Читать книгу Maidlin Bears the Torch - Elsie Jeanette Dunkerley - Страница 5

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‘Jim! Jim! We’ve found her—your girl with the big eyes and the daffodil! Oh, Jim, you ought to have heard her sing!’ Benedicta rushed into the house, calling wildly for her brother.

Jim strolled out of his den and stared at her. ‘Who? The Italian girl? I did hear her. Big voice; what’s she like?’

‘Oh, you listened! But you should have been there! Jim, she’s your girl—our girl! The waitress at Annecy!’

‘Great Scott! Have you gone batty, Ben?’

‘Not a scrap. Ask Mother! She—Madalena di Ravarati—came out to sing, and I could just see her yellow frock and frilly apron, and that daffodil in her hair, instead of her evening rig-out. She’s terribly pretty in evening things, Jim!’

‘Look here, Ben! Do you really mean it was that same girl?’ Jim demanded, astounded. ‘Mother, what is the kid talking about?’

‘Our pretty little shy waitress, turned into a public singer and a protégée of Sir Ivor Quellyn. She had a great success.’

‘Oh, I heard that! But—that girl! Why was she a waitress?’ Jim marvelled.

‘She told us. She was doing it to help a friend, who was ill. She said it was only for one day,’ Benney reminded him. ‘She’s lovely, Jim! Don’t you wish you’d been there?’

‘I’ll find out about her,’ said Jim, still incredulous. ‘I know a fellow in the orchestra—several, in fact. They’ll know all about her.’

‘Oh, ask an oboe! Or the tuba! It would be so posh to say you’d heard about her from the tuba!’ Benney cried.

‘Bed, Benedicta!’ said her mother. ‘Remember you have to go back to school to-morrow.’

‘I’m dying to go. I’ve volumes to tell the girls.’ And Benney went up to bed, to dream of that happy evening.

‘Don’t tell the girls everything,’ her mother advised next morning, as she sent her off in the car. ‘Don’t repeat what you overheard, for instance.’

‘Um—no, perhaps not. All right, Mother, I won’t. There’s plenty to tell without that.’

‘Plenty, I should say. Quite enough to keep you busy for a day and a half,’ Mrs. Bennett said, laughing.

Benney’s first question, when she sprang out of the car on Friday afternoon, was—‘Where’s Jim? Has he found out any more? What did his oboe man tell him?’

‘Have you been dreaming about that concert?’ Mrs. Bennett remonstrated. ‘Jim will be home to dinner; he’ll tell you anything he knows then. What about school? Were the farewells very tearful? Was Miss Carstairs sorry to lose you?’

‘She said so,’ Benney said flippantly. ‘I know the girls were sorry. We all felt bad; they wish I was coming back next term. I’d rather talk about Madalena, if you don’t mind, Mother. Did you keep the papers for me? Are they very pleased about her singing?’

‘I’ve kept them all. They say very nice things about her. I’m sure her friends will be proud.’

‘Even if Sir Ivor Quellyn isn’t satisfied! I didn’t tell anybody about that. Oh, Jim! Tell me all about it! Is she going to sing anywhere else? Can we go and hear her again? Where does she live? And who exactly is she? Any relation to Sir Ivor?’

‘Care to go and see her to-morrow?’ Jim asked airily, hanging up his overcoat.

‘Jim! Jim, what do you mean?’

‘Don’t shriek like that, Ben, or I won’t tell you.’

‘Well, why did you say it? You couldn’t mean it! Jim, tell me what you meant!’

‘I don’t say you’ll see her,’ Jim remarked. ‘But there’s always a chance. We had luck that day in Annecy; it might happen again.’

‘But where does she live? How can we go to see her?’

‘The chap I asked told me all he knew; not very much, but enough to start on. They call her “The little Ravarati”; Quellyn wanted her to be an opera singer, but she hasn’t a scrap of dramatic instinct, and it’s a thing no one can teach her. She doesn’t want to do it; she’s quite pleased to sing, but she doesn’t want to act.’

Benney looked at her mother, who nodded, and said, ‘We had guessed that. What do you mean about going to see her, Jim?’

‘She lives with the Quellyns down in Oxfordshire, at Lady Quellyn’s place near Princes Risborough. Lady Quellyn adopted her ten years ago, when she was left an orphan; her father must have been Italian, of course; I don’t know that part of the story.’

‘But we can’t go and say we want to see her!’ Benedicta cried, wide-eyed. ‘You aren’t proposing to call on Sir Ivor, are you?’

