Читать книгу The Abbey Girls Win Through - Elsie Jeanette Dunkerley - Страница 5

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Ann walked soberly back through the beechwoods to the village, after an enthralling hour in the Abbey with Mary Devine and Jen.

All had gone well beyond her wildest dreams; so well that she should have been dancing down the woodland path. And yet she went gravely, almost as though burdened by some new anxiety.

To be shown over the ruins by Jen was a privilege she had never dared to hope for. Jen’s love for the Abbey was so intense that she was an ideal guide, and her stories and legends, and descriptions of the life of the white-robed Cistercian brothers, had a vivid reality which any caretaker’s must have lacked, however carefully learned. Ann had a lively imagination also, and she had enjoyed the recital as much as Mary had done, when she had heard it first from Jen, two years ago. Ann had also had the advantage of enjoying the reciter, who had not been a new friend to Mary when she heard the story; and she had been studying Jen, and delighting in her animated face and vivid life, while she listened to the tales of the Lady Jehane and Brother Ambrose, and of the spoiling of the monastery; or, coming to more modern times, of the finding of the buried jewels and the Abbey books, by Jen herself, of the hermit’s well and the buried crypt. To be told stories such as these by Jen Robins and not by a mere caretaker in charge of a party, was indeed a piece of good fortune for which Ann would always be grateful. Her introduction to new places or persons was apt to colour her feelings towards them for some time; and her first visit to the Abbey and to the girls at the Hall could not have been happier.

Her sober face, as she walked home through the woods, carrying her hat and a bunch of wallflowers from the Abbey walls, was not due to any dissatisfaction with her surroundings, nor to the fact that she had undoubtedly gone one better than her travelling companions, and would presently have to confess where she had been. The cause lay in herself, in a sense of discomfort beginning to make itself felt; she thrust it down, but knew it would have to be faced in time.

At supper, when Norah and Con told of their walk and showed their flowers, Ann owned up. “I’ve been to the Hall to see Miss Devine and Miss Jen. Yes, I know I might have waited to go with you to-morrow; but I’d promised my small sister not to lose a moment if I could possibly help it; so I thought I might as well walk that way as any other.”

“You haven’t half got cheek,” Norah observed. “It isn’t as if you’d known Mary Devine, as I did. There’d have been some reason in my going in a hurry. If you’d told us, we’d have come too.”

“Were they nice?” Con asked curiously. “Did you walk up to that great house and say you’d come to see Miss Devine? I couldn’t have done it!”

“They were topping, all of them. I had a letter for her from my sister; that made a sort of introduction. She was pleased; and Miss Jen was more pleased still,” and Ann told a little about her visit and described the hour in the Abbey, to the envy of the other two.

“If you have cheek enough, you always get the best,” Con sighed. “I simply couldn’t have done it!”

“I don’t think they felt it was cheek,” Ann said stoutly. “They may be saying awful things about me now; but somehow I don’t think they are.”

She wrote her letter to Sybil, sitting under the lamp in the pleasant dining-room; then went up to her attic, but blew out her candle before she undressed, and sat by the low window above the shadowy orchard, where the white-draped pear and cherry trees looked like dim ghosts, and the mingled scents drifted about on the night breeze. The Abbey wallflowers stood in a pot on the sill; Ann fingered them wistfully as she sat down on a stool, to come to terms with that disturbing thought.

“Couldn’t be better! I’ve nothing left to wish for!” she had said, when she first saw that lattice window under the gable.

Now, reluctantly but deliberately, she said to herself, “I can’t do it! I can’t. I know I can’t. They’ve made it out of the question, just by being such perfect dears. They’ve disarmed me. I can have a jolly holiday, and enjoy every minute of it. But—no, I can’t do the other thing. Not after the way they’ve made me welcome. And what’s more, I’m beginning to think I shall have to confess. Won’t I perhaps feel bad if I go away without telling them? I’ll have to see about that later. But I never dreamt they’d be so friendly. It takes the wind right out of my sails! And it leaves me rather stranded. If I can’t use all this”—she pursed her lips and frowned down at the invisible bluebells—“I’m wasting my time here, in one way. I must just do what, after all, they’re expecting me to do; what they think I’ve come for! And that is, have a thorough rest and a very good time, and enjoy it all to the limit. Everything else must wait.”

And she drew the patterned chintz curtains and lit the candle and began to prepare for bed.

Con and Norah clamoured for a visit to the Abbey next morning. But Mrs. Colmar warned them that twelve o’clock was the earliest they could be admitted, so they prowled in the woods for a while with the other girl visitors, and went along to the Babies’ Home to call on Nelly Bell. Ann, original always, and solitary in her tastes, while the others preferred to go about in a big merry party, begged to be given something useful to do, so long as it was out of doors.

