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.
CHAPTER XVII
IN WHICH OLD SILAS LAUGHS AND ISOBEL DANCES
Madame Clarence's reception took place a week before the girls' visit to Chequertrees came to an end. As one of Madame's 'show' pupils Isobel was to do a special dance by herself on this occasion; she had been looking forward to this, and had bought a special dress for the dance, made of white silk. She had practised the steps and movements of the dance over and over again before a long mirror in her bedroom, until she could do the dance to her complete satisfaction. Madame was enthusiastic over it, and told Isobel privately that she thought she would be the success of the evening—which pleased Isobel greatly, and made her determine that she would do her best to make Madame's words come true.
In her white silk frock, her pretty fluffy hair dressed becomingly and tied with a soft blue ribbon, she looked very dainty and graceful as she ran down the stairs to the dining-room for Pamela and Beryl to inspect her before she put her cloak on.
Caroline, who, of course, was to dance at Madame's reception also (but not by herself), was "not quite ready yet," she called out to Isobel as the latter passed the bedroom door on her way down. Caroline was to wear a white frock too; but white did not suit Caroline's complexion, and the style of her dress rather emphasized her heavy build and plump arms. However, as Caroline surveyed herself in the mirror she was not so concerned about her frock or complexion as she was with the intricacies of one of the dances she was to take part in that evening. She felt sure she would never remember a certain twist at one point, and a bow, and a turn at another, and she felt very glad that she was not going to dance alone, like Isobel, but only with a crowd of other girls.
Pamela, Beryl, Martha, and Ellen had been invited by Isobel and Caroline to come as their guests to the reception. Each pupil of Madame's could bring two friends with them, and Isobel claiming Pamela and Beryl for her two, Caroline suddenly had the nice idea of inviting Martha and Ellen.
It was arranged that Isobel and Caroline were to go on ahead of their guests, as Madame had expressed a wish that all her pupils would arrive at least half an hour before the visitors were expected, so that everything and every one would be ready to start promptly to time. It was just beginning to get dusk when the two girls were actually ready and waiting for Tom Bagg's cab to arrive so that they could start off. Pamela, Beryl, Martha, and Ellen were to follow on to Inchmoor by the seven o'clock train.
The evening was very warm, and as Tom Bagg drove up to the gate, Isobel, suddenly declaring that she was too hot to put on her cloak, decided to carry it over her arm and wrap it round her in the cab if she felt chilly. Caroline did not care how hot she felt; she put on her cloak and buttoned it up to the neck, telling Isobel she thought she was foolish and that she might not only catch a cold but would get her dress soiled in brushing against the cab door, and so on. But Isobel laughed and asked Caroline if she was going to take her goloshes and umbrella in case it rained between the front door and the cab at the gate. And so, with Pamela and Beryl wishing them both good luck, Isobel and Caroline passed out of the front door and down the garden.
And then a catastrophe happened.
Isobel, who was some way in front of Caroline, was passing a low thick bush half-way along the path to the gate, and had turned to make some laughing remark, and wave her hand to Pamela at the front door, when suddenly a pailful of garden rubbish—mostly weeds with black, wet soil clinging to their roots—came shooting over the bush, and descended in a shower all over Isobel and her pretty white silk frock.
Isobel gave a scream, ran a few steps, and then stood stock-still, and gazed down at her frock and the coat on her arm.
"Oh, it's spoilt—it's absolutely spoilt!" she gasped, whipping out her handkerchief and trying in vain to rub off the dirty, smeary marks on her sleeves and skirt. "Oh, Pamela, whatever shall I do? … But who did it? Who did it?" she cried, lifting her head angrily, and she made a dart round the side of the bush.
But there was no one immediately on the other side. About a dozen yards off, with his back to her, digging methodically away at one of the flowerbeds was old Silas Sluff.
"Oh!" cried Isobel. "It was you, then, was it? How—how dare— Oh, you perfectly horrible creature!"
Silas, being deaf, took no notice, and so she ran forward, stepping recklessly on his flowerbeds, and confronted him, her eyes blazing with anger.
By this time the others had come on the scene. Pamela, Beryl, followed by the dumbfounded Caroline, and presently Martha and Ellen, came running to learn what had happened and what had caused the delay. Poor Isobel certainly looked a woebegone sight, with great smears down her dress and on one cheek, and soil and weeds in her hair. Who would have believed that the soil would have been so sticky and wet—unless old Silas had recently been watering the garden, which he didn't appear to have been doing.
"Look what you've done!" cried Isobel excitedly, pointing to her dress; but as Silas did not look up, but still went on digging, she suddenly seized his spade, jerked it out of his hands, and flung it down on the ground. "Look what you've done!" she repeated.
