*CHAPTER X*
*PAMELA BEFRIENDS BERYL AND MEETS ELIZABETH BAGG*
On looking back at the first months' happenings at Barrowfield, therewere two incidents that always stood out clearly from all the rest inPamela's mind; they made a deep impression on her at the time, andafterward influenced her actions considerably. The first of theseincidents was the confession Beryl made to her; and the second, thebeginning of her friendship with Elizabeth Bagg.
Passing Beryl's door on her way to bed one night Pamela caught the soundof sobbing. She stood still, listening; the sounds were faint, butunmistakable. What should she do? She hesitated for a moment, thentapped on the door; then, as no one answered, and the sobbing continuedwithout a break, Pamela turned the handle and went in.
A candle on the dressing-table lighted up the figure of Beryl, stillfully dressed, stretched on the bed, her face buried in the pillows.
"Why, Beryl! Beryl! What's the matter? Can I help you, dear?" Pamelaclosed the door, and, crossing the room, laid her hand on Beryl'sshaking shoulders.
Beryl sprang up as if she had been shot.
"Oh! I didn't hear anybody--Oh! Pamela!" and she burst out cryingagain--not noisily, but in an intense, quiet way, that frightenedPamela.
"Are you ill, Beryl? Shall I go and fetch Martha?" she asked anxiously.
Beryl shook her head. "No, no," she sobbed. "I--I'll be all right--ina--in a minute. Wait a minute."
Pamela waited patiently, sitting on the edge of the bed, her arm roundBeryl's shoulders. "Poor old girl," she said once.
Presently Beryl became calmer, and began to murmur apologetically,
"It's so silly of me. I'm so sorry if I gave you a start--I didn't hearyou come in--I thought I'd locked the door--and I couldn't help cryingagain when I saw you--I was all worked up so. Please forgive me--beingso silly--only--only I was so miserable." And here the tears beganafresh.
"Don't, Beryl, you'll make yourself ill if you cry like that. I wish Icould help you-- What is it? Won't you tell me? _Do_ trust me, ifit's anything I can help you in--I would be so glad to help you. Dotell me what it is," urged Pamela.
For a moment Beryl felt inclined to prevaricate, and say that she wasmerely overtired, or depressed, and so account for the fit of crying;but the longing to share her troubles with some one--and that some onethe most sympathetic person she knew at present--conquered her usualreticence. She feared losing Pamela's respect, and yet she felt as ifPamela would somehow understand her.
"Is it that you're longing to go home?" asked Pamela kindly, quiteunprepared for the emphasis with which Beryl replied:
"Oh, _no_."
"I believe I know," said Pamela, remembering one or two occasionsrecently in which Isobel figured as the cause of discomfiture to Beryl."Some one has been bothering you about things that don't concern them inthe least.... I shouldn't mind about that if I were you."
"You must think it silly of me--I wish I didn't care--and I don'treally," Beryl explained in a confused way. "I care much more what youthink about me than I do what Isobel thinks about me. It's what _I_ do,when she keeps questioning me, that upsets me." Beryl paused, andrubbed her eyes with her handkerchief, then said suddenly, "When shebothers me with questions I--it makes me tell _lies_! ... And, oh,Pamela," she sobbed, "I do _hate_ myself for doing it." She went on toexplain more fully, pausing every now and again to dab her eyes, or blowher nose, or cry a little bit more; and Pamela, piecing the brokensentences together, began to understand what had been taking place.
