Читать книгу The Abbey Girls Again - Elsie Jeanette Dunkerley - Страница 3

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“You’ll come, won’t you, old thing?”

“Of course she’ll come. We couldn’t go to the pictures without her. Six o’clock at the corner, all of you!”

“I can’t manage it before half-past,” and Biddy Devine hesitated. “I really ought not to come at all. It’s the third time this week, Doris. Poor old Mary won’t like it.”

“Oh, but she can’t stop you! You must have some fun, like everybody else. We simply couldn’t go without you. Be a sport, Biddy, and dodge her somehow!”

“It must be rotten to have an old creature like that always fussing when you want to do any little thing,” said another of the girls, who were standing in a bunch at the door of a big commercial training college in the heart of London. “I’m sure, after such a beastly all-day grind as we’ve had, we’re due a little fun at night! I consider shorthand positively wicked!”

“It is the limit,” Biddy agreed, swinging her case and looking irresolute. “But Mary might say three times of the pictures in one week was the limit, too. And I’m going out to-morrow night as well. It leaves her all alone, you see. It’s not as if we were a proper family.”

“Bring her, too,” suggested a girl who only knew Biddy slightly.

“My hat! She’d never go to the pictures!” laughed Doris. “She’s as old as St. Paul’s!”

“Can’t be, if she’s Biddy’s sister. Biddy’s only fifteen. Is she a step, Biddums?”

“No, she’s my whole sister. She’s the eldest and I’m the youngest. The three boys in between are abroad,” Biddy said. “She isn’t so fearfully old, but she’s settled down and doesn’t care about going out. And she loathes the cinema.”

“Awfully stodgy for you!” one of her friends said sympathetically. “But you must get round her this time, Biddy, old girl. Or dodge her somehow. For the boys are going to meet us, and you know they like you to come.”

Biddy knew it very well. She was pretty and good company, and a general favourite with this set into which she had drifted at the college, girls and boys alike. She knew her sister did not like her friends; but she argued that as they were all preparing for the same life, planning to be clerks or typists, she might as well find her companions among them at once. Mary pointed out that she had been to a better school than the majority of the girls she met in classes, and should have higher ideals; but Biddy brushed that argument aside with a brief: “But I’m with this lot now, and I’m likely to stay with them, so what’s the use of trying to be different?”

But, reason as she might, an uncomfortable feeling remained, and as she climbed the long, bare stairs to their top flat Biddy was wondering if Mary would be very much upset to hear she wanted to go out again. She knew she would go. Mary never did manage to stop her, and though she might be indignant at the moment, she always calmed down again, Biddy thought hopefully. Go to-night she must, if the boys were to be there. She could not bear to spoil the party and disappoint everybody. But she hoped Mary would not take it too badly.

“It does leave her alone an awful lot!” she mused, as she went more and more slowly up the stairs. “I wonder she doesn’t make me stop in sometimes! I’d hate it if she did, but it’s queer that she doesn’t try it on. I’m only fifteen, and, after all, she’s thirty! It is old! Old enough to get her own way, anyway. But I sometimes think poor old Mary’s a bit soft. Well, I don’t mean that exactly. But if she’d got any spunk she’d sit on me a lot harder than she does. If I’d tried this kind of thing on at school—help! What scenes there would have been! Or even with Mother; she’d never have put up with it. Mary just says she wishes I wouldn’t! I suppose,” with a reluctant spasm of conscience, “that ought to be enough for me! If I were a really nice girl, I’d do what she wants all the more willingly because she never tries to bully. As it is, I do what I like, and—and take advantage of her because she doesn’t, or can’t, make me do as she wants. I believe it’s really that she can’t. But she ought to be able to! I’m afraid I’m rather a rotten sort: not a really nice girl at all! But I must have some fun; I’m only fifteen! Mary’s so awfully stodgy to live with!”

Then, perforce, she banished all such thoughts, and pushed open their door, which was standing ajar.

“Mary’s in before me to-night! I must have stayed talking longer than usual.”

They were due to get in at about the same time, she from her classes, Mary from the typewriting office in which she worked. Their father, a writer for the Press, had left them almost unprovided for; but a friend who had known him and appreciated his work had inquired into the circumstances of his widow and daughters, and, finding them in difficulties, had offered the use of a top flat in his business premises. This had made a little home, and Mary had found work near at hand.

