CHAPTER XI
THE WISHING WELL
For a while things settled down into smoothly running order. Now that the first month had passed the days seemed to slip by in an amazing fashion—as they generally do after the newness of strange surroundings has worn off. The four girls got on very well together on the whole; of course, there were occasional little breezes—which was only natural considering that four such different temperaments were thrown constantly into each other's society; but the breezes never gathered into a tempest, and always, before long, the sun was out again.
One of the breezes sprang up during the sixth week on account of a protest Isobel made regarding Caroline's choice of puddings. It was Caroline's turn again to arrange the week's meals, and it must certainly be admitted that to choose suet roly-poly on Monday and Thursday, apple dumplings on Tuesday, and boiled treacle roll on Wednesday and Friday, was, to say the least of it, asking for trouble. But when on the Saturday a solidly substantial Christmas pudding appeared, it was too much for Isobel, and she protested vigorously at the stodginess of Caroline's puddings.
Caroline, looking up from the solid slice of pudding on her plate, took the remarks badly, and after a few sullen replies got decidedly annoyed. She was making the most of her week, she said, because she knew she would not get another pudding worth calling a pudding until her turn came round again. Even the glories of Isobel's elaborate puddings—with cream and crystallized cherries on top—had failed to rouse any enthusiasm in Caroline. Those kinds of pudding were all right to look at, but they had 'no insides' to them, commented Caroline, as she passed her plate for a third helping of Christmas pudding.
Martha's patience and willingness in making the various kinds of pudding chosen were things to be marvelled at; but she seemed to take great pride and pleasure in showing her skill at cooking whatever the girls required. To be sure, there was no lack of praise for her from the four girls, who thoroughly appreciated her efforts to do her best for them.
"It always does me good to go and have a talk with Martha," Pamela would say. "She's so cheerful—and so willing and unselfish. Nothing is any trouble to her."
Martha never demurred at nor criticized any of the puddings chosen—not even Caroline's recurring choice of roly-polies, though she looked a trifle anxious and made them as light as possible.
"And on Friday we'll have boiled treacle roll," Caroline had informed her.
"And what's nicer!" Martha had replied, unaware of the chorus of muffled groans on the other side of the kitchen door, as three girls, rolling their eyes in an exaggerated manner, crept stealthily away along the passage.
Then on the Saturday had come Isobel's protest. Caroline maintained that she had a right to choose any puddings she liked during her week, and while quite agreeing with her as to this point, Pamela mentioned that she thought it would be more considerate of Caroline if she would make her choice a little less 'suety.' They discussed the matter thoroughly, and finally came to an agreement, Caroline undertaking to vary her choice if the others promised to have the kind of pudding that was really a pudding on one day in each week. And so matters were arranged and the breeze blew over.
In spite of lack of encouragement or interest from the others, Caroline had sent in her name to Lady Prior's secretary as one who was willing to make things for the bazaar. And there had followed a day when two ladies of the organizing committee had called to see Caroline to talk about the articles that were most needed for the various stalls. It was a blissfully important day for Caroline, and she had dreams that night of crocheted cosy-covers, and little pink silk pin-cushions, and afterward, until the bazaar took place, was scarcely ever seen without knitting-needles or sewing of some kind or other in her hands.
The two committee ladies were both very large ladies, and were so well wrapped up in cloaks and scarves for motoring that they looked even larger than they really were. They drove up to the front gate in a very large motor car, and being ushered into the drawing-room by the respectful Ellen, both sat down on the small couch, which they succeeded in completely obscuring. They were both exceedingly amiable, and discussed matters in rather loud and assured voices with the bashful Caroline, who not only promised to make a number of things for the bazaar, but was eventually persuaded to preside at one of the stalls.
"All the stall-holders are to wear Japanese costumes. A charming idea, don't you think so?" smiled one of the ladies.
"A very, very sweet idea," said the other. "Of course, there will be no bother of getting the costumes ready; we are arranging to hire a number for the day. You'll have to come up and choose which one you like when the time draws near."
Caroline smiled, and said she thought it a nice idea. Fortunately, the fact that the Japanese style, with chrysanthemums in her hair, would not suit her in the least did not occur to Caroline. She was not a vain girl with regard to her appearance, though she was rather proud of her accomplishments in the sewing line.