Old Silas straightened his bent back and looked at the dress in silence.
"You'll have to pay for this, my man!" Isobel raised her voice and spoke loudly and distinctly.
"Eh?" said old Silas, whose deafness appeared to be worse than usual to-day. Then he added, "Who will?"
"You," cried Isobel. "You'll have to pay for a new dress in place of this one you've spoilt."
Here Pamela joined in. After a great deal of difficulty, for the old gardener seemed extraordinarily deaf and stupid, he was made to understand that he was being accused of throwing a pailful of rubbish over Isobel.
"And you did it purposely," added Isobel.
"Oh, Isobel, wait a minute," said Pamela. "Perhaps he didn't know you were passing—perhaps he didn't hear you."
Old Silas was apparently not so deaf after all, for he caught this remark, and looking at Isobel's dress and seeing that his handiwork was even better than he had expected it to be, he decided in his own mind to retire now from this awkward scene in the manner most to his advantage; after all, he thought, there were four, five, six of them as witnesses against him here, and if they complained to Miss Crabingway he might be dismissed—which would not suit him at all.
"'Ere," he said at length, "what's that you sez I done? Eh? Well, I did throw a pail of rubbidge over the 'edge jus' now—I'm not a-goin' to say as 'ow I didn't—but I thrown it on to the rubbidge 'eap.... Where I alwus throw it—all on to the path in a 'eap and then sweep it up afterwuds.... I never 'eard no one comin' along the path—I'm that 'ard of 'earing, yer know.... I never 'eard no one…"
"But it's not usual for you to throw the rubbish over like that without looking, is it?" asked Pamela.
But Silas stoutly maintained that it was, though nobody in the little group around him had seen him do such a thing before to-day. Ellen, in the background, squeezed Martha's arm and winked, whispering in her ear,
"Of course he done it for the purpose. I told you he'd have his revenge on Miss Isobel for saucing him in the garden when she first came here, didn't I now?"
Meanwhile Silas stubbornly held to his point that he thought he was throwing the weeds on the rubbish heap, and that he had not heard Isobel coming past.
"Well, Isobel," said Pamela, "it won't do any good to prolong this argument—and time's flying past. Let's hurry in and see what we can do to the dress—or you must wear one of mine. And, Beryl, will you explain to Tom Bagg and ask him in to wait for twenty minutes—we mustn't be longer than that." Then she turned to Silas. "I think," she said, "that at any rate you might apologize–"
"Apologize! What good will that do! I don't want an apology from him," cried Isobel. "I'm too disgusted with him—besides, I know he did it purposely. He's just telling lies, because he is frightened now at what he's done.... But if the dress is ruined beyond repair he shall pay for it—I don't care what he says.... I'll make him pay, if—if I have to go to law about it." And without waiting for anything further Isobel turned on her heel and marched away into the house, followed by Pamela, who was secretly longing to laugh at old Silas's expression and Isobel's theatrical outburst. In a few moments the group round Silas dispersed.
Silas stood for a while scratching the top of his head and looking at the ground where Isobel had stood, then he picked up his spade and resumed his digging.
Presently he began to chuckle. "I said I'd learn 'er," he told himself. "An' I did learn 'er. Nice and slimy and wet them weeds were—an', after all, I did only throw 'em on a rubbidge 'eap. That's what she is."
Why old Silas had not taken his revenge on Isobel before this it is impossible to say. He had not thought out any clear plan for a long time, but had waited for an idea, and when he had got one he had turned it over in his mind with relish for some time, and then begun to look around for an opportunity—and, at length, to-day he had found one.
While Tom Bagg waited in the hall, and Caroline wandered about asking if she could be of any use, Pamela and Beryl, finding that Isobel's dress could not be remedied unless it was thoroughly washed and ironed, quickly got out a white muslin frock of Pamela's and set to work to make it fit Isobel. Pamela was more Isobel's build than either of the other two girls, and so her dress was not such a bad fit, and with the aid of a needle and cotton, and some safety pins and a pair of scissors, it soon began to look presentable on Isobel. Of course it did not look as pretty on Isobel as her own white silk had done—but it was fortunate that Pamela had even a white muslin frock ready to lend Isobel in this emergency. Martha and Ellen lent a hand, hurrying to and fro, looking for pins and scissors, and helping Isobel to brush the soil out of her hair and re-do it. For although they all knew that Isobel's conduct toward old Silas had been very rude and trying, to say the least of it, yet they all felt sorry for her that he had chosen just this occasion to punish her for her treatment of him so many months ago.
There was no time to talk much—they all worked hard, and within half an hour Isobel and Caroline were safely packed away inside Tom Bagg's cab and were jogging briskly along the road to Inchmoor.
