Chapter VI: Part 6

Pamela went round to see the Baggs after tea. She knew that it was one of the days Elizabeth went over to Inchmoor and that she would not be back home again until seven o'clock, because it was the evening she stayed later to do her housekeeping shopping. But Pamela did not want to see Elizabeth herself. She wanted to see her firelight picture, which she knew was just finished.

The eldest little Bagg girl was setting the table for her father's tea when Pamela arrived at 'Alice Maud Villa.'

"I'm just going up to Elizabeth's room for something," said Pamela, after she had helped to lay the table. Tom Bagg was not in yet, but expected in every minute.

Upstairs in the studio Pamela found Elizabeth's picture--finished. She stood before it for some minutes, regarding it earnestly.

"Yes, it's the best thing she's ever done," she said to herself. "I'm sure it is."

To Pamela's eyes the likenesses were excellent; Tom Bagg, with his ruddy, genial face, sitting in his big arm-chair by the fire, chuckling, and pointing with the stem of his pipe at his absorbed audience of children, a habit of his when emphasizing any particular point in the story. The expressions on the children's faces were delightful. Pamela laughed softly to herself as she looked at them.

Then she went to the door, opened it, and listened. Tom Bagg had just come in, and was inquiring when his tea would be ready.

"I'll wait till he's had it," thought Pamela. "He'll be in an extra good mood then."

She went downstairs and chatted with him while he had his tea, and did her best to put him in as pleasant a mood as possible. She laughed at his jokes longer than they deserved, and encouraged him to talk; he was always happy when talking; and she kept an eye on the children so that they did nothing to annoy him. Frequently she would glance up at the clock, anxious to assure herself that Elizabeth was not due home yet.

At length, when Tom Bagg had finished his tea and had got out his pipe and tobacco pouch, she felt that her opportunity had arrived. She rose, and with rapidly beating heart went upstairs to the studio and fetched the firelight picture down. Without a word she placed it on a chair before the old cabman, who watched her movements with curious surprise. The little Baggs pressed forward and clustered round the picture, gazing in astonishment. For a second or two there was dead silence in the room.

"It's Daddy," said one of the children.

"An' us!" cried another shrilly.

"Your sister painted it," said Pamela to Tom Bagg.

Then they all began to talk at once--all, that is, except old Tom Bagg. Throughout the noisy interlude that followed he remained silent, staring at the picture. Pamela watched his face anxiously.

Presently he scratched the bald spot on the top of his head, and said quietly:

"Well, I'm blowed!"

He had never seen any of Elizabeth's portrait studies before, and was filled with astonishment.

"But it's like me!" he said in surprise, as if that were the last thing to be expected.

"Of course it is," replied Pamela. "It's meant to be." Then she went on to explain how Elizabeth had sat and watched him and the children and then gone away and painted the picture up in her own room. She was longing to talk about Elizabeth's work with all the enthusiasm she felt for it, but she purposely kept her voice as quiet as she could, because she guessed it would be wiser and more effective to let Tom Bagg think he had discovered for himself how clever his sister really was.

Which is precisely what Tom Bagg came to think he had done. He was much taken by his own portrait.

"It's not a bad bit of work, eh?" he asked Pamela.

"It's a decidedly good bit of work--it's splendid," she replied.

The more Tom Bagg looked at the picture the more pleased he became with it.

"No," he said, "it's not at all a bad bit of work."

He stood with his head a little on one side regarding the picture.

And then the front-door latch clicked and Elizabeth Bagg stepped in. She caught sight of the picture immediately, and looked round the room astonished, and annoyed.

"Oh, please forgive me," said Pamela, moving toward her. "I--I simply couldn't help bringing it down..."

"Lizzie," said Tom Bagg, who felt wholeheartedly generous once he was convinced of anything, "this is not at all a bad bit of work. Why didn't you tell me you could paint likenesses?"

He was evidently greatly struck with the painting, and seemed to admire it so genuinely, that any annoyance Elizabeth may have felt faded immediately, and she laughed a little nervously and said she was glad he liked it.

When Pamela had decided to bring the picture down to show to Tom Bagg she had not expected her action to do more than make Tom Bagg realize the talent of his sister, and so make it easier for her to have more time for her painting. Tom Bagg certainly did realize his sister's talent at last; but the matter did not end there; he became so pleased with the picture that the following evening he carried it (without Elizabeth's permission) down to the 'Blue Boar,' where he proudly displayed it to his bosom friends, and any strangers who happened to drop in while he was there, and was much elated by the unanimous praise it received.

