Francie (17 page)

“Loathes me, I should think,” said Francie cheerfully. “I don't blame her for it either.” She went off to write her note, and as it turned out she told the truth after all; with the next post she did have other plans made for her.

“Mummy's driving up,” announced Penelope, bursting into the dormitory. “She's figured she can spare the petrol, and she's invited you to spend the day with us, lunch and all.”

“How nice of her, Penny. I'll come like a shot, of course, if it's all right with you. Is your stepfather coming with her? I do hope so. I'm dying to get a look at him.”

“She doesn't mention him,” said Penny, her face taking on the anxious look which Francie had learned to associate in her friend with any thought of Uncle Jim. “It's wicked of me, I know, but I almost hope he doesn't.”

On half-term holiday Fairfields had a gala look. Some of the girls had gone so far as to lay aside their uniforms, and the school grounds were gay with an unwonted number of male and female strangers strolling over the lawns and courts with their chattering daughters. Miss Maitland held court in her drawing room with parents who came to sit and drink a cup of tea with the headmistress while they discussed the weather, politics, the rationing system, anything in fact but what was really in their minds: the scholastic careers of their children. Lesser mistresses wandered about being gracious, and Matron was busy answering questions about health. It was all very typical, but new to Francie, and she watched the procedure with amusement until she was called down to the Hall by Penelope, who was all of a flutter.

“They've come, Francie, so let's go to meet them. Oh dear, Uncle Jim's there too. Isn't it a bore!”

“You needn't be afraid,” said Francie staunchly. “I'll tackle him if he gets difficult.”

“No, no, that's just what I don't like—any sort of a scene. Now, Francie, promise me you won't do anything or I'll pretend I have a sore throat. I swear I will,” cried Penelope.

“Silly! Of course I promise,” said Francie. “You must be in a dither, Penny, when you can't take a feeble joke.”

“Well, I
am
in a dither,” admitted Penny. “So would you be.” They smoothed their hair and went down the stairs to meet the parents.

Mrs. Stewart, Penelope's mother, was quite like what Francie had expected. She was a pretty, fair-haired woman, rather retiring in her manner. Penny was like her in appearance, but even though she was so much younger the daughter seemed in a way more downright and responsible than the mother.

“Penny's quite self-sufficient,” thought Francie, “whereas her mother isn't.”

The famous Uncle Jim was a tall, thin man with high cheekbones, piercing dark eyes under thick brows, and bristling dark hair shot with gray. He was more attractive than Francie would have expected; Penelope's tales had given her a mental picture of a devilish monster, but Uncle Jim might have stood in for one of the modern heroes of the movies—taciturn, commanding and ruthless. It was impossible to take umbrage at his manner of greeting the girls, unless Francie chose to resent his assumption that they were
little
girls. “And I could scarcely do that,” she admitted to herself, “because one can see he treats his wife exactly the same as he does us. I guess he thinks no woman has good sense.”

“Come along, you women,” said Uncle Jim just then, with a genial contempt, and herded them through the door and into the car. “You can chin to your hearts' content as we go.”

Chin they did. Mrs. Stewart was in her gentle way a chatterbox. She had a wealth of small news items for Penny's ears, bits of gossip about their local Women's Institute, the domestic kitten, the char, and the bazaar which was soon to be held on behalf of some church mission. Now and then Uncle Jim, though he never took his eyes off the road, contributed with gruff humor to the conversation. He was every inch the indulgent husband and parent who had taken the day off to do his duty to the family. His manner toward Francie was impeccable. And yet …

“He's a bully,” reflected the American. “A hearthstone bully.”

There were many little ways in which he showed this tendency, and she began looking out for them and balefully counting them up. When the party arrived in town and parked the car near the hotel, Uncle Jim ordered his wife and stepdaughter to bring their coats inside. He didn't suggest it, he
ordered
it. “Bring those garments and the rest of the gear with you,” he said, waving toward the coats and sweaters that weren't being worn.

Francie reacted immediately. “If you lock the car door, what's the difference?” she demanded.