But when Isobel heard about the Japanese costume for Caroline she nearly suffocated herself with laughter at the picture her mind's eye presented her with of solemn Caroline in a butterfly kimono and chrysanthemums pinned coquettishly above each ear. However, Caroline was not within hearing when Isobel learnt the news from Beryl, so no harm was done.
Isobel would have liked to join in the bazaar herself, but until she knew for certain about her relationship with the family at the Manor House, she decided that it was better not to lay herself open to the chance of meeting Lady Prior. Of course she had questioned Martha about the Priors, but nothing Martha could tell her shed any light on the Priors' connexions, as Sir Henry was practically a new-comer to Barrowfield, having bought the Manor House on the death of the late owner a few years ago.
As a rule Martha was a useful mine of information on people and places in Barrowfield, and many an interesting morsel of gossip had come to the girls through Martha.
It was through her, for instance, that they first heard of the Wishing Well.
One evening when Pamela was showing Martha a sketch she had made of an old barn and some pine trees, Martha said:
"Why, that's near the top of Long Lane, isn't it?—near where the Wishing Well is! And a very handsome picture it makes, to be sure."
"The Wishing Well!" said Pamela. "Where's that? It sounds exciting."
"Well, you know as you gets near the top of Long Lane," said Martha, busily stoning raisins into a basin that stood on the kitchen table, "on your right hand, as you're going up, you pass a white gate that leads into a field and an old disused chalk quarry—there's poppies and long grass growing all about in the summer—and there's a few trees at the top of the field, at the head of the scooped-out chalk-pit.... Well, a few yards inside the gate, on your left, and almost hidden by an overhanging hedge, is the well. You probably wouldn't notice it if you wasn't looking for it! But there it is, as sure as I'm sitting here, stoning these raisins—and Ellen will tell you the same as it's the truth I'm speaking."
"And why is it called a Wishing Well?" inquired Pamela.
"Oh, there's some old story that if you was to write a wish on a piece of paper and throw it into the well on a moonlight night, whatever you wished would come true," Martha chuckled. "But I don't know as I believes it—though I did have a wish that way once—in my young days, mind you–"
"And did it come true?" asked Pamela, eagerly.
"Well, no—I can't say it did," replied Martha, "but then, according to the story it was my fault. I ought to have kept it secret, and I went and spoke it out to some one, not thinking like—and so it didn't come true."
"Didn't you wish again ever?"
Martha shook her head. "You can only wish once—according to the story … but mind you, I don't say there's any truth in it, one way or the other."
"But don't you know anyone else who has wished and who has had their wish granted?" asked Pamela, to whom the idea appealed strongly.
"I can't truthfully say I do—not for certain," said Martha. "Though I knows several what have said such and such a thing has happened because they wished it to—down the well—and it's their wish come true.... But how do I know they're speaking the truth? Eh? They mustn't tell what they've wished till it does come true, or else it won't come true at all. And when a thing happens, it's easy enough to say you wished it to, isn't it? … So you see you can't rely on no one—not knowing how honest they are—but can only try for yourself and see."
"I should love to have a wish," said Pamela, gazing thoughtfully into the glowing kitchen fire. "I like to believe I believe in Wishing Wells, and goblins and spells and enchantments and things like that, but I'm not really sure that I do.... Anyway, I think we might all go up Long Lane on a moonlight night, and have a wish—just in case it really is a Wishing Well.... I'm sure Beryl will love the idea—they all will, I think. You'll tell us just what to do, won't you, Martha?"
Martha laughed. "Yes, indeed," she said. "But, mind you, I don't say there's anything in it."
The outcome of this conversation was an excursion up Long Lane a few nights later when the moon was at the full. All four girls entered into the spirit of the adventure in high spirits, though Caroline rather spoilt the romantic glamour that Pamela had conjured up by insisting on wearing her goloshes in case she got her feet wet in the damp grass.
"Oh, Caroline, how can you! We ought not to speak of such things as goloshes—practical, matter-of-fact, everyday goloshes—in the same breath as Wishing Wells," said Pamela, in a mock tragic voice. "But still, I suppose it's very sensible of you," she added, laughing.
