CHAPTER XVIII
THE DOOR IS UNLOCKED
A couple of days before Miss Crabingway was due to return Beryl made an opportunity to speak to Pamela about the money she had borrowed.
"I haven't got it on me at present, Pamela," said Beryl. "But I'll be sure to let you have it back. I'll send it to you by post, without fail. It was awfully good of you.... I have got your address, haven't I? Oh, yes, I wrote it down in my note book."
"That's all right. Don't worry about that—any time will do," said Pamela. "If I could help you in any way–"
But Beryl thanked her and assured her that everything was all right, and hurriedly changed the subject.
Miss Crabingway was expected home on the Friday morning, so the girls made all their final preparations on the Thursday evening, and Pamela and Beryl and Isobel (Caroline was busy packing) spent an hour after tea in picking flowers and arranging them in every room in the house.
"Why, it's like as if the garden 'as come inside the house," cried Martha, passing through the hall as Pamela was arranging a big bowl of roses on a small table by the front door.
"Aren't they lovely?" said Pamela, burying her nose in them. "And we don't seem to have robbed the garden a bit—there are heaps more.... I always think flowers give one such a welcome, don't you, Martha? … And these are going to stand on the mat, as it were, and be the first to shake hands with Miss Crabingway to-morrow, to welcome her home."
But, after all, it was not the bowl of roses that welcomed Miss Crabingway home; it was a pot of shaggy yellow chrysanthemums that stood inside the french windows of the drawing-room that night. Pamela did not know this, though, until the following morning, after breakfast.
Pamela noticed, when she put her head inside the kitchen door on her way to breakfast that Martha and Ellen were whispering together in a subdued, excited way, and that they stopped at once on catching sight of her and went hastily on with their work.
"I'm just bringing the coffee in, Miss Pamela," said Ellen.
While Martha took the boiled eggs out of the saucepan with a self-conscious expression on her face, and in her efforts to appear unconcerned dropped one, and it broke on the kitchen floor. In the unnecessary energy she put into the work of clearing it up she was able to hide her embarrassment and regain her composure.
This was not lost on Pamela, who felt that there was a certain atmosphere of mystery in the kitchen—which was entirely foreign to the light, sunny room, with its shining brass and purring kettle, and delicious smell of baking bread.
"Is anything the matter, Martha?" she could not help asking, when calm was restored and the broken egg replaced. "There's nothing wrong, is there?"
Martha and Ellen exchanged quick glances, and then Martha laughed.
"Why, bless my heart, why should there be?" she replied. "Of course there's nothing wrong." And she laughed again.
But Pamela felt vaguely uneasy—why, she did not know. She ate her breakfast thoughtfully, and did not talk half so much as she usually did at breakfast-time. All the girls were more silent than usual, as if the coming events of the day were already casting their shadows over them.
As soon as breakfast was finished Martha appeared suddenly in the dining-room doorway and said,
"I was to ask you all if you would please step up and see Miss Crabingway now.... She is in her own room...."
The girls looked at each other in astonishment. Miss Crabingway here! In her own room! The locked-up room? When did she arrive? None of them had heard her come.
They turned to Martha with a dozen questions, but Martha only smiled mysteriously and shook her head.
"Miss Crabingway arrived late last night," she said when there was a pause in the questioning; "so late that she did not knock at the front door, in case she woke you all up …"
"Then how—?" Isobel began.
"I heard some one tap on the french windows in the drawing-room, just as I was going to lock up for the night.... It was Miss Crabingway," said Martha.
"But why—" said Isobel.
Martha moved out of the doorway. "Miss Crabingway is waiting for you," she said.
The girls had all risen, and were standing round the table.
"Yes, we'd better go," said Pamela.
But none of them moved for a moment. They were gradually readjusting their plans to meet the present occasion—their plans for welcoming Miss Crabingway, which were all spoilt now. Instead of being able to catch a glimpse of her before she saw them—being able to watch her enter the garden gate, and come up the path to the front door—here she was in their midst, ready to welcome them.... And they had meant to put on their pretty summer dresses—and here they were with only their morning blouses and skirts on.... However, there was no time to change now—Miss Crabingway was waiting to see them. It was useless to try to remember all the things they had meant to say and do before meeting Miss Crabingway—there was no time for regrets. Before they realized what was happening they were mounting the stairs in solemn, single file, Pamela leading the way and Caroline bringing up the rear—while Martha stood at the foot of the staircase, an enigmatical smile on her face.