Biddy had been still at a boarding-school, and had been kept there till she was thirteen, though only with great difficulty and sacrifice on the part of her mother and sister. But on the mother’s death Biddy had come home, to go to classes close at hand; and the sisters had lived alone together for two years, Mary’s earnings supplying just enough to make a home possible, with very little to spare for extras. Occasionally outside work came in her way, in the shape of private typing which could be done at home; but both she and Biddy were looking forward to the day when Biddy would be earning, too, though from different motives. Mary hoped for some relief from the grind and strain of the last few years; Biddy had visions of a good time, when she had money of her own to spend.

The one who reached home first was expected to put the kettle on the gas ring and begin preparations for tea, so Biddy, putting away the latchkey she had had ready, entered hopefully, and was not disappointed. The kettle was singing, and Mary sat on the hearthrug making toast.

“Smells good!” Biddy sniffed happily. “Am I fearfully late, Mary, or are you early? I got talking with the rest, and you know what I’m like when that happens!”

“When doesn’t it happen?” Mary laughed a little. “You’re the biggest talker in London, I believe, Biddy. Come and finish this slice, and I’ll make the tea. I was just going to start without you.”

Biddy glanced at her as she curled up on the rug, “Anything jolly happened? You look brightened up, somehow. Oh, is it those violets? Who gave them to you? You’d never buy them for yourself! Mary! They’re awfully expensive ones! Who’s been giving you flowers, Mary?” in a tone of stern surprise.

Mary laughed again as she bent to fill the brown teapot from the kettle on the ring. “Wouldn’t you like to know? Well, I won’t tease. It was a girl who came into the office this afternoon.”

“Oh! A girl!” Biddy’s tone was full of disappointed meaning.

“You didn’t think it was a man, I suppose? To me?” Mary retorted. “But you would think of boys, of course. I’d rather have them from a girl, thank you. Sit in to the table, and I’ll tell you about her.”

“No, I’m going to sit here by the fire. We’ll put things on the floor. Come on, Mary! Be a sport and sit on a footstool! I’ll hand you everything you want. It’s heaps jollier.”

“If I thought you would, I might enjoy sitting there, too, but I know perfectly well you won’t,” Mary retorted. “You’ll forget all about me; and I don’t like having to get up and fetch things every half minute. I’ll sit where I can reach everything, thank you, and you can do your own running about. Here’s your tea, to begin with.”

“We could pile everything on the floor,” Biddy argued again. “Oh, well, I’ll have mine down here alone! Tell me about the violet girl! Why did she give them to you? Did you ask for them?”

“Such a pretty girl; such a happy girl!” Mary said wistfully. “She looked so strong and well and open-airish, and as if she’d always been perfectly happy and always would be. She came in a little car, and brought some manuscript; it’s a series of articles, written by her father, and I’m to type them. She asked to see the typist who would do the work, so Mrs. Taylor called me up, and Miss Robins—she’s the pretty girl—said I might take the work and look through it to-night, and her father would let me have some special instructions by to-morrow morning. She asked for my address, in case he wanted to post to me, and left the papers for me to get used to the writing, she said. She seemed to think it was very bad, but of course I’m used to that; I’ve had much worse. I fancy she had taken down some of the work from her father’s dictation; he seems to be an invalid. By the way she apologised for the writing, I thought some of it must be hers; it’s by several different people.”

“But what about the violets?” Biddy demanded. “Every one who floats in doesn’t give you flowers! At least, I’ve never heard of it before.”

“It’s not always done,” Mary agreed gravely. “Miss Robins was carrying these, and wearing some more. They smelt so sweetly that I had to look at them, and she said, ‘Aren’t they perfect? Would you like them? You look tired! I’d have a perpetual headache if I lived in business. Do take them! They were for my father, but I’ll get some more for him. Yes, please do! If you’re going to do his work, it’s only fair you should have his violets, too. He’ll never forgive me when he hears you liked them, if I don’t leave them with you. He’ll probably send me back with them, so you may as well take them at once and save me a journey,’ and she laughed and shoved the whole lot into my hands, and ran off. Wasn’t it kind?”

“What a funny reason!” Biddy laughed. “You had to have his violets because you were to type his stuff! She was making that up, because you looked miserable, and she wanted an excuse to give them to you, old thing.”

“I don’t care. It was kind of her to put it that way. I tried to say I mustn’t take them, but she wouldn’t listen.”

“What was she like? Dark or fair?”

“Oh, fair! Her hair was yellow, and bobbed, and all in curls, and she had the happiest blue eyes, and the sweetest mouth, as if she had laughed all her life.”

“What was she dressed in?” demanded Biddy.

“A furry cap and a big fur coat. Her frock was blue, but I couldn’t see much of it. There was something about the way she walked that fascinated me; I couldn’t take my eyes off her, and every one else who came in looked so heavy and lumpy. She was tall, but she moved beautifully. It was the finishing touch to her.”