The four girls started off up Long Lane, chatting and laughing, each with a piece of paper and pencil to write her wish when the well was reached. It would be so much more romantic, Pamela said, to write it beside the well in the moonlight, rather than beside the dining-room table in the gaslight.
"I hope you each know what you're going to wish," said Isobel. "It'll be too chilly to stand about making up our minds when we get there."
Long Lane stretched from the blacksmith's forge, that stood on the same side of Barrowfield Green as Chequertrees, past Tom Bagg's house, and up the hill to a small inn, and a handful of scattered cottages a mile and a half away. The lane was set with high hedges on either side, and was a gradual ascent all the way.
As the girls drew near the top end, and the gate leading to the chalk quarry came in sight, they fell silent, each trying to put into shape the wish she was going to write in a few minutes.
The well was much as Martha had described, though even more hidden and overgrown with trails of creeper from a high bank of shrubs above it than they had expected to find. Pamela was obliged to draw the trails aside before they could see the dark, still water.
"Can you see the moon reflected in the water? We must make sure of that," reminded Beryl.
Long white clouds were drifting slowly across the face of the moon, but as they passed, and the moon emerged again, her reflection could be seen in the well.
"Yes," said Pamela. "So—now—quick—let's write our wishes and wrap a stone inside the papers so that they'll sink—and drop them in the water while the moon's out." She looked up overhead. "It'll be clear for a few minutes now, but there are more clouds coming slowly—a long way off—and if they reach her we shall have to wait some minutes for them to pass."
A hurried search for convenient-sized stones was made; and then, silence, while they wrote down their wishes, using the top bar of the white gate as a writing-desk.
Pamela was the first to finish. At first Pamela had thought of wishing something for Michael; then she had thought of wishing that she could paint as well as Elizabeth Bagg; but "Michael and I are young," she had told herself, "and we've plenty of years to work in—but Elizabeth Bagg is getting old, and she's losing heart—I'll wish something for her.... I'll wish that somebody with influence, who can appreciate Elizabeth Bagg's artistic talent, may see some of her pictures, and that she may soon obtain the recognition which she well deserves." This was the gist of Pamela's wish. Wrapping a stone inside her paper, she threw it into the well—the moon's reflection scattering into a hundred shimmers and ripples as the stone splashed into the dark water and sank.
Isobel was the next ready. "I wish that I may do nothing to forfeit my fifty pounds," she had written, and her 'wish' followed quickly in the track of Pamela's.
For a wonder Caroline was finished third; but she knew when she started out exactly what she was going to wish. It concerned a little matter that had been fidgeting her careful soul for the last two days. "I wish I may find my silver thimble." Such was Caroline's wish, and it journeyed down after the other two just as Beryl finished writing hers.
Beryl had taken longer because she had had some difficulty in framing her wish, although when finished it seemed quite straightforward enough. "I wish I may never have to go back and live with Aunt Laura again," Beryl had written.
"Hurry up, and throw yours in, Beryl—the clouds are coming over," said Pamela, as she and Caroline and Isobel wandered a few paces away toward the chalk quarry. They were talking casually together when a slight scream from Beryl made them turn hastily round.
Beryl was running swiftly away from the well and toward the gate, which she pushed open, and ran into the lane.
The three other girls quickly followed and soon overtook her.
"Beryl! Wait a minute! Wait for us! What's the matter?" they called as they ran.
Beryl stopped running directly she heard their voices, and came to a standstill. She was looking very pale and scared as they came up to her.
"Whatever is the matter, old girl?" asked Pamela, taking hold of Beryl's arm.
"Oh, Pamela," she said, "I had just thrown my wish in the well, when the bush—the big overhanging bush close above—gave a rustle, and I heard some one laugh—such a horrid laugh—as if some one was hiding there, watching us. I—it gave me such a turn—I just ran—I didn't notice where you were—I just ran for the gate, to get away quickly."
Beryl seemed quite unnerved, and it was in vain that the others tried to persuade her that it was only her imagination.
"Shall we all go back together and make sure," suggested Pamela, not very enthusiastically it must be owned; but the others were certain it would not be wise to do this.
"It might be some horrible old tramp asleep in the hedge," said Isobel. "No. Let's get home—it's getting chilly—and we couldn't do any good really by going back, could we?"
