Caroline had certainly done an immense amount of needlework, but she had learnt no dressmaking nor 'cutting out'; her needlework was simply a repetition of work she could already do. And the dancing-lessons she had attended had scarcely improved her ability, or rather inability, for dancing; but they were good exercise for her, and had improved her health. It seemed to Caroline as if she would never be able to learn some of the dances Madame Clarence taught, not even if she attended the Academy for twenty years; she did not know why—simply, she could not grasp them. Sometimes it seemed to Caroline as if her feet were in league against her; her right foot would come forward and point the toe when it ought to have remained stationary and let the left foot point the toe; and her left foot would raise itself up while the right foot gave a hop, just when they both ought to have been gliding gracefully along the polished floor.... But in spite of these annoyances Caroline kept doggedly on with the lessons, and the improvement in her health was more than compensation for her lack of success as a dancer.
Beryl had advanced a great deal in her musical studies. She had had time and opportunity to practise and study her theory; time and opportunity had never been so liberally offered to her before, and now that they were offered she seized them eagerly—and made the most of them. She had even tried to compose a few pieces—a waltz, and a march, and a melody in E flat, a haunting melody which always made her feel 'exaltedly sad' whenever she played it. Beryl thought privately that it was a beautiful tune, but Isobel, who heard it through the door one day, told Caroline that she thought it ought to be called 'Green Apples,' because the treble "sounded like the face one pulls on tasting something sharp and sour." Caroline was puzzled, and pondered over this for a long time, and then went to listen outside the door herself. She heard the tune, and liked it—liked it so much that she went in and asked Beryl to play it again, much to Beryl's confusion and delight. After that it became a regular institution; Caroline would take her needlework into the drawing-room and sit and listen whenever Beryl started to play her melody in E flat. For some reason or other this particular tune appealed to Caroline; it made her feel pleasantly melancholy, and she enjoyed the feeling, and would sit sewing and heaving long sighs at intervals. If Isobel were anywhere within hearing on these occasions she was rendered nearly helpless with stifled laughter. "There's poor old Caroline going in to have some more 'Green Apples,'" she would giggle, and as the tune proceeded would stuff her handkerchief in her mouth and fly up to her room and shut herself in. Although this was only an early attempt at composing, it marked a chapter in Beryl's musical career, and as she advanced her compositions became more numerous and were better finished.
Isobel, who had not taken the question of work seriously, had nevertheless made good progress in her dancing. Naturally a graceful dancer, she had rapidly picked up the new dances at Madame Clarence's, and was now one of Madame's 'show pupils'—to the mutual satisfaction of both of them. It may have been noticed that up to the present time no mention has been made of Isobel taking any photographs with the camera she talked of buying; this was because she did not buy a camera until a fortnight before her stay at Barrowfield came to an end; and then she went and bought one with a definite purpose in view—the purpose of giving a gift of some photographs to Miss Crabingway on her return.
Pamela, though she had given most of her spare time to her sketching, had got through a good deal of reading as well, but not as much as she had meant to. The best of her sketches she intended to take home with her in order to show Michael what she had been doing, and what sort of places she had been seeing, and what she had learnt from Elizabeth Bagg.
There was one thing that all four girls had managed to do, and that was to keep on good terms with each other with rarely an open disagreement. "It'll be so much more comfortable for us all if we can manage to put up with each other—and, after all, it is only for a short time, not for life," Pamela had remarked on one occasion. And so this sensible attitude was adopted by all of them. Whenever the smoothly running wheels of the household got stuck, as they were bound to occasionally, a little lubricating oil from Martha or Ellen, or one or other of the girls, soon set them running easily again. The stay at Chequertrees and the contact of the various temperaments was bound to leave some impression on each of the girls afterward; it was not to be expected that it could radically change them, except in small ways. They had all more or less enjoyed their visit, and it had done them all good, in more ways than one. Martha and Ellen owned to each other in the kitchen one evening that they would certainly miss the young life about the place when the girls had gone.
About a fortnight before the six months came to an end the girls were sitting in the garden one afternoon having tea under the mulberry tree at the end of the lawn, when Beryl made a suggestion.
"I was just wondering," she began hesitatingly, "whether we couldn't do something for Miss Crabingway, as a sort of—well, to show we've had a nice time here in her house."
"What sort of thing?" asked Caroline, her mind running at once to gifts of hand-made tea-cosies and cushions.
"A jolly good idea, Beryl," said Pamela. "It would be nice to show her we'd appreciated the stay here. I know that I, for one, have had a good time. What could we do, now, for Miss Crabingway?"
"When you say 'do something,' do you mean club together and buy her a present?—or do you suggest we decorate the house with evergreens and hang WELCOME HOME in white cotton-wool letters on a red flannel background?" said Isobel, laughing. "Or does 'do something' mean getting up an entertainment for her pleasure, in which case you can put me down for a skirt dance—I've learnt a heavenly new step at Madame Clarence's—you'll see it when you come to Madame's reception next week."
