Читать книгу The Abbey Girls at Home - Elsie Jeanette Dunkerley - Страница 3

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“One for me! A dozen for Chris, as usual,” and Betty McLean laid her sister’s letters on the breakfast-table and sat down. “Mine’s a fat one, anyway!”

The sun was streaming into the morning-room, and the windows were wide open to the little garden. Chris, married four months ago and just home from a tour abroad, was fair-haired and pretty; but not so pretty as Betty. Betty, just twenty-one, had soft red hair plaited round her head and a fair freckled skin, and was as Scottish in her type and colouring as she was in her accent and her shy, reserved nature.

There was a touch of seriousness in her gray eyes which had come from the experiences of her home life; and Chris, glancing at her as she sat absorbed in her letter, noticed it afresh and wondered how she could banish that look from her younger sister’s face. The invitation to Betty to visit her new home had been given with the idea of “cheering Bets up,” for home was lonely for Betty now.

Betty’s boarding-school life in Yorkshire had been very happy at first, but towards the end had been clouded by a heavy shadow. Her twin sister had had to be taken from school owing to illness, and Betty’s last year had been spent without her twin and burdened by the knowledge of Meg’s growing delicacy. She had left school early, as the family had gone abroad, in the hope that the Swiss air and the care of famous doctors would cure Meg’s trouble; but these efforts had failed, and Meg’s passing had left Betty heart-broken.

Her parents, anxious on her account also, had carried both Chris and Betty off for a long visit to friends in South Africa, and they had returned only in time to prepare for Chris’s marriage. Now, after a few quiet, lonely months at home in Scotland, Betty was visiting Chris in her new home; and Chris had just one idea, to take Betty out of the dreamy, half-sad state into which she had lapsed, and to give her back her interest in life.

“What a topping idea!” Betty looked up, an unusual flush on her cheeks and a light in her eyes. “I say, Chris, I wonder if I could”—and she paused.

“Why not?” Chris said cheerfully. “I’m certain you could. What is it, anyway?”

“Would you come with me? You didn’t know Jenny-Wren, but you’d like her, and I’d like to have your company. I think I’d be too shy to go alone.”

“Jenny-Wren? Have I ever heard of the lady before?” Chris pondered. “Tell me a little more, Bets. Does Jenny-Wren ask you to go to see her? Where is she? The car’s at your service; and so am I, if I haven’t promised to be elsewhere. But you know——”

“Oh, I know! You have six engagements for every day. It’s hard work to be a bride! No, Jen hasn’t asked me, or I wouldn’t be shy. She doesn’t know I’m in town. But she’s living in the country, somewhere near Wycombe, and Tickles says it isn’t far and why don’t I go to see her? But there’s Lady Marchwood; I’d be terrified of her.”

Chris handed her a cup of coffee, her eyes dancing. “One fact I have grasped. Jenny-Wren lives near Wycombe. That’s really helpful; you can easily run down to see her, if you have her address. Go to-day; I’m not using the car. I can’t come with you, though. I’ve a dozen old ladies coming to tea, to inspect dear Tom’s wife. Now, Bets! Tell me a little more! Who is your Jenny-Wren? Where does she live? Who wants you to go to see her? Tickles, did you say? Sounds like a puppy or a kitten. And what has Lady Marchwood to do with the whole affair?”

“Sorry,” Betty apologised. “I forgot you left Rocklands in the Middle Ages. It was all after your time. Jen Robins lived at The Grange, and we used to go across the moor and have tea with her. When I was Head, Tickles—Tekla—was an important junior; she’s now in the First Form, which seems absurd, and she’ll be Head next year. This letter is all about school, but at the end she says:—‘Why don’t you go to see Jenny-Wren? She was up here, at The Grange, in the Easter hols, but of course we didn’t see her. Her mother died suddenly, and Jen came home for a few days. But she couldn’t stay here alone; her father died six months ago, you know. So she’s gone back to stay with Lady Marchwood at Abinger Hall, near the old Abbey she used to tell us about. You know she’s engaged, I suppose? I should go to see her, if I were you, Bets.’—I didn’t know Jenny-Wren was engaged. It’s a nuisance; I wish she wasn’t,” Betty sighed. “I wonder who the lucky man is?”

