CHAPTER XVABOUT A BAZAAR AND A MEETING IN THE RUINED WINDMILLThe bazaar, for which Caroline had been sewing so perseveringly, was held in the grounds of the Manor House on a beautiful sunny day at the end of May. Caroline spent a blissful afternoon, dressed in a Japanese kimono with chrysanthemums in her hair, surrounded by tea-cosies and cushion-covers and hand-embroidered scarves; and she had quite a brisk sale at her stall, in spite of exorbitant prices.The spacious lawn below the terraced flower-garden was a delightful picture; the soft, velvety grass and the cool shade under the trees that bordered it making a pleasing background for the dainty kimonoed figures that tripped to and fro among the bamboo stalls with their white umbrella-shaped awnings. As the general public began to make its appearance, the colours in the summer dresses that moved across the lawn became as variegated as the flower-garden itself.Lady Prior stood on the terrace and looked down with a pleased smile at the animated scene beneath her."The village looks forward so eagerly to this each year," she remarked to a friend. "You see, there is absolutely nowhere for them to go as a rule, poor creatures. This is quite an event for them." And she raised her eyebrows and gave a little rippling laugh.Meanwhile the poor creatures were spending their money as they were able, and the local reporter, who was wandering among the stalls, was mentally calculating how big a sum of money he would be able to announce in next week'sObserveras the result of Lady Prior's Annual Bazaar. Most of the village seemed out to enjoy itself at all costs; but now and again one would come across a gloomy individual who looked like an unwilling victim of this annual institution. In some cases, as one little old woman grumbled to Caroline, people came because they had been badgered and worried into promising to attend by one of the industrious members of the committee."And there's so much questioning, and reproachful looks, an' cold stares afterward—if you don't come," she grumbled, fingering the various articles on Caroline's stall, "that you come for peace sake.... Though I'd much rather be sittin' at 'ome an' 'aving a cup of tea in peace and quietness and restin' my old bones—it's all very well for young folk to come gallivantin' and spendin' their savings—but when you're old—! ... 'Ow much is this? What is it? Eh? An egg-cosy! ... Oh, give me one of them six-penny 'air-tidies—it'll do for my daughter in London. I ain't got no 'air to speak of myself. But my daughter—her 'air comes out in 'andfulls—you ought to see it! ... You've got nothing else for six-pence, I suppose? No? ... I won't 'ave anything else then."And the little old woman took the hair-tidy and made her way straight to the gates, apparently making a bee-line for home, having fulfilled her duty.Caroline was not critical—she took things very much as a matter of course, and did not feel ashamed for the handsomely dressed lady from a neighbouring village who inquired in a loud voice for the stall where the 'pore clothes' were for sale. Caroline did not quite understand at first, until another stall-holder explained that Mrs Lester always purchased a number of garments to distribute among the deserving poor of her parish. The garments Mrs Lester bought looked a bit clumsy, and were made all alike, of rather coarse material, but "she's awfully good to the poor, you know," Caroline was told; and there the matter ended, until she recounted the incident to the others when she got home, and provoked a stormy protest from Pamela against thewayin which rich people were 'good to the poor.'"Why can't they be more tactful," asked Pamela. "Of course I know lots of them are—but I mean people like this Mrs Lester.""Oh, don't be ridiculous, Pamela," said Isobel, laughing. "What do poor people want with tact? Give them a good meal or a bundle of clothes and they'll pretend to be grateful and satisfied and all that, and directly your back is turned they'll grumble because you haven't given themmore. They always want more—they don't want tact!"Pamela stared for a moment at Isobel, who was reclining gracefully on the sofa, amusement in every line of her face at Pamela's ideas."Good gracious, Isobel! I can see a perfectly horrible future in store for you," Pamela said quietly. "You are going to be another Mrs Lester.""What of it?" laughed Isobel. "As long as I am as rich as she is, there are no horrors for me.""Anyway, I'm sorry for you," said Pamela earnestly."What on earth for?" asked Isobel, slightly nettled."Because you'll miss some of the best things in life," replied Pamela."Not if I'm rich, I shan't," said Isobel.Caroline had listened in mild surprise at all this. It had never struck her that there could be anything to object to in Mrs Lester's attitude."Do you know," she said, changing the conversation, "I had to pay for the hire of my kimono. I hadn't expected to have to pay after giving my services free, and making so many things for the bazaar. But it all goes to a good cause, I suppose."Caroline had rather regretted that none of the other three girls had been present at the bazaar in the afternoon, to see how rapidly her tea-cosies had sold; but each of the three had had a different excuse for not coming. Isobel's absence, of course, was a foregone conclusion—she would have loved to go, but could not on account of Miss Crabingway's instructions.Pamela, as we know, hated bazaars. "Don't ask me to come, Caroline," she had said kindly. "But will you take this donation for 'the cause' and put it in one of the boxes or whatever they have to collect the money in."Caroline had had hopes that Beryl, at any rate, would not like to refuse to come. But lack of money to spend made Beryl desperate, and, although she was quite resolved in her own mind not to go, she half promised Caroline she would go, if she felt up to it. She even made a feint of preparing to go. Then a sudden imaginary attack of neuralgia made it impossible, and she sent word by Pamela to tell Caroline not to wait, and went and lay down in her bedroom and pulled down the blind. There in her cool and darkened room she listened to Caroline departing, and felt very much ashamed of herself for the story she had made up about neuralgia."But I couldn't explain that I had no money—and why," she made excuses to herself. "Oh, it isn't fair!"About a week after the bazaar Isobel went over to Inchmoor alone one day to Madame Clarence's, a bad toothache compelling