*CHAPTER VII*
*BERYL GOES THROUGH AN ORDEAL*
When Pamela opened the registered envelope that was waiting for her shefound inside twelve pounds in postal orders, and a short note from MrJoseph Sigglesthorne informing her that Miss Crabingway had desired himto send this pocket-money for her to share between 'the three otheryoung ladies' and herself. That was three pounds each--the pocket-moneyfor the next three months. To those girls who already had somepocket-money in their purses this little addition came as a pleasant,though not unduly exciting, surprise; to those who had little or nomoney of their own the three pounds was very welcome indeed.
Pamela shared out the money, wrote a note of acknowledgment to MrSigglesthorne, and then retired into the 'study,' after dinner was over,with a copy of Mrs Beeton, a paper and pencil, and a business-like frownon her face.
"Nobody must disturb me for half an hour," she said, in mock solemnity,"for I am going to do most important work--make out a week's list of_meals_."
Caroline was not likely to disturb anyone, as she had betaken herselfupstairs to her bedroom again to continue arranging her belongings. Themorning had not been long enough for her to finish unpacking properly,she said.
Beryl, who besides being quicker than Caroline had also less to unpack,had finished her room long ago; so this afternoon she wandered into thedrawing-room, and closing the door after her carefully, crossed over tothe piano.
The drawing-room with its long French windows leading into the gardenwas about the pleasantest room in the house. It was lighter than mostof the other rooms, and there were fewer hangings about, which was agood thing for the piano, Beryl thought. "I wonder if it would disturbanyone if I played," she said to herself, opening the piano and strokingthe keys with her fingers. The house seemed suddenly so quiet--shehardly liked to break the silence; she feared somebody coming in to seewho was playing, for Beryl was nervous at playing before others,although she loved music and could play very well. She would have tomake a beginning _some time_, she told herself, if she really meant topractise--so why not now? But still she hesitated, her fingersoutstretched on the keys.
She could hear faintly, the sound being muffled behind closed doors, theclatter of dishes in the kitchen--Martha and Ellen washing up. Pamelawas in the study, she knew, and Caroline was upstairs; but where wasIsobel? Beryl wished she knew where Isobel was. She had a dread ofIsobel coming in to disturb her, and she would be sure to come, out ofcuriosity, if she heard the piano.... Beryl felt suddenly annoyed withherself. Why should she care who came in--if she really _meant_ topractise----
Beryl began to play--softly at first; but as she became graduallyabsorbed in the music, her touch grew firmer and the notes rang outclearly, and she forgot all about anyone hearing--forgot everything butthe music. The only time Beryl quite lost her self-consciousness waswhen she was playing or listening to music.
She played on, happily absorbed, when suddenly her former fears wererealized; the door handle clicked and some one put her head round thedoor.
"Oh, it's you, is it?" said Isobel's voice; and Isobel pushed the dooropen and came in.
Beryl stopped playing, and swung round on the stool.
"This room's not so bad when one gets used to it," said Isobel, walkingacross to the French window and pushing the curtains back; she stoodlooking out into the garden. "Anyway, it's better than that perfectlyhideous dining-room. What awful taste Miss Crabingway must have! Ireally don't know whether I shall be able to endure it for six wholemonths." She threw herself on the couch beside the window and yawned.
Isobel felt rather bored this afternoon. Caroline was stillunpacking--besides, who wanted to talk to Caroline?--Pamela was stillbusy, and waved threateningly to anyone who looked into the study,keeping her eyes fixed on Mrs Beeton. There was no one but Beryl totalk to. Isobel was rather curious about Beryl, because she seemed sounwilling to talk about herself and her home.
"I suppose you learnt music at college?" Isobel observed, studyingBeryl's slight, stooping figure, as she sat with her back to the piano,her pale face gazing rather anxiously at her questioner.
"No--oh, no," said Beryl.
"Did you have a music master--or mistress--at home, then?"
"No," said Beryl. "Mother taught me a little--and I--and I picked upthe rest for myself."
Isobel raised her eyebrows.
"We had a frightfully handsome music-master at our college at Rugford,"said Isobel. "Most of the girls raved over him--but I'm not so keen onRoman noses myself.... What college are you at?"