“I’m very domesticated,” she informed the Matron, “and if you really need help, or if there’s a wet day, I’ll enjoy a morning’s housework more than anything. It would be a real treat, after office life in town; I mean it, honestly. I live with friends, who board me, and I never have a chance to do any kitchen work; but I love it. So do make use of me, if you can. There must be heaps to do, with so many of us to feed! But while this sunshine lasts, I do want to be out. Let me peel the potatoes! I’ll sit on that bench in the yard.”

She carried off the pan and the potatoes, and was sitting near the pump, humming and working, wearing a big overall of Mrs. Colmar’s over her frock, when Mary Devine pushed open the garden gate.

“Oh!” said Mary, and began to laugh. “Have they made you work already? But why? Mrs. Colmar isn’t shorthanded at present.”

Ann dropped a potato into the pan. “I just wanted to. I’m very fond of cooking, and I never get the chance at home. We’re all going up to the Abbey when it’s open; Norah and Con are mad with me because they say I sneaked in ahead of them last night.”

“They’ll find it still there this morning. I came to see them. Have they gone out?”

“They’re seeing Nell Bell,” said Ann. “She told us to come and see the babies. I thought I’d go along when I’d done a job or two.”

Mary sat down on the wall of the old well, and looked at her closely. “Why are you so keen to do something to help? It’s very kind of you. But it isn’t usual. As a rule, girls don’t think about it.”

Ann flushed suddenly. She had accepted the invitation—had begged for it, in fact—with a secret motive of her own; the friendly welcome at the Hall had forced the hidden reason up into the light, and she had been ashamed of it; and her half-conscious feeling in the morning had been to do something to atone for it. To offer to help had seemed obvious and necessary. But if Mary Devine were going to give her undeserved credit for a kind and unusual thought, Ann knew she would feel very uncomfortable. She wished Mary had not come just at that time.

“I really do like housework,” she said evasively.

Mary saw her embarrassment, and changed the subject at once. Ann knew she was being given credit for modesty and delicate feeling, and grew still more unhappy. She kept her eyes on the potatoes, but peeled wildly and extravagantly; and Mary, seeing it with amusement, said no more, but helped her to forget herself.

“We’re going to have a country-dance party on the village green this afternoon,” she said. “The dry days have made the grass in such beautiful condition that Jenny-Wren is pining to dance on it. But, as she says, she can’t be a party all by herself; and there’s no time to call together the school dancing club, of which she and Rosamund are May Queens. So we thought we’d just have a little village party. I think it will be quite pretty. You’ll like to watch, won’t you?”

“I’d heaps sooner dance,” Ann said promptly. “Mayn’t I join in? You won’t have all super-advanced dances, if it’s a village party, will you?”

“Oh, do you dance?” Mary’s face lit up. “Oh, that’s splendid! Of course, you must join in! Oh, we have dances like ‘Butterfly’ and ‘Peascods’ and ‘Rufty.’ ”

“And ‘Newcastle’!” Ann pleaded. “I’ve been to classes in town. I’ll simply love a party; I brought my shoes, because Norah told me you were all country-dance mad. I am, too; so I hoped you’d have an attack of madness while I was here.”

Mary laughed. “What fun to have invited a folk-dancer! I had no idea. It has never happened before, though we’ve converted a good many people. Give me a dance, won’t you? You’ll have heaps of partners. Then it was ‘Boatman’ you were singing as I came in! I couldn’t believe my ears!”

“Miss Jen was piping it last night, when I walked in on you,” Ann said simply. “It’s been in my head ever since. Did you mind the way I barged in? The rest think it was frightful cheek; they’ve been ragging me ever since.”

“I think it was very kind of you,” Mary said warmly. “Sybil’s little letter was a great joy, and it was nice of you to bring it instead of posting it. I’ve written to her, in spite of Rosamund’s mockery.”

“Syb will be awfully bucked to have a letter from you,” Ann remarked.

When the potatoes were finished and Mary had had her talk with Mrs. Colmar, Ann and she walked along together to the Babies’ Home, on another side of the green. Mary had come through the lanes from the Hall bareheaded, wearing a morning frock of blue linen; and Ann joyfully fell in with the usual custom and left her hat behind. Her dark shingled head was very neat, and Mary admired its curve and poise, though she made no comment.

Norah and Con had done no country-dancing and were too shy to try; so they had to be content to form part of the audience that afternoon, when the village children and girls, and many of the older women, and a few boys and men, gathered round the maypole and the friend who had brought her fiddle. Jen and Mary, Rosamund and Maidlin, came from the Hall, and proved energetic stewards, as they directed the crowd into lines of couples, radiating from the pole. Jen, with a village lad, went to the head of one line, and Mary led Ann to another.