"I suppose you end the lessons the week after next?" said Pamela.
"Yes, last time on Tuesday week," replied Isobel. "Of course it's very unusual to hold dancing-classes all through the summer, as Madame does, but some of the pupils are awfully keen—and she finds that it pays, I suppose. But it's the last time I shall be there—Tuesday week."
"Oh, don't let us talk about last and end," said Beryl. "I wish it needn't end—our stay here."
"Do you really?" said Isobel. "Oh, it hasn't been a bad time on the whole, but I shan't be sorry to get back to town, and the shops and theatres, and, of course, mater and all the rest of it."
"I shan't mind being home again, though I've had a pleasant stay here," remarked Caroline. "I'm sure Pamela is longing to be among her people again."
"Oh, I am," said Pamela fervently. "I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to seeing them. I've had an awfully jolly time here, though.... And that brings us back to Beryl's suggestion—what can we do for Miss Crabingway? ... I don't know what you all think about it, but I should suggest that we each give her something original—give her something she couldn't buy in a shop in the ordinary way."
"Like—what?" asked Isobel.
"Well, for instance, Caroline could give her a piece of her hand-embroidered needlework."
"I wish we had thought of this earlier," observed Caroline, "I could have been working at something, in odd moments, all these weeks."
"You've still got a whole fortnight left, dear child," said Isobel. "But what can I do for Miss Crabingway? Suggest something, somebody, please! I can't do embroidery, like Caroline; nor draw pictures, like Pamela; nor compose music, like Beryl.... By the way, Beryl, you ought to compose a waltz, and call it 'The Emily Valse,' and dedicate it to Miss Emily Crabingway, you know. She would be charmed, I'm sure."
Beryl flushed quickly, not because she resented Isobel's joke, but because some such idea as Isobel suggested had flitted for a moment through her mind (barring the title of the composition).
"And I'll invent a dance which shall be called 'The Crabingway Glide,' and I'll dance it to your music. There! What do you think of that for an idea?" Isobel laughed.
"Very good indeed," said Pamela.
And then the four girls began to laugh at each other, and with each other, and make all sorts of wild and facetious suggestions, until Martha came to the kitchen window and looked out, wondering what all the laughter was about. But, in spite of all the joking about it, the idea was seriously considered, and arrangements made for each to do her best to give Miss Crabingway something of her own work in appreciation of the visit to Chequertrees.
It was on this occasion that Isobel finally decided to buy her camera without delay and get some really interesting snap-shots of the girls and the house, and have the best photographs enlarged and framed for Miss Crabingway.
"While we're on the subject," said Pamela, "I should like to give something or other to Martha and Ellen, wouldn't you? They've looked after us awfully well—what can we do for them, I wonder?"
They discussed presents for Martha and Ellen, and decided each to make or buy something suitable within the next fortnight.
Pamela went round to see the Baggs after tea. She knew that it was one of the days Elizabeth went over to Inchmoor and that she would not be back home again until seven o'clock, because it was the evening she stayed later to do her housekeeping shopping. But Pamela did not want to see Elizabeth herself. She wanted to see her firelight picture, which she knew was just finished.
The eldest little Bagg girl was setting the table for her father's tea when Pamela arrived at 'Alice Maud Villa.'
"I'm just going up to Elizabeth's room for something," said Pamela, after she had helped to lay the table. Tom Bagg was not in yet, but expected in every minute.
Upstairs in the studio Pamela found Elizabeth's picture—finished. She stood before it for some minutes, regarding it earnestly.
"Yes, it's the best thing she's ever done," she said to herself. "I'm sure it is."
To Pamela's eyes the likenesses were excellent; Tom Bagg, with his ruddy, genial face, sitting in his big arm-chair by the fire, chuckling, and pointing with the stem of his pipe at his absorbed audience of children, a habit of his when emphasizing any particular point in the story. The expressions on the children's faces were delightful. Pamela laughed softly to herself as she looked at them.
Then she went to the door, opened it, and listened. Tom Bagg had just come in, and was inquiring when his tea would be ready.
"I'll wait till he's had it," thought Pamela. "He'll be in an extra good mood then."
She went downstairs and chatted with him while he had his tea, and did her best to put him in as pleasant a mood as possible. She laughed at his jokes longer than they deserved, and encouraged him to talk; he was always happy when talking; and she kept an eye on the children so that they did nothing to annoy him. Frequently she would glance up at the clock, anxious to assure herself that Elizabeth was not due home yet.
At length, when Tom Bagg had finished his tea and had got out his pipe and tobacco pouch, she felt that her opportunity had arrived. She rose, and with rapidly beating heart went upstairs to the studio and fetched the firelight picture down. Without a word she placed it on a chair before the old cabman, who watched her movements with curious surprise. The little Baggs pressed forward and clustered round the picture, gazing in astonishment. For a second or two there was dead silence in the room.
"It's Daddy," said one of the children.
