The Girls of Chequertrees

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

Isobel's eyebrows were raised in indignant surprise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Old Silas was dumbfounded.

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

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

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

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

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

"But the man was preposterous!" said Isobel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Caroline gazed at her in astonishment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A look of dismay flashed across Isobel's face.

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

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

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

"Why not?" asked Pamela.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER X

PAMELA BEFRIENDS BERYL AND MEETS ELIZABETH BAGG

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

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

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

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

Beryl sprang up as if she had been shot.

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

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

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

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

Presently Beryl became calmer, and began to murmur apologetically,

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

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

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

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

"Oh, no."

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

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

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

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

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

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

MY DEAR LITTLE DAUGHTER,

Some day, in the distant future, you may hear cruel things said about your father—things that may not only be cruel, but false as well, and which will cause you much suffering. The truth is cruel, but I am going to tell you the truth now, so that you will know all there is to know, and will not suffer unnecessarily. I wish for your sake that my life could be spared until you had grown to years of understanding, but this I know cannot be.