When they arrived at Marylebone station the girls learnt to their surprise that Martha had never been in the tube railway in her life, and was somewhat chary and suspicious of this mode of travelling; however, encouraged by Pamela and Beryl, who each linked hold of one of her arms, she was persuaded to enter the lift, which she mistook at first for the train, until matters were explained to her.
They changed at Charing Cross on to the District Railway and were soon at the Temple Station, and after one or two inquiries at length found themselves walking up Middle Temple Lane en route for Fig Tree Court.
It is not one of the prettiest courts, Fig Tree Court, although it has such a picturesque name. There is no fig-tree growing there now, though if there had been one Mr Sigglesthorne would not have been able to see it, as his windows were so begrimed with dust and dirt that nothing was clearly visible through them. The window-cleaners, if ever he employed them, must surely have charged him three times the usual amount to get his windows clean again. As for Martha, directly she set eyes on them her hands itched to get hold of a wash-leather.
Mr Sigglesthorne lived on the first floor, and they were soon outside the door with his name printed on it in large black letters. Pamela knocked with a double rat-tat. All was silent within for a few moments, then the creak of an inner door and a shuffling step could be heard. The latch clicked and the front door was opened just enough for a hand and arm to be thrust out.
The five visitors stood gazing in silent surprise at the open hand—a hand obviously waiting for something to be placed in its grasp. They stood thus, looking first at the hand and then at each other, and Isobel was just about to laugh outright when a voice behind the door exclaimed impatiently:
"Hurry up, milkman! Half-pint, as usual."
At this Isobel could control herself no longer, but burst out laughing, and the others, unable to resist, joined in as well.
This caused the door to be opened wider, and a very shocked and surprised Mr Joseph Sigglesthorne was revealed, who stared open-mouthed in pained astonishment at the laughing group outside.
Pamela was the first to recover herself. "Oh, Mr Sigglesthorne," she said, "I'm so sorry—please excuse us, but Miss Crabingway told us to come and give you this letter."
"Well, to be sure! But please excuse me—I was so—if I may say so—taken aback for the moment—" stammered Mr Sigglesthorne. "But please to step inside—step inside." He held the door open wide.
The five visitors stepped inside as requested, almost filling up the narrow little passage from which the two rooms of Mr Sigglesthorne's flat opened. Mr Sigglesthorne closed the front door, and led the way to his living-room, begging them all to come in and be seated. He was still rather bewildered by the suddenness of his visitors' appearance, and was thrown into confusion on finding that there was only one chair in the room that was not too rickety to be used. He handed this with great politeness to Pamela, who promptly passed it on to Martha, who was too respectful to think of sitting down till all the others had found seats.
"It's quite all right," said Pamela. "May I sit on this box? Thanks. It'll do splendidly. You sit down, Martha—you'll be tired."
Finally, an old oak chest being cleared of numberless papers and books and brought forward for Isobel and Caroline, and a pile of six big Encyclopædias placed one on top of the other serving as a seat for Beryl, Mr Sigglesthorne sat down on the corner of the coal-scuttle, comforting himself with the thought that things might have been worse—although he wished he had not left his bunch of collars on the mantelshelf. Strange that this should have worried him, for on the whole the mantelshelf was the least untidy part of the room.
