Читать книгу The Abbey Girls Win Through - Elsie Jeanette Dunkerley - Страница 4

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“It’s an old farmhouse,” the Matron explained, as she led the girls upstairs. She was a good hostess, gray-haired and kind-faced, and her welcome had made them feel at home at once. “We have four other girls here this week-end, but two have to leave very early on Monday morning. I have one double room, with two beds, and one little room. So sort yourselves out as you wish.”

That matter solved itself at once, of course. Ann was by nature a hermit, so far as bedrooms were concerned, and would not have been really happy if she had had to share; and the “married couple” did not want to be parted, even on holiday. So Ann joyfully took the tiny room, and hung out of the window and cheered, to find herself overlooking an orchard, where cherry-trees were white, and the air was scented, and thrushes and blackbirds shouted all day long.

“Couldn’t be better!” she said to herself rapturously. “And it’s a lattice-window, under a gable! Perfect! Oh, there’s the cuckoo! What do I do? Turn my money and wish; where is my money? I’ve nothing left to wish for, I do believe!”

“First time I’ve heard the cuckoo this year,” said Mrs. Colmar, with interest.

Con and Norah were equally delighted with their big low attic room, which had a wide view over the green. “I wish they’d dance out there while we’re here!” Con said wistfully. “If they do, we’ll invite you in to sit at our window, Miss—I mean Nancy!”

“I hope you do mean Nancy. Nobody could go on being stiff and proper in this friendly place. But if they dance, perhaps I’ll be dancing too,” Ann retorted. “Come and look out at my cherry-trees! And the red buds on the apples—Mrs. Colmar says the red buds are apples—are the most marvellous colour in the world.”

“We’ve got wallflowers under our window,” Norah boasted, sniffing with enjoyment.

“I’ve got bluebells under my apple-trees,” Ann said haughtily.

“I love attic roofs. They feel so countrified,” and Con rose rashly from the suitcase she had been unstrapping, and knocked her head on the sloping whitewashed ceiling. “But you need to get used to them,” she added ruefully.

Ann laughed, and retired to her tiny room, to smooth her neat, dark, shingled head, and to change her shoes.

“What is the bit of gray roof that sticks up above the cherry-orchard? I can just see it from my window,” she asked at tea time, when they had met the four girls already in residence, in the long low pleasant dining-room.

“That’s the Abbey. What you see is part of the refectory roof,” Mrs. Colmar explained. “The refectory is the highest building left. The rest is mostly in ruins.”

“Oh!” Ann’s eyes lit up. “Can we see the ruins? I think I want that almost most of all; except perhaps one other thing!”

That one other still greater wish was to be gratified that same evening, which was usual with Ann’s wishes, for she saw to it that they should be fulfilled whenever possible. The Abbey was closed to the public at six, Mrs. Colmar explained, but would be open again at twelve next day. Ann thanked her, and perforce postponed her visit to the ruins; and presently went for a walk alone, looking thoughtful.

“To explore,” she said to Con and Norah, and added that she would prefer to go alone; but that they would compare notes at supper time.

The two chums had already made friends with the girls in the house, and in their company they wandered off to the woods in search of primroses and violets, and to look up at the smooth round hills on which Norah intended to roam all the next day.

Ann, with thoughtful eyes full of secrets—of eager resolve with just a hint of shyness and of dread of a possible rebuff—turned the other way, up the Abbey lane. She passed along by its low wall, with a wondering glance across the lawn to the great stone gateway, standing all alone and apart from the other buildings—a high arched entrance, leading nowhere now, but she supposed it had once had some real purpose.

Passing the Abbey, she came very soon to the gate of the Hall, and stood there, actually hesitating for several moments, though it was not her way to hesitate. Then, with heightened colour and bright, nervous eyes, she went bravely up the long drive.

She met no one on the way. If she had heard a car coming down, she would have fled or have hidden among the trees. But they were beeches, bare of stem and with great rugged roots; there was no undergrowth to hide an intruder, though she was slim enough to have slipped out of sight behind one of the massive boles. She saw and heard no one, and kept steadily on her way.

The great stone house stood on a wide terrace, overlooking a lawn kept like a bowling-green. All around were flowering trees, prunus of every kind in full bloom, lilacs and laburnums just breaking into flower; the gray Abbey buildings rose above the trees at one side, beyond an ancient wall.

There was no one to be seen. Ann, her heart thumping in a most unusual way, went to the big door and pulled the bell; and jumped, as it clanged.

“It feels such cheek!” she murmured. “I hope she won’t mind!”

“Can I see Miss Devine?” she asked of the maid. And, on being asked her name, “She won’t know me. But I’m one of the new girls from London; at Mrs. Colmar’s, you know.”

Almost too nervous and shy to think, and yet, by the laws of her own nature, unconsciously taking in everything, to be remembered clearly afterwards, Ann looked round the great hall as she waited. Dark oak-panelled walls, windows of stained glass, with coats of arms wrought into them in colours, family portraits in heavy frames, polished wood floor, dark oak settles, and tables and chairs with solid twisted legs; big dark wood staircase rising from the hall—these were one side of the picture. Windows wide open to the lawn, the sunset streaming in, white and yellow flowers in delicate glass jars wherever these could stand—narcissi, late daffodils, primroses—these were the other side, and gave lightness and beauty to the stately sombre entrance.