"Oh ... Just a school--near where we live--at Enfield," replied Beryl;and Isobel saw to her surprise that Beryl was blushing.
"You've never been away from home then--to boarding-school?" Isobelsuggested.
Beryl shook her head.
"Oh, it's great sport," said Isobel. "But you want plenty of spare cashto stand midnight feasts to the other girls, and have a bit of fun.Pater and Gerald used to come down in the car and fetch me home forweek-ends sometimes, by special permission; and sometimes one or two ofthe girls would be invited to come with me. The girls were awfully keenon getting invitations to our place; they used to 'chum-up' to me, andreally almost beg for invitations. And you should have heard themsimply rave about Gerald.... There was one girl, I remember, whopractically implored me to ask her home for the holidays--but she wasn'ta lady--I don't know how she managed to get into the college--the Headwas awfully particular as a rule. This girl was only there one term,though, and then the Head wrote and told her people that she could notcontinue at the college-- Well, what do you think they found out abouther? ... She was a _Council_ school girl! And her parents said she hadbeen educated 'privately' at home! I suppose her father had scraped upa little money and wanted her to finish off at our college--to get asort of polish. But we weren't having any-- Good gracious! What acolour you've got!" she broke off, and gazed at Beryl, whose cheeks werescarlet.
"It's--I'm rather hot," said Beryl. "What are 'midnight feasts'?" sheasked hurriedly.
"Oh, they're picnics we have in the dormitories after all the lights areout and we're supposed to be in bed," Isobel explained, still eyeingBeryl curiously. "We choose a moonlight night, or else smuggle in acouple of night-lights with the cake, and fruit, and chocolates. It'sfrightfully exciting--because at any moment we may get caught."
"What happens if you are?" inquired Beryl.
"Well--we never were--not while I was there.... I wonder if I shall goback for a term or two when my visit here is ended?" Isobel mused.
"Will you be going back again to your school after you leave here?"
"No, I don't think so," said Beryl, who was now quite pale again.
"Did you get up to any larks? Were there any boarders at your school?"Isobel persisted.
"No," Beryl answered. "It was only a day school. We didn't have anyspecial larks."
"Didn't you like the school?"
"Not very much. It was all right."
"Why? Weren't the girls nice?"
"Oh, they were nice enough," said Beryl. "It was a nice school. Butnothing specially exciting ever happened. Just work."
"Um ... I shouldn't have liked that," said Isobel. "By the way, yourfather and mother are dead, aren't they?"
Beryl nodded.
"Many years ago?" asked Isobel.
"Ever so many years, it seems to me," Beryl replied very quietly.
"Was your father a musician?" Isobel went on.
"No," answered Beryl. "Why?"
"Oh, no reason. I only wondered. What was his profession, then?"
Beryl gazed at her in silence, and Isobel thought perhaps she did notunderstand.
"His work, I mean. What did he do for a living? Or had he independentmeans?"
"He--I don't know what he did--he went to the City every day," Berylended lamely; her face was ghastly white. "It's so long ago--I can'tremember--I was only very young wh
en he died."
This seemed to satisfy Isobel for a time, and she began talking of herbrother Gerald and his taste in hosiery, until presently she began toinquire about the aunt with whom Beryl said she lived at Enfield. Buton this subject Beryl was decidedly reticent, and answered vaguely, andas often as possible in monosyllables, so that Isobel could gain littleor nothing from her questionings. All she gleaned was that Beryl's'Aunt Laura' lived at Enfield, and that she was a widow, with onedaughter about eighteen years old, whose name was also 'Laura.'
Presently the conversation veered round to schools again, and Isobelasked,
"By the way, what was the name of your school at Enfield?"
Beryl hesitated but a moment, then said, "Rotherington House School."
"Why, I believe that's the very school a friend of mine went to atEnfield--that's why I asked you the name. How quaint! I must write andtell her--that is, when we are allowed by these silly old rules to writeto anyone. She'll be frightfully interested to know I know some one whowent to the same school with her. But I expect you know her; her nameis Brent--Kathleen Brent."
Beryl shook her head. "I don't recall the name," she said. "But whatwere you saying at dinner about some one living at the Manor House namedLady Prior--who is a relation of yours?" asked Beryl all at once,desperately anxious to change the subject. Her ruse was immediatelysuccessful. Isobel plunged into the trap headlong, leaving behind her,for the moment, her curiosity concerning Beryl.