Caroline to miss a lesson for the first time. When her dancing-lesson was over Isobel did a little shopping, and then went and had tea in a smart and popular confectioner's, where she could watch all the fashion of the town go by from her seat near the window. Finding that she had missed her usual train back to Barrowfield and that there was a long wait before the next train, she finished her tea leisurely and then started out to walk back home.She had got about half-way back when a thunderstorm broke suddenly. And there was Isobel in a light cotton dress, and a hat that would be 'absolutely ruined' if it got wet, in the middle of a country lane—a couple of miles from anywhere. She had not paid much attention to the warning clouds overhead, and when the first growl of thunder was heard she looked up startled and hastened her footsteps.A few minutes later the rain started—great slow thunder-spots at first, and then it came down in torrents. Isobel, casting her eyes hastily around for some place of shelter, saw on the hill-top the ruined windmill. She made for this, and dashed in wet and gasping, and found that although the wind and rain lashed in through the many holes in the ruin, yet it afforded a considerable amount of protection if she chose the right corner to stand in. It was fortunate that she did not remember how Caroline, in spite of her toothache, had come out to the front door to advise her to take an umbrella with her, or she would have felt even more out of temper with the world than she did.The corner she was crouching in was partly hidden from the doorway by a couple of thick beams of wood which were leaning, like props, from the walls to the ground. The beams and a pile of dust and bricks formed a partial screen, but not sufficient to hide her white frock, if anyone had been present in that deserted spot.Isobel had been there about five minutes, and the storm showed no signs of abating, when she heard voices and hurrying feet, and the next instant two people dashed in at the doorway."Here you are, mother, stand this side—and hold the rug round you this way—it'll protect us a bit," said a deep voice."It reallyismost annoying—the car breaking down like that," said a woman's voice. "Don't go outside, Harry.... Oh, mind!" She gave a little shriek at a flash of lightning.It was not the lightning nor the crash of thunder that followed that made Isobel's heart thump so madly. The two new-comers—who had not caught sight of her yet, as they were standing with their backs to her—were no others than Lady Prior and her son!Whatever should she do, thought poor Isobel. She was caught in a trap. If they turned and saw her, as they undoubtedly would do sooner or later, they would probably speak—and then what was she to do? Of course they wouldn't know who she was. Surely Miss Crabingway wouldn't mean her not to speak, under the circumstances. It was so perfectly silly! ... But old ladies were queer creatures sometimes. And only a few weeks more—and then the fifty pounds was hers, and she could do what she liked. Isobel did not want to lose the money just by making some stupid little mistake a week or so before it was due. She thought of her Wishing Well wish.... Of course, she could explain just how this meeting came about, to Miss Crabingway—but would Miss Crabingway understand?—or was she hoping that most of the girls would break one or other of the rules, and so lose the money?All this flashed through Isobel's mind during the few minutes she waited for the two by the doorway to turn round and discover her. How she wished—wished most fervently—that they wouldnotturn round. For, besides the chief reason, Isobel felt she did not wish them to see her because she must look such 'a sight'—dripping wet, and crumpled, and blown about, and her hat flopping limply.She gathered from the disjointed conversation that was going on that Lady Prior and her son had been driving home in the motor when the car had broken down in one of the by-lanes about a hundred yards from the mill. The storm had come on while the son was trying to mend matters, and Lady Prior being rather nervous of lightning had been unwilling to stay in the car covered with rugs, and had insisted on getting under a roof of some sort where she felt more protected. She had also insisted on Harry coming with her, and so, covering the motor over, they had brought a rug and taken shelter inside the windmill. Although Harry had thought that they would be just as safe if they had remained in the car, Lady Prior thought otherwise. And so here they were.Isobel glanced round about to see if there were any possible way of escape; but there appeared to be none. "Now what shall I do when they turn round?" she kept asking herself. Had Beryl been in the same predicament as Isobel all sorts of wild ideas would have been rushing through her brain. Beryl would have thought of things like this: Should she pretend she was a foreigner, and could not understand English? Or, better still, should she pretend she was deaf and dumb? Should she pretend to have fainted—and so escape from having to speak; but this might have had awkward consequences if they insisted on taking her home or to a doctor. Should she pretend to go mad, and tear past them and out of the door?But these sorts of ideas did not occur to Isobel, who was not used to practising deceptions as Beryl was. What Isobel did do was, after all, the most natural thing. When Lady Prior and Harry turned and caught sight of her, and Lady Prior gave a little shriek (because the lightning had unnerved her), and then broke into exclamations and questions, Isobel, quite unable to control herself, began to cry, her face buried in her hands. ("And now, I simply can't let them see my face," she thought to herself. "My nose always goes so red when I cry.... I must look such an awful fright.... I must keep my face hidden somehow.")She became aware that Lady Prior was speaking to her in a slightly condescending voice, forbidding her to cry, and telling her not be alarmed at the lightning."These country creatures are sometimes so frightfully hysterical during thunderstorms," Isobel heard Lady Prior remark in an undertone to her son. "I suppose she's a girl from one of the villages around here.... There, there, my good girl, don't cry like that—the storm's almost over now."Lady Prior asked her a few more questions—Where did she come from? Had she far to go home? But receiving no reply she turned to her son, smiled faintly, and