Whether you believe the Wishing Well had anything to do with the sequel depends on whether you believe in Wishing Wells or not. Pamela undoubtedly puts it down to the Wishing Well. She had wished that Elizabeth Bagg's work would gain recognition. And it did. It happened that a Mr Alfred Knowles, an influential art connoisseur from London, came into the 'Blue Boar' that evening just when Tom Bagg was showing the picture to a group of men in the bar-parlour. Mr Knowles listened with great interest to Tom Bagg's explanations and remarks, and getting into conversation with the old cabman, questioned him closely about his sister's work. An introduction to Elizabeth Bagg followed, and Mr Knowles was so delighted with her pictures that he purchased several and took them back to town with him; he would have liked to buy the firelight picture, but Tom Bagg seemed so anxious to keep it that Elizabeth decided not to part with it, but promised Mr Knowles that she would have a reproduction made for him as quickly as possible. And so the original picture of Tom Bagg telling stories to his children was hung up over the mantel-piece in the living-room of the little cottage in Long Lane.

Pamela was delighted by the turn events had taken. Had she been able to see into Elizabeth's future she would have been more delighted still. For Elizabeth's pictures were to be seen and admired by Mr Knowles' artistic friends, and she was to get commissions from them for numerous paintings, so that as time went on she was obliged to give up her classes at Inchmoor in order to give all her spare time to her painting at home. And with the money she earned Elizabeth was eventually able to pay for some one to come and do the housework for her brother, and washing and mending, and to help look after the children. For, though Elizabeth achieved in time a small amount of fame, it never altered her decision to stay and look after her brother and his children.

"I couldn't be happy if I left them now," she would say, when tempted with the thought of that wonderful room in London. Instead, she rented a room in Barrowfield, which she turned into a studio, and divided her days between the studio and her brother's house.

As for Tom Bagg, he was bewildered yet gratified with the state of affairs; his respect for Elizabeth increased by leaps and bounds as he saw how highly valued her work became. Gradually he came to wonder if he and the children were a drag on Elizabeth's career, and once he offered her her freedom, and was deeply touched by her decision to stay with him....

And there was to come a day in the future when Pamela and Michael and Elizabeth Bagg were to pay a visit to the Royal Academy to see Elizabeth's latest picture hung....

But all this was to happen some years after Pamela's first visit to Barrowfield was over. Up to the present time Elizabeth's pictures had just been bought by Mr Knowles--which was sufficient for Pamela to be able to announce to three interested girls at Chequertrees that her Wishing Well wish had come true.

*CHAPTER XVII*

*IN WHICH OLD SILAS LAUGHS AND ISOBEL DANCES*

Madame Clarence's reception took place a week before the girls' visit to Chequertrees came to an end. As one of Madame's 'show' pupils Isobel was to do a special dance by herself on this occasion; she had been looking forward to this, and had bought a special dress for the dance, made of white silk. She had practised the steps and movements of the dance over and over again before a long mirror in her bedroom, until she could do the dance to her complete satisfaction. Madame was enthusiastic over it, and told Isobel privately that she thought she would be the success of the evening--which pleased Isobel greatly, and made her determine that she would do her best to make Madame's words come true.

In her white silk frock, her pretty fluffy hair dressed becomingly and tied with a soft blue ribbon, she looked very dainty and graceful as she ran down the stairs to the dining-room for Pamela and Beryl to inspect her before she put her cloak on.

Caroline, who, of course, was to dance at Madame's reception also (but not by herself), was "not quite ready yet," she called out to Isobel as the latter passed the bedroom door on her way down. Caroline was to wear a white frock too; but white did not suit Caroline's complexion, and the style of her dress rather emphasized her heavy build and plump arms. However, as Caroline surveyed herself in the mirror she was not so concerned about her frock or complexion as she was with the intricacies of one of the dances she was to take part in that evening. She felt sure she would never remember a certain twist at one point, and a bow, and a turn at another, and she felt very glad that she was not going to dance alone, like Isobel, but only with a crowd of other girls.

Pamela, Beryl, Martha, and Ellen had been invited by Isobel and Caroline to come as their guests to the reception. Each pupil of Madame's could bring two friends with them, and Isobel claiming Pamela and Beryl for her two, Caroline suddenly had the nice idea of inviting Martha and Ellen.

