The Girls of Chequertrees

Caroline referred to the matter over breakfast in the morning, thereby incurring a great deal of attention and questioning from the others—which made her feel quite important for once in a way. Caroline was one of those people who could not usually attract much attention from others, as she was unable to talk interestingly about things. But this morning she found she was actually being interesting; she liked the sensation, and meant to make the most of it.

While Pamela and Isobel discussed the matter with Caroline, Beryl, who had turned very white, sat silent, her half-finished breakfast pushed on one side; she sat stirring her tea mechanically round and round—only breaking her silence once to ask Caroline if she had missed anything, and seemed relieved on hearing that Caroline had not.

"I suppose nobody else's room was disturbed in any way?" said Pamela, adding, "Mine was all right."

"So was mine," said Isobel.

"And mine," echoed Beryl, quickly.

"Well, we'll just go and ask Ellen if she can throw any light on the matter, shall we?" said Pamela. "She was the only inmate of this house who was not up in London yesterday."

Ellen was very interested, but it did not seem as if she could help to solve the question. She had certainly not been in the room herself; she had left the house at the same time as they did yesterday, and when she and Millicent Jackson—the friend with whom she had spent the day—had come in to fetch the umbrellas to bring to the station in the evening, they had not been upstairs at all. They had let themselves in at the back door, gone straight through to the hall, taken the umbrellas out of the stand, and gone out of the front door. They weren't in the house five minutes, as they were in a hurry to get to the station in time.

"There, Caroline!" said Isobel. "You see nobody could have been in your room. You must have moved the things yourself."

But Caroline shook her head.

"Could anyone have slipped in the back door after you—without you noticing?" she asked Ellen.

"Oh, miss! Well—I never thought of that!" said Ellen, then hesitated. "Of course, they could have, Miss Caroline—but it's most unlikely. If anyone had troubled to do that they would have taken something while they were about it, wouldn't they?"

Caroline shrugged her shoulders.

"All I know is—the things in my room were disturbed," she insisted doggedly. "And I don't like it."

"How could anyone have slipped in without you seeing, Ellen?" inquired Pamela.

"Well, Miss Pamela, to be exact," explained Ellen, "me an' Millicent unlocked the back door and came in, shut the door, and went into the kitchen, where I struck a match and lit the candle that we keep on the dresser here. We didn't bother to light the gas as we was going straight through, and out the front way. Me an' Millicent was talking, interested-like, as we went into the hall, when Millicent says, 'Oh, did you lock the back door again?' And I says, 'Oh, no.' And I went back and locked it.... Then we got the umbrellas and went straight out the front way.... Now, do you think anyone would have got in just in that minute before I locked the back door, Miss Pamela? Now do you, Miss Caroline?"

"It's just possible, of course, but not at all likely," said Pamela. "Thanks very much, Ellen—as nothing has been missed, I really don't see any use in pursuing the matter further, Caroline, do you? … And it's such a grand morning, let's all go for a good tramp over the hills."

So Pamela dismissed the incident from her mind; and Isobel, putting it down to "one of the bees in old Caroline's bonnet," soon followed suit. Ellen and Martha discussed the matter together, and Ellen repeated her story to Martha several times—each time with more emphasis than the last; and when she next saw Millicent Jackson she mentioned it to her, and they talked of it until the subject was exhausted—then as nothing further happened to make them remember it, they too forgot it. Caroline remembered it as a grievance for a considerable time, then the excitement of the coming bazaar caused it to fade into the background. The only one who did not forget the incident was Beryl, and she had good reason to remember it—as we shall presently see.

After the visit to London a marked change seemed to come over Beryl; always pale and nervous, she appeared to grow even paler and more nervous as the days went by. At times she would emerge from the cloud of depression which seemed so often to envelop her now and join light-heartedly in whatever was going on, but these occasions grew more and more rare.