"Of course, I don't know for certain that they are relations, but I knowPater has a cousin or second cousin named Henry who was knighted someyears ago--but it is a branch of the family that we've somehow losttouch with--they've lived abroad a lot. But I _must_ find out if these_are_ the same Priors! It's strange! I've never heard Pater mentionthat they had a country seat down here--but, as I said, we lost sight ofthem, and besides, they may have only returned to England recently. Imust make inquiries and find out all I can--then, of course, if I findthey _are_ my relations--" Isobel chattered on, but Beryl was scarcelyconscious of what she was saying.
Beryl's mind was obsessed by the awkward questions she had justevaded--the questions about her father, her aunt, and her school. Onlyabout the last subject had she been forced into telling a directuntruth, she told herself, trying to remember what she _had_ said toIsobel about all three subjects; and it was only the name of the schoolthat had been--incorrect. But it was in vain that Beryl tried to easeher mind. She knew she had never been inside Rotherington House Schoolin her life; it was the best school in Enfield for the 'Daughters ofGentlemen,' and Beryl knew it well by sight and had made use of its namein a weak moment. Beryl sat on the piano-stool, apparently listening toIsobel, but raging inwardly--hating herself for telling a lie, andhating Isobel for driving her into a corner and making her say what shehad. She felt perfectly miserable.
Isobel's flow of conversation was suddenly checked by the entrance ofCaroline.
"I thought I heard some one in here," said Caroline slowly.
"Hullo! Have you finished unpacking yet?" asked Isobel, in a laughing,sarcastic way.
"Yes, I've practically finished," replied Caroline composedly, seatingherself in a chair by the fire, and bringing some needlework out of abag she carried on her arm.
"Oh, you industrious creature! What _are_ you going to do now?"exclaimed Isobel despairingly.
"I'm just working my initials on some new handkerchiefs," said Carolinesolemnly.
There was no mystery about Caroline, and consequently no incentive toIsobel's curiosity. She had already found out, while they were waitingfor dinner, where Caroline had been to school, what her father'soccupation was, where she lived, and who made her clothes; andeverything was plain and satisfactory and stolid, and if not exactlyaristocratic, at any rate eminently respectable--like Caroline herself.
Isobel's glance wandered from Caroline, with her smooth plait of hair,and her long-sleeved, tidy, unbecoming blouse, to Beryl, with her pale,sensitive face, and white silk blouse with the elbow sleeves that madeher arms look thin and cold this chilly January day. Why didn't shewear a more suitable blouse, Isobel wondered--and looked down at her ownsensible dark blue _crepe de Chine_ shirt blouse with a sigh ofsatisfaction.
"What became of those papers Pamela and I bought this morning?" Isobelyawned. "I quite forgot--I was going to look in the local rag to seewhat was going on in this place--and to see if there is any informationabout dancing classes----"
"I think the papers were left in the dining-room," said Beryl. "I'llget them for you." And she was out of the room before Isobel could sayanother word. She felt that if she had sat still on the piano-stool aminute longer she would have had to do something desperate; pounce onIsobel and shake her, or snatch the serenely complacent Caroline'sneedlework out of her hands and tear it in half. People had no right tobe so complacent; people had no right to be so horribly inquisitive.Then she shivered at the thought of the scene she might havecreated--and dashed out of the room for the newspapers.
She was quickly back with the papers, for which Isobel yawned her thanksand then proposed to read out some 'tit-bits' for Caroline's benefit."For I really do think your mind must want a little recreation, my dearCaroline," she remarked, "after the fatiguing work it has had indeciding whether you shall embroider C.W. upon your handkerchiefs orjust plain C."
"I am embroidering C.A.W. upon all of them," said Caroline seriously,and not in the least offended, stopping to look over the top of herround spectacles for a moment at the crown of Isobel's fluffy headbending over the newspaper.
At the first opportunity to slip away unobserved Beryl made her way upto her bedroom. As soon as she was inside she locked the door, andthrowing herself on the bed she began to cry, her face buried in thepillow to stifle the sound of her sobs.