Of course Pamela, Beryl, Martha, and Ellen had missed the seven o'clock train, and when they arrived at the Dancing Academy, and were shown into the big dancing-hall, a great number of people were already assembled, and the first part of the programme had begun. Madame, who had received all her guests in the doorway and had shaken hands with each one, had now disappeared behind the door at the back of the raised platform at the end of the hall. The four late arrivals managed to squeeze through the crowd that filled the lower half of the hall, and at length found seats where they could obtain a good view of the evening's proceedings.
A glance round the hall conveyed the impression that Madame's receptions must be very popular affairs; there was scarcely a vacant seat to be seen. Most of the audience were relatives of the pupils or friends, or prospective pupils, but there were a number of people who were outsiders—people who had received a pressing and urgent invitation from Madame at the last minute; for always before her receptions Madame would be suddenly seized with an unreasonable fear that the hall would be empty of onlookers, or only half filled, and so she would send out a score or so of these pressing and flattering invitations at random, and in a frantic hurry, a couple of days before the reception took place. And generally a few of these last-minute visitors would turn up.
The upper half of the hall, including the raised platform at the end, was reserved for the dancers, the baby-grand piano being well concealed by bamboo fern-stands and pots of flowering shrubs, so that the music arose, apparently, from a bank of greenery and flowers. Prettily shaded lights were suspended at intervals from the ceiling.
Pamela and Beryl gathered from the conversation going on around them that they had missed Madame's opening speech and the first dance, and now the second dance was just about to start. A tall, thin lady in a black evening dress, with lace frills at her elbows, and wearing pince-nez and a rather bored expression, appeared from the door at the back of the platform, and descending behind the ferns and bamboo stands, began to play a lively barn-dance on the piano. It was a good piano, all except one note in the bass which was out of tune, and made a curious burring noise whenever it was played on; and this particular note seemed to recur again and again in the barn-dance, so that Beryl always associated the music of that evening with this particular bass note, and could hear it, in her head, whenever Madame's name was mentioned.
Twelve girls all dressed in white, and twelve youths in regulation evening-dress, took part in the barn-dance, which was enthusiastically applauded by the audience. This was followed by a graceful, old-fashioned minuet and several solo dances, each of which Martha said was nicer than the one before. But of all the dances, there were just three that the onlookers from Chequertrees remembered best. The first was Isobel's dance, the second a flower-dance in which Caroline took part, and the third a weird dance done by Madame Clarence herself.
Isobel's dance was a great success, as Madame had prophesied. Almost up to the moment when she first appeared on the platform Isobel had been feeling out of humour and disappointed on account of her white silk dress; but directly she started to dance she forgot all her troubles, and, smiling happily, she floated lightly across the platform, swaying, turning, tapping with her small white shoes, and daintily holding the skirt of Pamela's white muslin frock. It was sheer pleasure to watch Isobel's graceful movements, and she seemed to be enjoying the dance so thoroughly, that every one else felt they were enjoying it too. Could old Silas have seen her smiling light-heartedly as she danced across the hall he would never have recognized her as the same girl who had stood before him a few hours previously, savagely angry. Pamela and Beryl were astonished at the change in Isobel; they had not expected her to be able to throw her annoyance off so completely.
At the end of the dance a storm of applause broke out, and Isobel was encored again and again. Back she came, blushing and smiling and bowing—a transformed Isobel, her eyes bright with excitement. The success of the evening! That's what she had hoped to be—and that was what she was. As she bowed her acknowledgments after her encore dance, her smiling gaze, wandering round the faces of the audience, lighted on the faces of two girls, whom she recognized as Lady Prior's daughters; they were applauding her enthusiastically, Isobel saw to her delight.
On the other side of the platform door Caroline waited, listening to the applause that was greeting Isobel, and she couldn't help thinking that it was rather a shame that no applause like this was ever given to the most choice piece of needlework imaginable. She tried to conjure up visions of rapturously applauding audiences encoring an embroidered tea-cosy, but it was impossible to picture it, and she sighed heavily. "And yet the tea-cosy is much more useful than a dance," she thought. Isobel might have argued that a dance, in giving a hundred people a few minutes' genuine pleasure and happiness was of more use than a tea-cosy, but Caroline would never have agreed with her. Thinking of the many hours she had sat over her needlework, and the delicate stitchery she had done, for which she had received nothing more than an occasional word of praise, Caroline felt all at once aggrieved, realizing the unfairness of things in general. She couldn't remember feeling like this before, and marvelled at herself. Why had she got this sudden desire for praise? Perhaps it was the knowledge that the dance in which she was to appear came next on the programme, and she knew that she was no good at dancing. She wondered why Madame had insisted on her taking part in this dance; Madame liked every one of her pupils to appear on the occasions when she gave a reception, providing, of course, that they were passable dancers. She thought Caroline a passable dancer, and so she was until she forgot her steps. And Caroline felt convinced she was going to forget them on this occasion; she wished she had, on the present occasion, that sense of capability she would have felt if she had been going on the platform with a needle and thread in her hand.