He flashed her a glance out of his dark eyes, as if surprised at being questioned. She gathered he wasn't used to it. “Plenty of cases of burglary, locks or no locks,” he said after a slight pause. Then, just as if he had quelled a rebellion, he left the women to pick up their paraphernalia and slam the car door for themselves while he walked ahead to the inn. At the table, he picked up the menu and studied it, evidently about to order lunch for all four of them without asking their preferences.

Penny put in a hesitant suggestion. “Please, Uncle Jim, I think Francie might like to look at the card.”

“Eh? Oh—yes, of course. I forgot we aren't all in the family,” he said, relinquishing the menu.

Rather stormily, Francie took pleasure in ordering a different dish from the one he had decided would be best for all of them. Then she held the card out to Penny and said, “What would
you
like, Penny?” But Penny did not take her cue. She hurriedly returned the menu to Uncle Jim and accepted his choice with outward meekness.

The day went on according to the customary schedule for half-term. They drove a short distance into the country for tea, and at the proper time Mrs. Stewart produced a packed picnic basket. Only once was the dangerous subject of the theater broached, and it was Francie who carelessly introduced it, when Mrs. Stewart asked them for some account of what was taking up their time at school.

“We've started early on
A Midsummer Night's Dream
, you know,” she said eagerly, “and Penny's taken hold amazingly well. I do think it's going to be a good production in spite of how awful schoolgirls usually are about rehearsals. Penny's so good at directing, Mrs. Stewart. She coaxes them and scares them and bullies them until they're good actors in spite of themselves—but you'll see, of course, on breaking-up day. You'll be proud of her!”

Silence, heavy and uncomfortable, had fallen over the other three, but not until Francie paused for breath did she realize she had done the forbidden thing. Penny was staring unhappily at the teapot, while her mother looked frightened, avoiding the gaze of her husband. Uncle Jim was plainly angry. At least his face looked slightly flushed, which was a bad sign. Francie could have kicked herself. But now that she was into the subject she wouldn't back out.

“Utter nonsense,” said Uncle Jim. “When you consider the fees you pay, Evelyn, it's shocking the girls should be encouraged to waste their time in such a manner.”

“But it's such good training!” cried the irrepressible Francie. “Why, some of those little girls actually learn to enjoy Shakespeare, where they never would otherwise. There's nothing like acting to make you appreciate the lines. And Penny is so talented, it would be a shame not to develop her. Miss West says—”

“Penny could do with a little development in a few other directions.” Uncle Jim's tone cut Francie short. Remembering her promise to Penny she did not retort, but inwardly she was fuming.

“He's a really cold fish,” she thought. “Penny's up against something big there. What a perfectly awful man!”

Everyone was quiet on the drive back, and even Francie felt depressed.

The morning started out beautifully, on the day everything happened at once. If Francie had been on the lookout for omens she might have noticed one before she was out of bed. She had waked early for some mysterious reason and saw the red shreds of sunrise streaking across a sky that was beginning to burn with a bright midsummer blue. She wasn't expecting anything fateful to happen, however, and the significance of a red sky at morning rang no bell in her mind. That mind was busy with trifles.

“We've got to have more cheesecloth,” she said to Penny when they met on the way down to breakfast. “I've thought of a marvelous new arrangement for Titania's flower-bank, but I'll need about twelve yards more of cheesecloth.”

“It's called butter-muslin here,” said Penny in rather distant tones.

“Oh bother, I suppose it is, but I can never remember. I knew the name had something to do with dairies in both countries, and that's … What's the matter, Penny, are you running a temperature or something? You look so red, and your eyes—”

“It's all right. To tell you the truth, I didn't sleep very much,” said Penelope. “Got a letter yesterday that upset me, that's all. Uncle Jim's put my name down for that school. I'm trying to decide whether to break off now with home or wait until the last minute for the revolt.”

“Oh, Penny, how awful.”

They walked along the corridor in silence. “Well, never mind,” said Penny at last. “Let's think about our work. What about this butter-muslin? I suppose we could go in to Farham this afternoon and buy it in plenty of time to catch the five-thirty bus back.”

