Читать книгу The Abbey Girls Win Through - Elsie Jeanette Dunkerley - Страница 6

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“Mary!” Jen’s voice rang out, sharp and terrified.

They all turned to stare at her. She stood in the doorway, her face whiter than her dress, the letter falling from her hand.

Ann and Mary sprang towards her, sure she would fall. “Jenny-Wren dear, what is it?” cried Mary, aghast.

“Brownie, what’s the matter? You look like a ghost!” cried Rosamund.

Maidlin, sensitive and highly-strung, had no reserve for emergencies. She dropped the photos she was carrying, and leant against the wall—as white as Jen, shaking all over. “Is anything wrong with Joy?” she whispered.

“It’s mother,” Jen, dazed, groped for the letter. “Harry says—oh, it can’t be! Mary, we’d have had some warning! He says—he says——”

Ann thrust the letter into her hands. “Bring a chair!” she commanded, her arm round Jen.

Rosamund sprang to help. “Sit down, Jen, old chap! Here you are; Mary can’t hold you, you know.”

“I’m not going to faint,” Jen said breathlessly. “Only—I’ve heard of such things happening—but I never thought—so far as we knew she was quite well—I hadn’t seen her for months. Oh, why didn’t I go? Why wasn’t there time? It’s cruel! She—she wasn’t ill at all, Mary,” half sobbing, she tried to tell them the story, reading the details as she went on. “It was last night. They found her; she’d felt tired and had gone to lie down. She’d been out for a walk, with Alison and the baby; and it was very cold; they think it had perhaps affected her heart. Harry says she wasn’t ill at all; she never knew. There was nothing they could do. Oh, if I’d only been there! I ought to have been with her!”

Mary and Ann looked at one another, their hearts aching for her. Mary, in helpless dismay, was conscious of deep relief that the other girl was there. She could not have borne to be the only one to comfort Jen at this moment. She did not know what to say.

She put her arms round Jen. “Dear! Oh, Jenny-Wren, we’re all so sorry!”

“I can’t believe it,” Jen quivered, and clung to her. “Mother! I can’t believe she’s gone. I won’t see her again. Oh, Mary, help me to bear it!”

Mary’s arms tightened round her. She tried to speak, but could think of nothing to say that would not seem a mockery.

The comfort came from Ann. “Of course you’ll see her again! Don’t you believe anything, Jen Robins? And aren’t you glad for her? She’s gone to be with your father; she’s only had to do without him for a few months. Now they’re together again. Can’t you be glad for them? Can’t you see past yourself?”

Jen raised her head and stared at her. Slowly a new look dawned in her eyes. “I hadn’t thought of that. I hadn’t had time,” she said eagerly. “It knocked me silly for a moment. Say that again, Nancy! Go on saying it till I take it in! It’s going to help me a lot. Father—yes, of course. And mother meant so much to him. They were everything to one another; they’d been married forty years. Mother didn’t know how to live without him at first.”

“Forty years,” Ann said sharply. “And how long has he had to wait for her to come? Five months, is it? Five months, only, for her to be lonely here. Nobody could make up to her for him. She had you, and her sons, and the grandchildren; but she’d always have missed him. Can’t you be glad for them, Jen Robins?”

“I am,” Jen spoke with bent head, tears in her voice. “I shall be, more and more. I hadn’t thought; just at first I couldn’t, Nancy. I do see that it’s better. When I get used to the idea, I think I shall be glad, for both of them. But—but it was such a shock. She was quite well. I had a jolly letter from her this morning,” her voice shook.

“Brownie, dear, it’s been a dreadful shock,” Mary said pitifully.

Ann withered her with a look of scorn. “But aren’t you glad she had no illness, Jenny-Wren?”—the pet name came unthinking, in response to Jen’s “Nancy.” “When you think, won’t you be glad of that too? Did you really want her to be ill, and perhaps have pain, and to know she was getting weaker, and to feel more helpless? My mother went as yours has done; and I’ve thanked God for it ever since. Not to have pain, not to know, not to feel helpless; what are you sorry about?”