Outside the room door which had been locked to them for so long the girls stopped. All was silent within. Each of the girls felt as if the loud beating of her heart must be heard by the other three. They were all rather nervous. What would they see on the other side of the door?—the door which they had so religiously avoided going near, until now. What would Miss Crabingway be like?—Miss Crabingway, who had made such queer rules for them during their stay in her house.
Pamela knocked gently on the door with her knuckles.
The sound of a chair leg scraping on the floor inside could be heard, and then a voice said "Come in." So Pamela turned the door handle and the four girls went in.
Each of the girls, at some time or other during the last six months, had imagined the meeting with Miss Crabingway at the end of their visit; the imagined meetings had been dramatic or comfortable, according to the girls' moods or temperaments; but none of them had imagined anything like the meeting that actually occurred. To begin with, no one had thought of it taking place in the locked-up room, curiously enough.
Miss Crabingway, who had been sitting at the farther end of the room in a low wicker chair beside a table littered with papers, rose as they entered and stood gazing toward them intently. For the space of half a minute she stood quite silent, taking stock of her four visitors—and they stood gazing at her.
Quite unlike Pamela's imagined picture of her, Miss Crabingway was small and thin, about fifty years of age, with exceedingly bright eyes and bushy white hair. Her nose was large and aquiline, of the variety generally termed roman. It is supposed that people with large noses have strength of will and character; it may have been Miss Crabingway's nose that indicated her character, but it was certainly her eyes that appeared to be the most compelling force about her; they were eager, restless, keenly-alive-looking brown eyes. After the girls had noticed her eyes and nose and hair, and her thin-lipped wide mouth, they became aware that Miss Crabingway was dressed in a coat and skirt of some soft dark brown material. It was odd to see Miss Crabingway dressed, with the exception of a hat, as if to go out of doors at this time in the morning; at least, it seemed odd to the girls, who had expected to find her having breakfast in bed, perhaps, or, at any rate, sitting in a flannel dressing-gown.
There was no time at present to take in the details of the 'locked-up room,' but the first impression was one of sombreness with regard to the furnishings, and although it was an airy room, with a very high ceiling and four windows, yet it seemed a dark room on account of the ivy which grew round the windows, and even across the panes in some parts. Then it was gradually borne in upon the girls that nearly everything in the room was duplicated!
There were two four-poster beds with exactly the same coloured hangings and draperies, two chests of drawers, two ottomans (gay and modern and chintz-covered), two wicker-chairs, two small round tables, two fire-places—one at each end of the long room—and two carpets which met in the centre of the floor, two high wardrobes, and so on—so that whenever one caught sight of something fresh, one immediately looked round for its double—and was sure to find it. The ornaments on the two mantelpieces were exactly the same.... All this fascinated one so strangely that Pamela even found herself about to look round for two Miss Crabingways.
But there was only one Miss Crabingway, and her keen eyes travelled from one to another of the girls, and then quickly returning to look again at Beryl, remained staring at her critically.
Then all of a sudden she began to talk as if continuing a conversation with the girls which had already been in progress for some time. The girls hardly took in what she said—they were so surprised—but afterward, when they tried to remember, it seemed to have been something about red serge and water-cress, and the difficulty of living in rooms up six pairs of stairs, if you were a plumber and suffered from rheumatism.... When they thought this over seriously, it seemed too silly; but, nevertheless, it was certainly the impression the girls got of Miss Crabingway's torrent of conversation. The manner in which Miss Crabingway appeared to be continuing some discussion with them puzzled the four girls greatly at first; afterward, they learnt that this was one of Miss Crabingway's little peculiarities—she never publicly recognized the existence of introductions and farewells, but on seeing a fresh arrival would continue a conversation as if the new-comer had been there all the time. She would greet some one who had been absent for years as if he or she had just walked down the garden to see how the lettuces were growing and had then wandered back into the house again. It was an odd trick of Miss Crabingway's, and an inconvenient one sometimes, besides being bewildering. Yet it gave a curious impression that Miss Crabingway was with you all the time, and that she had been watching you throughout the years with those eager eyes of hens. In the same manner she declined to say good-bye, always giving the impression that she was coming along with you—in fact, would catch you up in a few minutes, before you reached the station. It was only when you had been talking with her for some time that you discovered that she did realize there were such things as absence, time, and space.