“That's what I thought,” said Francie. “Sure you don't mind coming? I expect I could get somebody else if you do.”

The Sixth Form girls were permitted to go into town without adult company on such little expeditions, though Miss Maitland insisted that they travel in pairs. Francie and Penelope agreed in the end to meet at three o'clock at the gate.

The morning post was delivered about breakfast time, and Francie's heart gave a bound when she saw the letter that was put down at her plate. It was addressed in Glenn's writing and had been posted only four days earlier, in New York, but when she opened the envelope and read it, a sense of even greater excitement swept over her.

“Hiya, Francie!” Glenn had written. “At last, at last we're setting sail tomorrow, Bob Chapman and the Jeepers Creepers and me. Earlier than we expected. We ought to land in England on June twenty-first. As soon as we get the car ashore and I find my bearings I'll send you a telegram or card, or I'll phone, letting you know when to expect us.…”

“But
today's
the twenty-second,” Francie said to herself. She studied the date on the letter; it had been written ten days before. “Some dopey friend was supposed to mail it and forgot,” she decided. “Well, never mind, it won't be long now!”

She tried to find Penny to share her news, but the bell for prayers had rung.

All morning Francie waited for some word, neglected her lessons, and felt more and more nervous. Of course Glenn's ship might be late, she reminded herself; she hadn't had time to look it up under the shipping news, thanks to the unknown friend's tardy mailing of the letter.

“It'll be absolutely wonderful to see him,” she thought. “I'd never have thought I could get so thrilled, just at the prospect of a date. I must get Penny in on this, for Bob.” Bob wasn't the favorite with her that Glenn was, but Penny might like him. It would take her mind off Uncle Jim. They could drive over to do a little sightseeing—the Cathedral maybe, if Glenn thought he'd like to do that—and eat dinner at some pub, and maybe find a movie that wasn't too old.

She found a note from Penny in the history class saying it was all right about the trip that afternoon to buy butter-muslin; Miss Maitland had been notified, and she approved. Glenn's letter had put all that matter out of Francie's head. “That's all right,” she decided. “We can buy that butter-muslin anywhere, in any place we come through, if only I don't forget with all the excitement.”

Word came at last, during the rest period just after lunch; Miss Frances Nelson was wanted on the telephone, said the housemaid. It wasn't a usual thing for girls to receive telephone calls, and everyone stared at Francie as she raced out of the dormitory to the telephone, which was in a half-walled-off cloakroom in Hall.

“Francie?” came Glenn's well-remembered voice. “Is that Francie Nelson?”

“Glenn! How
are
you?” she shrieked.

“Well, thank goodness,” said Glenn. “I've never had a harder time in my life with Mr. Bell's new invention, the telephone. Listen, sweetness, where is this place of yours? I'm calling from—say, Bob, what's the name of this joint? Oh yes, the King's Arms, in Kingston. Do you know the place?”

“Of course I do,” said Francie. “Kingston's only fifteen miles from our market town. It shouldn't take you very long to get over here.”

“Is that so? Well, listen,” said Glenn.

“I'm listening.”

“I don't mean listen,” he said with irritation. “I just mean—will it be all right? Don't you have to get permission or something from your teacher? What I mean to say, I understand these schools are sometimes like the reform schools at home, and you can't get out without three certificates of sanity and a can opener. Yours isn't like that, by any chance?”

“Oh no,” said Francie with assurance. “Nothing like that.” She didn't pause to think of what she was saying, she was so eager to see Glenn. In a more thoughtful mood she might have considered that she didn't really know what the rules were about dates. It was a subject which had never come up among the girls there, as far as she knew.

“Don't you even have to get permission to come out?” insisted Glenn.

“Oh, that. Yes, I guess I do.”

“Well, snap into it. Our schedule's been altered, I'm sorry to say,” Glenn said. “Bob's old man insists on our meeting him in France in about three days. It doesn't give us as much time as I'd planned on. So you pull up your garters and get permission without wasting time, will you?”