The Girls of Chequertrees

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.

CHAPTER XIX

BERYL CONFESSES

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.

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.

CHAPTER XX

A NEW BEGINNING

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.