shrugged her shoulders.Isobel sobbed on. Her feelings beggar description. To be talked to in such a tone by Lady Prior! To be mistaken for a dowdy, hysterical village girl by Lady Prior! (But, of course, her wet clothes and flopping hat and streaky hair must look so positively awful that no wonder Lady Prior could not tell what she was nor what she looked like.) Nevertheless, it was the last drop in Isobel's cup of humiliation. Not for anything on earth would she let them see her face now!Stealthily she watched for her opportunity. Lady Prior and her son had moved away from the door because the rain was lashing in too furiously, and their backs were turned to her again. She edged quietly round the wall, climbed swiftly over the pile of bricks and dust, and made a sudden dash for the door.Lady Prior gave another little shriek and clutched hold of Harry's arm.Isobel's action had been so sudden and unexpected that before anyone could stop her she had gained the door and was rushing blindly down the hill in the pouring rain.Whether Harry was sent after her she did not know. Probably not, as it was still raining, and Lady Prior would think the girl was hysterical beyond control and that it was the best thing to let her run home as quickly as possible.Isobel reached home just as the storm was over. Do what she would to avoid seeing the other girls she could not escape them. They all three came out into the hall to exclaim over her drenched state and offer their help, but she kept her head down as much as possible so that they should not see she had been crying, and hurried off to her room to change her clothes at once.She would not look in the glass until she was warm and dry again. She felt she could not stand this last blow to her self-respect. When she did see her reflection she was almost her old self again, and the feeling of humiliation was considerably lightened. She began to feel somewhat virtuous for not breaking Miss Crabingway's rule, and pleased with herself for having got out of the predicament without Lady Prior and Harry suspecting her identity.CHAPTER XVIPAMELA'S WISH COMES TRUEIt would be pleasant to be able to record, now that the visit to Chequertrees draws to a close, that the four girls had made considerable progress in the work that they had set themselves to do. But this was not quite the case.Caroline had certainly done an immense amount of needlework, but she had learnt no dressmaking nor 'cutting out'; her needlework was simply a repetition of work she could already do. And the dancing-lessons she had attended had scarcely improved her ability, or rather inability, for dancing; but they were good exercise for her, and had improved her health. It seemed to Caroline as if she would never be able to learn some of the dances Madame Clarence taught, not even if she attended the Academy for twenty years; she did not know why—simply, she could not grasp them. Sometimes it seemed to Caroline as if her feet were in league against her; her right foot would come forward and point the toe when it ought to have remained stationary and let the left foot point the toe; and her left foot would raise itself up while the right foot gave a hop, just when they both ought to have been gliding gracefully along the polished floor.... But in spite of these annoyances Caroline kept doggedly on with the lessons, and the improvement in her health was more than compensation for her lack of success as a dancer.Beryl had advanced a great deal in her musical studies. She had had time and opportunity to practise and study her theory; time and opportunity had never been so liberally offered to her before, and now that they were offered she seized them eagerly—and made the most of them. She had even tried to compose a few pieces—a waltz, and a march, and a melody in E flat, a haunting melody which always made her feel 'exaltedly sad' whenever she played it. Beryl thought privately that it was a beautiful tune, but Isobel, who heard it through the door one day, told Caroline that she thought it ought to be called 'Green Apples,' because the treble "sounded like the face one pulls on tasting something sharp and sour." Caroline was puzzled, and pondered over this for a long time, and then went to listen outside the door herself. She heard the tune, and liked it—liked it so much that she went in and asked Beryl to play it again, much to Beryl's confusion and delight. After that it became a regular institution; Caroline would take her needlework into the drawing-room and sit and listen whenever Beryl started to play her melody in E flat. For some reason or other this particular tune appealed to Caroline; it made her feel pleasantly melancholy, and she enjoyed the feeling, and would sit sewing and heaving long sighs at intervals. If Isobel were anywhere within hearing on these occasions she was rendered nearly helpless with stifled laughter. "There's poor old Caroline going in to have some more 'Green Apples,'" she would giggle, and as the tune proceeded would stuff her handkerchief in her mouth and fly up to her room and shut herself in. Although this was only an early attempt at composing, it marked a chapter in Beryl's musical career, and as she advanced her compositions became more numerous and were better finished.Isobel, who had not taken the question of work seriously, had nevertheless made good progress in her dancing. Naturally a graceful dancer, she had rapidly picked up the new dances at Madame Clarence's, and was now one of Madame's 'show pupils'—to the mutual satisfaction of both of them. It may have been noticed that up to the present time no mention has been made of Isobel taking any photographs with the camera she talked of buying; this was because she did not buy a camera until a fortnight before her stay at Barrowfield came to an end; and then she went and bought one with a definite purpose in view—the purpose of giving a gift of some photographs to Miss Crabingway on her return.Pamela, though she had given most of her spare time to her sketching, had got through a good deal of reading as well, but not as much as she had meant to. The best of her sketches she intended to take home with her in order to show Michael what she had been doing, and what sort of places she had been seeing, and what she had learnt from Elizabeth Bagg.There was one thing that all four girls had managed to do, and that was to keep on good terms with each other with rarely an open disagreement. "It'll be so much more comfortable