Jen looked up, her face brave, new resolve in her eyes. “Only about myself, Nancy. And that’s a very little bit of it. Yes, I see; it’s better for her, in every way. And she won’t be lonely; father would meet her.”

“Lonely!” said Ann. “No one is ever lonely, who goes ahead. There’s always somebody to meet every one who goes. We’re lonely, who are left behind; but we usually have friends. Think of the friends you have!”

“You’re the very newest one; and you’ve helped me most of all,” Jen said thoughtfully. “I suppose that’s because you’ve been through it yourself.”

Mary turned away, as if resigning her to Ann. Jen would never know—Mary would take care to shield her from the knowledge—the blow she had dealt in those words; Ann, the newest friend, had helped her most of all.

Mary would have given her life to be able to help. But here was the truth, and it gripped her and left no way of escape—Jen had turned to her for comfort, and she had had none to give. She had not known what to say.

Ann realised something of her trouble. “Miss Mary, couldn’t we have the tea brought in?” she asked gently. “It would help us all.”

“I’ll go!” Rosamund sprang forward eagerly, and ran off to give the order. She, too, was longing to help, but had shrunk back, afraid and awkward and shy.

Maidlin, with no words, but urged by a wise impulse, dropped on the ground beside Jen and put her arms round her. “I wish Joy was here. She’d be so sorry,” she whispered.

Jen kissed her. “You must tell her, if I’m not here when she arrives, Maidie. I’ll try to come back; I can’t quite say when. Oh, of course, I shall have to go,” as Maidlin looked up at her in quick distress. “Mary! I must go. You see that, don’t you? I—I must see her once more, Mary.”

Mary had been aimlessly moving the chairs and tea-cups about, her lips trembling in the dawning realisation of what had happened. She pulled herself together with a tremendous effort, and banished that haunting thought. Here was something to do for Jen; if she could not comfort, she could still serve.

“Yes, you’ll want to go at once, Jenny-Wren. I’ll get some things together for you, shall I? What would be best? Mr. Marchwood must meet you in town. Shall I ’phone and tell him when you’ll arrive?”

“Yes, do, please. You’ll have to look up the trains. I could take the car to Wycombe, and pick up a quick train there; that would be best,” Jen was thinking clearly now. “Ken will meet me at Paddington. Tell him I want to go straight through; if he could take me across to Euston, I could catch a night train there.”

“He’ll go with you, I’m sure,” Mary took the time-table from Rosamund, who had heard Jen’s words.

“I’ll love to have him, of course,” Jen said wistfully. “I’m glad I’ve got him! You’ll tell him—all about it, Mary-Dorothy? So that he’ll understand?”

“I’ll ring him up at once,” and Mary gave the book to Rosamund, who was much quicker in looking out trains, and went into the house.

“He sends his love, and he’ll meet the eight-thirty, and go on with you after he’s given you some dinner somewhere, Brownie,” she came back presently, to find Rosamund pouring out the tea and Maidlin waiting on Jen and Ann. “He’ll see you safely to Glasgow, so you’ll be all right. Shall I go and pack for you, Jenny-Wren? I’ve told Mrs. Shirley. She’s badly upset for your sake. So go in to speak to her before you pack, Brownie.”

“Of course.” Jen glanced at her anxiously. “This has been a shock to you too, Mary-Dorothy. I’m so sorry! Don’t do anything more till you’ve had tea. Make her sit down, Nancy; she was tired before this happened.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me!” Mary caught her breath. “I only want to help—to be of use, somehow.”

“You’re doing everything,” Jen said gratefully. “You shall pack for me presently. I shan’t want much. It’s no use taking clothes from here; I shall have to get new things up there.”

They looked at her quickly, for she had not worn mourning for her father, at his special request. She said quietly,—

“It isn’t a question of what I like. Harry and Alison have been very good to mother all these months, and her home has been with them. I can’t hurt their feelings. Alison is a dear, but she likes everything to be proper and usual. I can’t possibly go among her friends wearing colours at such a time, whatever I may feel myself.”

That was obvious. Rosamund nodded agreement. Maidlin said, “Of course, you must please them. But not when you come back here, Brownie?”