As the maid opened a door, a stream of clear high music came drifting out, sweet piping notes in a gay little tune. Then it stopped very abruptly, and there was a chorus of exclamations of surprise.

Then at the door Jen appeared, in a white frock, as white and yellow as the flowers; a wooden pipe in her left hand explained the music. “Which of them is it? Oh, it’s the little dark one! I told Mary-Dorothy there were two tall fair ones and one little dark one, and that I was sure she was shingled, because she’d got such a tiny head. What’s the matter? Can we do anything for you? Is there anything wrong? Or are you just in such a hurry to see more of us that you simply couldn’t wait——”

“Jenny-Wren, don’t be absurd,” Mary Devine pushed Jen gently aside. She was smaller, darker, and ten years older than Jen; she wore a handwoven dress of shades of amethyst and blue, and her hair had stray threads of gray. “Come in,” she said to Ann. “We’re all in here together. I ought to have come to meet you; I was coming round to-morrow morning. I hope you’ll be comfortable; Mrs. Colmar is very kind.”

“Oh, she’s kindness itself, and everything’s beautiful,” Ann began breathlessly. “I just had to say thank you, or I couldn’t have gone to sleep. We love every bit of it, and I think my room’s the most perfect of all. I had to come.”

“How very nice of you!” Mary began in surprise, for such immediate gratitude was unusual.

Ann’s quick eyes had taken in everything; the little oak-panelled library, the tea-tray on a low table pushed to one side, the old lady seated in a big chair, the two schoolgirls on the window-seat, one with two long yellow plaits, the other with black plaits and great dark eyes, both gazing at her in astonished questioning.

“I know you think it’s funny of me to come so soon,” she began desperately. “But—well, I had to, that’s all. It’s to please my little sister.”

“Your little sister?” Jen and Mary spoke together, bewildered and unbelieving; and all five people stared at her blankly.

Ann, scarlet, but with dancing eyes, went on bravely, “Oh, please, I’m not a mental case, really. I must write home to say I’m safely here, and I had to see you first. I daren’t tell Sybil I hadn’t seen you. It would have been such a blow to her.”

“That you hadn’t seen us?” Mary asked doubtfully, quite bewildered still and almost frightened.

“No, not the rest; you,” Ann explained carefully. “She’s dying to hear about you. She’s read your book; I gave it to her last Christmas; and she’s crazy to know everything about you. She gave me a letter for you.”

Mary shrank back, confused and overwhelmed. “Oh, I never thought——”

With a bound, Jen was upon Ann, shaking her warmly by both hands; while Rosamund, on the window-seat, set up a delighted cheer.

“You dear! Oh, how I love you and your little sister!” Jen cried excitedly. “I’ve been longing for this to happen. You’re the first, the very first, outsider to make Mary feel she’s a celebrity! It’s no use our saying anything, of course; she just says we’re prejudiced and not able to judge. She says she thinks a lot of my opinion, but she doesn’t really pay a scrap of attention to it. I’ve told her again and again how good that book is; and the new one’s better still. But it doesn’t have any effect; she doesn’t believe me. But she’ll believe you. She can’t help it; and we won’t let her forget it. Mary-Dorothy Devine, stand up and be looked at! You’re a famous author; don’t funk! Now that people have begun coming to look at you, I expect there’ll be streams of them. Look at her, Miss—Ann, isn’t it? Look at her hard; and then tell your darling little sister all about every inch of her!”

“Jen, do be quiet!” cried poor Mary, scarlet, and shy, and embarrassed; and she looked as if she would like to run and hide.

Rosamund sprang to the door and barred the way. “Oh, no, you don’t! Stay and be looked at,” she mocked. “How does it feel to be on show? It’s a jolly good book, Mary-Dorothy; but I don’t know that I’d have been as much excited about it as the little sister seems to have been.”

“Sybil’s only twelve,” Ann explained, amused but rather dismayed by the uproar she had called forth. She was not yet used to Jen’s tempestuous methods. “She’s my step-sister really. I hope you’ll forgive me, Miss Devine. But you do understand, don’t you? I must write to Syb to-night; and she’s dying to hear what her beloved Miss Devine is like. She says she adores you, and all that sort of thing, you know.”

Rosamund gave a shout, at sight of Mary’s face. “Send her a photo, Mary-Dorothy! That hideous snap Jen took of you in the Abbey! That would cool her off!”

“Don’t be an ass, Ros!” Jen said sharply. Her first excitement had cooled down, and she knew that if they went too far Mary might be really hurt. “It’s not funny; it’s the jolliest thing that’s happened here this year. Sybil has jolly good sense, and I shall write and tell her so. After all,”—haughtily—“the book was dedicated to me! I’m sure she’d like to have a letter from me.”

“She’d love it,” Ann said earnestly. “She’ll be thrilled to hear you’re real, and that I’ve met you.”