for us all if we can manage to put up with each other—and, after all, it is only for a short time, not for life," Pamela had remarked on one occasion. And so this sensible attitude was adopted by all of them. Whenever the smoothly running wheels of the household got stuck, as they were bound to occasionally, a little lubricating oil from Martha or Ellen, or one or other of the girls, soon set them running easily again. The stay at Chequertrees and the contact of the various temperaments was bound to leave some impression on each of the girls afterward; it was not to be expected that it could radically change them, except in small ways. They had all more or less enjoyed their visit, and it had done them all good, in more ways than one. Martha and Ellen owned to each other in the kitchen one evening that they would certainly miss the young life about the place when the girls had gone.About a fortnight before the six months came to an end the girls were sitting in the garden one afternoon having tea under the mulberry tree at the end of the lawn, when Beryl made a suggestion."I was just wondering," she began hesitatingly, "whether we couldn't do something for Miss Crabingway, as a sort of—well, to show we've had a nice time here in her house.""What sort of thing?" asked Caroline, her mind running at once to gifts of hand-made tea-cosies and cushions."A jolly good idea, Beryl," said Pamela. "It would be nice to show her we'd appreciated the stay here. I know that I, for one, have had a good time. What could we do, now, for Miss Crabingway?""When you say 'do something,' do you mean club together and buy her a present?—or do you suggest we decorate the house with evergreens and hang WELCOME HOME in white cotton-wool letters on a red flannel background?" said Isobel, laughing. "Or does 'do something' mean getting up an entertainment for her pleasure, in which case you can put me down for a skirt dance—I've learnt a heavenly new step at Madame Clarence's—you'll see it when you come to Madame's reception next week.""I suppose you end the lessons the week after next?" said Pamela."Yes, last time on Tuesday week," replied Isobel. "Of course it's very unusual to hold dancing-classes all through the summer, as Madame does, but some of the pupils are awfully keen—and she finds that it pays, I suppose. But it's the last time I shall be there—Tuesday week.""Oh, don't let us talk aboutlastandend," said Beryl. "I wish it needn't end—our stay here.""Do you really?" said Isobel. "Oh, it hasn't been a bad time on the whole, but I shan't be sorry to get back to town, and the shops and theatres, and, of course, mater and all the rest of it.""I shan't mind being home again, though I've had a pleasant stay here," remarked Caroline. "I'm sure Pamela is longing to be among her people again.""Oh, I am," said Pamela fervently. "I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to seeing them. I've had an awfully jolly time here, though.... And that brings us back to Beryl's suggestion—what can we do for Miss Crabingway? ... I don't know what you all think about it, but I should suggest that we each give her something original—give her something she couldn't buy in a shop in the ordinary way.""Like—what?" asked Isobel."Well, for instance, Caroline could give her a piece of her hand-embroidered needlework.""I wish we had thought of this earlier," observed Caroline, "I could have been working at something, in odd moments, all these weeks.""You've still got a whole fortnight left, dear child," said Isobel. "But what canIdo for Miss Crabingway? Suggest something, somebody, please! I can't do embroidery, like Caroline; nor draw pictures, like Pamela; nor compose music, like Beryl.... By the way, Beryl, you ought to compose a waltz, and call it 'The Emily Valse,' and dedicate it to Miss Emily Crabingway, you know. She would becharmed, I'm sure."Beryl flushed quickly, not because she resented Isobel's joke, but because some such idea as Isobel suggested had flitted for a moment through her mind (barring the title of the composition)."And I'll invent a dance which shall be called 'The Crabingway Glide,' and I'll dance it to your music. There! What do you think of that for an idea?" Isobel laughed."Very good indeed," said Pamela.And then the four girls began to laugh at each other, and with each other, and make all sorts of wild and facetious suggestions, until Martha came to the kitchen window and looked out, wondering what all the laughter was about. But, in spite of all the joking about it, the idea was seriously considered, and arrangements made for each to do her best to give Miss Crabingway something of her own work in appreciation of the visit to Chequertrees.It was on this occasion that Isobel finally decided to buy her camera without delay and get some really interesting snap-shots of the girls and the house, and have the best photographs enlarged and framed for Miss Crabingway."While we're on the subject," said Pamela, "I should like to give something or other to Martha and Ellen, wouldn't you? They've looked after us awfully well—what can we do for them, I wonder?"They discussed presents for Martha and Ellen, and decided each to make or buy something suitable within the next fortnight.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 XVIIIN WHICH OLD SILAS LAUGHS AND ISOBEL DANCESMadame 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.[image]A PAILFUL OF GARDEN RUBBISH DESCENDED IN A SHOWERIsobel 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 whodidit? Whodidit?" 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 itpurposely," 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, Ididthrow 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,"Ofcoursehe 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 fromhim," cried Isobel. "I'm too disgusted with him—besides, Iknowhe 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' Ididlearn 'er. Nice and slimy and wet them weeds were—an', after all, Ididonly 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 XV
ABOUT A BAZAAR AND A MEETING IN THE RUINED WINDMILL
The bazaar, for which Caroline had been sewing so perseveringly, was held in the grounds of the Manor House on a beautiful sunny day at the end of May. Caroline spent a blissful afternoon, dressed in a Japanese kimono with chrysanthemums in her hair, surrounded by tea-cosies and cushion-covers and hand-embroidered scarves; and she had quite a brisk sale at her stall, in spite of exorbitant prices.