"She's always asking me about my school--and I haven't told her thetruth about that," said Beryl. "When father and mother died, and left mein the charge of my aunt, aunt was not able to afford much for me, soshe sent me to a _council_ school. That's where I was educated! And Ihaven't the courage to tell Isobel this, because she might despise me,as she seems to despise all people who have been to such schools. Iknow it's stupid of me, and I despise myself for being afraid to tellher. But having once said I'd been to another sort of school I have tokeep on inventing things about it--about a place I've never been to--andI feel so horrid all the time.... And then, she ridicules my clothes--Iknow she does--and I can't help it--I haven't any others at present;some that I wear are my cousin's left-off ones--I'd never have chosenthem myself.... Then she's always asking about my--my father andmother--and the aunt I lived with, after they died.... Aunt Laura keepsa little shop in Enfield, where her daughter--Cousin Laura--helps her toserve behind the counter. And I haven't told Isobel this because shealways speaks of 'shop-people' with such contempt.... We lived veryroughly at Enfield, and Aunt Laura was always shouting, and I couldn'tbear the slovenly way we had meals. Oh, I've hated it all, and hatedhaving it always thrust before my mind by Isobel's questions, and hatedmyself for deceiving everybody. I've felt all the time as if I've beenout of place--pretending to be used to a nicely-kept household, when I'mnot.... I've sometimes almost wished that Miss Crabingway had neverinvited me here--and yet, I love being here.... Oh, I'm sure you'llthink I'm ridiculous for making such a fuss about these things, but youcan't think what a lot I've _felt_ them--and how I've dreaded Isobelfinding out."
Beryl paused. "But most of all I've dreaded--" she began, and thenstopped, "I've dreaded--" she was having great difficulty in getting herwords out now, "I've--dreaded--her knowing--about my father. He--hedied--in _prison_." She was not crying now, but gazing with wide,frightened eyes into Pamela's face. "I _must_ tell you--I _must_ tellyou the rest--it wouldn't be fair not to. Wait a minute."
Beryl put her hand inside her blouse and drew out a little key attachedto a long black cord; scrambling hurriedly to her feet she went acrossto a drawer in the dressing-table and brought out a small black box; sheunlocked this, and quickly found what she wanted. It was a letter,written in faint, thin writing, which she brought over and placed inPamela's hands.
"Read it," said Beryl, and stood holding the lighted candle just behindPamela's shoulder so that she could see to read the following letter:
MY DEAR LITTLE DAUGHTER,
Some day, in the distant future, you may hear cruel things said aboutyour father--things that may not only be cruel, but false as well, andwhich will cause you much suffering. The truth is cruel, but I am goingto tell you the truth now, so that you will know all there is to know,and will not suffer unnecessarily. I wish for your sake that my lifecould be spared until you had grown to years of understanding, but thisI know cannot be.
As I write this you are playing happily on the rug at my feet--such alittle thing you are--my poor little daughter. And you are laughing....It makes my heart ache to think that when you are old enough to readthis letter, and understand, you may be crying--and I shall not be nearto comfort you.
But we must face things bravely, my dear.... Your father is dead. Hedied two months ago in prison. They told me it was pneumonia, but Iknow that it was because his heart was broken. (People can die of brokenhearts, you know, Beryl.) When he died he was serving a term ofimprisonment for embezzlement; he stole a large sum of money from hisemployers--hoping to be able to pay it back before it was missed, hesaid; but he was not able to do this. Never believe that he was awicked man, your father; he was tempted--and he could not resist. Hehad been with the same firm for many years, and large sums of moneypassed through his hands each month. At home there were debts to pay--Iwas ill, and you had been ill--and illness uses up so much money; andyour father's salary was not over-high, although his position was aresponsible one. You can see how it happened--how, when an opportunityoccurred when he could easily borrow the money, the temptation was toomuch for him....
His employers were very hard on him, in spite of his long and honourableyears of service with them--and he died in prison.
That is all. And if, in the future, you hear additions to this story,do not believe them, little daughter--they are not true.
Your father was a good man, in my eyes, in spite of ev
erything.Remember, he did it for us--so that you and I might live and get welland strong. For me, it was useless.... I know I am dying now. Foryou--I am praying for you....
Pamela read the signature of Beryl's mother through a blur of tears.She was not a girl who cried easily, and she bit her underlip in aneffort to stop it quivering; but the tears forced their way into hereyes so that she dared not look up at Beryl for a moment. She staredinstead at the old letter in her hands--the letter written over fourteenyears ago, seeing nothing but the white sheet of paper glimmeringthrough her tears. She did not realize that Beryl was waiting in anagony of suspense for her to speak, until she looked up at length andsaw Beryl's face.
