The Girls of Chequertrees

by Marion St. John Webb

Pamela knocked gently on the door with her knuckles.

The sound of a chair leg scraping on the floor inside could be heard, and then a voice said "Come in." So Pamela turned the door handle and the four girls went in.

Each of the girls, at some time or other during the last six months, had imagined the meeting with Miss Crabingway at the end of their visit; the imagined meetings had been dramatic or comfortable, according to the girls' moods or temperaments; but none of them had imagined anything like the meeting that actually occurred. To begin with, no one had thought of it taking place in the locked-up room, curiously enough.

Miss Crabingway, who had been sitting at the farther end of the room in a low wicker chair beside a table littered with papers, rose as they entered and stood gazing toward them intently. For the space of half a minute she stood quite silent, taking stock of her four visitors—and they stood gazing at her.

Quite unlike Pamela's imagined picture of her, Miss Crabingway was small and thin, about fifty years of age, with exceedingly bright eyes and bushy white hair. Her nose was large and aquiline, of the variety generally termed roman. It is supposed that people with large noses have strength of will and character; it may have been Miss Crabingway's nose that indicated her character, but it was certainly her eyes that appeared to be the most compelling force about her; they were eager, restless, keenly-alive-looking brown eyes. After the girls had noticed her eyes and nose and hair, and her thin-lipped wide mouth, they became aware that Miss Crabingway was dressed in a coat and skirt of some soft dark brown material. It was odd to see Miss Crabingway dressed, with the exception of a hat, as if to go out of doors at this time in the morning; at least, it seemed odd to the girls, who had expected to find her having breakfast in bed, perhaps, or, at any rate, sitting in a flannel dressing-gown.

There was no time at present to take in the details of the 'locked-up room,' but the first impression was one of sombreness with regard to the furnishings, and although it was an airy room, with a very high ceiling and four windows, yet it seemed a dark room on account of the ivy which grew round the windows, and even across the panes in some parts. Then it was gradually borne in upon the girls that nearly everything in the room was duplicated!

There were two four-poster beds with exactly the same coloured hangings and draperies, two chests of drawers, two ottomans (gay and modern and chintz-covered), two wicker-chairs, two small round tables, two fire-places—one at each end of the long room—and two carpets which met in the centre of the floor, two high wardrobes, and so on—so that whenever one caught sight of something fresh, one immediately looked round for its double—and was sure to find it. The ornaments on the two mantelpieces were exactly the same.... All this fascinated one so strangely that Pamela even found herself about to look round for two Miss Crabingways.

But there was only one Miss Crabingway, and her keen eyes travelled from one to another of the girls, and then quickly returning to look again at Beryl, remained staring at her critically.

Then all of a sudden she began to talk as if continuing a conversation with the girls which had already been in progress for some time. The girls hardly took in what she said—they were so surprised—but afterward, when they tried to remember, it seemed to have been something about red serge and water-cress, and the difficulty of living in rooms up six pairs of stairs, if you were a plumber and suffered from rheumatism.... When they thought this over seriously, it seemed too silly; but, nevertheless, it was certainly the impression the girls got of Miss Crabingway's torrent of conversation. The manner in which Miss Crabingway appeared to be continuing some discussion with them puzzled the four girls greatly at first; afterward, they learnt that this was one of Miss Crabingway's little peculiarities—she never publicly recognized the existence of introductions and farewells, but on seeing a fresh arrival would continue a conversation as if the new-comer had been there all the time. She would greet some one who had been absent for years as if he or she had just walked down the garden to see how the lettuces were growing and had then wandered back into the house again. It was an odd trick of Miss Crabingway's, and an inconvenient one sometimes, besides being bewildering. Yet it gave a curious impression that Miss Crabingway was with you all the time, and that she had been watching you throughout the years with those eager eyes of hens. In the same manner she declined to say good-bye, always giving the impression that she was coming along with you—in fact, would catch you up in a few minutes, before you reached the station. It was only when you had been talking with her for some time that you discovered that she did realize there were such things as absence, time, and space.

"However," Miss Crabingway continued, "I want to have a short talk with you all.... But why stand by the door, my dear girls? There are plenty of chairs, and an ottoman here by the window."