"An' us!" cried another shrilly.
"Your sister painted it," said Pamela to Tom Bagg.
Then they all began to talk at once—all, that is, except old Tom Bagg. Throughout the noisy interlude that followed he remained silent, staring at the picture. Pamela watched his face anxiously.
Presently he scratched the bald spot on the top of his head, and said quietly:
"Well, I'm blowed!"
He had never seen any of Elizabeth's portrait studies before, and was filled with astonishment.
"But it's like me!" he said in surprise, as if that were the last thing to be expected.
"Of course it is," replied Pamela. "It's meant to be." Then she went on to explain how Elizabeth had sat and watched him and the children and then gone away and painted the picture up in her own room. She was longing to talk about Elizabeth's work with all the enthusiasm she felt for it, but she purposely kept her voice as quiet as she could, because she guessed it would be wiser and more effective to let Tom Bagg think he had discovered for himself how clever his sister really was.
Which is precisely what Tom Bagg came to think he had done. He was much taken by his own portrait.
"It's not a bad bit of work, eh?" he asked Pamela.
"It's a decidedly good bit of work—it's splendid," she replied.
The more Tom Bagg looked at the picture the more pleased he became with it.
"No," he said, "it's not at all a bad bit of work."
He stood with his head a little on one side regarding the picture.
And then the front-door latch clicked and Elizabeth Bagg stepped in. She caught sight of the picture immediately, and looked round the room astonished, and annoyed.
"Oh, please forgive me," said Pamela, moving toward her. "I—I simply couldn't help bringing it down..."
"Lizzie," said Tom Bagg, who felt wholeheartedly generous once he was convinced of anything, "this is not at all a bad bit of work. Why didn't you tell me you could paint likenesses?"
He was evidently greatly struck with the painting, and seemed to admire it so genuinely, that any annoyance Elizabeth may have felt faded immediately, and she laughed a little nervously and said she was glad he liked it.
When Pamela had decided to bring the picture down to show to Tom Bagg she had not expected her action to do more than make Tom Bagg realize the talent of his sister, and so make it easier for her to have more time for her painting. Tom Bagg certainly did realize his sister's talent at last; but the matter did not end there; he became so pleased with the picture that the following evening he carried it (without Elizabeth's permission) down to the 'Blue Boar,' where he proudly displayed it to his bosom friends, and any strangers who happened to drop in while he was there, and was much elated by the unanimous praise it received.
Whether you believe the Wishing Well had anything to do with the sequel depends on whether you believe in Wishing Wells or not. Pamela undoubtedly puts it down to the Wishing Well. She had wished that Elizabeth Bagg's work would gain recognition. And it did. It happened that a Mr Alfred Knowles, an influential art connoisseur from London, came into the 'Blue Boar' that evening just when Tom Bagg was showing the picture to a group of men in the bar-parlour. Mr Knowles listened with great interest to Tom Bagg's explanations and remarks, and getting into conversation with the old cabman, questioned him closely about his sister's work. An introduction to Elizabeth Bagg followed, and Mr Knowles was so delighted with her pictures that he purchased several and took them back to town with him; he would have liked to buy the firelight picture, but Tom Bagg seemed so anxious to keep it that Elizabeth decided not to part with it, but promised Mr Knowles that she would have a reproduction made for him as quickly as possible. And so the original picture of Tom Bagg telling stories to his children was hung up over the mantel-piece in the living-room of the little cottage in Long Lane.
Pamela was delighted by the turn events had taken. Had she been able to see into Elizabeth's future she would have been more delighted still. For Elizabeth's pictures were to be seen and admired by Mr Knowles' artistic friends, and she was to get commissions from them for numerous paintings, so that as time went on she was obliged to give up her classes at Inchmoor in order to give all her spare time to her painting at home. And with the money she earned Elizabeth was eventually able to pay for some one to come and do the housework for her brother, and washing and mending, and to help look after the children. For, though Elizabeth achieved in time a small amount of fame, it never altered her decision to stay and look after her brother and his children.
"I couldn't be happy if I left them now," she would say, when tempted with the thought of that wonderful room in London. Instead, she rented a room in Barrowfield, which she turned into a studio, and divided her days between the studio and her brother's house.
As for Tom Bagg, he was bewildered yet gratified with the state of affairs; his respect for Elizabeth increased by leaps and bounds as he saw how highly valued her work became. Gradually he came to wonder if he and the children were a drag on Elizabeth's career, and once he offered her her freedom, and was deeply touched by her decision to stay with him....
And there was to come a day in the future when Pamela and Michael and Elizabeth Bagg were to pay a visit to the Royal Academy to see Elizabeth's latest picture hung....
But all this was to happen some years after Pamela's first visit to Barrowfield was over. Up to the present time Elizabeth's pictures had just been bought by Mr Knowles—which was sufficient for Pamela to be able to announce to three interested girls at Chequertrees that her Wishing Well wish had come true.