"Oh, Beryl," was all she could say. And the next moment she had flungher arms round Beryl, and both girls were crying together.
"You see," said Beryl, after a while, "it isn't that I'm ashamed of myfather--oh, it _isn't_ that, but I couldn't ever explain to Isobel--Icouldn't talk to her about him at all--she'd be all out of sympathy, andshe wouldn't understand a bit.... you understand how I mean, Pamela,don't you? ... I've never shown this letter to anyone but you. It wasleft to me--locked up in an old box with some other things from mymother, with instructions that I was to open it on my fourteenthbirthday.... I can't tell you how I felt when I first read it--it camejust at a time when I was needing it badly.... But I wouldn't show itto Isobel for anything--you do understand, Pamela?"
"I think I understand," said Pamela gently. "But, Beryl, dear, aboutyour school, and the other things, you've let the thought of Isobel'sopinion gain an unreasonable power over you--and you said just now youdidn't really mind what she thought of you?"
"Yes, I know," said Beryl, tearfully. "It's all been so silly, and itseems sillier when it's talked of even than when I only thought aboutit.... Pamela, do you--do you despise me?"
"Of course I don't," replied Pamela promptly.
"Not for anything?"
"Not for anything, you old silly," said Pamela. "And now, look here, Iwant us to make a plan together. I was just wondering--what would bethe best thing for you to do about Isobel!"
"How do you mean?"
"Why, we've all got to go on living under this roof together for fivemore months, and you can't go on being worried and miserable anddreading things all that time! Besides, there's no need. We might justas well all be comfortable together."
"What do you think I'd better do?" asked Beryl. "You see, I can't letIsobel know that I've been telling her stories all the time--I can'ttell her the truth now. Besides," Beryl's voice was indignant, "whatbusiness is it of hers? She shouldn't question me like she does."
"Of course she shouldn't," agreed Pamela. "But I'm sure it's donethoughtlessly. She doesn't understand a bit; if she did, she'd be adeal more kindly. She's not a bad sort really, you know, Beryl. I'vemet several girls like her--I think it's the fault of her upbringing."
"She can make people feel so _small_ sometimes, just by the tone of hervoice," said Beryl. "Oh, it's hateful! I--I couldn't bear it."
"Look here," said Pamela, "I'll speak to her, if you like--just give hera hint not to bother you with questions. I won't tell her anything youdon't want me to. Will you leave it to me--and trust me not to say toomuch?"
"Oh, Pamela, it is kind of you. If only you would-- Of course I trustyou-- Just tell her what you think best.... Only I can't help feelinga coward for not facing things myself...."
"That's all right. It's easier to do it for another person than it isfor oneself," said Pamela. "And now you must go to sleep--you'll lookall washed out in the morning if you don't. And, remember, we've got to_enjoy_ our stay in this house--let's get all the fun out of it we can,shall we? ... Don't worry any more about Isobel--it'll be all right, youjust see! ... Good-night, Beryl. And--Beryl--thank you for showing meyour mother's letter."
When Pamela had gone Beryl cried a little more, but they were adifferent kind of tears this time, because she had found a friend, andher heart was full of gratitude.
After this Pamela took the first opportunity that occurred to speak withIsobel alone. She was not quite sure of the best way to deal withIsobel, but decided on the whole it would be best to tell her quitestraightforwardly as much as she meant to tell her--arouse her sympathyand interest, but not her suspicions.
"I say, Isobel," she began, "I know something that I think you will beinterested to hear--about Beryl."
Isobel pricked up her ears immediately.
"What is it?" she asked.
"You know you were wondering why she wore that short-sleeved silkblouse?"
"Yes," replied Isobel, smiling.
"You remember it amused you because it was unsuitable?"
"Yes," Isobel assented, and laughed.