It was arranged that Isobel and Caroline were to go on ahead of their guests, as Madame had expressed a wish that all her pupils would arrive at least half an hour before the visitors were expected, so that everything and every one would be ready to start promptly to time. It was just beginning to get dusk when the two girls were actually ready and waiting for Tom Bagg's cab to arrive so that they could start off. Pamela, Beryl, Martha, and Ellen were to follow on to Inchmoor by the seven o'clock train.

The evening was very warm, and as Tom Bagg drove up to the gate, Isobel, suddenly declaring that she was too hot to put on her cloak, decided to carry it over her arm and wrap it round her in the cab if she felt chilly. Caroline did not care how hot she felt; she put on her cloak and buttoned it up to the neck, telling Isobel she thought she was foolish and that she might not only catch a cold but would get her dress soiled in brushing against the cab door, and so on. But Isobel laughed and asked Caroline if she was going to take her goloshes and umbrella in case it rained between the front door and the cab at the gate. And so, with Pamela and Beryl wishing them both good luck, Isobel and Caroline passed out of the front door and down the garden.

And then a catastrophe happened.

Isobel, who was some way in front of Caroline, was passing a low thick bush half-way along the path to the gate, and had turned to make some laughing remark, and wave her hand to Pamela at the front door, when suddenly a pailful of garden rubbish--mostly weeds with black, wet soil clinging to their roots--came shooting over the bush, and descended in a shower all over Isobel and her pretty white silk frock.

Isobel gave a scream, ran a few steps, and then stood stock-still, and gazed down at her frock and the coat on her arm.

"Oh, it's spoilt--it's absolutely spoilt!" she gasped, whipping out her handkerchief and trying in vain to rub off the dirty, smeary marks on her sleeves and skirt. "Oh, Pamela, whatever shall I do? ... But who _did_ it? Who _did_ it?" she cried, lifting her head angrily, and she made a dart round the side of the bush.

But there was no one immediately on the other side. About a dozen yards off, with his back to her, digging methodically away at one of the flowerbeds was old Silas Sluff.

"Oh!" cried Isobel. "It was you, then, was it? How--how dare-- Oh, you perfectly horrible creature!"

Silas, being deaf, took no notice, and so she ran forward, stepping recklessly on his flowerbeds, and confronted him, her eyes blazing with anger.

By this time the others had come on the scene. Pamela, Beryl, followed by the dumbfounded Caroline, and presently Martha and Ellen, came running to learn what had happened and what had caused the delay. Poor Isobel certainly looked a woebegone sight, with great smears down her dress and on one cheek, and soil and weeds in her hair. Who would have believed that the soil would have been so sticky and wet--unless old Silas had recently been watering the garden, which he didn't appear to have been doing.

"Look what you've done!" cried Isobel excitedly, pointing to her dress; but as Silas did not look up, but still went on digging, she suddenly seized his spade, jerked it out of his hands, and flung it down on the ground. "Look what you've done!" she repeated.

Old Silas straightened his bent back and looked at the dress in silence.

"You'll have to pay for this, my man!" Isobel raised her voice and spoke loudly and distinctly.

"Eh?" said old Silas, whose deafness appeared to be worse than usual to-day. Then he added, "Who will?"

"You," cried Isobel. "You'll have to pay for a new dress in place of this one you've spoilt."

Here Pamela joined in. After a great deal of difficulty, for the old gardener seemed extraordinarily deaf and stupid, he was made to understand that he was being accused of throwing a pailful of rubbish over Isobel.

"And you did it _purposely_," added Isobel.

"Oh, Isobel, wait a minute," said Pamela. "Perhaps he didn't know you were passing--perhaps he didn't hear you."

Old Silas was apparently not so deaf after all, for he caught this remark, and looking at Isobel's dress and seeing that his handiwork was even better than he had expected it to be, he decided in his own mind to retire now from this awkward scene in the manner most to his advantage; after all, he thought, there were four, five, six of them as witnesses against him here, and if they complained to Miss Crabingway he might be dismissed--which would not suit him at all.

"'Ere," he said at length, "what's that you sez I done? Eh? Well, I _did_ throw a pail of rubbidge over the 'edge jus' now--I'm not a-goin' to say as 'ow I didn't--but I thrown it on to the rubbidge 'eap.... Where I alwus throw it--all on to the path in a 'eap and then sweep it up afterwuds.... I never 'eard no one comin' along the path--I'm that 'ard of 'earing, yer know.... I never 'eard no one..."

