Kitabı oku: «The Girls of Chequertrees», sayfa 4

CHAPTER VI
MILLICENT JACKSON GIVES SOME INFORMATION

"What a one-eyed sort of place this is," said Isobel inelegantly, as she came out of the village drapery establishment and joined Pamela, who was waiting on the green outside.

"I was just thinking how charming the little village looks," said Pamela, "clustering round this wide stretch of green with the pond and the ducks. And look at the lanes and hills and woods rising in the background! It is picturesque."

"Oh, it may be frightfully picturesque and all that," Isobel replied, "but picturesqueness won't provide one with black pearl buttons to sew on one's gloves. Would you believe it—not one of these impossible shops keeps such things. 'Black pearl buttons, miss. I'm sorry we haven't any in stock. Black bone—would black bone do—or a fancy button, miss?'" Isobel mimicked the voice of the 'creature' (as she called her) who served in the tiny draper's shop.

"Well, I suppose they're not often asked for black pearl," said Pamela, as they moved on. "And wouldn't black bone do?"

"Black bone!" said Isobel disdainfully.

"Well, you can't expect to find Oxford Street shops down here in Barrowfield," smiled Pamela. "And it's jolly lucky there aren't such shops, or Barrowfield would be a town to-morrow. Still, is there anywhere else you'd like to try?"

"No, I shan't bother any more to-day," Isobel sighed. "I did want them—but I'll wear my other gloves till I can get the buttons to match the two I've lost.... How people do stare at one here. Look at that old woman over there—And, oh, do look at the butcher standing on his step glaring at us! He looks as if his eyes might go off 'pop' at any moment, doesn't he?"

Although Isobel pretended to be annoyed, she really rather enjoyed the attention she and Pamela were attracting. Naturally the village was curious about these strange young ladies who had come to stay at Miss Crabingway's house. Thomas Bagg had given his version of the arrivals last night as he chatted with the landlord of the 'Blue Boar,' and had professed to know more about the matter than he actually did. In acting thus he was not alone, for most of the village pretended to know something of the reason why Miss Emily Crabingway had suddenly gone away, and why her house was occupied by four strange young ladies. In reality nobody knew much about it at all. It speaks well for Martha and Ellen that they were not persuaded to tell more than they did; maybe they didn't know more; maybe they did, but wouldn't say. The village gossips shook their heads at the closeness of these two trusted servants concerning their mistress's affairs.... And so Pamela and Isobel attracted more than the usual attention bestowed on strangers in Barrowfield—the bolder folk (like the butcher) staring unabashed from their front doors, while the more retiring peeped through their curtains.

Barrowfield itself was certainly very picturesque; no wonder it appealed to Pamela's artistic eye. Surrounded by tree-clad hills, the village lay jumbled about the wide green—in the centre of which was a pond with ducks on it; white-washed cottages, old houses, quaint little shops, and inns with thatched roofs, stood side by side in an irregular circle. Seen from one of the neighbouring hills you might have fancied that Barrowfield was having a game of Ring-o'-Roses around the green, while the little odd cottages dotted here and there on the hill-sides looked longingly on, like children who have not been invited to play but who might at any moment run down the slopes and join in. The square-towered church and the Manor House, both on a hill outside the magic ring, stood watching like dignified grown-up people.

Chequertrees was one of the biggest houses in the circle around the green, and a few dozen yards beyond its gate a steep tree-lined avenue led up to the big house of the neighbourhood—the Manor House, where lived the owners of most of the land and property in Barrowfield. The Manor House was about a quarter of a mile beyond the village, and stood half-way up the avenue, at the top of which was the square-towered church. Close beside the church, but so hidden among trees as to be invisible until you were near at hand, was the snug vicarage.

The railway station at which the girls had arrived on the previous evening was a mile and a half away on a road that led out from the opposite end of the green to where Chequertrees stood. Several lanes climbed up from the green and wound over the hills to towns and villages beyond—the nearest market town being four miles distant if you went by the lane, six miles if you followed the main road that ran past the station.

Of course Pamela and Isobel would not have known all this on their first short walk round Barrowfield had they not fallen into conversation with the girl who served in the newsagent's, and who was only too ready to impart information to them when they went in to buy a local newspaper. She was a large-boned girl with a lot of big teeth, that showed conspicuously when she talked; she eyed curiously, and not without envy, the well-cut clothes and 'stylish' hats that the two girls were wearing.

Pamela noticed that the girl wore a brooch made of gold-wire twisted into the name 'Millicent,' and as 'Jackson' was the name painted over the shop outside, she tacked it on, in her own mind, as Millicent's surname.

It being still early in the day Millicent Jackson's toilet was not properly finished—that is to say, she did not appear as she would later on about tea-time, with her hair frizzed up and wearing her brown serge skirt and afternoon blouse. Her morning attire was a very unsatisfactory affair. Millicent wore all her half-soiled blouses in the mornings, and her hair was straight and untidily pinned up; she had a black apron over her skirt, and her hands, which were not pretty at the best of times, looked big and red, and they were streaked with blacking as if she had recently been cleaning a stove. Poor Millicent, she found it impossible to do the housework and appear trim and tidy in the shop at the same time. She discovered herself suddenly wishing that the young ladies had postponed their visit till the afternoon, when she would have been dressed. But there were compensations even for being 'caught untidy'; for could she not see that young Agnes Jones across the way peering out of her shop door, overcome with curiosity, and would she not dash across to Millicent as soon as the young ladies had departed, to know all about the interview! So it was with mixed feelings that Millicent kept the young ladies talking as long as she could.

"Yes, it's a vurry ole church, and vurry interestin'," said Millicent for the third time. "But uv course you ain't been in these parts long enough, miss, for you to 'ave seen everything yet, 'ave you, miss?"

"No, we only arrived last night," said Pamela in a friendly way.

"You don't say!" exclaimed Millicent in great astonishment; although Thomas Bagg had been in the shop a few hours back and told her all about their arrival. "Oh, well, uv course, miss—!" she broke off and waited expectantly.

But Pamela's next remark was disappointing.

"I think it's an awfully interesting-looking village altogether," she said. "Whereabouts is the ruined mill you mentioned just now? Very far from the village? I wonder if we have time to go and see it this morning."

"It's a goodish way," said Millicent reluctantly. "Well, about two mile over that way," she pointed toward the back of the shop. "Along the lane that goes through the fields.... I expect you'd find it vurry muddy in the lane after all the rain we've been 'aving."

"Oh, I don't mind that," said Pamela, but Isobel wrinkled up her nose and looked down at her dainty shoes. "But have we time before lunch—um—no, it's half-past twelve now—what a shame! … Never mind! I must go along to-morrow if I can. I feel I don't want to use up all the country too quickly—it's so nice exploring." She smiled at Millicent, and gathered up the papers she had bought.

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

However, Millicent did not seem to notice anything amiss.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The little white cottage—" began Millicent.

"With the brown shutters," finished Pamela.

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

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

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

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

But Isobel was not listening to Pamela.

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

But Pamela was not listening to Isobel.

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

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

CHAPTER VII
BERYL GOES THROUGH AN ORDEAL

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beryl stopped playing, and swung round on the stool.

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

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

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

"No—oh, no," said Beryl.

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

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

Isobel raised her eyebrows.

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

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

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

Beryl shook her head.

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

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

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

"What happens if you are?" inquired Beryl.

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

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

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

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

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

"Didn't you like the school?"

"Not very much. It was all right."

"Why? Weren't the girls nice?"

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

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

Beryl nodded.

"Many years ago?" asked Isobel.

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

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

"No," answered Beryl. "Why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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