‘Ass!’ her brother retorted. ‘Don’t be in such a hurry.’ He looked at his mother. ‘There’s a ruin in the grounds of their house and it’s open to the public; an old Abbey or something. It would be good for Ben’s education to see it. She ought to see ruins and learn history.’

‘And we might, just possibly, see somebody!’ Benney gave a shout. ‘Some of the family might be in the ruins! The twins might be playing there! Oh, Mother, let’s go to-morrow! It’s only an hour’s run! For the first day of the hols! Oh, Mother, do!’

Mrs. Bennett laughed. ‘Don’t be so absurd, Ben! I’m quite willing to go; I like old places and I’ve never heard of this Abbey. But it’s most unlikely you’ll see anybody interesting; you must be prepared for that. If the ruins are so close to Lady Quellyn’s house she won’t go into them during the hours the public are admitted.’

‘She’s probably bored stiff with them,’ said Jim. ‘But if you’d like to go I’ll drive you down.’

‘If! I’m dying to go!’Benney cried. ‘And I believe we shall see her—“the little Ravarati,” you know. I believe we’ll have luck again. If we don’t, I don’t see why Mother shouldn’t call and ask to see her, and say we’d recognised her as our girl from Annecy, and we wanted to tell her how much we’d enjoyed her singing. There’d be no harm in that. She liked us, that day in the café; she said she’d know us again, because we’d been so kind. You could go and call on her, Mother!’

‘No, I wouldn’t do that,’ Mrs. Bennett said. ‘If we met her by accident I would remind her of our first meeting, but I couldn’t intrude on her in her home just for that.’

‘But you’ll come with Jimmy and me to-morrow?’ Benedicta pleaded. ‘We’d need you, Mother! If we should have the luck to see her, we wouldn’t dare to speak to her! It would have to be you.’

Mrs. Bennett laughed. ‘I’ll come with you for a picnic in the country, and we’ll call and see these ruins. We may find some early primroses in the woods, although it’s not quite Easter. But I warn you, Benney, that it’s a thousand chances to one that woods and primroses and ruins will be all you’ll see.’

‘There’s the one chance in a thousand, Benney urged. ‘Let’s try our luck, Mother! Jim, you’re a sport! Was it the tuba man who told you? Had he got himself unwound from his coils?’

‘No, it was a ’cellist,’ Jim said curtly. Then he added, ‘Was there another girl in the box with the Quellyn crowd?’

Benedicta stared. ‘Yes! What about her? We thought perhaps she was the twins’ aunt.

‘What was she like?’

‘Oh—pretty! Yellow hair—white frock—tall.

‘Very handsome and distinguished-looking, and carried herself well,’ his mother added. ‘Why, Jim?

‘She was the future Countess of Kentisbury. She’s marrying the Earl next week; she’s being married from Lady Quellyn’s place. They say she and the Ravarati girl are chums; grew up together, or something.’

‘Did Lady Quellyn adopt her too? My aunt, how interesting!’ Benney cried. ‘I didn’t know I was staring at a future Countess! I must write and tell Clare. What a pity they’ve gone away! Clare would have liked to go with us to-morrow. Did the ’cello tell you anything more, Jim? What are the Quellyn twins called?’

‘They aren’t Quellyn twins, Ben,’ said Mrs. Bennett. ‘Their mother has only been married to Sir Ivor for a few months.’

‘I forgot; I suppose they have another name. How odd to have a different name from your mother! What is their name, Jim?’

‘Marchwood. Their father was Marchwood, the explorer.’

‘I remember. He died before they were born,’ said Mrs. Bennett. ‘They have never had a father until now.’

‘I wonder how they like having one, and if Sir Ivor is a nice one!’ Benney remarked.

‘Shouldn’t think so. He’ll bully them,’ and Jim strolled away, followed by his sister’s mocking laughter.

Mrs. Bennett repeated her warning several times during the evening, as, in the intervals of unpacking and settling down, Benedicta’s mind kept reverting to her hopes for the next day.

‘Benney dear, I don’t want you to be disappointed. It’s very unlikely you’ll see anybody at this Abbey.’

‘I’m sure we shall. Now that we’ve found our mystery girl again I know we’re going to get to know her.’

‘You’ll have to keep an eye on young Ben, Mother,’ said Jim. ‘If she doesn’t see her girl anywhere about, she’ll bolt away through the grounds to the house and stand gazing at the windows, and they’ll come out and ask if she’s escaped from a loony home.’

‘If they do, I shall see them,’ Benney retorted. ‘If they don’t I could have a fit or an accident on the doorstep and be carried inside the house for treatment.’

‘I’m beginning to be sorry you suggested the trip, Jim,’ said Mrs. Bennett.