"But it's not usual for you to throw the rubbish over like that without looking, is it?" asked Pamela.

But Silas stoutly maintained that it was, though nobody in the little group around him had seen him do such a thing before to-day. Ellen, in the background, squeezed Martha's arm and winked, whispering in her ear,

"Of _course_ he done it for the purpose. I told you he'd have his revenge on Miss Isobel for saucing him in the garden when she first came here, didn't I now?"

Meanwhile Silas stubbornly held to his point that he thought he was throwing the weeds on the rubbish heap, and that he had not heard Isobel coming past.

"Well, Isobel," said Pamela, "it won't do any good to prolong this argument--and time's flying past. Let's hurry in and see what we can do to the dress--or you must wear one of mine. And, Beryl, will you explain to Tom Bagg and ask him in to wait for twenty minutes--we mustn't be longer than that." Then she turned to Silas. "I think," she said, "that at any rate you might apologize----"

"Apologize! What good will that do! I don't want an apology from _him_," cried Isobel. "I'm too disgusted with him--besides, I _know_ he did it purposely. He's just telling lies, because he is frightened now at what he's done.... But if the dress is ruined beyond repair he shall pay for it--I don't care what he says.... I'll make him pay, if--if I have to go to law about it." And without waiting for anything further Isobel turned on her heel and marched away into the house, followed by Pamela, who was secretly longing to laugh at old Silas's expression and Isobel's theatrical outburst. In a few moments the group round Silas dispersed.

Silas stood for a while scratching the top of his head and looking at the ground where Isobel had stood, then he picked up his spade and resumed his digging.

Presently he began to chuckle. "I said I'd learn 'er," he told himself. "An' I _did_ learn 'er. Nice and slimy and wet them weeds were--an', after all, I _did_ only throw 'em on a rubbidge 'eap. That's what she is."

Why old Silas had not taken his revenge on Isobel before this it is impossible to say. He had not thought out any clear plan for a long time, but had waited for an idea, and when he had got one he had turned it over in his mind with relish for some time, and then begun to look around for an opportunity--and, at length, to-day he had found one.

While Tom Bagg waited in the hall, and Caroline wandered about asking if she could be of any use, Pamela and Beryl, finding that Isobel's dress could not be remedied unless it was thoroughly washed and ironed, quickly got out a white muslin frock of Pamela's and set to work to make it fit Isobel. Pamela was more Isobel's build than either of the other two girls, and so her dress was not such a bad fit, and with the aid of a needle and cotton, and some safety pins and a pair of scissors, it soon began to look presentable on Isobel. Of course it did not look as pretty on Isobel as her own white silk had done--but it was fortunate that Pamela had even a white muslin frock ready to lend Isobel in this emergency. Martha and Ellen lent a hand, hurrying to and fro, looking for pins and scissors, and helping Isobel to brush the soil out of her hair and re-do it. For although they all knew that Isobel's conduct toward old Silas had been very rude and trying, to say the least of it, yet they all felt sorry for her that he had chosen just this occasion to punish her for her treatment of him so many months ago.

There was no time to talk much--they all worked hard, and within half an hour Isobel and Caroline were safely packed away inside Tom Bagg's cab and were jogging briskly along the road to Inchmoor.

Of course Pamela, Beryl, Martha, and Ellen had missed the seven o'clock train, and when they arrived at the Dancing Academy, and were shown into the big dancing-hall, a great number of people were already assembled, and the first part of the programme had begun. Madame, who had received all her guests in the doorway and had shaken hands with each one, had now disappeared behind the door at the back of the raised platform at the end of the hall. The four late arrivals managed to squeeze through the crowd that filled the lower half of the hall, and at length found seats where they could obtain a good view of the evening's proceedings.

A glance round the hall conveyed the impression that Madame's receptions must be very popular affairs; there was scarcely a vacant seat to be seen. Most of the audience were relatives of the pupils or friends, or prospective pupils, but there were a number of people who were outsiders--people who had received a pressing and urgent invitation from Madame at the last minute; for always before her receptions Madame would be suddenly seized with an unreasonable fear that the hall would be empty of onlookers, or only half filled, and so she would send out a score or so of these pressing and flattering invitations at random, and in a frantic hurry, a couple of days before the reception took place. And generally a few of these last-minute visitors would turn up.