So they all linked arms, and made their way home, where Martha was waiting up for them with a jug of hot milk.
CHAPTER XII
IN WHICH ELIZABETH BAGG PAINTS A PICTURE AND ISOBEL HEARS SOME PLEASANT NEWS
Pamela's friendship with the Bagg family developed rapidly, and she became a frequent visitor to 'Alice Maud Villa'—much to Isobel's amazement; Isobel was more than amazed, she was scandalized.
"I simply can't understand Pamela," confided Isobel to Caroline. "What can she find in those Baggs? Even if Elizabeth Bagg can sketch a bit—it's no excuse; they're not the sort of people Pamela should like to mix with. After all, Tom Bagg is only the village cabman! You can't get away from the fact, can you now? You know what I mean—they're not Pamela's sort somehow—I really am surprised at her taste."
But Isobel never said anything like this to Pamela. There was a certain air about Pamela at times that even Isobel respected, an air which, in the present case, made Isobel feel instinctively that Pamela would not brook any interference with her friendship with Elizabeth Bagg. So Isobel did not criticize openly Pamela's attitude toward the Baggs; but she criticized, and wondered, and was amazed in private to Caroline, whenever she thought fit.
There were two things that Isobel was trying to avoid. One was meeting old Silas Sluff in the garden, and the other was, asking any more questions of Beryl. To avoid old Silas was fairly easy, as he seemed to be trying to keep out of her sight as much as possible. To refrain from questioning Beryl was hard at first, but, although at times intensely curious about some incident or other in connection with Beryl, Isobel remembered that she must be a sport, and managed to keep her tongue quiet. It needed a great effort sometimes, but she succeeded, which must certainly be put down to Isobel's credit.
As far as Pamela was concerned Isobel's approval or disapproval of her friendship with the Baggs never worried her in the least. The matter never even crossed her mind. She spent many happy hours in Elizabeth Bagg's 'studio' watching Elizabeth paint, or finishing a sketch of her own, helped on by valuable hints and suggestions from Elizabeth, who greatly encouraged Pamela in her work; just as Pamela helped Elizabeth by her interest and genuine admiration for Elizabeth's painting.
Sometimes, when they were both at work in the studio, Pamela would begin to argue with Elizabeth over her attitude toward her brother Tom and his views on her painting.
"He's no right to call it 'wasting time,'" Pamela would protest. "He ought to be made to understand what splendid work you are doing—valuable work, too, if I'm not mistaken."
"He doesn't care for pictures at all," Elizabeth would reply. "And it's no good crossing him—he's been very kind to me, you know, and has given me a roof over my head, and food to eat; I only have to buy my own clothes and my painting materials out of the money I earn by teaching; he provides everything else."
"But look what you do for him in return—cooking, washing, cleaning, and last, but by no means least, looking after his six children for him. How you manage to do it all I'm sure I don't know! And yet he doesn't even recognize that the work you love most is done up here—here in your studio—at all odd moments of the day. And he calls this 'wasting time.'" Pamela gave a short laugh. "Oh, it makes me so indignant," she said.
But her arguments were always in vain. Elizabeth would never make the smallest attempt toward making her brother respect her art, but would continue to go on as usual after Pamela had left, smiling quietly to herself at Pamela's enthusiasm and indignation.
"She is very young," Elizabeth would say to herself, and then give a sigh at the remembrance of when she herself was young and enthusiastic and indignant, when she had dreamed of doing great things in the world of art—long before her sister-in-law had died, and she had come to keep house for her brother. Then, when she was young, it had been an invalid mother who had claimed all her attention, so that she had never had time nor opportunities to make friends with young people of her own age—young people who had interests in common with herself. She had painted and drawn in her spare time, and had even had a couple of terms at an art school, in the days before her mother had become a helpless invalid. Then, when her mother had died, it had been Elizabeth's intention to take a room in London by herself and set resolutely to work to earn a living by her painting; but before this plan could be put into execution news came that her aunt (Alice Maud) had met with an accident, and Elizabeth was asked to go and nurse her. She went. Elizabeth planned many things during her life, but other people always seemed to step in and alter the plans—and Elizabeth allowed them to be altered, and drifted into the new plans with little or no resistance. That was Elizabeth's chief failing, her inability to strike out for herself. As far as art was concerned it was a loss, but her relatives had certainly gained in having so willing and conscientious a worker to look after them in their illnesses. For it was always somebody who was ill that sent for Elizabeth. First, her mother, then her aunt, and finally, just when her thoughts were once again free to turn toward the room in London, her sister-in-law had begged her to come and look after her house and the children as she was taken dangerously ill. So Elizabeth came. And when her sister-in-law died she could not find it in her heart to refuse her brother Tom's request to stay with him and look after his six little motherless children.