When Pamela remarked on her paleness one day Beryl put it down to the weather, saying it made her feel tired. Pamela believed her; had she not been so absorbed in Elizabeth Bagg and her work she might have noticed things that would have aroused her suspicions; but she was not suspicious in any way until one evening Beryl, very awkward and hesitating, asked Pamela if she would lend her a sovereign. Pamela did not voice the surprise she showed in her face—surprise because the pocket-money handed over to each of them by Mr Sigglesthorne had been quite generous and sufficient for the few expenses the girls would be likely to incur in Barrowfield during the remainder of their stay. However, she lent the money at once, and willingly, and asked no questions—for which Beryl seemed very grateful.

Feeling a little uneasy about the matter, and wishing to help her if possible, Pamela made several opportunities for Beryl to confide in her if she had wished to do so. But Beryl did not seem to wish to do so.

CHAPTER XV

ABOUT A BAZAAR AND A MEETING IN THE RUINED WINDMILL

The bazaar, for which Caroline had been sewing so perseveringly, was held in the grounds of the Manor House on a beautiful sunny day at the end of May. Caroline spent a blissful afternoon, dressed in a Japanese kimono with chrysanthemums in her hair, surrounded by tea-cosies and cushion-covers and hand-embroidered scarves; and she had quite a brisk sale at her stall, in spite of exorbitant prices.

The spacious lawn below the terraced flower-garden was a delightful picture; the soft, velvety grass and the cool shade under the trees that bordered it making a pleasing background for the dainty kimonoed figures that tripped to and fro among the bamboo stalls with their white umbrella-shaped awnings. As the general public began to make its appearance, the colours in the summer dresses that moved across the lawn became as variegated as the flower-garden itself.

Lady Prior stood on the terrace and looked down with a pleased smile at the animated scene beneath her.

"The village looks forward so eagerly to this each year," she remarked to a friend. "You see, there is absolutely nowhere for them to go as a rule, poor creatures. This is quite an event for them." And she raised her eyebrows and gave a little rippling laugh.

Meanwhile the poor creatures were spending their money as they were able, and the local reporter, who was wandering among the stalls, was mentally calculating how big a sum of money he would be able to announce in next week's Observeras the result of Lady Prior's Annual Bazaar. Most of the village seemed out to enjoy itself at all costs; but now and again one would come across a gloomy individual who looked like an unwilling victim of this annual institution. In some cases, as one little old woman grumbled to Caroline, people came because they had been badgered and worried into promising to attend by one of the industrious members of the committee.

"And there's so much questioning, and reproachful looks, an' cold stares afterward—if you don't come," she grumbled, fingering the various articles on Caroline's stall, "that you come for peace sake.... Though I'd much rather be sittin' at 'ome an' 'aving a cup of tea in peace and quietness and restin' my old bones—it's all very well for young folk to come gallivantin' and spendin' their savings—but when you're old—! … 'Ow much is this? What is it? Eh? An egg-cosy! … Oh, give me one of them six-penny 'air-tidies—it'll do for my daughter in London. I ain't got no 'air to speak of myself. But my daughter—her 'air comes out in 'andfulls—you ought to see it! … You've got nothing else for six-pence, I suppose? No? … I won't 'ave anything else then."

And the little old woman took the hair-tidy and made her way straight to the gates, apparently making a bee-line for home, having fulfilled her duty.

Caroline was not critical—she took things very much as a matter of course, and did not feel ashamed for the handsomely dressed lady from a neighbouring village who inquired in a loud voice for the stall where the 'pore clothes' were for sale. Caroline did not quite understand at first, until another stall-holder explained that Mrs Lester always purchased a number of garments to distribute among the deserving poor of her parish. The garments Mrs Lester bought looked a bit clumsy, and were made all alike, of rather coarse material, but "she's awfully good to the poor, you know," Caroline was told; and there the matter ended, until she recounted the incident to the others when she got home, and provoked a stormy protest from Pamela against the way in which rich people were 'good to the poor.'

"Why can't they be more tactful," asked Pamela. "Of course I know lots of them are—but I mean people like this Mrs Lester."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous, Pamela," said Isobel, laughing. "What do poor people want with tact? Give them a good meal or a bundle of clothes and they'll pretend to be grateful and satisfied and all that, and directly your back is turned they'll grumble because you haven't given them more. They always want more—they don't want tact!"