The upper half of the hall, including the raised platform at the end, was reserved for the dancers, the baby-grand piano being well concealed by bamboo fern-stands and pots of flowering shrubs, so that the music arose, apparently, from a bank of greenery and flowers. Prettily shaded lights were suspended at intervals from the ceiling.

Pamela and Beryl gathered from the conversation going on around them that they had missed Madame's opening speech and the first dance, and now the second dance was just about to start. A tall, thin lady in a black evening dress, with lace frills at her elbows, and wearing pince-nez and a rather bored expression, appeared from the door at the back of the platform, and descending behind the ferns and bamboo stands, began to play a lively barn-dance on the piano. It was a good piano, all except one note in the bass which was out of tune, and made a curious burring noise whenever it was played on; and this particular note seemed to recur again and again in the barn-dance, so that Beryl always associated the music of that evening with this particular bass note, and could hear it, in her head, whenever Madame's name was mentioned.

Twelve girls all dressed in white, and twelve youths in regulation evening-dress, took part in the barn-dance, which was enthusiastically applauded by the audience. This was followed by a graceful, old-fashioned minuet and several solo dances, each of which Martha said was nicer than the one before. But of all the dances, there were just three that the onlookers from Chequertrees remembered best. The first was Isobel's dance, the second a flower-dance in which Caroline took part, and the third a weird dance done by Madame Clarence herself.

Isobel's dance was a great success, as Madame had prophesied. Almost up to the moment when she first appeared on the platform Isobel had been feeling out of humour and disappointed on account of her white silk dress; but directly she started to dance she forgot all her troubles, and, smiling happily, she floated lightly across the platform, swaying, turning, tapping with her small white shoes, and daintily holding the skirt of Pamela's white muslin frock. It was sheer pleasure to watch Isobel's graceful movements, and she seemed to be enjoying the dance so thoroughly, that every one else felt they were enjoying it too. Could old Silas have seen her smiling light-heartedly as she danced across the hall he would never have recognized her as the same girl who had stood before him a few hours previously, savagely angry. Pamela and Beryl were astonished at the change in Isobel; they had not expected her to be able to throw her annoyance off so completely.

At the end of the dance a storm of applause broke out, and Isobel was encored again and again. Back she came, blushing and smiling and bowing--a transformed Isobel, her eyes bright with excitement. The success of the evening! That's what she had hoped to be--and that was what she was. As she bowed her acknowledgments after her encore dance, her smiling gaze, wandering round the faces of the audience, lighted on the faces of two girls, whom she recognized as Lady Prior's daughters; they were applauding her enthusiastically, Isobel saw to her delight.

On the other side of the platform door Caroline waited, listening to the applause that was greeting Isobel, and she couldn't help thinking that it was rather a shame that no applause like this was ever given to the most choice piece of needlework imaginable. She tried to conjure up visions of rapturously applauding audiences encoring an embroidered tea-cosy, but it was impossible to picture it, and she sighed heavily. "And yet the tea-cosy is much more useful than a dance," she thought. Isobel might have argued that a dance, in giving a hundred people a few minutes' genuine pleasure and happiness was of more use than a tea-cosy, but Caroline would never have agreed with her. Thinking of the many hours she had sat over her needlework, and the delicate stitchery she had done, for which she had received nothing more than an occasional word of praise, Caroline felt all at once aggrieved, realizing the unfairness of things in general. She couldn't remember feeling like this before, and marvelled at herself. Why had she got this sudden desire for praise? Perhaps it was the knowledge that the dance in which she was to appear came next on the programme, and she knew that she was no good at dancing. She wondered why Madame had insisted on her taking part in this dance; Madame liked every one of her pupils to appear on the occasions when she gave a reception, providing, of course, that they were passable dancers. She thought Caroline a passable dancer, and so she was until she forgot her steps. And Caroline felt convinced she was going to forget them on this occasion; she wished she had, on the present occasion, that sense of capability she would have felt if she had been going on the platform with a needle and thread in her hand.

Caroline felt so sure she would forget a certain part of the flower-dance that, of course, she did forget it. With twenty other girls, each carrying a trail of artificial roses, she danced on to the platform and down the upper part of the hall. All went well for a time. Every time she danced past the place where Martha was sitting she was conscious that Martha nodded and beamed encouragingly at her, and felt somewhat cheered by this attention on Martha's part. And then, when the critical part of the dance arrived--whether it was that Caroline was giddy with whirling round and round, or whether it was because she had thought to herself, "Now, this is where I shall go wrong," will never be known--but after a brief but vivid impression that she was dancing up the side of the wall, and that the audience were spinning round and round her like a gigantic top, Caroline found herself alone in the middle of the hall, with her feet tangled in a trail of artificial roses and her hair tumbling about her face.