Elizabeth used sometimes to dream about the wonderful room she had meant to have in London—the room where she liked to imagine that she would have painted pictures that would have brought her fame and wealth. As she grew older she began to doubt whether she ever would have painted pictures good enough or marketable enough even to pay for the rent of the room. She began to regret her want of initiative—after she had met Pamela. She regretted that she had all along allowed her own affairs to drift. Why had she always allowed others to rule her life, she wondered. She had worked hard at her pictures—and then done nothing with them when they were finished. There were scores of them packed one on top of the other on the shelves of a big cupboard in her studio.
Having got permission to look through this pile of pictures one day, Pamela discovered that Elizabeth was decidedly clever at portrait painting; the likenesses of one or two of the village folk, whom Pamela knew by sight, and of Tom Bagg, and of several of the little Baggs, were very well done indeed; and she asked Elizabeth why she did not do more of this kind of work.
"I haven't done any portraits for a long time," was all that Elizabeth replied. "I don't know why."
The discovery of this branch of Elizabeth's skill set Pamela thinking. Apart from his annoying indifference to his sister's talent Tom Bagg was a genial, good-natured, and quite likeable man, Pamela thought. She liked him more particularly after discovering him one evening sitting by the fire in his living-room, smoking, and telling a long fairy story to his children, who were gathered around him listening, enthralled. It was only occasionally that Daddy could be got to tell them a story; but when he chose he could tell a very good story indeed. Perhaps that was one of the reasons why he was so popular at the 'Blue Boar.' Ensconced in a chimney-corner seat in the old-fashioned parlour of the 'Blue Boar,' he would puff away at his pipe, and yarn to a few bosom friends and occasional strangers for an hour at a stretch, much to the amusement of his audience. At home he was just as popular as a story-teller, and the children would listen enchanted to his tales of adventure, of fairies, and of pirates—and when he came to the humorous parts, where he always stopped to chuckle and shake before he told them the joke, the children could hardly contain their impatience, and while he paused aggravatingly to take a pull at his pipe and chuckle again, they would shower eager questions upon him, giving him no peace until he resumed the tale.
Elizabeth Bagg, when she was not upstairs in her studio, would sit in a corner by the fire on these occasions, mending stockings by firelight, and listening to the story, glancing up now and then at the cheerful, ruddy face of the teller, and at the children sitting on the hearth-rug, on the arms of his chair, and on his knees, all listening intently. The story-telling was always done by firelight; directly the gas was lit, it was supper and bedtime.
Pamela was present at more than one of these story-telling evenings. Old Tom Bagg was used to talking before strangers and new-comers, and her presence made no difference to him. He was always polite, and pleased to see Pamela, and never seemed outwardly surprised at her friendship with Elizabeth, though sometimes he would scratch the bald spot on his head and wonder to himself.
The first time Pamela saw the group in the firelit room listening to the story-telling she was struck with an idea, which she afterward communicated to Elizabeth.
"It would make a simply ripping picture—and you're so good at likenesses—I wonder you don't do it," she urged.
And, after a while, Elizabeth Bagg did do it. She set to work up in her studio, and began on a picture of Tom Bagg sitting in a firelit room telling a story to the children around him.
"Get the expression on his face when he's chuckling," said Pamela.
So Elizabeth watched him and caught the chuckling expression and transmitted it to her picture.
"Absolutely," was the delighted Pamela's verdict when she saw it; and her enthusiasm roused Elizabeth to put her best work into the painting, although she had no future plans for it when it was finished. Possibly it would have drifted finally into the cupboard in her studio. Elizabeth, with her tiresome lack of initiative, would have taken no further trouble with the picture after it was done.
