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

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The abbey girl looked up from the books spread over the table. The rain was beating on the leaded panes, the thunder rattling overhead.

‘I wonder where those girls will shelter?’

‘How did you get on with them?’ her mother asked.

‘Oh, they were very jolly. Asked all kinds of questions, of course, but mostly sensible ones. There was one difficult girl, the kind who doesn’t know anything and doesn’t believe any one else does. But the rest were all right. I liked the two big ones. They enjoyed it all so much.’

‘When did they go? I didn’t see them pass.’

‘Neither did I! Perhaps they’re sheltering here. It will be rather cold,’ and she looked up anxiously. ‘The wind whistles through the cloisters and makes them dreadfully chilly. Shall I go and see, and ask them in here, mother?’

‘Yes, dear, do. It would be much pleasanter for them.’

The abbey girl laid down her pencil and went out into the passage. At the sound of lively whistling from the cloisters she paused, then hurried on and stood gazing in much interest.

Edna, perched on a low wall, was whistling a lively air. Miriam sat on the wall, and Cicely stood beside her watching the dance. The six girls forming the morris ‘side’ faced one another in two rows of three, each with her short green staff grasped firmly in her hand. Agnes and her ‘opposite’ were crouching, apparently taking aim at one another with their staves, in the movement which gave the dance its name. They gave place to the two at the other corners, and then Edna broke off suddenly at sight of the bronze-haired girl in the old doorway. The ‘side’ broke up in confusion, and Cicely laughed and came forward.

‘I hope you won’t mind. I know we ought not to have danced in here, but it won’t hurt anybody, will it? Unless you mind very much?’

The abbey girl laughed. ‘What would the old monks have said? Oh, I don’t mind! It was very interesting. Was it a morris dance? I know your school is famous for its morris dancing.’

‘I didn’t know we were famous! But our club dances a good deal, and Mirry teaches the little ones as well.’

‘Won’t you come in and sit down? It’s draughty here. This way,’ and she led them down the passage.

‘Won’t you tell us your name?’ Miriam asked. ‘We’ve been calling you “the abbey girl,” but that’s clumsy and doesn’t sound friendly.’

The abbey girl turned with a smile. ‘I’m Joan Shirley. Will you come in here? I’m sorry the room is untidy, but we weren’t expecting visitors. Mother!’

Mrs Shirley came forward to offer a hospitable greeting, and the girls looked curiously round the room. It was small and dark, built in the wall of the old monastery. By the narrow lancet windows stood a table covered with sheets of paper, pencils, compass, ruler, and a textbook of geometry, and while Miriam and Cicely were thanking their hostess Edna edged nearer to the table.

‘Were you doing your home-work? May I look?’

‘I don’t go to school now. But I was trying to do a little work.’ There was something in Joan’s voice which made Cicely Hobart glance at her quickly, and then come to investigate.

‘Have you left school? And do you go on working by yourself? Now that’s a thing I could never do! I work all right in a class, but I couldn’t stick at it alone. And maths, of all things! But perhaps you’re particularly keen on geometry?’

Joan laughed. ‘I’m not! It was history before you came, and I much prefer it.’

Edna was gazing at her wide-eyed. ‘But why d’you do it at all? Especially things you don’t like?’

‘I was sorry to leave school when we left London,’ Joan said gravely, ‘and I didn’t want to forget everything. I thought I might at least keep up things, even if I couldn’t hope to go on much further alone. But it’s rather difficult to test myself.’ She turned to Cicely. ‘I was going in for Junior Matric. when I left, and they said I would probably have passed. These are some old sets of Junior papers, and I thought by working through them I could keep up. But I’ve been all through the book now, and one can’t do them more than once. I’ve got all the arithmetic right, and solved the algebra problems, and now I feel stuck. I don’t know quite what to do.’

Cicely’s eyes were bright. Pluck and achievement always appealed to her, and she found them both here. There was a dogged persistence in this steady humdrum work alone which she knew to be lacking in her own character. She could, and did, initiate new plans and ideas, but was less ready to work on steadily at old ones.

‘You ought to have some matric. papers now, and see what you could do with them. Mirry would lend you hers, I know. She passed with Honours two years ago. I dare say I could borrow some others too. Would you like them, if I sent them to you?’

Joan’s face shone. ‘I’d like it above all things! It would be tremendously good of you. But wouldn’t it trouble you too much?’

‘It wouldn’t trouble me at all. I’ll let you have them, and you must tell me how you get on. I’m working for matric. myself. Of course I ought to have passed last June, but my father lives abroad, and he came home ill in May and had to go away for six months, and he took me with him. So matric. had to wait.’

‘My father is dead,’ Joan said, in a low voice. ‘We lived in town for about a year after he died, and then—things were different, and we came away. I was sorry, but it couldn’t be helped.’

She turned away and busied herself tidying the books and papers. Cicely had heard enough to understand. Things had evidently been ‘different’ since the father’s death. Joan had not been brought up in a dingy little room like this, and Mrs Shirley was as obviously out of place. She changed the subject abruptly.

‘What a quaint little house you have! It’s one of the real old abbey rooms, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, I’m glad we live in one of the very old parts. All this was the refectory of the lay brothers. Upstairs was their dormitory, and that was older still, but it’s all in ruins. Their refectory is divided now into a number of little rooms, opening from one another and from the cloisters, and we have the use of them. They’re small and dark, but I like them. I’d far rather live here, right in the walls, than in a cottage outside.’