"Well, Beryl only possesses two blouses in the world, at present--thatsilk one and another one; she wears them in turn, poor kiddy--and hatesthem both.... Her aunt, with whom she lived, chose them for her. Shehasn't got any others, though she's going to buy some with herpocket-money now. She's very sensitive about her clothes."
"Oh," said Isobel, looking puzzled; she wondered how Pamela meant her totake the information.
"Well," said Pamela, looking straight into Isobel's eyes, so that Isobelpresently began to feel vaguely uncomfortable, "I believe she has anidea that you laugh at them--and it hurts her. So I thought I'd tellyou, because I know you wouldn't want to purposely hurt her."
"No, of course not. I didn't know--" began Isobel.
"She's had rather a rough time on the whole--losing her mother andfather, and being brought up by an aunt with whom she is obviously notin sympathy----"
"Why, from what she's told me, I don't think she's had a particularlyrough time," Isobel interrupted.
"She makes light of it, no doubt," Pamela replied. "But all the sameshe's not had a particularly happy time, and I would like her to behappy while she is here with us, wouldn't you?"
"Why, of course," agreed Isobel. "Why shouldn't she?"
"She tries to put her unhappy life behind her, but--well, you know,Isobel, you keep reminding her of it!"
"_I_ keep reminding her! What do you mean?"
"I found her crying last night because you kept worrying her withquestions," said Pamela bluntly.
Isobel flushed.
"Good gracious! How ridiculous! But I only ask her ordinary questions.Why should she mind that?"
"They're questions about the past unhappy life with her aunt--a time shewants to forget. You keep reviving it. And if she wants to forget--wehave no right to force her to remember, have we?"
"Of course not," said Isobel, haughtily.
"I didn't mean to tell you about her crying, at first--but I guessed ifyou knew you wouldn't let it happen again. It was only because youdidn't know. Where she went to school, what she did at her aunt's,where she bought her clothes--things like that don't really concern anyof us----"
"Not if there's nothing to hide," said Isobel suddenly. "But it seemsas if there is something in Beryl's case--and so she won't talk aboutit."
"Why on earth should there be anything to hide! If she's beenunhappy--why should she wish to talk about it? Let her forget it.Come, Isobel, I know you'll be a good sport, and not bother her with anymore questions. Let's give her a happy time while she's here, shan'twe? Shake hands on it."
Isobel took Pamela's outstretched hand, but her dignity was still alittle ruffled.
"Beryl seems to have made a lot of fuss--if there's nothing to hide,"she said in a slightly offended tone.
"Oh, she's only extra sensitive.... Why ever should there be anythingto hide!" repeated Pamela, feeling as if she had not been quitesuccessful in convincing Isobel. "It's only that she's beenunhappy--and she's been poor. Lack of money makes such a difference inone's confidence in one's self. It oughtn't to--but it does," sheruminated. "Anyway, you won't ask her any more questions, will you?"
"I shouldn't think of doing so--after what you've told me," Isobelreplied coldly.
"Thanks so much," said Pamela, with genuine warmth. "We'll give her areal happy time while she's here."
And if Beryl's happiness had lain in the hands of these two girls, itwould have been assured during the next few months. But, unfortunately,there was a third person in Barrowfield whose hands were to play anunexpected part in the future happiness of Beryl.
A black kitten was responsible for introducing Pamela to Elizabeth Bagg.Pamela found the kitten crying in a field--a soft, purry, ratherfrightened little kitten, that had lost its way. Pamela picked it up,and made inquiries about it in the village. No one seemed to own it,nor recognize it, at first; and then Aggie Jones, who was leaning out ofher door as usual, said she believed it belonged to the Baggs.
So Pamela went up the little lane by the blacksmith's to inquire. Shesoon became aware of the vicinity of 'Alice Maud Villa.' As she walkedalong the lane her ears caught the sound of laughter and the shouting ofchildren's voices, which proceeded from a small house on the right-handside; also Pamela's nose informed her that a delicious smell of boilingtoffee came from the same quarter. Then she came to the house, and sawthe name painted over the doorway. It was a very clean-looking littlehouse, with brightly polished door-knocker and letter-box, and thecurtains were fresh and dainty.