The spacious lawn below the terraced flower-garden was a delightful picture; the soft, velvety grass and the cool shade under the trees that bordered it making a pleasing background for the dainty kimonoed figures that tripped to and fro among the bamboo stalls with their white umbrella-shaped awnings. As the general public began to make its appearance, the colours in the summer dresses that moved across the lawn became as variegated as the flower-garden itself.
Lady Prior stood on the terrace and looked down with a pleased smile at the animated scene beneath her.
"The village looks forward so eagerly to this each year," she remarked to a friend. "You see, there is absolutely nowhere for them to go as a rule, poor creatures. This is quite an event for them." And she raised her eyebrows and gave a little rippling laugh.
Meanwhile the poor creatures were spending their money as they were able, and the local reporter, who was wandering among the stalls, was mentally calculating how big a sum of money he would be able to announce in next week'sObserveras the result of Lady Prior's Annual Bazaar. Most of the village seemed out to enjoy itself at all costs; but now and again one would come across a gloomy individual who looked like an unwilling victim of this annual institution. In some cases, as one little old woman grumbled to Caroline, people came because they had been badgered and worried into promising to attend by one of the industrious members of the committee.
"And there's so much questioning, and reproachful looks, an' cold stares afterward—if you don't come," she grumbled, fingering the various articles on Caroline's stall, "that you come for peace sake.... Though I'd much rather be sittin' at 'ome an' 'aving a cup of tea in peace and quietness and restin' my old bones—it's all very well for young folk to come gallivantin' and spendin' their savings—but when you're old—! ... 'Ow much is this? What is it? Eh? An egg-cosy! ... Oh, give me one of them six-penny 'air-tidies—it'll do for my daughter in London. I ain't got no 'air to speak of myself. But my daughter—her 'air comes out in 'andfulls—you ought to see it! ... You've got nothing else for six-pence, I suppose? No? ... I won't 'ave anything else then."
And the little old woman took the hair-tidy and made her way straight to the gates, apparently making a bee-line for home, having fulfilled her duty.
Caroline was not critical—she took things very much as a matter of course, and did not feel ashamed for the handsomely dressed lady from a neighbouring village who inquired in a loud voice for the stall where the 'pore clothes' were for sale. Caroline did not quite understand at first, until another stall-holder explained that Mrs Lester always purchased a number of garments to distribute among the deserving poor of her parish. The garments Mrs Lester bought looked a bit clumsy, and were made all alike, of rather coarse material, but "she's awfully good to the poor, you know," Caroline was told; and there the matter ended, until she recounted the incident to the others when she got home, and provoked a stormy protest from Pamela against thewayin which rich people were 'good to the poor.'
"Why can't they be more tactful," asked Pamela. "Of course I know lots of them are—but I mean people like this Mrs Lester."
"Oh, don't be ridiculous, Pamela," said Isobel, laughing. "What do poor people want with tact? Give them a good meal or a bundle of clothes and they'll pretend to be grateful and satisfied and all that, and directly your back is turned they'll grumble because you haven't given themmore. They always want more—they don't want tact!"
Pamela stared for a moment at Isobel, who was reclining gracefully on the sofa, amusement in every line of her face at Pamela's ideas.
"Good gracious, Isobel! I can see a perfectly horrible future in store for you," Pamela said quietly. "You are going to be another Mrs Lester."
"What of it?" laughed Isobel. "As long as I am as rich as she is, there are no horrors for me."
"Anyway, I'm sorry for you," said Pamela earnestly.
"What on earth for?" asked Isobel, slightly nettled.
"Because you'll miss some of the best things in life," replied Pamela.
"Not if I'm rich, I shan't," said Isobel.
Caroline had listened in mild surprise at all this. It had never struck her that there could be anything to object to in Mrs Lester's attitude.
"Do you know," she said, changing the conversation, "I had to pay for the hire of my kimono. I hadn't expected to have to pay after giving my services free, and making so many things for the bazaar. But it all goes to a good cause, I suppose."
Caroline had rather regretted that none of the other three girls had been present at the bazaar in the afternoon, to see how rapidly her tea-cosies had sold; but each of the three had had a different excuse for not coming. Isobel's absence, of course, was a foregone conclusion—she would have loved to go, but could not on account of Miss Crabingway's instructions.
Pamela, as we know, hated bazaars. "Don't ask me to come, Caroline," she had said kindly. "But will you take this donation for 'the cause' and put it in one of the boxes or whatever they have to collect the money in."
Caroline had had hopes that Beryl, at any rate, would not like to refuse to come. But lack of money to spend made Beryl desperate, and, although she was quite resolved in her own mind not to go, she half promised Caroline she would go, if she felt up to it. She even made a feint of preparing to go. Then a sudden imaginary attack of neuralgia made it impossible, and she sent word by Pamela to tell Caroline not to wait, and went and lay down in her bedroom and pulled down the blind. There in her cool and darkened room she listened to Caroline departing, and felt very much ashamed of herself for the story she had made up about neuralgia.
