Читать книгу Schoolgirl Jen at the Abbey - Elsie Jeanette Dunkerley - Страница 6

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“It is fun to have you all to myself, Joan-Queen!” Jen gave Joan a beaming look as they crossed the garden and entered the Abbey by the old gate, laden with bags and baskets for the picnic supper.

The cat family came leaping to greet them: the slim young Curate, with his square of white under his chin, his comfortable black mother, and Timmy, the shaggy gray kitten, now almost full grown.

“They’re pleased to see us,” Jen remarked. “They don’t know yet that I’m lugging a bowl of fish and three extra saucers.”

“They’ll be still more pleased when they find it’s a feast. Where shall we sit?” Joan paused and looked round the cloister garth in the evening light.

“Just outside the chapter-house. We’ll see the sunset from there. I’ll fetch a rug.” And Jen put down her basket and went to the little room in which she had slept for one exciting night.

She came back laden with rugs and cushions and spread them on the grass, to the delight of the cats, who at once took possession and made themselves at home, tramping up and down and trying place after place. “What a good thing people can’t come in here at night! We must look funny, camping out.”

“We certainly don’t look like a monastery,” Joan agreed, laying sandwiches on plates and bringing out thermos flasks of coffee. “Don’t touch, children! Yours is coming presently. Where’s that fish, Jen?”

“Here. Come on, littlest!” to Timmy. “This is yours, Mother Superior. The Curate last. Now we shall have some peace!” as three hungry faces disappeared into saucers. “It is a feast!” And Jen eyed the display with much satisfaction. “Another adventure for the Abbey! A midnight supper with a Queen!”

“Hardly midnight,” Joan objected. “And only an ex-Queen!”

“But we might stay till midnight,” Jen hinted. “You can tell me stories, as you used to do to Lavinia and the rest. Let’s start! Those sausage rolls make me hungry.”

“It may be the tennis. We’ve brought far too much. We shall go home laden with food.”

“Oh, you never know! The cats will help. And I might eat three times as much as usual, because we’re out of doors. Or we may find another stowaway, like Timothy Spindle, when I slept over there. I was jolly glad I had some grub to give him.”

“I hope there are no more stowaways,” Joan said. “But we can present our extra food to Ann Watson, if there’s much left. The family won’t care for sausage rolls.”

“There’s the robin, too. He loves the garth. We could give him our crumbs.”

“You can’t have Robin and the Curate at the same party,” Joan remarked.

“We’ll put the Curate to bed and leave crumbs for Robin’s breakfast. Aren’t they enjoying themselves? They think midnight feasts are a lovely idea. I shall put the crumbs in the sacristy for Robin. He’ll be safer there.”

Presently even Jen had eaten as much as she could, and she lay back against Joan, stroking the happy Mother Superior, and refusing to go home to bed. She talked of her brother being married next morning and of the telegram she would send to the family party in Glasgow; of Jandy Mac, travelling from Scotland; of Vinny Miles and the old tree that had to go.

“We must go home,” Joan said at last.

“In one minute! I’m going to wander round by moonlight. You stay here—unless you want to come too?”

“I’ll pack the baskets.” And Joan set to work.

“The Curate’s gone for his evening prowl, and Timmy’s fast asleep: he’s had too much supper. I shall have to go alone.” And Jen disappeared, running up the steps to the dormitory, torch in hand. Presently she came back to the garth and wandered round the corner to the sacristy, to look at the rose window, which Joy loved so much, and to scatter crumbs for Robin’s breakfast.

With a wild cry she came racing back, and flung herself into Joan’s arms. “Oh, Joan! Joan! I saw Ambrose—in the sacristy! Oh, Joan, there couldn’t be a ghost! But I did see him!”

“Jen, dear, what are you talking about?” Joan cried, and held her tightly. “Why, Jen, you’re shaking all over! What startled you, my dear?”

“Ambrose!” Jen sobbed, and hid her face. “An old man, with a long white beard. It couldn’t be Ambrose, Joan! But I saw him!”

“It couldn’t be Ambrose. There are no such things as ghosts,” Joan said firmly. “If you saw anybody, it was someone who has no right to be there. Are you sure it wasn’t just a trick of moonlight?”

“Certain sure. He was sitting in the rose window. He got up and came——”

“Wait a moment.” Joan put her down, considerably startled herself.

Jen looked up and then sprang to her feet. “There—you see? Ambrose!”

“Not Ambrose,” Joan repeated. “Definitely not. But perhaps another stowaway, Jenny-Wren. I wonder if he’s in trouble too?”

“A refugee,” Jen murmured, and crept forward behind Joan.

An old man stood in the gap in the wall which led to the sacristy and the site of the great church. He was bent and his eyes were tired; he had a long white beard, and he wore a big brown cloak wrapped round him, but no hat.

“I don’t blame Jen. He might very well be an old monk.” The thought flashed through Joan’s mind as she went to meet him.

“Who are you? And why are you in the Abbey at this time? Why, it’s Mr. Browning, isn’t it? Mr. Boniface Browning?”

“Yes, Miss Joan. It be I, old Browning. I’m right vexed I scared the little one.” The voice was old and tremulous.

“I’m not a little one!” Jen cried indignantly. “And you looked just like the ghost of old Ambrose. Joan, who is it? You know him, and he knows you.”

