LITMIR.BIZ

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      The Girls of Chequertrees

      CHAPTER I

      THE WINDOW OPPOSITE

      On a cold, damp January evening a woman sat in the dusk of a fire-lit room gazing through the window. For half an hour she had been sitting there fidgeting impatiently with her hands and feet every few minutes, but never moving from the position she had taken up by the window. Her expectant gaze was centred on the outline of a house that stood on the opposite side of the village green at Barrowfield.

      From the window, or for the matter of that from the green or the road that encircled the green, little could be seen of the house, as the high ivy-topped walls which surrounded the garden guarded it jealously from prying eyes. It was only through the tall iron-rail gate set into an arch in the stone wall that you could ascertain that the house was flat-fronted and square, a house entirely covered with ivy, out from whose dark, rustling leaves many windows peered like deep-set eyes. A broad gravel path swept from the gate to a flight of white steps that led up to the front door. The garden, stretching away on either side of the path, appeared to be thick and bushy with shrubs and tall old trees.

      This much the woman at the window had observed from the gate, and now she was sitting—waiting.

      A little breeze sprang up and scurried through the ivy leaves as if it and they were whispering together about something. Although the house seemed silent, it was not deserted, for presently, as it grew darker, a light appeared in one of the lower windows and a blind was drawn—a red blind through which the light glowed, seeming to increase in strength as the house gradually faded into the dusk and was lost to sight.

      The woman who was watching sighed and nervously bit the nail of her thumb.

      "That's where she is," she muttered to herself, gazing at the red blind.

      At that moment the sound of wheels and jingling bells became audible, and a light flickered at the top of the main road that led down to the village from the station. The woman frowned and strained her eyes toward the dancing light on the road. It was the station cab approaching, jogging along at its usual pace, slowly but surely, with stout old Tom Bagg, the driver, snugly ensconced on the box-seat.

      Outside the gate of the ivy-covered house the cab came to a stand-still, and a young girl alighted. She was plainly visible as she paused beneath the street lamp outside the gate before entering the dark garden, followed by Tom Bagg much beladen and struggling with boxes. In a few minutes the old cabman came out again, and the cab jogged away back to the station.

      The woman who had watched all this intently then moved away from the window, and, limping slightly as she walked, made her way to the fire. Crouching down on the hearth she poked the fire into a blaze and warmed her cold hands—her eyes fixed broodingly on the leaping flames. After a while she pulled a chair toward her and sank into it—still with her eyes on the fire, lost in thought.

      She was aroused from her reverie by the sound of wheels and jingling bells again, heralding the return of the cab. Instantly she got up, limped back to the window, and peered out.

      Once more the cab stopped at the gate of the ivy-covered house, and this time two girls got out and passed through the garden gate, followed by Tom Bagg still more beladen and struggling beneath boxes and parcels and travelling rugs.

      The woman watched until old Tom Bagg had departed again, then she gave an odd, short laugh, and for a while stared gloomily out at the closed iron-rail gate in the wall opposite.

      Presently she said to herself, "Well—now we shall see!"

      Then she pulled down her blind.

      CHAPTER II

      PAMELA RECEIVES A STRANGE INVITATION

      A few days before the incident occurred which is recorded in the previous chapter, Pamela Heath was standing at the dining-room window of her home in Oldminster (a town about forty miles from Barrowfield). Pamela, like the woman who sat watching the ivy-covered house, was also gazing through a window—but on to a very different scene: morning, a bright January morning, and a busy stream of people passing up and down the sunny street.

      Pamela was a tall, slim girl, about sixteen years old; she was very pleasant to look at with her curly, chestnut-coloured hair, tied at her neck with a brown ribbon bow, and her brown eyes and clear complexion, which were emphasized by the dark green dress she was wearing. Strictly speaking Pamela would not have been called pretty—in the sense that regular features stand for prettiness; her nose was a tiny bit square at the tip, and the distance from her nose to her upper lip was a trifle more than beauty experts would allow, and her mouth was a little too wide for prettiness. But those who met Pamela for the first time found her expression of frank good-humour far more attractive than mere prettiness. And when she was in one of her 'beamy' moods (as her brother Michael used to call them)—that is, when she was vivaciously talking, and laughing, and keenly interested in making other people enjoy themselves—then she was irresistible. However grudgingly you admitted it, you found you had to confess to yourself that you were enjoying yourself—when Pamela was 'beamy.'

      This sunny Saturday morning when we first see Pamela she stands drumming on the window-pane with her fingers, watching for Michael to come round the corner of the street from the post-office, where he has been to post their father's Saturday morning letters. Michael is her elder brother—a year older than Pamela—and the two are great chums. There are two sisters and another brother younger than Pamela, but they will be introduced by and by, as Pamela is not thinking of them at the moment; she is thinking of Michael, and wishing he would hurry up so that they might start off on their sketching expedition.

      They were both fond of sketching, and used to tramp out on Saturday mornings with their sketch-blocks and pencils (and some sandwiches and fruit in a satchel) and try to picture some of the beautiful scenery outside Oldminster.

      But there was to be no sketching for either of them this morning. For on his way to the house where Pamela lived was a little old man, with a very high bald forehead, and a top hat, and a shiny black coat—and the news he was bringing was to drive all thoughts of sketching from their minds for some time to come.

      Long afterward Pamela remembered every detail of this Saturday morning, all the little familiar sounds going on in the house—the clatter of dishes downstairs; the murmur of Mother's and Doris's voices in the hall, and John's high, childish tones asking them some question—and then their laughing at him. Father's typewriter could be heard faintly clicking away in the study, and in the drawing-room Olive was playing the only tune she knew on the piano. The butcher's cart came clattering down the street and pulled up next door.

      Pamela stopped drumming on the window and, pushing it open, leant out to see if Michael was coming. Then it was she caught sight of a rather round-shouldered old man in a top hat hurrying down the street, stopping every other second to peer closely at the numbers on the gates. When he reached Pamela's gate he not only stopped and looked at the number but, straightening himself up, he pushed the gate open and came in.

      Pamela withdrew her head hastily and stepped back into the room.

      "Whoever can this be?" she thought. "He looks rather shabby, poor soul—I wonder if he's come begging or trying to sell machine needles."

      But the little old man's business had nothing to do with either of these things, as Pamela was soon to find out. A few minutes later she found herself in her father's study being introduced to Mr Joseph Sigglesthorne, whose mild blue eyes and nervous manner ill accorded with the businesslike news which he was endeavouring to convey. Mr and Mrs Heath and Pamela sat facing the nervous little man, who had removed his top hat of course, and now exposed the high bald forehead which gave him, so he fancied, a slight resemblance to Shakespeare. Slight though it was, this resemblance gave Mr Joseph Sigglesthorne a considerable amount of happiness; it always made him feel more important directly he took his hat off.

      "Perhaps I ought to say, first of all," began Mr Sigglesthorne, producing a pair of spectacles from his coat pocket and commencing to polish them nervously with his handkerchief, "that I—that I am—you will excuse me, sir, and madam," he turned to Mr and Mrs Heath and inclined his head, "that—I was going to say, I have the honour to be a kind of

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