Pamela stared for a moment at Isobel, who was reclining gracefully on the sofa, amusement in every line of her face at Pamela's ideas.

"Good gracious, Isobel! I can see a perfectly horrible future in store for you," Pamela said quietly. "You are going to be another Mrs Lester."

"What of it?" laughed Isobel. "As long as I am as rich as she is, there are no horrors for me."

"Anyway, I'm sorry for you," said Pamela earnestly.

"What on earth for?" asked Isobel, slightly nettled.

"Because you'll miss some of the best things in life," replied Pamela.

"Not if I'm rich, I shan't," said Isobel.

Caroline had listened in mild surprise at all this. It had never struck her that there could be anything to object to in Mrs Lester's attitude.

"Do you know," she said, changing the conversation, "I had to pay for the hire of my kimono. I hadn't expected to have to pay after giving my services free, and making so many things for the bazaar. But it all goes to a good cause, I suppose."

Caroline had rather regretted that none of the other three girls had been present at the bazaar in the afternoon, to see how rapidly her tea-cosies had sold; but each of the three had had a different excuse for not coming. Isobel's absence, of course, was a foregone conclusion—she would have loved to go, but could not on account of Miss Crabingway's instructions.

Pamela, as we know, hated bazaars. "Don't ask me to come, Caroline," she had said kindly. "But will you take this donation for 'the cause' and put it in one of the boxes or whatever they have to collect the money in."

Caroline had had hopes that Beryl, at any rate, would not like to refuse to come. But lack of money to spend made Beryl desperate, and, although she was quite resolved in her own mind not to go, she half promised Caroline she would go, if she felt up to it. She even made a feint of preparing to go. Then a sudden imaginary attack of neuralgia made it impossible, and she sent word by Pamela to tell Caroline not to wait, and went and lay down in her bedroom and pulled down the blind. There in her cool and darkened room she listened to Caroline departing, and felt very much ashamed of herself for the story she had made up about neuralgia.

"But I couldn't explain that I had no money—and why," she made excuses to herself. "Oh, it isn't fair!"

About a week after the bazaar Isobel went over to Inchmoor alone one day to Madame Clarence's, a bad toothache compelling Caroline to miss a lesson for the first time. When her dancing-lesson was over Isobel did a little shopping, and then went and had tea in a smart and popular confectioner's, where she could watch all the fashion of the town go by from her seat near the window. Finding that she had missed her usual train back to Barrowfield and that there was a long wait before the next train, she finished her tea leisurely and then started out to walk back home.

She had got about half-way back when a thunderstorm broke suddenly. And there was Isobel in a light cotton dress, and a hat that would be 'absolutely ruined' if it got wet, in the middle of a country lane—a couple of miles from anywhere. She had not paid much attention to the warning clouds overhead, and when the first growl of thunder was heard she looked up startled and hastened her footsteps.

A few minutes later the rain started—great slow thunder-spots at first, and then it came down in torrents. Isobel, casting her eyes hastily around for some place of shelter, saw on the hill-top the ruined windmill. She made for this, and dashed in wet and gasping, and found that although the wind and rain lashed in through the many holes in the ruin, yet it afforded a considerable amount of protection if she chose the right corner to stand in. It was fortunate that she did not remember how Caroline, in spite of her toothache, had come out to the front door to advise her to take an umbrella with her, or she would have felt even more out of temper with the world than she did.

The corner she was crouching in was partly hidden from the doorway by a couple of thick beams of wood which were leaning, like props, from the walls to the ground. The beams and a pile of dust and bricks formed a partial screen, but not sufficient to hide her white frock, if anyone had been present in that deserted spot.

Isobel had been there about five minutes, and the storm showed no signs of abating, when she heard voices and hurrying feet, and the next instant two people dashed in at the doorway.

"Here you are, mother, stand this side—and hold the rug round you this way—it'll protect us a bit," said a deep voice.

"It really is most annoying—the car breaking down like that," said a woman's voice. "Don't go outside, Harry.... Oh, mind!" She gave a little shriek at a flash of lightning.

