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

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“I won’t! I won’t go! And if you ask her to have me, I’ll run away!” and scarlet with anger, her face working with distress, Maidlin rushed away into the abbey and hid herself in a corner.

Ann Watson, the caretaker, turned to her washing with pinched lips and worried face. It was only a week since this tempestuous niece had come to stay with her, and had been allowed to live there by the mistress of the abbey on promise of very good behaviour, and because she was “not a boy and not a silly infant.”

“Fourteen ought to have some sense!” Joan had said, in giving permission.

But what a week it had been! Maidlin had been quiet enough and even reverent in her attitude to the beautiful old ruins, loving them and wondering at them, and wandering much among them, fascinated by her aunt’s stories of the white-robed monks of long ago. There had been no repetition of the tragedy of Joan’s schooldays, when the wall of the chapter-house had been defaced by thoughtless Dicky Jessop. But so much had happened in that week of Maidlin’s visit! Ann’s brows puckered again as she thought over it all, and wondered what she must do now. For Maidlin had suddenly become a person of consequence, and Ann hardly felt able to cope with the situation. And what was worse, the child had unexpectedly developed a temper, which had not shown at first, and Ann felt very decidedly that she did not know how to deal with her.

Maidlin had no mother, and her home had always been with her other aunt, who was married to a well-to-do farmer away in the north. This aunt’s sudden illness had brought about the visit to Aunt Ann, who looked after Joan’s Abbey of Grace-Dieu, and told visitors all about the Cistercians, and the destruction of the abbey, and its rescue by Sir Antony of the Hall. If Ann felt kindly towards the visitors, she went on to tell of Sir Antony’s romantic behaviour in bringing his granddaughter and her aunt and cousin to live in the abbey, but keeping the relationship a secret; of the minuet danced on the cloister garth, which had awakened his interest in the cousins; of his death soon afterwards, leaving the Hall and all the property to Joy, the child of his only daughter, but giving the abbey to Joan, because she loved it so; and of the discovery of the secret passages and the hidden treasures of the abbey.

During the last few weeks Ann had added another chapter, for the benefit of particularly interested or promising-looking tourists, and had told how the cousins had gone, last August, to the dancing-school at Cheltenham; how, ever since, the Hall and the abbey had been haunted by a pair of lovers; and how, very soon, the handsome soldier who was such a favourite with every one and who had also gone to learn folk-dancing, was going to carry off the lady of the abbey and leave only Joy in possession. It was a long story, and took time to tell; but it thrilled those hearers who loved romance and who found a fitting setting for the tale of dancing, love, and treasure in the gray ruined arches of the abbey; and Ann found it worth her while to tell the story well, and had no scruple about turning her inner knowledge to account.

“Ann yarns about you and me and grandfather’s will, no end! And now that Jack’s come on the scene, she’ll be worse than ever!” Joy had said many a time.

“Oh, well, it pleases her and it pleases them, and it doesn’t hurt us! And anyway, we can’t stop her!” Joan said philosophically.

“I guess Ann pockets some thumping big tips, all the same! I think we ought to claim a royalty! When you’re married and done for, and I’m in charge of the abbey, I shall put my foot down heavily, and have no gossiping!” said the lady of the Hall severely. “I’m of age! I’m twenty-one! And I shall be very stern with Ann!”

“Good luck to you!” Joan laughed. “But remember, if Ann throws up the job, you’ll have the fag of finding some one else as good, and then the worse fag of teaching her all about the abbey.”

“All that history! Those stacks of dates! Help! I simply couldn’t!” Joy moaned. “Ann shall tell any old person every old thing she likes! I’ll never dare to give her notice! My dear child, I don’t know it all myself!”

“I know you don’t,” Joan laughed. “You never did, did you?”

As she washed, Ann’s mind ran over the familiar story and she glanced through her lancet windows at the sunny garth, her troubled eyes seeing in memory what they might never, perhaps, see again in fact—two bronze-haired girls dancing minuets or morris jigs on the turf. “Princess Royal,” “Jockie,” “Ladies’ Pleasure”; Ann knew them all by name. But those days were over, she feared. For yesterday had been Joan’s wedding-day, and the Hall had been astir with guests all afternoon. Now it was quiet again, the bride and bridegroom were far away, and every one was filled with sympathy for the lonely cousin left behind. What would Joy do without Joan? Even Ann wondered that. They had been together all their lives. Joy had always relied on Joan. What would she do without her now?

“She’ll be lonely!” Ann said to herself. “Not at once, perhaps, because of Miss Jen. But when Miss Jen goes home”—and Ann shook her head doubtfully.