The audience was clapping and laughing. Caroline was overcome with confusion and, flushing painfully, tried to disentangle herself from the roses. The other girls were grouped together in a final tableau at the other end of the hall, beside the platform. They were all tittering with laughter too. Caroline made a desperate effort, and, disentangling herself, dashed across to them and tried to obscure herself among the twenty. And in another minute the dance was over and they were all 'behind the scenes' again.

Madame received her with honeyed words, but the tone of her voice was acid. She had thought that Caroline's dancing would pass at least unnoticed, and now it had been noticed in a very unenviable way.

Poor Caroline! She felt both ashamed and sorry for herself. "I knew I should never remember that part," was all she could say--and thereafter remained quiet and sulky, brooding over the 'ridiculous sketch' she must have looked before all that laughing audience. "I never did like dancing," she said to herself later, "and now I hate it."

Fortunately Madame Clarence's own dance followed soon after Caroline's blunder, and the impression made by Madame was such as to sweep everything else into the background for the time being.

It certainly was a remarkable dance, and one that Madame had invented herself. Madame was dressed in a startling black frock embroidered with gold, and wore yellow earrings and a long chain of yellow beads, and bright yellow shoes and stockings. Madame's expressive hands played a great part in the dance, which, as previously mentioned, was remarkable--far more remarkable than beautiful. It seemed to Ellen, who gazed spellbound, as if Madame must surely end by breaking her neck, or one of her legs, so full of twists and curves was the dance; indeed, at times it was all Ellen could do to keep herself from giving little shrieks or crying 'oo-er' aloud. However, she enjoyed it immensely, and so did the rest of the audience, judging by the applause Madame received and the huge bouquets which suddenly appeared and were handed up to her as she came to bow her thanks, smiling delightedly and kissing her hand to the audience.

During the evening there was an interval in which coffee and cakes were handed round, and everybody became very chatty, and Madame wandered about among her guests conversing and receiving compliments. Ellen seemed to be fascinated by Madame, and followed her movements around the hall admiringly.

Beryl watched the evening's proceedings with sad, preoccupied eyes. She smiled and talked brightly enough when anyone spoke to her, but her face in repose wore an anxious, worried look. During the previous week her moods of depression had been very frequent, and worse than usual, for even her music had been neglected and the piano had been closed and silent. She was enjoying the evening at Madame Clarence's, but she was not by any means at ease. Pamela had noticed this and was a little puzzled. That Beryl was far from anxious for their six months' stay at Chequertrees to come to an end Pamela was aware; and she did not doubt that Beryl dreaded Miss Crabingway's return, because it meant Enfield and Aunt Laura for Beryl; but she felt that there was something more than the coming parting to account for Beryl's preoccupied manner and avoidance of any confidential talk with her.

Madame Clarence's successful evening coming at length to a close, Madame stood at the door again and shook hands effusively with her guests as they passed out, receiving more compliments, and herself telling every one how "vewy, vewy kind it was of them to come."

During the journey home Caroline was wrapped in gloom, but Isobel was in high good spirits and chatted and laughed excitedly, all thoughts of old Silas having been driven from her head--until the following morning when she returned the muslin dress to Pamela.

Finding, on examination, that her own silk dress was not irretrievably spoiled, but would come up as good as new when washed, Isobel decided to take no further steps to show her displeasure toward Silas.

"He's not worth taking any more bother about," Isobel decided, partly because she really felt that, and partly because she did not know exactly what to do to punish him--beyond reporting him to Miss Crabingway, which might lead to awkward questions about her own conduct, she realized.

And so Silas Sluff heard no more about the rubbish heap.

*CHAPTER XVIII*

*THE DOOR IS UNLOCKED*

A couple of days before Miss Crabingway was due to return Beryl made an opportunity to speak to Pamela about the money she had borrowed.

"I haven't got it on me at present, Pamela," said Beryl. "But I'll be sure to let you have it back. I'll send it to you by post, without fail. It was awfully good of you.... I have got your address, haven't I? Oh, yes, I wrote it down in my note book."