“A relation of Lady Marchwood’s, I should think; perhaps her son,” Chris said practically. “I agree with Tickles, Bets. By all means go and look up Jenny-Wren. Is she nice?”

“We loved her,” Betty said briefly. “She and I and Rhoda were real chums.”

“Oh, if you loved any one she’s all right! Why not go this afternoon? I’ll need the car to-morrow; for the next few afternoons, in fact. There are calls I must return, and receptions and other things I’ve promised to go to. But to-day the car’s yours, and you know you’ll be glad to miss my tea-party. You haven’t met any of the dear people, so it would be fearfully stale for you. Why not have a country drive and call on Jenny-Wren?”

Betty glanced out at the sunshine. “It sounds tempting. I’m not keen on meeting people I don’t know, whom I’ll probably never see again. But”—and she hesitated—“what about Lady Marchwood? Jen’s staying with her. If it were only Jenny-Wren, I’d go like a shot. But suppose Lady Marchwood isn’t nice?”

“Would your Jenny-Wren be staying with her if she were not?” Chris asked seriously.

Betty laughed. “Jen may be used to her. I’m frightened of Lady Marchwood.”

“No, you’re not. You’re only shy; and you must get out of it, my dear. I’ll order the car, and you’ll go. You may never see Lady Marchwood, you silly kid. You’ll ask for your Jenny-Wren; I suppose she has a name of her own?”

“She’s Jen Robins. Oh, if I thought I wouldn’t need to see anybody else——!”

“It’s more than likely you won’t. Don’t be a babe, Bets! You’re of age!”

“I don’t feel it,” Betty said soberly. “I do hate doing things alone!”

Chris glanced at her quickly. This was the great trouble. Betty readily admitted that for Meg all was well; Meg was freed from the burden of weakness and ill-health which she had borne for years. But for herself, used through all her childhood and growing period to be one of two, the loneliness and sense of incompleteness were crushing. Betty missed her twin more than anybody understood; half of herself was gone; and she shrank continually from doing things alone.

“I wish I could come with you, old girl,” Chris said gently. “But as I don’t know Jen Robins, I’d really be in the way. You’ll have a much jollier chat with her alone. You’d better go to-day, for it will be days before I could go with you. It’s most likely you’ll see her by herself. You needn’t be nervy.”

“I will be scared when I get there,” Betty admitted. “But I’ll forget all about it as soon as I see Jen. If she’s out I’ll write and ask her to fix another day, or to meet me somewhere.”

“How gray suits you, my child!” Chris said warmly that afternoon, as she tucked Betty into the car. “It shows up all your colour. You look lovely; you needn’t be shy of meeting anybody whatever! I say, you don’t know who these Marchwood people are, do you? I’ve just been asking Tom about them.”

Betty’s nervous look returned. “Chris, what do you mean? They aren’t anybody particular, are they?”

“That’s what I want to know. There was Sir Andrew Marchwood, the explorer, who was killed out in Africa a month or two ago. Is your Lady Marchwood a connection of his?”

Betty looked scared. “I thought I’d heard the name somewhere! I don’t know; I don’t know anything about them. Chris, suppose she’s his wife or his mother! I couldn’t go calling at the house!”

“Oh, but you aren’t going to see her! If that should be the case, it would make it all the more certain that you’d see only your Jenny-Wren, that’s all. Lady Marchwood wouldn’t be receiving people, if she’s his mother. He had a mother in this country, I know. I must ask Tom if Sir Andrew Marchwood had a wife! All sorts of people got married while we were at the Cape last year. But Tom’s gone back to the office, so I’ll have to tell you at night.”