It was not the lightning nor the crash of thunder that followed that made Isobel's heart thump so madly. The two new-comers—who had not caught sight of her yet, as they were standing with their backs to her—were no others than Lady Prior and her son!

Whatever should she do, thought poor Isobel. She was caught in a trap. If they turned and saw her, as they undoubtedly would do sooner or later, they would probably speak—and then what was she to do? Of course they wouldn't know who she was. Surely Miss Crabingway wouldn't mean her not to speak, under the circumstances. It was so perfectly silly! … But old ladies were queer creatures sometimes. And only a few weeks more—and then the fifty pounds was hers, and she could do what she liked. Isobel did not want to lose the money just by making some stupid little mistake a week or so before it was due. She thought of her Wishing Well wish.... Of course, she could explain just how this meeting came about, to Miss Crabingway—but would Miss Crabingway understand?—or was she hoping that most of the girls would break one or other of the rules, and so lose the money?

All this flashed through Isobel's mind during the few minutes she waited for the two by the doorway to turn round and discover her. How she wished—wished most fervently—that they would not turn round. For, besides the chief reason, Isobel felt she did not wish them to see her because she must look such 'a sight'—dripping wet, and crumpled, and blown about, and her hat flopping limply.

She gathered from the disjointed conversation that was going on that Lady Prior and her son had been driving home in the motor when the car had broken down in one of the by-lanes about a hundred yards from the mill. The storm had come on while the son was trying to mend matters, and Lady Prior being rather nervous of lightning had been unwilling to stay in the car covered with rugs, and had insisted on getting under a roof of some sort where she felt more protected. She had also insisted on Harry coming with her, and so, covering the motor over, they had brought a rug and taken shelter inside the windmill. Although Harry had thought that they would be just as safe if they had remained in the car, Lady Prior thought otherwise. And so here they were.

Isobel glanced round about to see if there were any possible way of escape; but there appeared to be none. "Now what shall I do when they turn round?" she kept asking herself. Had Beryl been in the same predicament as Isobel all sorts of wild ideas would have been rushing through her brain. Beryl would have thought of things like this: Should she pretend she was a foreigner, and could not understand English? Or, better still, should she pretend she was deaf and dumb? Should she pretend to have fainted—and so escape from having to speak; but this might have had awkward consequences if they insisted on taking her home or to a doctor. Should she pretend to go mad, and tear past them and out of the door?

But these sorts of ideas did not occur to Isobel, who was not used to practising deceptions as Beryl was. What Isobel did do was, after all, the most natural thing. When Lady Prior and Harry turned and caught sight of her, and Lady Prior gave a little shriek (because the lightning had unnerved her), and then broke into exclamations and questions, Isobel, quite unable to control herself, began to cry, her face buried in her hands. ("And now, I simply can't let them see my face," she thought to herself. "My nose always goes so red when I cry.... I must look such an awful fright.... I must keep my face hidden somehow.")

She became aware that Lady Prior was speaking to her in a slightly condescending voice, forbidding her to cry, and telling her not be alarmed at the lightning.

"These country creatures are sometimes so frightfully hysterical during thunderstorms," Isobel heard Lady Prior remark in an undertone to her son. "I suppose she's a girl from one of the villages around here.... There, there, my good girl, don't cry like that—the storm's almost over now."

Lady Prior asked her a few more questions—Where did she come from? Had she far to go home? But receiving no reply she turned to her son, smiled faintly, and shrugged her shoulders.

Isobel sobbed on. Her feelings beggar description. To be talked to in such a tone by Lady Prior! To be mistaken for a dowdy, hysterical village girl by Lady Prior! (But, of course, her wet clothes and flopping hat and streaky hair must look so positively awful that no wonder Lady Prior could not tell what she was nor what she looked like.) Nevertheless, it was the last drop in Isobel's cup of humiliation. Not for anything on earth would she let them see her face now!

Stealthily she watched for her opportunity. Lady Prior and her son had moved away from the door because the rain was lashing in too furiously, and their backs were turned to her again. She edged quietly round the wall, climbed swiftly over the pile of bricks and dust, and made a sudden dash for the door.