“It’s ‘Bonnets So Blue,’ ” she said.

“Doesn’t Mr. Marchwood dance?” Ann asked, as they waited for the fiddler to tune up. “I thought he’d be here.”

Mary laughed. “Oh, he dances! Jen insisted on it, and taught him herself. But he’s in town for the week-end; his mother had to visit friends, and he had to look after her. She’s very frail now.”

“Will Miss Jen be married soon?” Ann asked curiously, as they made the first star in the dance and then Mary led her down the middle.

“He wants to go out to Kenya again. He’s getting restive; he hasn’t enough to do here. But Jen’s mother doesn’t want her to go so far. Mrs. Robins is living in Scotland with her married son, and their home in Yorkshire is shut up for the time being. Jen has begged her mother to do without her until Joy has come home; she’s desperately anxious to be here to greet Joy. They’re all waiting till she comes before deciding anything; it depends partly on her arrangements, and Sir Andrew’s.”

“I wish she’d come while we’re here!” Ann said wistfully. “I would love to see her!”

“She’s on her way home,” said Mary.

They talked at intervals during the dance, when they were together. When it was over, and rings were forming for ‘If All the World were Paper,’ Jen came up to offer to be ‘man,’ and led Ann into a set.

“I’m always man, except when I dance with Kenneth, because I’m bigger than any one else,” she explained. “I’d feel silly, and I’m sure I’d look absurd, with you or Mary as my man. We want you to come up to tea at the house afterwards, and tell us what town classes you’ve been to, and whom you’ve had to teach you, and what you think of her! It’s always thrilling to gossip. Have you been to any of the Hyde Park parties? Or any big demonstrations? Don’t tell me now; save it up for tea time.”

Ann danced through the party in a state of blissful anticipation. The common interest of their enthusiasm for folk-dancing had lifted her at one step from the position of temporary visitor-in-the-village-guest-house to that of personal friend; she realised her good fortune to the full, and rejoiced in the excitement of the moment, without allowing any awkward or disturbing thoughts to trouble her. She had never dared to hope she would go to tea at the Hall; she was sure business girls on holiday were not usually admitted to the family on terms of friendship. Con and Norah would be envious, but she could not very well ask that they might go too.

The village had taken its cue from its leaders, and the girls and lads were friendly and always welcomed strangers generously. Joy and Jen were their idols, and had taught them by example never to let any one feel an outsider. Ann had plenty of partners; Rosamund came up to romp through “Brighton Camp” with her, and Maidlin, more reserved, said little but smiled and led her into “Rufty Tufty.” Nell Bell was dancing, and came to claim her twice, and brought others to be introduced; Ann was never allowed to sit out, or to feel friendless for a moment.

“You’ve had to work hard!” Jen said laughing; when, after “Sellenger’s Round” in one big ring round the maypole, they walked off up the lane, shoes in hand. “Our girls are always like that. They never let you rest for half a minute.”

“It’s been a lovely party,” Ann said warmly. “I do think this is the friendliest place! I can’t believe I’d never seen it this time yesterday. It feels as if I’d known it always.”

“What a jolly compliment! I shall tell Joy. She’ll feel Mary has done her work well while she’s been away.”

“Mary! Isn’t it a good deal you?” Ann suggested.

“Oh, I haven’t been here much! I was in Yorkshire for months. I think it’s Mary-Dorothy’s influence. She’s only carrying out Joy’s ideas, of course; but she has done it well.”

“Mrs. Shirley’s having tea up in her own room to-day,” Mary explained, waiting for them on the terrace before the house. She had slipped away as the last dance began, waiting only to watch the first two figures from the end of the lane, and then going ahead of the rest up to the house. She explained more fully to Ann. “Mrs. Shirley isn’t fit for very much, and we persuade her to take a day’s rest upstairs now and then. The quiet is good for her. We’re so very anxious she should be well when Joy comes; Joy adores her aunt. We’ll have tea out here in the sunshine. Sit down and rest! You must be tired.”

“I always think ‘Sellenger’s’ will kill me, but I dance it every time,” and Ann sank into a chair gladly.

“I funk it,” Mary said seriously. “I like to watch, but I do think it’s about the most tiring dance there is. There’s a letter for you, Jenny-Wren.”

“From Joy?” Jen went eagerly towards the house.

“No. From Scotland,” Mary was busily arranging the tea table. “Bring out more chairs, Ros. Maidie, fetch those photos Jen has looked out for Ann to see.”

“Oh, she’s Nancy, not Ann,” Jen said absently, standing in the doorway to read her letter. “Sounds so much jollier.”

“I like to be Nancy—here!” Ann said enthusiastically.