Jen curtseyed, then drew herself up to her full height. “I’m a celebrity too! Nobody wants to see you, Rosamunda. Sybil’s a very sensible child.”

“She’s very easily thrilled, if a letter from you will do it; a scrawl, I should say,” Rosamund retorted. “I should get Mary to type it, if I were you, Brownie.”

Jen turned away from her to Ann again. “I’m really very grateful to you. I’ve been trying for a year to make Mary-Dorothy believe she has done something worth while by writing that book; but nobody has backed me up. The Press notices helped; but she’s forgotten all about them now. She needs a lot of encouraging. I’ve had serious thoughts of writing dozens of letters, all from make-believe children, and having them posted in different parts of the country, begging her to write a sequel. I thought it was rather a brilliant idea. Unfortunately I was so pleased with the thought that I went and told her all about it, in my first wild excitement, and so it was no good. But you’re far better than made-up letters. She can’t have any doubts about you. You’ve really come to look at her! That’s fame, I’m sure. And your little sister adores her and is thrilled by her book! Now, Mary-Dorothy! Isn’t that something to have lived for? Never mind Rosamunda! She’s a mere infant, we all know that. What do you think about it, Maidlin?”

The black-eyed girl of sixteen, a year younger than Rosamund, had been listening and watching. “I’m glad,” she said briefly. “I liked Mary’s book. If I hadn’t known her, and somebody I knew was going to see her, I’d have wanted to hear what she was like too. I like Sybil.”

“Right you are, Madalena; so do I! But I want to know her name, so that I can write to her; and yours, the whole of it,” Jen said to Ann. “I’ll always remember you as the first person who came to the Abbey, not to see us, but to look at Mary! You’re Ann—what?”

“Ann Rowney; often called Nancy,” Ann said promptly.

“Nancy Rowney, I shall thank you for ever, because you’ve been the first to make Mary-Dorothy realise her importance!” Jen proclaimed.

“The trouble is,” Mary said, very quietly, “that whoever comes here, and no matter whom they’ve come to see, Jenny-Wren always does all the talking.”

Jen collapsed into a big chair. “Mary, you brute! And I was thanking her so nicely, to cover your blushes!”

Rosamund gave an ironical cheer. “Go it, Mary! Hit her again! Get a bit of your own back!”

Maidlin, her chin in her hand as she gazed at them, broke into a slow smile. “Jen’s so big. She always does fill up the picture; a large sort of thing in the foreground, isn’t she?”

“Blot on the landscape, sometimes,” Rosamund said darkly.

Jen’s dancing eyes met Ann’s. “Did you say you had brought a letter from your nice little sister, Nancy?”

“Red herring! Change the subject when you’re getting the worst of it! Funker!” jeered Rosamund.

Ann handed the letter to Mary. “If you would give Sybil your autograph, she’d be happy for ever.”

Mary reddened again, and laughed. “Of course I will. It’s sweet of her to care.”

“It’s a very plain ordinary one,” Rosamund observed. “You’d better cultivate something more impressive, with flourishes in it, Mary. We’ll invent a posh one for her, shall we, Maidie? Give her a dozen, Mary. She’ll sell them at school for five shillings each.”

“What you’d do, evidently, Ros dear,” and Mary sat down to read Sybil’s letter.

“Oh, read it out!” Rosamund urged. “I’ve never heard an adoring letter to an authoress! I might want to write one some day.”

But the child’s letter, which brought the colour into Mary’s cheeks again, was not for Rosamund to see, though it would be shown to Jen in private later.

“I’ll tell you all about the new book for next Christmas, Nancy,” Jen said kindly. “It’s even better than the first one. We’re just correcting the proofs, all of us. We try to help; but Ros can’t spell ‘disappoint’ or ‘disapprove,’ or any other word where you double one consonant and not the other; she got muddled over ‘desiccated,’ and it went to her head, and now she spells ‘disappointment’ on the same plan. And Maidie always gets lost over anything with ‘ie’ in it. So we aren’t a very useful crowd. My stumbling-block is ‘accommodation’; I double everything I can, and trust to luck. I’ll tell you the story, and you can tell Sybil; but you’ll have to buy the book; I shan’t give away the whole plot. You aren’t anything connected with the Press, by any chance? An interviewer in disguise, or anything like that?”

Ann, flushing hotly at the very idea, laughed and denied it warmly. “I’m certainly not an interviewer. I’m sure we’ll buy the book. Whom is it dedicated to this time?”

“Oh, Joy, of course; I mean, Lady Marchwood. As Mary says, it was thought of in Joy’s woods, and written in Joy’s house. Would you like to see the Abbey? There’ll be light enough for half an hour yet. I could take you; I love showing it to people.”

“Jen shows the Abbey better than any one else,” Mary said. “Will you give Sybil my love, and thanks for her letter, if you write to-night, Miss Rowney, and say——”

“Nancy!” Jen said reprovingly. “I’ve adopted her, because I’m so grateful to her for coming to look at you.”

Mary and Ann laughed. “Say I’ll write to her in a day or two,” said Mary.