Lady Prior gave another little shriek and clutched hold of Harry's arm.

Isobel's action had been so sudden and unexpected that before anyone could stop her she had gained the door and was rushing blindly down the hill in the pouring rain.

Whether Harry was sent after her she did not know. Probably not, as it was still raining, and Lady Prior would think the girl was hysterical beyond control and that it was the best thing to let her run home as quickly as possible.

Isobel reached home just as the storm was over. Do what she would to avoid seeing the other girls she could not escape them. They all three came out into the hall to exclaim over her drenched state and offer their help, but she kept her head down as much as possible so that they should not see she had been crying, and hurried off to her room to change her clothes at once.

She would not look in the glass until she was warm and dry again. She felt she could not stand this last blow to her self-respect. When she did see her reflection she was almost her old self again, and the feeling of humiliation was considerably lightened. She began to feel somewhat virtuous for not breaking Miss Crabingway's rule, and pleased with herself for having got out of the predicament without Lady Prior and Harry suspecting her identity.

CHAPTER XVI

PAMELA'S WISH COMES TRUE

It would be pleasant to be able to record, now that the visit to Chequertrees draws to a close, that the four girls had made considerable progress in the work that they had set themselves to do. But this was not quite the case.

Caroline had certainly done an immense amount of needlework, but she had learnt no dressmaking nor 'cutting out'; her needlework was simply a repetition of work she could already do. And the dancing-lessons she had attended had scarcely improved her ability, or rather inability, for dancing; but they were good exercise for her, and had improved her health. It seemed to Caroline as if she would never be able to learn some of the dances Madame Clarence taught, not even if she attended the Academy for twenty years; she did not know why—simply, she could not grasp them. Sometimes it seemed to Caroline as if her feet were in league against her; her right foot would come forward and point the toe when it ought to have remained stationary and let the left foot point the toe; and her left foot would raise itself up while the right foot gave a hop, just when they both ought to have been gliding gracefully along the polished floor.... But in spite of these annoyances Caroline kept doggedly on with the lessons, and the improvement in her health was more than compensation for her lack of success as a dancer.

Beryl had advanced a great deal in her musical studies. She had had time and opportunity to practise and study her theory; time and opportunity had never been so liberally offered to her before, and now that they were offered she seized them eagerly—and made the most of them. She had even tried to compose a few pieces—a waltz, and a march, and a melody in E flat, a haunting melody which always made her feel 'exaltedly sad' whenever she played it. Beryl thought privately that it was a beautiful tune, but Isobel, who heard it through the door one day, told Caroline that she thought it ought to be called 'Green Apples,' because the treble "sounded like the face one pulls on tasting something sharp and sour." Caroline was puzzled, and pondered over this for a long time, and then went to listen outside the door herself. She heard the tune, and liked it—liked it so much that she went in and asked Beryl to play it again, much to Beryl's confusion and delight. After that it became a regular institution; Caroline would take her needlework into the drawing-room and sit and listen whenever Beryl started to play her melody in E flat. For some reason or other this particular tune appealed to Caroline; it made her feel pleasantly melancholy, and she enjoyed the feeling, and would sit sewing and heaving long sighs at intervals. If Isobel were anywhere within hearing on these occasions she was rendered nearly helpless with stifled laughter. "There's poor old Caroline going in to have some more 'Green Apples,'" she would giggle, and as the tune proceeded would stuff her handkerchief in her mouth and fly up to her room and shut herself in. Although this was only an early attempt at composing, it marked a chapter in Beryl's musical career, and as she advanced her compositions became more numerous and were better finished.

Isobel, who had not taken the question of work seriously, had nevertheless made good progress in her dancing. Naturally a graceful dancer, she had rapidly picked up the new dances at Madame Clarence's, and was now one of Madame's 'show pupils'—to the mutual satisfaction of both of them. It may have been noticed that up to the present time no mention has been made of Isobel taking any photographs with the camera she talked of buying; this was because she did not buy a camera until a fortnight before her stay at Barrowfield came to an end; and then she went and bought one with a definite purpose in view—the purpose of giving a gift of some photographs to Miss Crabingway on her return.