Caroline felt so sure she would forget a certain part of the flower-dance that, of course, she did forget it. With twenty other girls, each carrying a trail of artificial roses, she danced on to the platform and down the upper part of the hall. All went well for a time. Every time she danced past the place where Martha was sitting she was conscious that Martha nodded and beamed encouragingly at her, and felt somewhat cheered by this attention on Martha's part. And then, when the critical part of the dance arrived—whether it was that Caroline was giddy with whirling round and round, or whether it was because she had thought to herself, "Now, this is where I shall go wrong," will never be known—but after a brief but vivid impression that she was dancing up the side of the wall, and that the audience were spinning round and round her like a gigantic top, Caroline found herself alone in the middle of the hall, with her feet tangled in a trail of artificial roses and her hair tumbling about her face.
The audience was clapping and laughing. Caroline was overcome with confusion and, flushing painfully, tried to disentangle herself from the roses. The other girls were grouped together in a final tableau at the other end of the hall, beside the platform. They were all tittering with laughter too. Caroline made a desperate effort, and, disentangling herself, dashed across to them and tried to obscure herself among the twenty. And in another minute the dance was over and they were all 'behind the scenes' again.
Madame received her with honeyed words, but the tone of her voice was acid. She had thought that Caroline's dancing would pass at least unnoticed, and now it had been noticed in a very unenviable way.
Poor Caroline! She felt both ashamed and sorry for herself. "I knew I should never remember that part," was all she could say—and thereafter remained quiet and sulky, brooding over the 'ridiculous sketch' she must have looked before all that laughing audience. "I never did like dancing," she said to herself later, "and now I hate it."
Fortunately Madame Clarence's own dance followed soon after Caroline's blunder, and the impression made by Madame was such as to sweep everything else into the background for the time being.
It certainly was a remarkable dance, and one that Madame had invented herself. Madame was dressed in a startling black frock embroidered with gold, and wore yellow earrings and a long chain of yellow beads, and bright yellow shoes and stockings. Madame's expressive hands played a great part in the dance, which, as previously mentioned, was remarkable—far more remarkable than beautiful. It seemed to Ellen, who gazed spellbound, as if Madame must surely end by breaking her neck, or one of her legs, so full of twists and curves was the dance; indeed, at times it was all Ellen could do to keep herself from giving little shrieks or crying 'oo-er' aloud. However, she enjoyed it immensely, and so did the rest of the audience, judging by the applause Madame received and the huge bouquets which suddenly appeared and were handed up to her as she came to bow her thanks, smiling delightedly and kissing her hand to the audience.
During the evening there was an interval in which coffee and cakes were handed round, and everybody became very chatty, and Madame wandered about among her guests conversing and receiving compliments. Ellen seemed to be fascinated by Madame, and followed her movements around the hall admiringly.
Beryl watched the evening's proceedings with sad, preoccupied eyes. She smiled and talked brightly enough when anyone spoke to her, but her face in repose wore an anxious, worried look. During the previous week her moods of depression had been very frequent, and worse than usual, for even her music had been neglected and the piano had been closed and silent. She was enjoying the evening at Madame Clarence's, but she was not by any means at ease. Pamela had noticed this and was a little puzzled. That Beryl was far from anxious for their six months' stay at Chequertrees to come to an end Pamela was aware; and she did not doubt that Beryl dreaded Miss Crabingway's return, because it meant Enfield and Aunt Laura for Beryl; but she felt that there was something more than the coming parting to account for Beryl's preoccupied manner and avoidance of any confidential talk with her.
Madame Clarence's successful evening coming at length to a close, Madame stood at the door again and shook hands effusively with her guests as they passed out, receiving more compliments, and herself telling every one how "vewy, vewy kind it was of them to come."
During the journey home Caroline was wrapped in gloom, but Isobel was in high good spirits and chatted and laughed excitedly, all thoughts of old Silas having been driven from her head—until the following morning when she returned the muslin dress to Pamela.
Finding, on examination, that her own silk dress was not irretrievably spoiled, but would come up as good as new when washed, Isobel decided to take no further steps to show her displeasure toward Silas.
"He's not worth taking any more bother about," Isobel decided, partly because she really felt that, and partly because she did not know exactly what to do to punish him—beyond reporting him to Miss Crabingway, which might lead to awkward questions about her own conduct, she realized.
And so Silas Sluff heard no more about the rubbish heap.