‘Fancy having Early English lancet windows to your bedroom! Is that right?’

Joan laughed and nodded. ‘We go through the kitchen to get to our bedrooms. There’s no passage.’

‘How awfully quaint! I’d like to live here too.’

‘There’s not very much room, but we have the abbey. I often sit there. There are seats in odd corners, and window ledges, and walls. We don’t have many visitors in winter, so I have plenty of time.’

‘Do you always show people round?’

‘Yes. The stairs tire mother, and I’m afraid she might slip where they’re broken. And when she has climbed up to the refectory or dormitory she hasn’t any breath left to describe things. Besides, I like doing it. I’m so fond of it all.’

‘And in odd times you keep up your lessons? It’s more than I should do! And do you play? What a jolly piano!’—for one side of the tiny room was filled by a big upright Grand.

‘Not much. It’s my cousin’s piano. She lives with us, but she’s out just now.’

‘She’ll get wet. Isn’t the rain pelting down? Mirry, sing to us!—if Mrs Shirley will let me use the piano?’

‘No, Cicely, I’d rather not! Cicely, you are a bully!’ protested Miriam, but Cicely had gone to the piano, which Mrs Shirley was opening. ‘Well, then, I shall sing your version of “Early One Morning!” ’

Cicely laughed. ‘All right! I made up the words,’ she explained to Joan, who had come to stand by the piano. ‘Strike up, Mirry!’ and Miriam’s clear, sweet voice filled the tiny room.

‘Thank you so much! We don’t often have singing,’ Joan said earnestly. ‘We have enjoyed it.’

‘It’s a ripping piano,’ Cicely said appreciatively. ‘Oh, there’s the Curate!’ as the kitten came racing in from the kitchen. ‘Do you call him that because of his white collar?’

‘Of course. Here’s his mother,’ as a handsome matronly cat came sedately in to look for her restless offspring. ‘She has no collar, you see. She’s black all over. They were given to me when the Curate was only a month old. We christened him at once; he wasn’t dignified enough for a Bishop or Abbot. So the only suitable name for madam seemed to be the Mother Superior, since she lives in a nunnery—monastery, at least,’ laughed Joan.

‘The Mother Superior and the Curate! How ripping! I like you, old lady! You’re so motherly and solid,’ and Cicely fondled the Mother Superior, who purred her appreciation loudly. ‘How’s the weather?’

‘Better. Shall we risk it?’

‘I think we ought to, or we shan’t get home before dark. Won’t Carry be tired of that mile-stone? She was a softy to miss this! I wouldn’t have missed it for anything,’ Cicely said warmly, dropping the Mother Superior neatly on top of the Curate. ‘It’s been a great treat. I’ll let you have those papers as soon as I can, Joan, and thank you very much.’

‘Thank you very much! It’s awfully kind of you.’ There was grateful colour in the abbey girl’s face. ‘I’m glad you came to-day.’

She followed them across the wet grass to describe the gate-house and the guest rooms it had once contained.

‘There was a motto over the door, in Latin, of course, but meaning that the door was always open to all who needed it. When a stranger arrived, tired and hungry, the brother who opened the gate would fall on his knees and thank God ‘for sending a weary traveller to rest within these gates,’ and as he came in the brother said a blessing over him. That was the Cistercian rule. I think it’s rather nice.’

‘They do seem to have been decent old chaps!’

‘Oh, they were! They were splendid, often real heroes. And they worked hard in the fields and gardens, you know. All Cistercians had to work. They didn’t just pray and meditate.’

‘Mirry, that girl’s pining to go to school!’ Cicely announced, as they walked down the path under the dripping trees.

‘Yes. She ought to have a chance, Cicely.’

‘That’s what I was thinking. We might tell Miss Macey about her. She’s jolly plucky to struggle on like that by herself. Her geometry was beautifully worked out. I’m sure she’s worth helping. But would they agree?’

‘It would have to be explained carefully, but if they understood perhaps they would.’

‘I know she’s pining to be back at school! I expect she was awfully cut up when she had to leave. I liked the way she spoke up and answered questions from the first.’

‘I liked her for being so fond of her abbey.’

‘She goes into quiet corners to work, when no visitors are about. Isn’t she pretty? I looked at her when you were singing, while she stood leaning on the piano, and she was just beautiful.’

Miriam nodded. ‘I’d like to help her too. Here comes Carry!’

‘What a time you’ve been!’ Carry, who had been sheltering in a draughty barn, sounded decidedly cross. ‘What have you been doing?’

‘Dancing—kissing a Curate—absorbing ancient history—and making friends with a pretty girl with hair like new pennies.’

Carry sniffed. ‘Is that the girl who shows you round the ruins? My aunt says they used to be quite ladies, and then they lost all their money. Well, what is there funny in that?’ and she glared at Cicely.

‘I was taken by surprise, that’s all. Do you really mean to imply that losing their money made them stop being ladies?’

‘You know what I mean——’

‘I know that you’re a horrid little snob, Carry. Nobody can be a lady unless she’s well off? It’s a question of money?’

‘I never said so,’ Carry said sulkily.

‘It sounded very like it, then. I say, Carry, how many aunts have you?’

‘Four,’ and Carry glared at her again. ‘What does it matter to you?’

‘Only we thought it funny you should have aunts all over the place. There was one that day we went to Stoke, just when you began to feel tired. Are you quite sure you didn’t go to a cottage for some tea?’

‘No, but I had a jolly tea with Aunty!’ and Carry turned indignantly and walked away with Agnes.