The Girls of Chequertrees

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

However, Millicent did not seem to notice anything amiss.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The little white cottage—" began Millicent.

"With the brown shutters," finished Pamela.

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

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

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

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

But Isobel was not listening to Pamela.

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

But Pamela was not listening to Isobel.

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

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

CHAPTER VII

BERYL GOES THROUGH AN ORDEAL

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beryl stopped playing, and swung round on the stool.

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

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

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

"No—oh, no," said Beryl.

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

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

Isobel raised her eyebrows.

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

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

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

Beryl shook her head.

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

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

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

"What happens if you are?" inquired Beryl.

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

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

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

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

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

"Didn't you like the school?"

"Not very much. It was all right."

"Why? Weren't the girls nice?"

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

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

Beryl nodded.

"Many years ago?" asked Isobel.

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

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

"No," answered Beryl. "Why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VIII

WHICH CONCERNS A VISIT TO INCHMOOR

AND A WOMAN WITH A LIMP

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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