But Pamela had a plan for the firelight picture which she did not mention to Elizabeth Bagg, but waited eagerly for the completion of the painting.
Meanwhile Isobel, unable to get Pamela or Beryl to join in having dancing-lessons with her, had at length, much to her own surprise, prevailed on Caroline to come to Madame Clarence's with her twice a week. As Caroline sat over her sewing so much, and had very little exercise, these visits to the Dancing Academy probably did her a great deal of good. Not that she enjoyed dancing; but being persuaded that it was good for her health, she took her lessons regularly and solemnly, just as she would have taken medicine twice daily after meals had she thought she should do so. Although Isobel (to use her own expression) was not 'frightfully keen' on Caroline, yet she found her useful in yet another way besides being a companion to travel with to and from Inchmoor.
When Isobel heard that Sir Henry and Lady Prior and family had returned to the Manor House, she lived for a few days in a state of pleasurable expectation, from which state she was presently transported into one of intense joy. For she discovered that the Manor House Priors actually were connected with her—though very distantly, it must be confessed.
And Caroline was the medium through whom she learnt this eventful piece of news.
Finding that Caroline was the only one of the girls likely to get into immediate touch with Lady Prior, through the bazaar work-party meetings which Caroline had begun to attend, Isobel asked her if she would take the first opportunity of speaking to Lady Prior, and informing her that Isobel Prior, who was staying at Chequertrees, would have liked beyond anything to help at the bazaar only she was afraid she was restricted from doing so by the instructions of Miss Crabingway, who had said that none of the girls staying at Chequertrees were to visit or be visited by any relations whatsoever; and Isobel thought it possible that she might be a relation of Lady Prior's. Of course, Isobel impressed upon Caroline that she was to be sure to say that Miss Crabingway did not know that this restriction of hers might apply in any way to Lady Prior, or she would assuredly not have made such a rule. Then Isobel asked Caroline to explain all about Miss Crabingway's whim, and to make matters quite clear to her ladyship. She also wrote down for Caroline all the facts about the Prior family-tree that she knew, giving her father's full name, and age, and profession, and the names of his various brothers, cousins, uncles, and so on.
All this Caroline faithfully related to Lady Prior in due course, and came back from her first interview with the news that Lady Prior was going to consult Sir Henry about it, and would tell Caroline what he said at the next meeting, as she did not know any of the Christian names of the gentlemen Caroline had mentioned, but was quite amused at Miss Crabingway's queer instructions.
Isobel was somewhat chilled by this news, and wondered to herself whether the 'dowdy-looking' Caroline had prejudiced her case in Lady Prior's eyes.
"Of course, never having seen me she may think I'm something of the same class as the friend I choose to act as my deputy," thought Isobel to herself, and eyed the unconscious Caroline with secret disfavour.
However, Caroline returned from the next bazaar meeting with better news. Sir Henry had informed Lady Prior that Mr Gerald Prior of Lancaster Gate and Ibstone House, Lower Marling, was a third cousin of his, whom he had never seen, though he had heard of him. This put fresh heart into Isobel, and she went to church the following Sunday to see what the Priors looked like—though she took care to keep a safe distance in case any unforeseen accident should happen, and she should meet them. She wondered what the mater would do under the circumstances. But, contemplating that when the six months elapsed she would be free to go and visit these new-found relatives, and be fifty pounds the richer for the waiting, she decided that it was wiser to wait, especially as Lady Prior now knew the circumstances and would understand.
So she gazed on the Prior pew from a distance, and noted with pride the rich and fashionable clothes its occupants wore, and the respect the family seemed to awaken in the other members of the congregation.
Though Isobel did not want to own it, even to herself, she was somewhat disappointed in the facial appearance of her father's third cousin and his family. Sir Henry himself was small and pompous, with sandy hair and moustache, and his broad, pinkish face was plentifully besprinkled with freckles; he wore glasses which were rather troublesome to keep on the flat bridge of his wide, short nose. His eyebrows were invisible from a distance, but his gold watch-chain and the diamond in the gold ring on the little finger of his right hand sparkled and glistened in the sunshine that streamed through the stained-glass windows.