“By that time I suppose I shall know as much as Tom; unless Jenny-Wren’s out,” and Betty waved her hand bravely as the car set out.

Then she settled down in her corner, her face sober; for the prospect of possibly intruding at an inconsiderate time into the family circle of a famous explorer was enough to daunt a bolder spirit than hers. As she thought it over, she almost told the driver to take her home again. But though Betty could shrink from an ordeal and even shirk it, she could not bear to be laughed at. To face Chris and own she had turned tail would have been too much. It was easier to go on, hoping desperately that fate would be kind, that Chris had been right, and that she would see only Jenny-Wren.

Rather than dwell on the possible ordeal before her, her thoughts wandered off along a well-known track, as she sped swiftly westward. Out in Switzerland, in the blazing sunshine of the Platz above the Marienthal, Betty had sat by Meg’s bed and they had planned for the future—dreams which Betty now knew her twin must have guessed would never be realised. Betty herself had refused to look facts in the face; she had an ostrich-like faculty for burying her head and ignoring truth; and until the very last she had clung to her belief that Meg must be better soon. The shock, when it came, had stunned her, and though she was unaware of it she was still numb from its effects.

Even now, the thought of life without Meg did not seem possible. So impossible did it seem that Betty was hardly facing it. Half the time when she sat dreaming, her eyes rapt and not unhappy, she was re-living those talks with Meg and going over the plans which would never be carried out; the flat in town, which they had discussed even to the colour of the wall-paper and the china, the college life for Meg, her own music, the quiet evenings of work and practice and talk, the concerts and country jaunts, the visits from their parents, the holidays which would always be spent in Scotland;—it had been all arranged. Now none of it could happen; but in her dreams, while wide-awake, Betty lived in that life, thought about it, hungered for it. To-day, as she raced westward, she was so far away that she saw nothing of the suburbs, and roused herself only as they crossed a long bridge and dived into tree-hung country roads.

“I’m not looking at anything! It is silly; it’s lovely country,” and she began to look about her. “This is Buckinghamshire, I suppose!”

Through little towns, rapidly becoming suburbs, they came to Wycombe and passed on, through the sweeping rounded Chilterns, to Risborough, where they left the hills behind and took the road below the wooded slopes. The chauffeur stopped once or twice to ask his way; and at last he turned to Betty, to point out a white house on the hill in front of them.

“Marchwood Manor, miss. But you want Abinger Hall? They say that gray tower among the trees is the Hall.”

“Abinger Hall; that’s right,” Betty said perplexedly. “But it’s Lady Marchwood’s house. Why doesn’t she live at Marchwood Manor?”

“Couldn’t say, miss. Shall we go to the Manor first?”

“No, go to the Hall. I was told to go to the Hall. But I don’t understand. Perhaps Lady Marchwood has let the Manor,” and Betty sat frowning in perplexity as the car swept through a village with a neat, triangular green, and up a lane under arching beech trees.

Then she leaned forward with a cry. “Oh! Stop one moment, please! That must be the Abbey. We’re all right; we were to come to the Hall, near the Abbey,” and she gazed eagerly up at the great ancient gateway, behind which lay the Abbey ruins.

“It’s beautiful! I’d like to go and examine it. But it wouldn’t be polite. We’d better go on. One moment!”—and she leaned over the side and called to a small girl in the road. “Does Lady Marchwood live at the Hall?”

“Yes—Miss Joy——” the child stared at this ignorant foreigner. “Lady Marchwood—yes, miss.”

“It sounds all right,” and Betty nodded to the man to drive on. “But who is ‘Miss Joy’? And what has she to do with Lady Marchwood? And why is Lady Marchwood living here? It’s all rather mysterious!”

Her natural nervousness came over her again, as she realised that she had almost reached the Hall. If only she had not been alone! It was one of the moments when she craved for somebody, some one to keep up her courage. Always shy, she had become shyer still since she had lost her twin. If only Meg could have been there to laugh at her fears!