“It’s all very well to look happy when you wear fur coats, and go about in cars of your own, and buy violets like those for any old person you happen to see. I guess she’s always had the best of everything,” Biddy grumbled enviously.

“She cheered up our dull old office just by appearing in it to-day. Don’t whine over things you can’t have, my dear kid. Have you much to do to-night?”

Biddy coloured, but spoke up sturdily. “No, I’ve almost done. But the girls asked me to meet them and go to the pictures, and I said I would. I know you won’t like it, but I can’t let them down.”

“No, but you needn’t have promised!” Mary jerked, and bit her lip. This obsession of Biddy’s for “the pictures” was one of her troubles. “You know I think you go too often. It’s the third time this week. Biddy, you must not! You must stop this. You think of nothing but the cinema.”

“I must do something!” Biddy urged resentfully. “I can’t stick here all evening! I’m not so fearfully keen on the pictures themselves; sometimes they’re silly, and I get sick of them. But it’s something to do, Mary. You must see it would be awfully stodgy to stay in every night! What do you want me to do? Play Patience?”

“You might darn your own stockings for once!” Mary retorted sharply. “Or mend your clothes. You leave it all to me, as if you were a baby!”

Biddy looked conscience-stricken. “I say, old girl, I will do my own this time, truth and honour, I will! You put them on my bed, and I’ll do the lot. Not just at once, perhaps, but I will do them. You see, I simply must go to-night; they’re expecting me; and I’ve saved enough off my dinners and bus fares, so it won’t cost you anything. And to-morrow is Doris’s party; her birthday, you know. You said I might go! But I’ll sit at home and darn all Saturday evening; I promise you that! So you don’t really mind, do you?” she coaxed.

“Yes, I do mind!” Mary’s lips had been pursed ominously as she listened, and now she broke out indignantly, “You’ve no right to save off your food for silly things like the cinema, or for those trashy papers you’re always reading! You ought to begin to think—you ought to see,—you’re such a baby! But I can’t—I’m no use at bullying you”—she rose hastily, her lips trembling, and began to clear the table.

Biddy gave her a scared glance. Then she began to help silently.

Mary, with her back to her, was tidying the cupboard. She spoke hurriedly, “You’d better go off to your friends. Don’t be too late home. I’m sorry—it’s so stodgy at home. I suppose it’s my fault.”

It was the moment for Biddy to run to her, put her arms round her, and sob out a promise never to go out at night again. But Biddy could not do it; the gulf between them was far too deep. And it would have made Mary cry far worse, Biddy argued. They both hated crying. Something must be the matter with Mary to-night!

Feeling intensely uncomfortable, but determined to go out, Biddy crept away, leaving her sister rummaging in biscuit tins with unusual energy. “She’ll have got over it by supper time! When she thinks about it, she’ll know I couldn’t stick there doing nothing all evening!” she said to herself, as she flung on cap and coat and ran down the long stone staircase.

Mary heard her go. With tightened lips, she carried away the tea things and washed them up, and tidied the little sitting-room. Then, sitting on a footstool by the gas fire, she took up the manuscript Jen Robins had brought and glanced through it. There were strange place-names in it, and she looked at these carefully; the writing was not easy to read. She knit her brows at sight of some stories in what she afterwards found was broad Yorkshire dialect, and studied these paragraphs closely. That was all she could do till the “further instructions” arrived. She put the papers away carefully, and took up a basket of mending.

Then she flung the stockings on to the table, and dropped again on her stool before the fire. All this, even the study of the manuscript, was shirking, holding at bay the thoughts which cried aloud for attention. Mary was an adept at this kind of putting-off, though she had hardly realised it; she could always thrust difficult problems into the background and keep them there. But to-night, for a little while, they mastered her. She clasped her hands tensely round her knees and stared unhappily into the fire.

The biggest of all her problems was Biddy.

“Why did that happen to-night?” she asked herself brokenly. “Why am I such a failure? I can’t blame the child. If she finds home and me stodgy and dull, she will go out, of course. I’m all wrong, somehow; she’s missing something. And yet I’ve tried. I’ve given her all I could, and I’ve given in to her—too much, I know. It must be fearfully quiet after that big school, but all the same she ought not to be out every night like this. She’s got into a set I don’t like, and she’d rather be with them than with me. That’s what it comes to. It’s natural, I suppose; I’m twice her age. But I’m sure Mother could have made her feel home was worth while.”