For Jen, three years younger than the cousins, but a friend of five years’ standing, had claimed her right to be Joan’s bridesmaid in earnest. At school she had been Joan’s Maid of Honour in many a Mayday procession, holding up her violet train and wearing her colours proudly—the “chief bridesmaid,” in the language of the school, to the Violet Queen. Now that Joan had been a bride, Jen had naturally pointed out the position due to herself in the ceremony, and Joan had agreed warmly that she could not be properly married without her particular maid in her own rightful place. So Joy and Jen had been bridesmaids, and Jen had attended Joan throughout the ceremony as she had so often waited on her before. And though Joan had gone away with her soldier, Jen was still at the Hall, and would relieve Joy’s loneliness for the first few days, and help to comfort Mrs. Shirley in her loss of her only daughter.

Ann knew Jen well, and had known her since Jen had begun her schooldays, five years ago, as a thirteen-year-old visitor to the Hall during its term as the headquarters of the school. She was glad Jen was to stay for a few days. Then her thoughts turned from weddings and the past to the problem of the moment, and she sighed and knit her brows again as she bent over her tub.

Three days ago the letter had come, from Maidlin’s father in Italy. He was not in Italy just now, it appeared, but in China, and China seemed a very long way off, very much farther than Italy, which, to Ann, had always seemed far enough. And the letter, with its amazing news and its awkward suggestions, had disturbed Ann greatly. What to do about it, and how to start, she did not know. Only one solution had occurred to her, but she had thought it a very good one. But, as if the letter and its problems had not been enough, on top of it all Maidlin had most unexpectedly developed this “Italian” temper, unsuspected until now, and had flatly and very violently refused to consider Ann’s solution of the difficulty for a single moment. It was very hard! Ann sighed again, and thought and thought, but could see no other way. It had seemed such a good idea!

From somewhere in the abbey ruins came a high, clear voice, singing cheerfully an old jingle learnt the summer before.

“Cripple Creek girls, don’t you want to go to Somerset?

Somerset girls, don’t you want to go to town?

Somerset girls, don’t you want to go to Cripple Creek?

Cripple Creek girls, don’t you want to go to town?”

Ann smiled. She had heard about those Cripple Creek girls before. “Miss Joy’s keepin’ up her spirits!” she said approvingly, and looked out to see the singer.

From the old doorway of the tresaunt, the passage leading to the abbot’s garden and the gate into the grounds of the Hall, another verse pealed forth, but a strictly unofficial verse this time, and one Ann had never heard before.

“Girls of the abbey, don’t you want to go to Cheltenham?

Cheltenham girls, don’t you want to go to town?

Cheltenham girls, don’t you want to come to see the abbey?

Abbey girls, don’t you want to go to town?”

“Well!” Joy was talking cheerily to herself. “A good lot of it has come true! We did go to Chelt.—dear old place!—and we’re going back, too, ‘married ladies or not!’ as the President says. And the Cheltenham folks mostly came back to town. And some of them have been here to see the abbey; and if things turn out as seems likely at present, the abbey girls will be going to town. I suppose that means me myself; I being the only original abbey girl left. But, of course, we did take in Jenny-Wren and Jacky-boy pretty thoroughly, so perhaps they may count too. But this won’t get my letters written! Bother weddings! Bother being an heiress and boss of an estate! It’s more worry than it’s worth!”

The broken arches of the cloisters had wide, low sills of gray stone. Joy spread papers, letters, envelopes and pad about, and laid a stone on each to keep them steady. From Joan’s sanctum opening off the cloisters, in the early days Joy’s own little bedroom, she brought a cushion, and throwing it down on the stone sat upon it, her back against the wall, and set to work, humming all the time about the abbey girls who wanted to go to town.

Ann, at her window a few yards away, smiled as she looked at her. “Miss Joy don’t even begin to grow up! Now why that Maidlin should have such a spite at her is more than I can tell! There couldn’t be a nicer young lady, unless ’twere Miss Joan herself—Mrs. Raymond, begging her pardon! A bit wild, Miss Joy used to be; but I’m sure these last few months she’s been different somehow—kinder, and more gentle spoken like. But she don’t look grown up this morning, and that’s a fact!”

It was a fact. Joy’s mane of ruddy-bronze hair was “up,” because when it was up it was out of the way, and there was too much of it and it was too heavy to be carried in any other way with comfort. Otherwise it would have been down her back in a plait. In spite of her twenty-one years, to which she only referred when she wanted an argument for getting her own way, she was wearing the old blue gym tunic, reaching barely to her knees, which she had worn so happily for the month’s dancing at Cheltenham. Ever since that time she had worn it occasionally in mornings, when the fancy seized her, or when she felt “dancey,” and no remonstrance from her aunt or cousin had moved her.