“It’s Mr. Browning, who used to be the caretaker and show people round, before Mother took on the job,” Joan said swiftly. “He taught me all about the Abbey—all that was known in those days. There’s a lot more now. We hadn’t heard of Ambrose or found the crypt, or the tunnels, or the Abbey treasures. But you went away to live with your son in Birmingham,” she said to Mr. Browning. “What are you doing here? And why are you in the Abbey at night? What was Ann Watson thinking of?”

“I came back for two-three days to see folks again and to bide in the village. The Spindles at the forge took me in.”

A quick look flashed from Jen to Joan. “The Spindles! Timothy Spindle was my first stowaway,” Jen murmured.

“But why are you in the Abbey at night?” Joan’s tone was severe.

“I came in with a party, late-ish like, to have another look at the old place,” he said apologetically. “She didn’t know me—the lady who showed us round.”

“No, she wouldn’t know you,” Joan agreed. “You’d been gone for quite two years before Mrs. Watson came here. Did you stay behind when the rest of the party left?”

“I did that, Miss Joan. Mrs. Watson didn’t notice I weren’t there, and I says a word to the folks when we was down in the old church. ‘Don’t say nothing,’ I says. ‘I knows this place, and I’m stopping behind to have another look,’ I says. They thought it was all right, so they went away, and she locked the gate and never knew I were still here. There’s some queer-like bits down there, Miss Joan. I never knew about them dark places.”

“None of us knew. Did you want to explore them by yourself?”

“Have you been wandering in the tunnels on your own?” Jen cried. “You might easily have found the one that leads to the house! What a shock we’d have had, if you’d risen suddenly from the depths of the earth!”

“Mrs. Watson, she said not to go that way, for it went to Miss Joy’s house. You beant Miss Joy.” And he eyed Jen severely. “You a’n’t big enough, and you’re the wrong colour.”

“My hair, you mean,” Jen grinned. “Mine isn’t nearly as lovely a colour as Joan’s and Joy’s. I’m only staying here, and I’m three years younger than they are. You gave me an awful fright, you know! I don’t believe in ghosts, but I really thought you were good old Ambrose, come to speak to us.”

“The old one the lady told us about, what lived down there?”

“Who’s buried down there,” Jen corrected him. “Ambrose lived in the gate-house, after the Abbey was smashed up by that pig, Henry the Eighth. I found his grave,” she ended proudly.

“Did you, now? The lady showed us. I’m sorry, little miss; I didn’t mean to frit nobody. I just wanted to wander about by myself. I was fond of the Abbey.” He turned to Joan in apology again. “I never meant no harm, Miss Joan. I was sorry to go away, and I wanted to see the old place once more. And there was so much that I’d never heard tell of. I just felt I’d like to think about it all.”

“But what were you going to do in the morning?” Jen cried.

“I’d ha’ told her then and asked her to let me out. I ain’t done no harm to the place.”

“You’d have been very cold and hungry before the morning!”

Joan had been listening in silence. Now she said, “Did you bring any supper?”

“I never thought to do it, Miss Joan.”

“Then come and finish ours. We’ve had a picnic, and there’s still some food left and a whole flask of coffee that we couldn’t drink. We said we had far too much. We can’t have people being hungry in the Abbey.”

She led the way back to their resting-place and told the old man to sit on the rug.

With dancing eyes Jen brought a cushion for his back and made him lean against the wall, and supplied him with sandwiches and coffee, using the top of the flask for a cup.

“It’s still hot. Don’t drop it! There! Are you comfy? Can I get you anything else?”

“Are you pretending he’s Ambrose, Jenny-Wren?” Joan spoke in a low voice, unheard by the old man. “He’s a little deaf,” she explained. “Were you, Jen?”

Jen laughed. “Perhaps I was, in a way. He looks quite like Ambrose may have looked.”

“He does. Finish up those sandwiches and biscuits, Mr. Browning; they’re all for you. We don’t want to take them home.”

“What’s become of the Mother Superior and Timmy?” Jen looked round for the rest of the party.

“They fled when you came shrieking from the sacristy. I expect they thought you were a ghost.”

“Well, Joan! Hadn’t I some excuse?”

“You had,” Joan agreed. “I don’t blame you, really. Come over here!”

She crossed the garth, Jen following eagerly, and paused at the door of the little room from which the rugs and cushions had come, and flashed her torch about. “What are we going to do with Ambrose, Jen?”

Jen’s eyes sparkled. “I do believe he’s Ambrose come back! What a marvellous idea! What can we do? We can’t let him wander about the Abbey all night. There’s no place that’s really warm, is there?”

“Was he in the sacristy? It was a good choice; it isn’t so draughty in there. But we can do better than that. He must come here and lie on the bed. We’ll spread the big quilt and he can use the heavy rug to cover himself. That will keep him warm and cosy. He won’t expect us to make up the bed for him.”

“How lovely of you, Joan! Then you aren’t going to fling him out or row him for trespassing?”

“Well, what do you think? He was fond of the Abbey, and he was sent away because he was too old. He wanted to see it again. Can we turn him out?”

“Of course we can’t! And we don’t want to, either. I’m sure the monks would have taken him in. What is it that’s written on the gate-house? ‘Gate open be, To honest folk all free’? Isn’t that what the Latin means?”

“Something like that. Yes, he must stay for to-night. This will do very well. I’ll explain to Ann Watson, in case she has a bad fright. He can make his peace with her in the morning.”

“She must give him breakfast. She gives jolly good breakfasts,” Jen said, from experience.

“I’ll tell her he doesn’t need anything till the morning. You go and talk to him again.” And Joan went along the cloisters to the door of Ann Watson’s rooms.