
girls—and it would be nicer for them to travel home
with their own people.

Miss Crabingway admitted to herself that she
would have liked all the girls to stay a few days
longer, so that she could get to know them better,
but all arrangements had been made and she could
not upset them at the last moment.

The only person, of course, who had no relatives
to meet her at the garden party was Beryl.  But
to judge from her happy, smiling face as she helped
to hand round the tea she did not regret this fact.
Her gratitude to Miss Crabingway was deep and
sincere, and she meant to do all in her power to
live up to the best that was in her.  She and Miss
Crabingway had had a long and serious talk together
in the early afternoon, which ended in mutual
expectations of a happier future for both of them.
Though Beryl had lost her fifty pounds, she had
gained far more in Miss Crabingway's friendship;
and, although she did not know this at
present, Miss Crabingway had made up her mind to
give Beryl a fairly substantial pocket-money
allowance now that she was her properly adopted niece.
Beryl was to continue her musical studies—that
had already been arranged.

Freed from the shadow of Aunt Laura, and the
bullying and the secret threats, Beryl felt a different
girl—and looked it too.  Her only tinge of sorrow
was the parting with Pamela—but even that was
to be only for a time.  Later on Pamela was to
come and stop with her for a holiday, and
she and Miss Crabingway were to visit Pamela's home.

As for Pamela, she was in a real 'beamy' mood
this afternoon at having mother and Michael and
Doris with her again.  She showed them all over
the place, pointing out her favourite spots.  She
even found an opportunity of introducing them to
Elizabeth Bagg.

"I'm so glad you've seen everything and everybody,"
she said.  "Now you will be able to see
things in your mind's eye when I talk about them."

During the afternoon Michael tried to get into
conversation with Isobel's brother Gerald, who was
about his age, but found it difficult work, as Gerald
was far more interested in his own immaculate
clothes, and smooth hair, his cigarette, and the
various girls present, than he was in Michael or
anything Michael had to say.

Isobel and her mater hung delightedly on Lady
Prior's words, and as they sat in the shade of the
trees at the end of the lawn, an invitation to
come and stay at the Manor House sometime in
the near future was given to Isobel, and accepted
eagerly.

Caroline methodically piloted her mother round
the house and garden, and presently left her talking
to Mrs Heath while she went indoors at a signal
from Pamela, who whispered, "Miss Crabingway
wants us a minute."

In the drawing-room Pamela, Caroline, and Isobel
found awaiting them Miss Crabingway and Mr
Joseph Sigglesthorne (who had just arrived).  With
due solemnity the girls were each presented with a
cheque for fifty pounds, and the news was broken
to Mr Sigglesthorne that he was to go and have
his photograph taken, at which he looked very
crestfallen.

There was just one other little incident that
took place before the afternoon came to a
close—it had been crowded out of the morning's
events.

The girls gave Miss Crabingway the small gifts
they had made for her: Pamela, a sketch of
Chequertrees; Caroline, a hand-embroidered
tray-cloth; Beryl, a waltz which she had composed
herself, and had copied out in a manuscript
music-book.  She offered it to Miss Crabingway very
shyly and with much diffidence.  "It's the only
thing I could do myself," she said apologetically.
Isobel presented her photographs, enlarged and
handsomely framed; they were photographs of the
other three girls in the garden.  Miss Crabingway
was immensely pleased and touched by the girls'
thought for her.  Something of their own work;
she could not have wished for anything better,
she said, and thanked them warmly.

To Martha and Ellen each of the girls gave a
little gift, such as a pair of gloves, and
handkerchiefs, and bottles of eau-de-Cologne, and
in addition each gave a photograph of herself
(having overheard Martha express a wish for the
photographs).

"Just in case you forget what I look like and
don't recognize me next time I knock at the front
door," said Pamela laughingly to Martha.

"Oh, Miss Pamela, just as if I'd forget you,"
said Martha.  "But you couldn't have thought of
a better present, or one that would please me
more, and I thank you and I shall value it greatly.
What *is* nicer than a nice photograph, I always say."

.. vspace:: 2

And now dusk has fallen and all is silent in Miss
Crabingway's garden.  The laughter and voices
have died away, and far away through the night
rushes a train bearing Pamela, her mother, and
Michael and Doris, homeward.  Mr Heath is
waiting at Marylebone Station to meet them, and
Olive and John have been allowed to stay up an
hour later than usual in order to welcome home
their long-absent sister.

In another train Caroline and her mother journey
back to the busy little provincial town where they
live.  While Isobel, seated beside her mater, with
a cosy coat wrapped round her, whirls along the
country lanes in the motor which brother Gerald
is driving.

An old gentleman climbs into a crowded bus at
Charing Cross; he has a remarkably high, bald
forehead, which becomes visible when he removes
his hat; he stands holding on to a strap in the
bus, his thoughts far away.  He is thinking of a
little country village, and in the midst of all the
bustle and life of London he feels suddenly lonely.
The bus rattles on toward the Temple—and he
thinks of his deserted, paper-strewn room in Fig
Tree Court, and he is overcome by a great
wave of pity for himself; he begins to feel
exceedingly sorry for himself.  Suddenly his expression
changes to one of dismay and exasperation—he
has remembered that he must visit a photographer
to-morrow.

At the same moment, far away down at Barrowfield,
there is a light in the drawing-room of
Chequertrees, and some one is playing softly on
the piano.  Miss Crabingway sits on the couch
by the fire, a book in her hands—but she is
not reading.  She is looking across at the girl
who is playing the piano and her eyes are full
of dreams.

The red blind in the dining-room, where supper
is being laid for two, shines warmly out from
among the rustling leaves that are whispering
round the house—just as it did six months ago.
But to-night the window of the little white cottage
opposite is dark, and there is no one watching the
red blind.

.. vspace:: 4

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 4

.. class:: center medium

   *Uniform with this Volume*

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent bold

   ROCK BOTTOM

.. class:: noindent 

By QUEENIE SCOTT-HOPPER.  Illustrated
in Colour by A. A. NASH.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent bold

   ANGEL UNAWARES

.. class:: noindent 

By QUEENIE SCOTT-HOPPER.  Illustrated
in Colour and Half-tone by
PERCY TARRANT.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent bold

   THE MYSTERY OF BARWOOD HALL

.. class:: noindent 

By OLIVIA FOWELL.  Illustrated
in Colour by SAVILE LUMLEY.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent bold

   WINIFRED AVON

.. class:: noindent 

By MABEL MARLOWE.  Illustrated
in Colour by SAVILE LUMLEY.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent bold

   THE TAMING OF TAMZIN

.. class:: noindent 

By ESMÈ STUART.  Illustrated in
Colour by HELEN JACOBS.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent bold

   A COTTAGE ROSE

.. class:: noindent 

By MABEL QUILLER-COUCH.  Illustrated
in Colour by PERCY TARRANT.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent bold

   LITTLE MOTHER

.. class:: noindent 

By RUTH MACARTHUR.  Illustrated
in Colour and Half-tone.

.. vspace:: 6

.. pgfooter::