Pamela knocked several times before anyone heard her, the noise insidethe house being so great. Then the door was flung open and a swarm oflittle Baggs and a strong smell of cooked toffee came out to greet her.
The return of the kitten was hailed with joy, and Pamela, though glad tofind its home, watched anxiously to see that the children did not pullthe kitten about nor tease it. Pamela was very fond of animals, and hadfound the absence of a cat or a dog at Chequertrees very strange. Shewatched the little black kitten, and saw that it did not seem at allafraid of the children, and that, on the other hand, the childrenhandled it very carefully, in the way that only children who have a reallove for animals can handle a kitten. Pamela was relieved to noticethis; she knew too many cases where a kitten had been thoughtlessly kept"for the children to play with," a practice she thought most bad for thechildren, who were not taught to treat animals kindly, and most cruelfor the little teased kittens. However, there was nothing to worry overin this case, and when, a moment later, Elizabeth Bagg, in a hollandoverall, appeared in the doorway, Pamela, glancing at her pale, strongface, felt she understood why the children behaved gently to the kitten.There would be no thoughtless cruelty in the house Elizabeth Bagg ruledover.
She had a kindly face, with clear grey eyes and a frank expression. Itwas strange that with such different features, and with so pale acomplexion, she yet had a strong resemblance to her ruddy-faced brother,the cabman. Her voice and manners, though, were entirely unlike his.Her hair, which was jet black, was parted in the centre and brushedsmoothly down each side of her face, and coiled in one thick plait roundher head; it was a quaint style, rather severe, but it suited ElizabethBagg.
Pamela explained about the kitten, and then introduced herself,mentioning that she was staying at Chequertrees, and then, as was herusual way, plunged straight to the point that interested her most.
"I have been wanting very much to meet you," Pamela said, "because Ihear that you are an artist. I do a little sketching myself, and I'mawfully interested in anyone who paints. Would you--would you think itvery impertinent on my part if I asked to see some of your pictures. Ishould _love_ to, if you don't mind--but only when it suits you, ofcourse--not now, if you're busy."
A faint pink had crept into Elizabeth Bagg's cheeks.
"I should be pleased to show you some of my work," she said courteously.She spoke in a queer, stiff little way, so that until one knew her itwas hard to understand exactly how she felt about anything.
Pamela, for instance, was not at all sure whether Elizabeth Bagg waspleased by her request or resented it. Whereas Elizabeth Bagg wasreally more astonished than anything else, though certainly pleased.
"Would you please come in," Elizabeth continued. "I'm not busy atpresent. The children and I have just finished making some toffee. Ipromised them last week that we should make some to-day."
"If they were very good, I suppose?" Pamela smiled down at the sixlittle Baggs, who were standing round, gazing with open-mouthed interestat her.
"No," replied Elizabeth, to Pamela's surprise; "I had promised it themin any case."
"It smells delicious, anyway," said Pamela, not knowing quite what toreply.
"Would you like some when it's cool?" asked the little Bagg girl, whowas least shy and most generous.
"If you can spare a little bit--yes, I would," laughed Pamela.
"The nutty kind--or the un-nutty kind?" anxiously inquired the elderBagg boy, in a thick voice. He was rather greedy, and hoped Pamelawould say the un-nutty, as he liked the nutty sort best himself.Fortunately she did choose the kind he liked least, and he eyed her withmore favour than he had hitherto done.
The eldest of the children, a girl, was about eleven years old, and theyoungest was about five. There were four girls and two boys, and Pamelanoticed that they were all dressed in sensible linen overalls--thingsthat were strongly made and easily washed. The children seemed to be ahealthy, noisy, happy-go-lucky little crowd; but although Pamela wasfond of children, she did not pay so much attention to the six littleBaggs on this first visit as she did on subsequent occasions. Herattention was centred on their aunt, and her pictures.