To banish her shrinking dread, she began desperately to remember her old-time friendship with Jen Robins. What good friends they had been! How jolly Jenny-Wren had always seemed! Betty saw a swift series of pictures; Jen, with long yellow plaits and long white legs and a short frock of vivid blue, dancing morris jigs in the garden at The Grange, leaping and waving white handkerchiefs; Jen gravely watching the children she had taught in their dances and talking seriously of the improved feeling brought about by folk-dancing in the village; Jen, after her accident, lying on her couch under the yellow birch tree in the garden, on the sunny autumn afternoon when everybody brought gifts and the morris pipe was found, her plaits cut off and her curly “bob” already beginning to grow; Jen’s face as she tramped through the snow, clasping the Basque pipe to her breast, after the rescue of the old fisherman; Jen gazing intently, as her children danced in the competition, listening to the judge’s comments, radiant over the success of her team; Jen as the maypole in the middle of “Sellenger’s Round,” as the school teams and the village children caught hands and danced around her.

“What a jolly time it was! I do hope she’s as nice as ever! She’ll be nearly twenty-one; can she still be our Jenny-Wren? What will she be like grown-up? And engaged! Oh, bother! I wish she wasn’t!”

Then the car turned sharply into the drive of the Hall, and Betty’s wandering thoughts came back to the ordeal of the moment.

“What a lovely park! What gorgeous beech trees!—Oh, here’s the house! What a big place!”

In her nervousness it was the size of the Hall, and not the beauty of the house, that she noticed. But before she had time for further thought, the car was drawing up before the door.

Betty would have liked to send the man to ask if Miss Robins was in. But she pulled herself together, and stepped out bravely.

“After all, if Jenny-Wren isn’t here, I needn’t see anybody. If she is, it will be all right,” she said, as she rang the bell.

“Can I see Miss Robins? I think she’s staying here,” she said to the maid.

She could not understand the look which came over the girl’s face. “Miss Jen—Lady Marchwood—yes, miss,” she stammered.

“Not Lady Marchwood. It’s Miss Robins I want to see; Miss Jen,” Betty insisted, her fear of the dreaded Lady Marchwood forcing out the words.

“Miss Jen—yes, Lady Marchwood,” said the girl helplessly again; and she turned to some one in the entrance-hall behind her.

“Not Lady Marchwood; Miss Jen!” Betty laughed afterwards at thought of that duet of helpless misunderstanding.

“Who is it? Who is the out-of-date person whose voice I seem to know? I’m afraid she can’t see Miss Jen without seeing Lady Marchwood too,” cried a voice, full of curiosity and suppressed amusement.

The girl threw wide the door. “Lady Marchwood,—Miss Jen,” she said triumphantly to the visitor.

Betty gave a cry of joy and incredulous amazement. “Jenny-Wren! It is you! What does she mean?”

Jen, in a white frock, with waving yellow curls, and dancing eyes, her arms full of red roses, stood gazing at her from the lowest step of the dark oak staircase.

“Betty McLean, by all that’s weird and wonderful! Oh, come in, my dear! What fun to see you again! Take these, Alice,”—and she thrust the roses at the maid. “Put them in water for me. Now, Betty——”

“Jenny-Wren!” Betty had seen a gleam of gold. “Jenny-Wren, you aren’t married?”

Jen tilted her chin defiantly. “Why not, please? I’m quite married. I’ve been married for a fortnight. I’m Lady Marchwood,” and she curtseyed. “One of the Lady Marchwoods! There’s an appalling number of us about. But I’m certainly one of them.”

Then she broke into a laugh. “Didn’t you know, really, Bets? You poor thing! What a shock! Don’t you know anything? Come and hear all about it;—tea, Alice, please! In here, Betty; I must get that bewildered look off your poor face!” and she threw open the door of a small sitting-room.

“Tell me what you mean at once!” Betty said firmly.