“I’ll see how I feel and decide by that,” Jen said quietly. “I’ll take almost nothing with me, Mary-Dorothy.”

Mary was restless and eager to be doing something to help, afraid to sit still because of the misery within her. She rose to go upstairs, to find Jen’s suit-case and to begin packing, and Jen rose wearily to go too, but turned for a word with Ann first.

“You do believe that, Nancy? You really believe it’s true? It’s the only thing I’m hanging on to just now. I mean, that mother would find father waiting for her, and that now they’re together somewhere, wherever it is? You’re sure they’d know one another? I believe in Heaven, of course; but—but it seems so big. Everybody there! How can I be sure they’d ever meet? Mary, how can we ever feel sure?”

“Oh, I’m sure; I’m certain of it!” Mary said hurriedly. “But I don’t know how, Jenny-Wren. I just feel that it must be so.”

“That’s all any one can ever say. But we all feel it, Jen,” Ann said earnestly. “It’s the one thing everybody in the world wants to be certain about. I can’t believe there could be such a craving all through the world unless it was to be satisfied. It would be too cruel. Do you believe God is like that? Would you make people, and put that craving into them—the longing that we’ll know our friends again—and not mean to satisfy it? Would you make a world like that?”

“No. No, I wouldn’t,” Jen said slowly. “Then God couldn’t. I see. Thank you, Nancy!”

“Don’t you think God knows your mother will want your father, far better than you do?” Ann asked quietly.

Jen gave her a startled look. “Of course! I quite forgot that! Then it’s all right. He’ll take care of her, won’t He?”

“He’ll know what’s best for them both, and for you. All we have to do, when we’re left behind, is to remember that, and believe it hard, and then be brave when we feel lonely,” Ann said bracingly.

“I’m going to believe it hard, very hard!” and Jen, with new courage in her face, ran off upstairs to pack.

Mary followed more slowly, one great question surging up in her heart till she almost heard the words. Why had she had no help to give Jen in this time of need? What if Ann Rowney had not been there?

“I say, Mary-Dorothy!” Jen was hauling down her case from a high shelf. “Keep Nancy here till I come back, by fair means or foul! I like her. I want to talk to her some more. If it’s time for her to go back to town, do something to keep her here. Break her leg, or give her mumps, or find her a job in the village, or something! She’s got a jolly lot in her. She’s thought things out for herself; I never have. That’s the trouble; I’ve just drifted along and been happy, and felt thankful I was alive and the world was so beautiful. I’ve tried to be good, and to be nice to people, and to see that the ones I met had a good time; and to play the game, you know. But beyond that I’ve never thought much about anything. Nancy has; that’s evident. I want to ask her things. So keep her here, if you can, there’s a dear. If she really has to go, get her address in town, and I’ll get hold of her again later.”

“I’ll keep in touch with her, Jenny-Wren. Perhaps you’ll be back before she goes. You won’t want to stay there very long, will you?”

“Don’t want to stay at all. Want to come back as soon as I can, and if poss., before Joy comes,” Jen said briefly. “But I can’t say. I’ll have to stay at least a week, I should think, between Glasgow and home. We’ll have to go home, you know. Mother would want that,” and she set her case on the floor and began quickly packing the things Mary brought to her.

“Come back as soon as you can, Brownie. We’ll be missing you here,” Mary said wistfully. “And if Joy comes, she’ll want to see you.”

“I’ll come the first moment I can,” Jen promised.

“Shall we come with you to Wycombe?” Mary asked, as she folded garments. “Choose whom you’ll have for company, Jenny-Wren. I’d love to come, and so would the children. But you won’t want a crowd. It’s for you to say.”

Jen looked up. “Do you think Nancy would come? Perhaps she’d like the drive. It might be a treat to her.”

“If that’s the only reason, I’ll see that she has a drive on Monday,” Mary began, cold fear at her heart again.