Martha's neat and tidy soul positively ached when she looked round Mr Sigglesthorne's living-room. One of the first things she noticed was a big round table in the centre of the room on which were stacked books and papers in a litter of untidiness and confusion; there were several bundles of newspapers, and cardboard boot-boxes without lids, containing a variety of interesting articles from press-cuttings and collar-studs to india-rubber and knots of string. On the top of the highest pile of papers reposed Mr Sigglesthorne's top-hat. The table was so littered that it was impossible to think of it ever being used for any other purpose than that of a home of refuge for old papers. Underneath the table, partly obscured by the faded green table-cloth that hung all aslant, was a Tate sugar-box containing—what? Coal, probably—but Martha could not be quite sure of that. Bookshelves lined the walls, and here again confusion reigned. Hardly a single book stood upright; a few, here and there, made a faint appearance of doing so, but for the most part they had given up the struggle long ago and just sprawled across the shelves anyhow—some upside down, some back to front—separated every few yards by some useful kitchen utensil, such as a toasting-fork, a small hand-brush, a pepper-box, a shovel, a couple of saucepan lids, and so on. There were no books at all on one of the shelves, but a mass of letters and envelopes filled the space. A broken rocking-chair beneath one of the two windows that lighted the room held a box of tools and Mr Sigglesthorne's topcoat, and the desk under the other window supported a tray with the remnants of a chop on a plate, a cup half full of cold coffee, and a tin of condensed milk with a spoon sticking out of it; two inkpots and a blotting-pad, and numerous pens, pencils, notebooks, and stacks of papers occupied the rest of the desk. In the hearth were a pair of old boots, a teapot, and three bundles of firewood.
It looked as if Mr Sigglesthorne was in the habit of placing things down just wherever he happened to be at the moment—which was handy at the time, but caused much confusion and delay in the long run; though it may have added a little variety to his life to find his belongings where he least expected them.
Mr Sigglesthorne, with his Shakespearean forehead shining in a distinguished manner, sat on the coal-scuttle polishing his glasses and gazing nervously round at his guests. His black velvet jacket, minus a button, wanted brushing, and his dark grey trousers were creased and baggy; altogether he looked shabby and unimposing—except for his forehead, which just, as it were, kept his head above water.
"Now, if I may be permitted to see Miss Crabingway's note?" he said. "You must excuse my room being slightly untidy—a bachelor's misfortune, you know, Miss Pamela."
"What a lot of books you have," said Pamela.
"Are you a lawyer?" asked Isobel.
"Heaven forbid!" said Mr Sigglesthorne. "No, miss. But I am rather a—bookworm. Ha! Ha! Yes, that's what I am—a bookworm."
This idea seemed to afford him much private amusement, until putting on his glasses and opening Miss Crabingway's note his eyes fell on the contents, and he at once became grave. It was just as if Miss Crabingway were standing before him, speaking.
"Well, Joseph Sigglesthorne," the note ran, "so you have forgotten, as I knew you would. There is no excuse—I gave you three calendars, which you have not hung on the wall, by the by, but have stowed away out of sight—you've forgotten where."
(This was quite true, as Mr Sigglesthorne realized, as he stroked the back of his head and tried to recall what he had done with the calendars.)
"The money I trusted you with is overdue. Kindly hand the deal box and key to Miss Pamela there, and ask her to take out the notes."
"Ah, yes," said Mr Sigglesthorne aloud, as if Miss Crabingway were indeed in the room waiting for him to apologize. "Very thoughtless of me, I'm sure."
It may be thought remarkable that Mr Sigglesthorne should have remembered where the deal box was. But Mr Sigglesthorne always remembered where he had put money—a peculiarity of his that Miss Crabingway knew well.
And now he was full of remorse at having failed Miss Crabingway in regard to the date—for she had paid him well to remember. Mr Sigglesthorne's clothes and surroundings might have led one to think that he was none too well off, but this idea would have been wrong—with regard to the present, at any rate. Besides Miss Crabingway's money payments, he had lately got some 'research' work—this latter fact he mentioned to his visitors with some pride, and partly to account for the piles of papers abounding everywhere. He left them to think this piece of news over while he retired to another room to fetch the deal box.
While he was gone Martha rolled her eyes upward, and raised her hands in despair.
"How I should like to set to and tidy up a bit for him, poor gentleman," she sighed.
"It's more than I'd like to do," said Isobel. "What a muddle!"
"He'd probably be annoyed if anyone upset his research papers," said Pamela. "But, good gracious! I don't know how he can ever find anything again—once he puts it down."
"He probably doesn't find it again," said Isobel, laughing.
As for Caroline, with whom neatness was almost a passion, she was fairly numbed by the scene before her, and could only sigh deeply and shake her head. Beryl was always shy in strange places, and, whatever her thoughts, she kept silent.