"That's all right. Don't worry about that--any time will do," said Pamela. "If I could help you in any way----"

But Beryl thanked her and assured her that everything was all right, and hurriedly changed the subject.

Miss Crabingway was expected home on the Friday morning, so the girls made all their final preparations on the Thursday evening, and Pamela and Beryl and Isobel (Caroline was busy packing) spent an hour after tea in picking flowers and arranging them in every room in the house.

"Why, it's like as if the garden 'as come inside the house," cried Martha, passing through the hall as Pamela was arranging a big bowl of roses on a small table by the front door.

"Aren't they lovely?" said Pamela, burying her nose in them. "And we don't seem to have robbed the garden a bit--there are heaps more.... I always think flowers give one such a welcome, don't you, Martha? ... And these are going to stand on the mat, as it were, and be the first to shake hands with Miss Crabingway to-morrow, to welcome her home."

But, after all, it was not the bowl of roses that welcomed Miss Crabingway home; it was a pot of shaggy yellow chrysanthemums that stood inside the french windows of the drawing-room that night. Pamela did not know this, though, until the following morning, after breakfast.

Pamela noticed, when she put her head inside the kitchen door on her way to breakfast that Martha and Ellen were whispering together in a subdued, excited way, and that they stopped at once on catching sight of her and went hastily on with their work.

"I'm just bringing the coffee in, Miss Pamela," said Ellen.

While Martha took the boiled eggs out of the saucepan with a self-conscious expression on her face, and in her efforts to appear unconcerned dropped one, and it broke on the kitchen floor. In the unnecessary energy she put into the work of clearing it up she was able to hide her embarrassment and regain her composure.

This was not lost on Pamela, who felt that there was a certain atmosphere of mystery in the kitchen--which was entirely foreign to the light, sunny room, with its shining brass and purring kettle, and delicious smell of baking bread.

"Is anything the matter, Martha?" she could not help asking, when calm was restored and the broken egg replaced. "There's nothing wrong, is there?"

Martha and Ellen exchanged quick glances, and then Martha laughed.

"Why, bless my heart, why should there be?" she replied. "Of course there's nothing wrong." And she laughed again.

But Pamela felt vaguely uneasy--why, she did not know. She ate her breakfast thoughtfully, and did not talk half so much as she usually did at breakfast-time. All the girls were more silent than usual, as if the coming events of the day were already casting their shadows over them.

As soon as breakfast was finished Martha appeared suddenly in the dining-room doorway and said,

"I was to ask you all if you would please step up and see Miss Crabingway now.... She is in her own room...."

The girls looked at each other in astonishment. Miss Crabingway here! In her own room! The locked-up room? When did she arrive? None of them had heard her come.

They turned to Martha with a dozen questions, but Martha only smiled mysteriously and shook her head.

"Miss Crabingway arrived late last night," she said when there was a pause in the questioning; "so late that she did not knock at the front door, in case she woke you all up ..."

"Then how--?" Isobel began.

"I heard some one tap on the french windows in the drawing-room, just as I was going to lock up for the night.... It was Miss Crabingway," said Martha.

"But why--" said Isobel.

Martha moved out of the doorway. "Miss Crabingway is waiting for you," she said.

The girls had all risen, and were standing round the table.

"Yes, we'd better go," said Pamela.

But none of them moved for a moment. They were gradually readjusting their plans to meet the present occasion--their plans for welcoming Miss Crabingway, which were all spoilt now. Instead of being able to catch a glimpse of her before she saw them--being able to watch her enter the garden gate, and come up the path to the front door--here she was in their midst, ready to welcome _them_.... And they had meant to put on their pretty summer dresses--and here they were with only their morning blouses and skirts on.... However, there was no time to change now--Miss Crabingway was waiting to see them. It was useless to try to remember all the things they had meant to say and do before meeting Miss Crabingway--there was no time for regrets. Before they realized what was happening they were mounting the stairs in solemn, single file, Pamela leading the way and Caroline bringing up the rear--while Martha stood at the foot of the staircase, an enigmatical smile on her face.

Outside the room door which had been locked to them for so long the girls stopped. All was silent within. Each of the girls felt as if the loud beating of her heart must be heard by the other three. They were all rather nervous. What would they see on the other side of the door?--the door which they had so religiously avoided going near, until now. What would Miss Crabingway be like?--Miss Crabingway, who had made such queer rules for them during their stay in her house.

Pamela knocked gently on the door with her knuckles.