“You never said it wasn’t decent at Cheltenham!” she had argued many a time with Joan. “Just because you had on your own, and everybody else wore gymmies too! If it was decent there, it must be decent here. It’s jolly comfortable! And anyway, it’s only in the garden or the abbey. I don’t wear it out in the road, or after twelve o’clock, when visitors might walk in at any moment.”

So, writing-pad propped on the knees of her gym stockings, she leaned against the cloister wall and scribbled answers to the pile of letters, murmuring a comment now and then.

“Can’t be done! No, my dear man, I couldn’t think of it!—I’ll consult aunty about this one.—Oh, what cheek! Begging letters are the limit! I will not give to everybody who asks, just because I’ve got the money! I’d have nothing left in three months! But this one—yes, I’ll think it over. Sounds more the right kind. Oh, this is from Miss Macey. I wonder what the old dear wants? Perhaps it’s just more good wishes for Joan, come rather late. No, it’s for me all right. Oh—help!”

She read the letter from her old schoolmistress, her merry face growing serious; then laid it down and sat staring across the garth at the high refectory windows. “This needs some thinking about! Dear old Mackums! She’s fearfully apologetic and all the rest of it, but she does know what she wants. I could do it for her, but it would be a fearful fag. Hi, Jenny-Wren! Come here and give me good advice! I know you’re looking for me. Now don’t begin cheering me up!” she threatened. “For I don’t need it. I know you’ve all made up your minds to cheer me up, but you needn’t bother, thank you! I can get along quite well without Joan!”

“I can’t!” Jen came across the garth to join her. “I keep looking for her round every corner. The abbey and the Hall used to be full of Joan, and now they’re horribly empty. I haven’t come to cheer you up. I’ve come to be bucked up myself. I’ve no time to think about you! What do you suppose Joan’s doing now? Where will they have got to?”

“They’re doing the sights of Paris, my child, and have forgotten our existence. You needn’t be sentimental over Joan; you know what she’s like when Jack’s round,” Joy mocked. “There isn’t anybody else, if she’s got him!”

“He’s worse. Nobody else exists, if Joan’s there. Of course, it’s awfully nice, and all that; and I’m glad they’ve got married. They weren’t any use to anybody until they did, anyway. But I do feel left alone and lost. Isn’t the morning after a wedding a horrible time?”

“Let’s talk about the weather!” Joy suggested kindly. “Isn’t it wonderfully mild for March? Feels like June, doesn’t it? Awfully fortunate for the wedding! But, of course, the abbey’s sheltered by the hills; it may be cold enough up on top! We shall soon have the blossom out, at this rate!”

“Joy, you’re a pig! And you do look a sight! You need Joan to look after you. Do go and get dressed!”

“Soon. I want to consult you on a matter of serious importance first. Business must be attended to, Jenny-Wren.”

“I’m sure you can’t do business in a gymmy!”

“I can do better business in a gymmy. The—er—freedom of my costume and—and of my lower limbs assists the free working of my business faculties, and stimulates the flow of my imagination, which is a great asset in dealing with business matters,” the lady of the Hall assured her seriously.

“I shouldn’t have thought it was. But get busy at it, whatever it is, for you’ll have to go and dress, Joy, or at least you’ll have to vanish from here. Tourists will be turning up to see the abbey, and you mustn’t be caught looking such a sight.”

“She talks as if a tunic were indecent, instead of only a little unusual!” Joy complained. “Look here, Jen, my infant! I’ve had a letter from Mackums.”

“Oh! Does she want me to go over and see her? Why didn’t she write to me?”

“It isn’t about you at all. It’s about quite another little girl, an infant of fifteen, called Rosamund Kane.”

“Never heard of her. Who is she? And what about her?”

“She’s left on Mackums’s tender hands as a boarder, while her folks are abroad. Her relations live away up in the north, like yours, and aren’t any use to this kid. And Wycombe doesn’t suit her; she’s lived in the north too, and it makes her all floppy, and she isn’t well.”

“Oh, but she’ll get used to it! That’s only for the first week,” Jen said, from experience. “I always used to flop for a few days, and moon round with a headache, and say I’d never do any work. But it went off, and I was all right for the rest of the term.”

“This kid has had two terms of it and it hasn’t gone off, and Mackums is worried about her. Wycombe’s so much among the hills.”

“Yes, it’s different out here. Better ask the kid—oh, is that what Miss Macey wants? Has she asked you to have the kid here?”