Jen, wrapped up in her trouble, was unconscious of it. “But I’d like her to come with me, if she would. I believe she’d say things that would help me, Mary-Dorothy. I don’t want cheering up exactly; I know you and the dear kids would do all that. But I do want something, and I believe Nancy can give it to me. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Mind?” said Mary, a catch in her breath. “I want you to have what’s best for you, the very best. Nothing else matters. I’ll tell her, and I’ll fetch my big coat for her to wear. Of course she’ll go with you.”

She fled from the room, and for one moment took refuge in her own study, because, to her utter dismay and fright, she had turned sick and almost faint. She locked the door, and dropped into a chair.

“Oh, idiot! Idiot! What do you matter just now? Can’t you think only of Jen? Nothing else matters.... I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I daren’t think till she’s gone.... Don’t be such a baby! Buck up and help her, do!”

She drank a glass of water and rubbed her white cheeks roughly to bring back their colour; and went downstairs, the big coat on her arm, to ask Ann Rowney if she would go to Wycombe.

Rosamund, all ready in hat and coat, set up a wail. “I want to go with Brownie! I’m going, Mary! I’m all ready!”

“Are you going if Brownie doesn’t want you?” Mary turned on her, and the sharpness of her tone betrayed her own heartbreak.

“Oh!” said Rosamund, and stared at her blankly. “N-no, Mary-Dorothy,” and she began to unbutton her coat, her lips trembling.

Ann looked at them. Mary had turned away, unable to face any one for a moment.

Maidlin, sheltered by the dreams in which she lived from clear realisation of all this meant, said with a sob, “We’re only kids, Ros. We can’t say the proper things. I wish Joy was here! Brownie wants somebody really grown-up just now.”

Rosamund’s unhappy eyes went from Ann to Mary, an unspoken question in them. But a fine intuition held it back, and she said nothing. She took off her hat and hung it up in the little cloakroom by the garden door, and turned to Mary. “Isn’t there anything I can do, Mary-Dorothy?”

Mary was idly turning the pages of the time-table, struggling for self-control. This crisis had hurt Rosamund’s awakening sensibilities deeply, but it had just about broken Mary’s heart. She shook her head, unable to speak.

Ann said quickly, “Couldn’t you put down those trains for Jen, so that she won’t have to remember when she’s due in town? She’ll get thinking, once she’s in the train, and she won’t want to be bothered with things like trains.”

Rosamund gratefully seized the book. “Find me a pencil, Maidie! And come and help.”

“Has Jen got rugs for the night journey?” Ann asked of Mary.

Mary had not thought of that. “I’ll get some; and straps,” she said, and began to hurry about.

Ann’s understanding eyes had seen all the tragedy. These three, Mary, Ros, and Maidie, would have done anything to help Jen in this crisis; the two younger girls loved her, Mary worshipped her. It was all obvious. And yet none of them knew what to do, how to say the things she was needing to hear; not one of them had the right word for her in her trouble.

“Pity I was here!” Ann thought. “And yet I don’t know. Jen has to be thought of first. She needed somebody, and they just went all to pieces. I wonder why? With their love for her, they ought to have been able to help. One can forgive the children; but what about Miss Devine? She knows she’s failed; it’s breaking her heart. I don’t understand her. She’s felt it more because I was here; it’s been worse for her, though better for Jen. I wonder if she’ll talk to me about it afterwards? I don’t think I’ll dare to ask her!”

Then Jen came down, dressed for the journey, after a few minutes in Mrs. Shirley’s room, and Rosamund called that the car was at the door.

Ann turned away, and was very busy putting on Mary’s big coat and the leather hood which belonged to it, while the farewells were being said.

Rosamund carried out the rugs and suitcase and stowed them away under the seat. “Well, good-bye, Brownie, and good luck to you!” she said, a lump in her throat.

Mary tucked the rug round Jen, quite forgetting that Ann was still to come. “Come back soon, Jenny-Wren! And wire us from Glasgow.”

“Ring us up from Paddington,” Rosamund amended. “Ken will see to that.”

Maidlin, wordless and in tears, clung to Jen and had to be dragged away gently by Mary.

“Take care of Maidie, Mary-Dorothy,” said Jen, and made room for Ann beside her. “Good-bye, all! Give my love to Joy when she comes.”

Then the car whirled away and she was gone.