She stared anxiously at the steady red glow, but it was placidly unconscious and unhelpful. A real fire, with flames, might have brought inspiration, but there was no help to be found in matter-of-fact, unromantic gas.

“I can’t control her either. I can’t make her want to stay at home, and I can’t force her to stay against her will. She’s far more determined than I am. There’s something wrong in that; is it with me? I’m thirty! I ought to be able to manage a girl of fifteen. But I can’t. I can sometimes persuade her; but if I tried to insist, she’d insist on her way, too, and—and I should give in for the sake of peace! It sounds awful, but it’s true. Why can’t I manage Biddy? Why won’t she stay at home?”

For a time she stared helplessly into the untroubled glowing asbestos. But there was no help there, no solution or hope for the future. The problem baffled Mary, as it had done before. This was not the first time she had been driven to face the question. The answer escaped her still, perhaps all the more because in her heart and conscience she knew it all the time, and would not admit it. She was not only practised in shirking difficult questions, but in cheating herself into accepting answers which did not really satisfy her.

“It’s perhaps because Biddy was away at school so long. We’ve grown apart, and now I don’t know how to enter into her feelings as she needs me to do. I have tried! But there’s a lot pulling against me; the ‘pictures,’ and Doris, and the novelettes she loves so much, and—and boys, I expect! If they make a lot of her, and ask her out, how can I expect to keep her back? I’m sure she calls me a stodgy old thing! But how could I be different now? I’ve been at work for ten years. I suppose that pretty girl to-day would think me about fifty! How could I satisfy Biddy? I’ll go on trying, but I don’t see that I’m to blame if I fail. I’m not a companion for her, and she’s more likely to boss me than the other way round. I suppose I’m soft with her, but I’m made that way.”

She stifled the whisper of a long-suffering conscience, but an uneasy feeling of failure remained.

And then, all unconsciously—except for that restless whisper which tried to show her the truth—she answered her questions as they were answered every time. For, putting aside the thought of Biddy and her own failure, she took up the basket and settled to a long evening of stocking-darning, and promptly was lost to the outside world in an inner world of dreams.

It had happened so simply. She had a vivid imagination, inherited from her father. She had tried to write down her dreams, but he had told her plainly she was on the wrong lines and was producing nothing which could be published. To change all her way of thought, and become practical in her imagining, had been too difficult and troublesome. She had kept the dreams, but had kept them for herself alone. Whenever the outer world was dull, or when problems were too hard, Mary lapsed into her dream-world and was happy. She was much alone, with little to think about; the habit was a great comfort to her, and kept her placidly contented when she ought to have craved very much more. It was far easier to dream than to study and think, so she did not trouble to read much, though the library was not far away.

And, quite blind to what she was doing, she wondered that she could not cope with Biddy, or be a companion to her.

To-night, as she sat dreaming, she wandered with her Knight through the Enchanted Forest. How well she knew each of its winding tracks, its long green alleys, its sunlit glades and sudden depths, its church-like aisles, where the trees were bare pines or smooth beeches, its sunny, open woodlands, where were chestnuts and oaks, its bramble thickets, its hillsides of gorse and heather and silver birch, its streams and ponds fringed with willow and alder, its thick, dark, hidden recesses! She had spent many happy hours exploring it all, had known many strange adventures here, and seen heroic rescues and desperate deeds, had watched hunted maidens, disguised as pages, fleeing from their persecutors to the shelter of the friendly trees, welcomed by kindly hermits in their remote cells, sometimes rescued gallantly just in time, sometimes seized and carried back by the villain of the story, when the escape and the rescue had to take place all over again. No story in Mary’s Enchanted Land ever ended unhappily; there was enough unhappiness in real life; but her heroes and heroines often had to undergo incredible hardships before their happiness was reached.

To-night her Knight—her particular Knight; there were several of them—had no time for adventures. He was bound on a quest, and luckily no distressed damsel appeared to turn him from it. He was riding, on his great black horse, to the castle of his King; serious matters were ahead of him there, and he was in sober mood as he rode down through the forest to the edge of the shining lake and hailed a boat to ferry him across to the island on which the castle stood. What he did with the black horse Mary could not have told; she was anything but practical in her fantasies.

With her hero, she reached the island, climbed the long steps to the castle, and entered the King’s hall. Her Knight was not welcome; the King frowned heavily when he appeared. All was not well between them; how exactly Mary knew every detail of the difficulty!—how it had arisen, the many ways out, the only possible way for her Knight to choose! There was only one way he could take; he was real enough to her for that.

She watched as he saluted the King, heard the questions asked and the inevitable, but disastrous, answers given, saw him bidden to choose, to obey or take the consequences——