Mr Sigglesthorne shortly returned, and with renewed apologies for forgetting to bring the box down to Barrowfield presented a small deal box and key to Pamela, requesting her to open it. Inside were a number of bank-notes, which she was told to take out and distribute—so much to Martha for housekeeping expenses and so much to herself and each of the other girls for 'pocket money.' Having done this, she signed a receipt and placed it in the box, which Mr Sigglesthorne locked and took away again.
Finding that they did not know the Temple well, Mr Sigglesthorne insisted on putting on his coat and top-hat and coming out with them. Pamela protested that they did not wish to take him away from his research work, but he vowed he would have plenty of time if he returned within half an hour. So he trotted beside them, talking and waving his hand, first on one side and then the other, giving them a very confused idea of the plan of the Temple and its history. But, at any rate, Mr Sigglesthorne enjoyed himself. And when he finally left them in the Strand, with more apologies, Pamela saw him disappear toward the Temple again with a smile on her face that had more of regret in it than amusement; but her regret was evidently not shared by Isobel, who said:
"Well, thank goodness! Now we can get on, and enjoy ourselves."
They did a round of sight-seeing to make the most of the day in town, and had dinner at a restaurant, where Martha, though very nervous, was nevertheless very critical, in her own mind, about the dishes served. She guessed she could make better white sauce than was served at this place, though she was curious to know how the cream pudding was made.
The girls wished they had arranged to end up the day at a theatre, but they had not thought of this in time to let Ellen know, and she would be at Barrowfield station waiting at nine o'clock. So they were obliged to relinquish this idea, with much regret.
As they turned away from the restaurant Pamela suddenly gave a start—stood stock still for a moment, then, bending her head, hurried on. She had caught a glimpse of her father just getting into a bus. The sight of him caused a great wave of longing and home-sickness to rush over her, so that it was all she could do to restrain herself from running back toward him. To her embarrassment she found that her eyes were full of tears. He looked just the same dear old father. She had not realized till now how badly she had wanted to see them all at home again; she knew she had wanted them, but had stifled the longing as much as possible. She wondered how her mother looked—and Michael—and the others. The post-card she received from home each month was crammed full of news—but even so, post-cards are very unsatisfying things.
As her agitation became obvious to her companions, and they inquired what was the matter she was obliged to explain a little.
"I didn't realize how badly I wanted to see my people again—till I saw him," she concluded.
"Well, half the time is up now," said Isobel. "I think it was a very silly restriction of Miss Crabingway's— But there you are! And fifty pounds is not to be sneezed at, is it?"
Much to every one's dismay, except Caroline's, it now began to rain—suddenly and heavily—and a rush was made for the nearest tube station. Caroline hastily donned her mackintosh, and stopping in a doorway slipped on her goloshes, before she ran through the rain to the tube. Her triumph was short-lived, however, because once inside the tube they were under cover all the way until they arrived at Barrowfield station, very sleepy and chilly with sitting still so long in the train.
Ellen was at the station, and she had actually brought umbrellas for them. Secretly, although not an ill-natured girl, Caroline had half-hoped they would have had to tramp home through the rain—then perhaps they wouldn't have teased her another time, she thought.
However, under the umbrellas they walked—the village fly being engaged elsewhere that evening, otherwise Thomas Bagg would have been hired to take them home.
And then Beryl would not have bumped into some one—also under an umbrella—who was coming from the village toward the station.
As a rather high wind was blowing it was necessary to hold an umbrella down close over the top of your head, and so Beryl did not notice anyone coming toward her till her umbrella caught against another umbrella; both umbrellas were lifted for a moment—and in that moment Beryl saw a woman looking at her from under the other umbrella, a woman who frowned and put her forefinger to her lips as if enjoining silence.
A WOMAN WHO FROWNED AND PUT HER FOREFINGER TO HER LIPS
Beryl stifled a scream and ran quickly forward and joined the others, keeping as close to Pamela as she could till they reached home.
While the woman, with a quick backward glance at the receding group, continued on her way, limping hurriedly up the hill.