"However," Miss Crabingway continued, "I want to have a short talk with you all.... But why stand by the door, my dear girls? There are plenty of chairs, and an ottoman here by the window."
At this invitation the girls crossed the room and seated themselves in chairs and on the ottoman, which held two—Beryl and Caroline.
"We are very pleased to meet you, Miss Crabingway, and we want to thank—" Pamela began, when Miss Crabingway broke in suddenly.
"What was the date yesterday?" she asked.
Pamela, taken aback for a moment, replied, "Oh—the 27th, I think."
"Ah," said Miss Crabingway. "Yes, I'm glad I sent Joseph Sigglesthorne that telegram. He never can remember dates—especially after the 8th of each month. They always send him in two rashers of bacon every morning for his breakfast during the first week in each month—after that they give him boiled eggs every day until the end of the month, and it becomes so monotonous that he can't distinguish one day from another. It's certainly rather confusing, isn't it? I've told him I'd change the restaurant or coffee-house, or whatever it is that supplies him with breakfast; but he's used to it, and he doesn't like change—so it's no good my talking or giving him calendars—I just send him a telegram."
Miss Crabingway seated herself and began rustling and sorting the papers on the little table in front of her.
"And now," she continued in her decisive voice, flashing a glance round her puzzled audience, and once again looking last and longest at Beryl, "I didn't ask you to come up here in order to discuss Joseph Sigglesthorne's breakfast—as you will doubtless guess. I asked you here to tell you a true story, and, if you please, don't speak to me until I've finished."
Without more ado Miss Crabingway gave a dry little cough and began hurriedly:
"There was an elderly person who was rich, and lonely—" she paused for a second, then added with emphasis, "and crotchety! Yes, that's what she was, though most of her acquaintances called her eccentric, and quaint—out of politeness.... As she grew older she grew more and more lonely; and realizing one day (when she was feeling ill and depressed) that she couldn't take her money with her when she died, she determined that she would make use of it now and give some benefit and enjoyment to herself, and, if possible, to others.... She—she had taken a great fancy to a young girl she had come across recently—the daughter of a very old and valued friend who died some years back.... And what made her particularly—crotchety, was that she had wanted to adopt this girl, and the girl's relatives had refused. For what reason, it is impossible to say! For the relatives were not over-rich, nor over-fond of the girl.... Probably it was because the relatives were not offered enough money.... Anyway, the elderly person had a quarrel with the relatives, and the elderly person went off in a huff, which she afterward regretted—and would have gone back and said so, only about this time some urgent business affairs called her away from home. Before she went she thought of a plan whereby she could give the young girl she liked a rest from her relatives, and at the same time help her to develop her character. For the elderly person had long cherished a belief that most young girls in their early teens would do better in after life if they had a chance to develop their characters, for a time, away from the influence of their parents or guardians.... Having heard of three other young girls whom she thought it would be interesting to try the experiment on, the elderly person sent out invitations to all four, adding a little inducement, in the shape of a sum of money, to each."
Miss Crabingway, having now touched on a subject in which she was evidently greatly interested, went on to express her ideas about character development at some length, adding that when she was a girl herself she had suffered from character-suppression, and had been cramped and moulded by her own parents so that she had not an idea nor opinion of her own all the years she lived under their influence.
"I was merely an echo," she said, "and all my thoughts and opinions were second-hand."
Miss Crabingway's roman nose seemed to be contradicting these words even as they were uttered, but her keen, earnest eyes assured one that she was speaking the truth.