"But I couldn't explain that I had no money—and why," she made excuses to herself. "Oh, it isn't fair!"
About a week after the bazaar Isobel went over to Inchmoor alone one day to Madame Clarence's, a bad toothache compelling Caroline to miss a lesson for the first time. When her dancing-lesson was over Isobel did a little shopping, and then went and had tea in a smart and popular confectioner's, where she could watch all the fashion of the town go by from her seat near the window. Finding that she had missed her usual train back to Barrowfield and that there was a long wait before the next train, she finished her tea leisurely and then started out to walk back home.
She had got about half-way back when a thunderstorm broke suddenly. And there was Isobel in a light cotton dress, and a hat that would be 'absolutely ruined' if it got wet, in the middle of a country lane—a couple of miles from anywhere. She had not paid much attention to the warning clouds overhead, and when the first growl of thunder was heard she looked up startled and hastened her footsteps.
A few minutes later the rain started—great slow thunder-spots at first, and then it came down in torrents. Isobel, casting her eyes hastily around for some place of shelter, saw on the hill-top the ruined windmill. She made for this, and dashed in wet and gasping, and found that although the wind and rain lashed in through the many holes in the ruin, yet it afforded a considerable amount of protection if she chose the right corner to stand in. It was fortunate that she did not remember how Caroline, in spite of her toothache, had come out to the front door to advise her to take an umbrella with her, or she would have felt even more out of temper with the world than she did.
The corner she was crouching in was partly hidden from the doorway by a couple of thick beams of wood which were leaning, like props, from the walls to the ground. The beams and a pile of dust and bricks formed a partial screen, but not sufficient to hide her white frock, if anyone had been present in that deserted spot.
Isobel had been there about five minutes, and the storm showed no signs of abating, when she heard voices and hurrying feet, and the next instant two people dashed in at the doorway.
"Here you are, mother, stand this side—and hold the rug round you this way—it'll protect us a bit," said a deep voice.
"It reallyismost annoying—the car breaking down like that," said a woman's voice. "Don't go outside, Harry.... Oh, mind!" She gave a little shriek at a flash of lightning.
It was not the lightning nor the crash of thunder that followed that made Isobel's heart thump so madly. The two new-comers—who had not caught sight of her yet, as they were standing with their backs to her—were no others than Lady Prior and her son!
Whatever should she do, thought poor Isobel. She was caught in a trap. If they turned and saw her, as they undoubtedly would do sooner or later, they would probably speak—and then what was she to do? Of course they wouldn't know who she was. Surely Miss Crabingway wouldn't mean her not to speak, under the circumstances. It was so perfectly silly! ... But old ladies were queer creatures sometimes. And only a few weeks more—and then the fifty pounds was hers, and she could do what she liked. Isobel did not want to lose the money just by making some stupid little mistake a week or so before it was due. She thought of her Wishing Well wish.... Of course, she could explain just how this meeting came about, to Miss Crabingway—but would Miss Crabingway understand?—or was she hoping that most of the girls would break one or other of the rules, and so lose the money?
All this flashed through Isobel's mind during the few minutes she waited for the two by the doorway to turn round and discover her. How she wished—wished most fervently—that they wouldnotturn round. For, besides the chief reason, Isobel felt she did not wish them to see her because she must look such 'a sight'—dripping wet, and crumpled, and blown about, and her hat flopping limply.
She gathered from the disjointed conversation that was going on that Lady Prior and her son had been driving home in the motor when the car had broken down in one of the by-lanes about a hundred yards from the mill. The storm had come on while the son was trying to mend matters, and Lady Prior being rather nervous of lightning had been unwilling to stay in the car covered with rugs, and had insisted on getting under a roof of some sort where she felt more protected. She had also insisted on Harry coming with her, and so, covering the motor over, they had brought a rug and taken shelter inside the windmill. Although Harry had thought that they would be just as safe if they had remained in the car, Lady Prior thought otherwise. And so here they were.
Isobel glanced round about to see if there were any possible way of escape; but there appeared to be none. "Now what shall I do when they turn round?" she kept asking herself. Had Beryl been in the same predicament as Isobel all sorts of wild ideas would have been rushing through her brain. Beryl would have thought of things like this: Should she pretend she was a foreigner, and could not understand English? Or, better still, should she pretend she was deaf and dumb? Should she pretend to have fainted—and so escape from having to speak; but this might have had awkward consequences if they insisted on taking her home or to a doctor. Should she pretend to go mad, and tear past them and out of the door?
But these sorts of ideas did not occur to Isobel, who was not used to practising deceptions as Beryl was. What Isobel did do was, after all, the most natural thing. When Lady Prior and Harry turned and caught sight of her, and Lady Prior gave a little shriek (because the lightning had unnerved her), and then broke into exclamations and questions, Isobel, quite unable to control herself, began to cry, her face buried in her hands. ("And now, I simply can't let them see my face," she thought to herself. "My nose always goes so red when I cry.... I must look such an awful fright.... I must keep my face hidden somehow.")
She became aware that Lady Prior was speaking to her in a slightly condescending voice, forbidding her to cry, and telling her not be alarmed at the lightning.