‘I’m beginning to think I won’t go.’

‘Oh, Jim! We can’t drive; we must have you! I was only fooling,’ Benney cried. ‘I shall be very quiet and shy when we get there! You know you want to go; you’d like to see her yourself!’

‘Yes, I daresay. But I’m not going on like a maniac if I don’t happen to see her.’

‘I won’t!’ Benney promised. ‘I won’t be an idiot. But I am hoping something jolly will happen. And so are you, and so is Mother. I own up to it, that’s all.’

‘You make more noise about it, anyway,’ her mother agreed.

Benney curbed her excitement, lest Jim should repeat his threat. But there was determination in her eyes as they set out next morning. Surely somehow, somewhere, they would see their daffodil girl before they came home again!

They picknicked in a brown beech-wood in Buckinghamshire, where grey smooth stems made aisles above a carpet of red leaves. Benedicta gathered primroses and violets in a lane, and hailed them as a good omen.

Mrs. Bennett had chosen their route, and presently she asked Jim to stop the car, and bade Benney walk with her across a hillside to a great white splash of chalk on the green turf. A wide view of flat country lay below them, stretching away as far as they could see, and Jim, following them, pointed out the direction in which the ruined Abbey must lie.

‘I came here once as a girl,’ said his mother. ‘But I never went over on that side. Benedicta, do you know you’re standing on a cross?’

‘A cross, Mother? How do you mean?’

‘My aunt, so it is!’ Jim exclaimed. ‘Cut in the turf, Ben; don’t you see?’

‘All this white stuff? I believe it is a cross, but I’d never have guessed, if you hadn’t told me,’ Benney cried.

‘You’ll see it better when we’re farther off. I wanted you to be able to say you had stood beside it. Come along back to the car; we’ll look up at the cross presently. There’s another, a smaller one, on the opposite hill.’

‘It is a beauty!’ Benney exclaimed, as she gazed up at the white cross from the road below the hill. ‘You must see it for miles! I’m glad we went up there.’

‘I’m glad to have seen it again,’ Mrs. Bennett agreed.

‘And now for this old Abbey! And—perhaps—you never know!’ Benney hinted.

Through tree-hung lanes they came to the foot of the hills, just within the borders of Oxfordshire. ‘Topping country!’ said Jim. ‘Those old monk chaps knew what they were about.’

‘They always did,’ said his mother. ‘Remember Tintern, and Fountains! They always chose the most lovely valleys for their monasteries.’

Benedicta had nothing to say. Excitement had driven her to silence, but she was taking in everything, her eyes roving over the beautiful trees and the primrose-studded banks bordering the lane.

She gave a little cry. ‘Jim! Oh, the Abbey! Oh, Jim, stop!’

In a meadow, framed in big trees, stood a group of grey buildings, with wide arches and a row of narrow lancet windows showing above a protecting wall. There was a door in the wall, and a path led straight to it from an old stone bridge, which crossed the stream running beside the road.

‘Looks all right.’ Jim shut off his engine. ‘Do we leave the car here?’

‘This will be the monks’ fish-stream,’ said Mrs. Bennett. ‘There’s a gate farther on and a drive leading to that little door, Jim. You’d better take the car in.’

‘Let me get out first!’ and Benney opened the door and sprang out. ‘I want to go by the path and the monks’ bridge.’

‘We’ll join you at the door in the wall,’ said her mother.

Benney crossed the bridge, pausing to look over the parapet of moss-covered stones down into the clear, bubbling stream. Then she wandered dreamily along the path, and stood gazing through a little gate under an old archway. Within was a smooth green lawn, small and enclosed by grey walls; directly opposite was a beautiful arched doorway, with a little pointed window on each side.

‘Look, Mother! It’s beautiful!’ she turned eagerly, as the car drove up.

‘You missed a lovely old gate-house by taking the short cut, Benney. You must see it on our way out,’ said Mrs. Bennett.

In answer to Jim’s ring, an elderly woman appeared, leaning heavily on a stick. She opened the gate and asked them to wait a moment.

‘Someone will come,’ she said.

‘A beastly caretaker,’ Benney whispered. ‘I wish they’d let us wander round by ourselves. I’d a million times rather!’

‘But you wouldn’t understand it,’ Mrs. Bennett assured her. ‘It’s better to have it explained by somebody who knows.’

‘If you will come this way——’ said a rich, unmistakable voice behind them.

‘Oh, it’s you yourself!’ Benedicta’s astounded cry of delight rang out, as she turned and found herself facing Madalena di Ravarati.