"I think there comes a time," she went on, "when it is best for every girl to think and act for herself—to get used to relying on herself, and not on others. This does not mean being rebellious, you know—it means just clear thinking, and acting self-reliantly."
So absorbed did Miss Crabingway become in her theory that she forgot all about the 'elderly person' and slipped unconsciously into the first person, mentioning the little girl she had wanted to adopt by name. Even before she mentioned the name the other three girls had guessed who it was, and several quiet and curious glances had been cast in the direction of Beryl as she sat, silent and pale, her eyes on the ground. The girls had expected that Miss Crabingway was going to say something special about Beryl by the way her glance kept wandering to Beryl's face, studying it affectionately, yet anxiously.
"You see, I was anxious to try the experiment, but most of all I was anxious to obtain congenial companions for—for Beryl," Miss Crabingway continued. "I induced Beryl's relatives to allow her to come and stop at the house while I was away—it doesn't matter how I induced them.... And then I made a few rules; one for the purpose of keeping these relatives from worrying Beryl—of course it was a little hard on you other girls, perhaps…"
("I should think it was," thought Isobel to herself.)
"… But it was only for a short while, and it would help to develop character—and, after all, elderly people will have their little fads and whims—especially if they're eccentric," she said the last word a little bitterly, as if recalling some one's opinion of her. "Well, the plan has worked out fairly successfully, I hope.... Whether your visit here has strengthened your characters—only the future can show. I shall never know—because I did not know you before—but you will each be able to judge for yourself.... I hope very much that it has helped you all, and done you all good.... Of one thing I feel sure—it has done this old house good to have fresh young people about the rooms and up and down the stairs. The place had grown old and grave and silent through long association with old and silent people. It needed some laughter and young voices…" Miss Crabingway paused. "I have had constant news of you all, from Martha … and Martha says everything has gone along all right?"
There was a questioning note in Miss Crabingway's voice as she paused again and scanned the intent young faces before her; so that presently Pamela, catching the inquiring gaze directed on herself, said:
"I—I think it has—I hope it has—anyway, I have enjoyed being here very much, and it has done me good—in many ways. Though being cut off from home was awfully hard to get used to...."
She had scarcely realized yet that her feelings, or in fact the feelings of any of them excepting Beryl, were a matter of secondary importance to Miss Crabingway. Beryl was the chief reason for the invitation to stay at Chequertrees, for the rules drawn up for them to observe during their stay, for the offer of fifty pounds each. It was all done for Beryl's sake, for Beryl's happiness. It was difficult at first to readjust one's outlook and see things from this new point of view.... But why had Miss Crabingway chosen Pamela to act as hostess? Possibly because when she saw Beryl and 'took a fancy to her' she recognized that Beryl was not the sort of girl to like the position, and so had relieved her of the responsibility and left her free to devote herself to whatever work she preferred and to develop her character unfettered. To Pamela, Isobel, and Caroline it seemed an elaborate yet simple explanation of their invitation to Chequertrees. In order to achieve her ends Miss Crabingway seemed to have taken unnecessary trouble, the three girls thought; but, of course, they were not acquainted with Miss Crabingway's 'eccentric' ways, neither did they know the nature of one of the relatives of the little girl Miss Crabingway had wished to adopt.
There were still some questions that the girls wanted answered. What had the locked door got to do with the story? And how did Miss Crabingway know that they would prove 'congenial' companions for Beryl?—as a matter of fact all of them had not. It was surely rather risky to invite them without seeing them?
"I should like to say that I think Pamela has been a splendid hostess," remarked Caroline, suddenly and unexpectedly.
This was echoed at once by Isobel and Beryl.
"I'm glad to hear you say that," said Miss Crabingway, smiling. "I knew Pamela's mother, and I knew her grandmother—and I felt sure I was safe in choosing Pamela. Of course there was a risk—a great risk; you might have turned out a dreadful set of girls! … But Martha would have told me if anything had been going wrong—and I should have managed to come down from Scotland for a week-end to see for myself.... I—I want to hear now what you think of my plan?"
She looked across at Beryl; but Beryl's eyes were on the ground and she was silent.