"These country creatures are sometimes so frightfully hysterical during thunderstorms," Isobel heard Lady Prior remark in an undertone to her son. "I suppose she's a girl from one of the villages around here.... There, there, my good girl, don't cry like that—the storm's almost over now."
Lady Prior asked her a few more questions—Where did she come from? Had she far to go home? But receiving no reply she turned to her son, smiled faintly, and shrugged her shoulders.
Isobel sobbed on. Her feelings beggar description. To be talked to in such a tone by Lady Prior! To be mistaken for a dowdy, hysterical village girl by Lady Prior! (But, of course, her wet clothes and flopping hat and streaky hair must look so positively awful that no wonder Lady Prior could not tell what she was nor what she looked like.) Nevertheless, it was the last drop in Isobel's cup of humiliation. Not for anything on earth would she let them see her face now!
Stealthily she watched for her opportunity. Lady Prior and her son had moved away from the door because the rain was lashing in too furiously, and their backs were turned to her again. She edged quietly round the wall, climbed swiftly over the pile of bricks and dust, and made a sudden dash for the door.
Lady Prior gave another little shriek and clutched hold of Harry's arm.
Isobel's action had been so sudden and unexpected that before anyone could stop her she had gained the door and was rushing blindly down the hill in the pouring rain.
Whether Harry was sent after her she did not know. Probably not, as it was still raining, and Lady Prior would think the girl was hysterical beyond control and that it was the best thing to let her run home as quickly as possible.
Isobel reached home just as the storm was over. Do what she would to avoid seeing the other girls she could not escape them. They all three came out into the hall to exclaim over her drenched state and offer their help, but she kept her head down as much as possible so that they should not see she had been crying, and hurried off to her room to change her clothes at once.
She would not look in the glass until she was warm and dry again. She felt she could not stand this last blow to her self-respect. When she did see her reflection she was almost her old self again, and the feeling of humiliation was considerably lightened. She began to feel somewhat virtuous for not breaking Miss Crabingway's rule, and pleased with herself for having got out of the predicament without Lady Prior and Harry suspecting her identity.
CHAPTER XVI
PAMELA'S WISH COMES TRUE
It would be pleasant to be able to record, now that the visit to Chequertrees draws to a close, that the four girls had made considerable progress in the work that they had set themselves to do. But this was not quite the case.
Caroline had certainly done an immense amount of needlework, but she had learnt no dressmaking nor 'cutting out'; her needlework was simply a repetition of work she could already do. And the dancing-lessons she had attended had scarcely improved her ability, or rather inability, for dancing; but they were good exercise for her, and had improved her health. It seemed to Caroline as if she would never be able to learn some of the dances Madame Clarence taught, not even if she attended the Academy for twenty years; she did not know why—simply, she could not grasp them. Sometimes it seemed to Caroline as if her feet were in league against her; her right foot would come forward and point the toe when it ought to have remained stationary and let the left foot point the toe; and her left foot would raise itself up while the right foot gave a hop, just when they both ought to have been gliding gracefully along the polished floor.... But in spite of these annoyances Caroline kept doggedly on with the lessons, and the improvement in her health was more than compensation for her lack of success as a dancer.
Beryl had advanced a great deal in her musical studies. She had had time and opportunity to practise and study her theory; time and opportunity had never been so liberally offered to her before, and now that they were offered she seized them eagerly—and made the most of them. She had even tried to compose a few pieces—a waltz, and a march, and a melody in E flat, a haunting melody which always made her feel 'exaltedly sad' whenever she played it. Beryl thought privately that it was a beautiful tune, but Isobel, who heard it through the door one day, told Caroline that she thought it ought to be called 'Green Apples,' because the treble "sounded like the face one pulls on tasting something sharp and sour." Caroline was puzzled, and pondered over this for a long time, and then went to listen outside the door herself. She heard the tune, and liked it—liked it so much that she went in and asked Beryl to play it again, much to Beryl's confusion and delight. After that it became a regular institution; Caroline would take her needlework into the drawing-room and sit and listen whenever Beryl started to play her melody in E flat. For some reason or other this particular tune appealed to Caroline; it made her feel pleasantly melancholy, and she enjoyed the feeling, and would sit sewing and heaving long sighs at intervals. If Isobel were anywhere within hearing on these occasions she was rendered nearly helpless with stifled laughter. "There's poor old Caroline going in to have some more 'Green Apples,'" she would giggle, and as the tune proceeded would stuff her handkerchief in her mouth and fly up to her room and shut herself in. Although this was only an early attempt at composing, it marked a chapter in Beryl's musical career, and as she advanced her compositions became more numerous and were better finished.
Isobel, who had not taken the question of work seriously, had nevertheless made good progress in her dancing. Naturally a graceful dancer, she had rapidly picked up the new dances at Madame Clarence's, and was now one of Madame's 'show pupils'—to the mutual satisfaction of both of them. It may have been noticed that up to the present time no mention has been made of Isobel taking any photographs with the camera she talked of buying; this was because she did not buy a camera until a fortnight before her stay at Barrowfield came to an end; and then she went and bought one with a definite purpose in view—the purpose of giving a gift of some photographs to Miss Crabingway on her return.