The sound of a chair leg scraping on the floor inside could be heard, and then a voice said "Come in." So Pamela turned the door handle and the four girls went in.

Each of the girls, at some time or other during the last six months, had imagined the meeting with Miss Crabingway at the end of their visit; the imagined meetings had been dramatic or comfortable, according to the girls' moods or temperaments; but none of them had imagined anything like the meeting that actually occurred. To begin with, no one had thought of it taking place in the locked-up room, curiously enough.

Miss Crabingway, who had been sitting at the farther end of the room in a low wicker chair beside a table littered with papers, rose as they entered and stood gazing toward them intently. For the space of half a minute she stood quite silent, taking stock of her four visitors--and they stood gazing at her.

Quite unlike Pamela's imagined picture of her, Miss Crabingway was small and thin, about fifty years of age, with exceedingly bright eyes and bushy white hair. Her nose was large and aquiline, of the variety generally termed roman. It is supposed that people with large noses have strength of will and character; it may have been Miss Crabingway's nose that indicated her character, but it was certainly her eyes that appeared to be the most compelling _force_ about her; they were eager, restless, keenly-alive-looking brown eyes. After the girls had noticed her eyes and nose and hair, and her thin-lipped wide mouth, they became aware that Miss Crabingway was dressed in a coat and skirt of some soft dark brown material. It was odd to see Miss Crabingway dressed, with the exception of a hat, as if to go out of doors at this time in the morning; at least, it seemed odd to the girls, who had expected to find her having breakfast in bed, perhaps, or, at any rate, sitting in a flannel dressing-gown.

There was no time at present to take in the details of the 'locked-up room,' but the first impression was one of sombreness with regard to the furnishings, and although it was an airy room, with a very high ceiling and four windows, yet it seemed a dark room on account of the ivy which grew round the windows, and even across the panes in some parts. Then it was gradually borne in upon the girls that nearly everything in the room was duplicated!

There were two four-poster beds with exactly the same coloured hangings and draperies, two chests of drawers, two ottomans (gay and modern and chintz-covered), two wicker-chairs, two small round tables, two fire-places--one at each end of the long room--and two carpets which met in the centre of the floor, two high wardrobes, and so on--so that whenever one caught sight of something fresh, one immediately looked round for its double--and was sure to find it. The ornaments on the two mantelpieces were exactly the same.... All this fascinated one so strangely that Pamela even found herself about to look round for two Miss Crabingways.

But there was only one Miss Crabingway, and her keen eyes travelled from one to another of the girls, and then quickly returning to look again at Beryl, remained staring at her critically.

Then all of a sudden she began to talk as if continuing a conversation with the girls which had already been in progress for some time. The girls hardly took in what she said--they were so surprised--but afterward, when they tried to remember, it seemed to have been something about red serge and water-cress, and the difficulty of living in rooms up six pairs of stairs, if you were a plumber and suffered from rheumatism.... When they thought this over seriously, it seemed too silly; but, nevertheless, it was certainly the impression the girls got of Miss Crabingway's torrent of conversation. The manner in which Miss Crabingway appeared to be continuing some discussion with them puzzled the four girls greatly at first; afterward, they learnt that this was one of Miss Crabingway's little peculiarities--she never publicly recognized the existence of introductions and farewells, but on seeing a fresh arrival would continue a conversation as if the new-comer had been there all the time. She would greet some one who had been absent for years as if he or she had just walked down the garden to see how the lettuces were growing and had then wandered back into the house again. It was an odd trick of Miss Crabingway's, and an inconvenient one sometimes, besides being bewildering. Yet it gave a curious impression that Miss Crabingway was with you all the time, and that she had been watching you throughout the years with those eager eyes of hens. In the same manner she declined to say good-bye, always giving the impression that she was coming along with you--in fact, would catch you up in a few minutes, before you reached the station. It was only when you had been talking with her for some time that you discovered that she did realize there were such things as absence, time, and space.

"However," Miss Crabingway continued, "I want to have a short talk with you all.... But why stand by the door, my dear girls? There are plenty of chairs, and an ottoman here by the window."

At this invitation the girls crossed the room and seated themselves in chairs and on the ottoman, which held two--Beryl and Caroline.

"We are very pleased to meet you, Miss Crabingway, and we want to thank--" Pamela began, when Miss Crabingway broke in suddenly.

"What was the date yesterday?" she asked.

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.