Isobel and Caroline both said they considered it a great success; they had enjoyed themselves immensely. And then Isobel went on to tell Miss Crabingway about Sir Henry and Lady Prior, and how the rule about relatives had placed her in an awkward predicament—at which Miss Crabingway seemed much amused, to Isobel's concealed annoyance.
"Ah, well, never mind," said Miss Crabingway, "you can soon put matters right. Lady Prior is coming here this afternoon."
"This afternoon!" echoed Isobel.
"Yes. I have sent out invitations to a few friends I thought you might all like to meet to-day—that's why I thought we would have this little 'business' talk this morning.... And so you—you have had a happy time here—have you, Beryl?" Miss Crabingway put the direct question looking earnestly across at Beryl, who was still sitting motionless, her face very pale.
"I—I think you planned everything very well," stammered Beryl. She said no more, but sat gazing miserably before her at the opposite wall. A tremendous struggle was going on in Beryl's mind; she was working herself up to do a thing she shrank from with all her might. "I must do it now—now. I owe it to her," the thought pricked her conscience. "Why not tell Pamela, and get her to explain to Miss Crabingway—or ask to speak to Miss Crabingway alone," urged another thought. "But the other girls are sure to hear in the end—and get the story a roundabout way—probably exaggerated," she argued to herself. "Oh, but it is so hateful—telling it before them all—and it will hurt her to hear that I am the only one of the four of us who has failed her… Much better speak out now—it'll be much the best in the end.... Oh, but I can't.... I haven't got the courage...." And so the struggle went on.
"And now we come to the real business of the day," said Miss Crabingway. "I must just ask you each a question or so about the rules I drew up, and then we shall know what to do when Mr Sigglesthorne arrives this afternoon."
She then went on to ask each girl if she had tried to find out what was in the locked-up room. And one after the other each gave her word of honour that she had not.
A smile flickered across Miss Crabingway's face. "Then Joseph Sigglesthorne has lost," she said. "And I'm very glad. You can see what the room contains—only my personal belongings and papers. When I locked them up I had a small wager with Joseph Sigglesthorne regarding the curiosity of girls. He said one or more of you would look through the keyhole, in spite of everything—I said you would not … and I have won. He now owes me a photograph of himself," Miss Crabingway laughed to herself. "He has never been taken before, and hates the idea—but the loser pays, and go to the photographer he must. I'm sure it will be a dreadful likeness—and I shall frame it and hang it on the wall as his punishment.... I suppose you wonder why I chose Joseph Sigglesthorne as my deputy—to bring my invitation to each of you. Eh?"
"Well, we did rather wonder," admitted Pamela.
"I couldn't come myself, being so rushed for time, and so I chose the shrewdest person I knew. I knew I could trust him to see what kind of girls you were—but had I known for certain how wrong he would be about 'girls' curiosity' I don't think I should have trusted him.... I knew he would appear a bit singular, but I didn't mind that.... What did it matter? The whole idea was just an eccentric old woman's whim—and your parents allowed you to humour me, as I hoped they would." And here Miss Crabingway began to chuckle, and she went on chuckling until she was obliged to get out her handkerchief and dry her eyes. The girls meanwhile sat looking on, uncomfortable, and not knowing whether it would be more polite to laugh also or keep serious. Miss Crabingway puzzled them; one minute she was quite business-like and sensible, and the next she was talking in an apparently inconsequent way. When she had dried her eyes and become serious again, Miss Crabingway went on to question them about the other rule she had made, and said she supposed that none of them had seen, spoken, or written more than post-cards to their various relatives.
"I have seen Lady Prior—but not spoken; I've told you all about that, haven't I?" said Isobel.
"Yes—yes—oh, that's all right," replied Miss Crabingway.
And Isobel knew that her Wishing Well wish had come true, and that she had not done anything to forfeit her fifty pounds.
Both Pamela and Caroline said they had strictly observed the rule, Pamela mentioning, at the same time, how she had caught sight of her father in London.
"Oh, of course, that's all right. Quite unavoidable—quite. That's good then, so far...." She turned to Beryl, but before she could speak, Beryl, who looked ghastly white, stood up suddenly.
"There's something I want to tell you all," she said.