While Elizabeth Bagg took Pamela upstairs to her 'studio' the littleBaggs disappeared into the kitchen to watch the toffee cooling, and withpermission to break some of the toffee that had already set into smallpieces; during which operation long and excited arguments seemed tooccur with great frequency--arguments that more often than not ended ina scream or a howl. Hearing which, Elizabeth Bagg would put down thepicture she was showing Pamela, and with a muttered apology would vanishdownstairs, and restore peace.
Elizabeth Bagg's 'studio' was really her bedroom, but in the daytime,when the camp-bedstead was covered with a piece of flowered chintz, andthe rest of the bedroom furniture made as inconspicuous as possible, theroom served very well as a workroom. The walls were whitewashed, makinga good background for Elizabeth's pictures, which were hung thickly allaround. A few had frames--but only a few. Most of them were without.She seemed to do all kinds of subjects, from landscapes to quaintstudies of children, painted in a bold, unusual style. On an easel bythe window stood Elizabeth's latest study, half finished; Pamela wassurprised to see that it was a painting of the old windmill that sheherself had tried to sketch. As Pamela stood looking at it, sherealized that there was something in Elizabeth Bagg's work that sheherself would never be able to get. "I'm only a dabbler," thoughtPamela to herself. "This is the real thing."
"It's splendid," said Pamela aloud, gazing at the picture withadmiration. "Do you know"--she turned impulsively to Elizabeth, who wasstanding behind her--"it makes me feel as if I want to go home, and tearup all my drawings and start afresh. Your pictures are so--so alive. Ifonly I could get that _living_ touch into my work. But I feel I'llnever be able to do it--when I think of my own things--and then look atthis."
"I am more than double your age," said Elizabeth Bagg steadily, thoughher heart was beating rapidly at these, the first words of genuinepraise and encouragement that she had had for a long time. "I have beenworking for many years past."
"That's not it," said Pamela, shaking her head. "There's something inyour pictures, that if you had not got it _in_ you, no amount ofpractice would produce. I can't explain any better than that--but youknow what I mean, don't you? I think your work's fine.... Have youever exhibited any of your pictures anywhere?"
Elizabeth Bagg shook her head.
"No," she replied, and a tinge of colour crept into her cheeks again.
"Oh, but you _should_," said Pamela, enthusiastically, looking at acharming study of a little girl in a red tam-o'-shanter.
Pamela's enthusiasm affected Elizabeth B
agg strangely. She feltsuddenly much younger than she had felt for years past. It was so longsince anyone had noticed her pictures. Her days were spent in householdduties for her brother and the children (just as Martha had toldPamela), with every spare half hour snatched for her painting. Somedays, when she knew there would be no half hour to spare, Elizabethwould get up very early in the morning to continue a picture, and wouldfeel all the fresher to face the work afterward, knowing that herpicture was progressing, surely if slowly. Twice a week she gavepainting lessons at a 'School for the Daughters of Gentlemen' inInchmoor, a practice at which her brother had ceased to grumble when hefound it brought her in a few shillings a week. He considered her'daubing' a fearful waste of time; she had far better be employed inmaking a tasty apple-pie or mending the children's stockings, hethought--work for which Elizabeth received her 'board and lodging.' OldTom Bagg flattered himself that he was good-naturedly indulgent toElizabeth's little hobby, nevertheless Pamela noticed that there were nopictures of Elizabeth's anywhere about the house--they were all packedaway in her own room.
Pamela did not know of the gratitude Elizabeth felt toward her; she onlyknew that she admired Elizabeth's pictures immensely, and felt a keeninterest in the painter of them.
As Elizabeth said she would like very much to see some of Pamela's work,Pamela arranged to bring some round the following day.
And so the friendship began.
When Pamela reached Chequertrees that evening she wrote a long post-cardhome--for the first month was just ended. Surely there was never a cardwith so much written on it before--unless it was the card she receivedfrom home the following day, telling her that all was well atOldminster.
The Girls of Chequertrees Page 10