“That’s exactly and precisely what she has done, Jenny-Wren. She’s frightfully apologetic, and all that, but she knows we’ve heaps of room and maids and everything, and she says, could we possibly have the kid here for a few months, so that she could live in country air and cycle to school every day? Mackums thinks it would be the making of her. I dare say it would; but it’s a bit of a fag, isn’t it?”

“It would be topping for the kid,” Jen said slowly. “I haven’t forgotten how you took me in, in the dip. time, and were so awfully decent to me.”

“Joan was, you mean. You told me so quite plainly. Don’t you remember how you ticked me off?”

“I was a rude infant, then. You were both awfully good about it. It must have been a fag to put up with a kid all the time. And it would be worse now. What shall you do, Joy?”

“I don’t know. I’m still thinking.”

“You’ve been awfully good already, asking people here for holidays, because you thought they needed a rest in the country. Joan told me about it.”

“I’ve had a queer feeling”—Joy began, and paused. “I’m going to tell you about it sometime. But at this particular moment, what about Rosamund?”

“You could ask Mrs. Shirley,” Jen suggested.

Joy shook her head. “Aunty would say I must decide. You see, I was planning to go up to town quite a lot. There hasn’t been time yet, with getting first Cicely and then Joan married. But now that we’ve cleared the air, and just for fear any one should feel lonely now and then, I’d made all kinds of plans, and I was going up to town quite often, to swot at music, and so on. But it seems to me that would hardly be fair, either to aunty or this kid. If she comes, I’ll have to look after her, or she’ll find it hideously dull; and she may worry aunty.”

“It does need thinking about,” Jen acknowledged. “I wish we’d got Joan; she always knew! Or Newcastle, from Cheltenham!”

“I could write for advice to everybody, all round the connection, of course!” Joy mocked. “But I think it would be better to decide for myself. If I let the kid come here, it’s I who will have to take the worry of her. But it does complicate matters.”

“Not half!” Jen agreed, and sat on the grass, leaning against Joy’s knee and frowning over the problem.

At eighteen, she was tall and slim and lithe, moving with the unconscious grace of one who had been a folk-dancer since she was thirteen. The yellow hair she had always worn in long plaits had been cut short after her accident the previous summer, and, discovering the comfort of a crown of bobbed curls, Jen had stoutly refused, for the present, to let it grow again. She wore it caught back from her face with a slide, and was happy in the freedom of the prevailing fashion. In her jumper and short skirt she still looked a schoolgirl, except for her height. When this difficulty was pointed out to her, she was wont to say airily, “I had a serious illness, and one always grows in bed. I’m really only fifteen; and don’t you forget it!”—and to omit to mention that it was more than a year since she had left school.

They sat thinking over their problem, Joy leaning back against the old gray stone of her cloister arch and nursing one knee, Jen propped against her sitting on the grass. Suddenly the clanging of the great abbey bell brought them both to their feet.

“Joy! I said you’d be caught! Fly! You’ve just got time!”

“I shan’t, then,” Joy pulled herself together. “That old thing made me jump; but it’s only eleven o’clock. We aren’t open till twelve. Ann won’t let the idiots in. She knows she’s got to reckon with me now, and that I’m not soft, as Joan used to be! Go and tell her to send them for a walk in the woods for an hour, there’s a good kid!”

“Here she comes! She wants to ask you something.”

“Please, Miss Joy, it’s a lady, and she says she’s a friend of yours and she knows as how you’d let her in, and she’s been to the Hall to see you, but they told her you was in the abbey.” Ann looked doubtful, with an apologetic glance at Joy’s knees.

The girls looked at one another. “Who on earth——?”

“I’ll go and see, shall I?” and Jen raced away across the garth.

Joy hastily began to gather up her scattered papers. “These interruptions to business! When one does try to do a little work! Whoever can it be? Is it anybody I’m prepared to receive in this—er—costume? There aren’t very many! But Jen will know,” and she withdrew towards the door of the private room in the cloister wall, ready to take cover, if necessary.

“Jen’s excited about it, whoever it is. I can hear her shrieks from here. She always did give a yell and hurl herself on people,” and Joy chuckled.

Jen came flying back. “Joy! Oh, you needn’t hide! You really needn’t! It’s some one who saw you first in your gymmy! Guess!”

“Cheltenham?” cried Joy. “Who?”

“It’s Madam!” and Jen collapsed in laughter on the grass. “Fancy hiding from her, because you’re in your tunic!”

“Idiot!” Joy hurled at her, and went leaping across the garth, all long, flying legs, to the tunnel passage and the old front gate.