Pamela, though she had given most of her spare time to her sketching, had got through a good deal of reading as well, but not as much as she had meant to. The best of her sketches she intended to take home with her in order to show Michael what she had been doing, and what sort of places she had been seeing, and what she had learnt from Elizabeth Bagg.
There was one thing that all four girls had managed to do, and that was to keep on good terms with each other with rarely an open disagreement. "It'll be so much more comfortable for us all if we can manage to put up with each other—and, after all, it is only for a short time, not for life," Pamela had remarked on one occasion. And so this sensible attitude was adopted by all of them. Whenever the smoothly running wheels of the household got stuck, as they were bound to occasionally, a little lubricating oil from Martha or Ellen, or one or other of the girls, soon set them running easily again. The stay at Chequertrees and the contact of the various temperaments was bound to leave some impression on each of the girls afterward; it was not to be expected that it could radically change them, except in small ways. They had all more or less enjoyed their visit, and it had done them all good, in more ways than one. Martha and Ellen owned to each other in the kitchen one evening that they would certainly miss the young life about the place when the girls had gone.
About a fortnight before the six months came to an end the girls were sitting in the garden one afternoon having tea under the mulberry tree at the end of the lawn, when Beryl made a suggestion.
"I was just wondering," she began hesitatingly, "whether we couldn't do something for Miss Crabingway, as a sort of—well, to show we've had a nice time here in her house."
"What sort of thing?" asked Caroline, her mind running at once to gifts of hand-made tea-cosies and cushions.
"A jolly good idea, Beryl," said Pamela. "It would be nice to show her we'd appreciated the stay here. I know that I, for one, have had a good time. What could we do, now, for Miss Crabingway?"
"When you say 'do something,' do you mean club together and buy her a present?—or do you suggest we decorate the house with evergreens and hang WELCOME HOME in white cotton-wool letters on a red flannel background?" said Isobel, laughing. "Or does 'do something' mean getting up an entertainment for her pleasure, in which case you can put me down for a skirt dance—I've learnt a heavenly new step at Madame Clarence's—you'll see it when you come to Madame's reception next week."
"I suppose you end the lessons the week after next?" said Pamela.
"Yes, last time on Tuesday week," replied Isobel. "Of course it's very unusual to hold dancing-classes all through the summer, as Madame does, but some of the pupils are awfully keen—and she finds that it pays, I suppose. But it's the last time I shall be there—Tuesday week."
"Oh, don't let us talk aboutlastandend," said Beryl. "I wish it needn't end—our stay here."
"Do you really?" said Isobel. "Oh, it hasn't been a bad time on the whole, but I shan't be sorry to get back to town, and the shops and theatres, and, of course, mater and all the rest of it."
"I shan't mind being home again, though I've had a pleasant stay here," remarked Caroline. "I'm sure Pamela is longing to be among her people again."
"Oh, I am," said Pamela fervently. "I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to seeing them. I've had an awfully jolly time here, though.... And that brings us back to Beryl's suggestion—what can we do for Miss Crabingway? ... I don't know what you all think about it, but I should suggest that we each give her something original—give her something she couldn't buy in a shop in the ordinary way."
"Like—what?" asked Isobel.
"Well, for instance, Caroline could give her a piece of her hand-embroidered needlework."
"I wish we had thought of this earlier," observed Caroline, "I could have been working at something, in odd moments, all these weeks."
"You've still got a whole fortnight left, dear child," said Isobel. "But what canIdo for Miss Crabingway? Suggest something, somebody, please! I can't do embroidery, like Caroline; nor draw pictures, like Pamela; nor compose music, like Beryl.... By the way, Beryl, you ought to compose a waltz, and call it 'The Emily Valse,' and dedicate it to Miss Emily Crabingway, you know. She would becharmed, I'm sure."
Beryl flushed quickly, not because she resented Isobel's joke, but because some such idea as Isobel suggested had flitted for a moment through her mind (barring the title of the composition).
"And I'll invent a dance which shall be called 'The Crabingway Glide,' and I'll dance it to your music. There! What do you think of that for an idea?" Isobel laughed.
"Very good indeed," said Pamela.
And then the four girls began to laugh at each other, and with each other, and make all sorts of wild and facetious suggestions, until Martha came to the kitchen window and looked out, wondering what all the laughter was about. But, in spite of all the joking about it, the idea was seriously considered, and arrangements made for each to do her best to give Miss Crabingway something of her own work in appreciation of the visit to Chequertrees.
It was on this occasion that Isobel finally decided to buy her camera without delay and get some really interesting snap-shots of the girls and the house, and have the best photographs enlarged and framed for Miss Crabingway.
"While we're on the subject," said Pamela, "I should like to give something or other to Martha and Ellen, wouldn't you? They've looked after us awfully well—what can we do for them, I wonder?"
They discussed presents for Martha and Ellen, and decided each to make or buy something suitable within the next fortnight.
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.
[image]A PAILFUL OF GARDEN RUBBISH DESCENDED IN A SHOWER
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[image]
A PAILFUL OF GARDEN RUBBISH DESCENDED IN A SHOWER
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 whodidit? Whodidit?" 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 itpurposely," 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, Ididthrow 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,
"Ofcoursehe 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 fromhim," cried Isobel. "I'm too disgusted with him—besides, Iknowhe 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' Ididlearn 'er. Nice and slimy and wet them weeds were—an', after all, Ididonly 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.