The Two Mrs. Abbotts (16 page)

“Archie!” exclaimed Jane, when she could speak. “Archie—really—I don't know what to say—”

“I want to marry you,” said Archie. “You will, won't you?”

“No, of course not.”

“Of course you will,” he declared.

“I don't know you,” cried Jane. “I mean I never thought—”

“Well, think about it now,” said Archie. “I assure you I'm perfectly respectable. I have no bad habits and I'm clean and tidy and pleasant about the house—”

“Really—” said Jane, half laughing.

“Honestly,” said Archie seriously. “Honestly, Jane, I'm quite a decent sort of fellow—and I adore you. I feel all sentimental about you—”

“No—”

“Yes, really. But I'm not going to talk like the fellows in your books. You don't want me to, do you?”

“No,” said Jane with a shudder.

“Well, that's settled, then.”

“What's settled?”

“We're engaged of course.”

“No,” said Jane.

“Why not?”

“Because—because it's absurd. I hardly know you—”

“That can be remedied—”

“I'm going home next week.”

“Going home?” asked Archie in dismay. “Going back to Foxstead? But, Jane—”

“I must go back,” declared Jane. “I've been thinking about it a lot and I've come to the conclusion that you can't just cast off all your responsibilities like a cloak. I thought you could, but I was wrong. Helen depends on me and I owe Helen a good deal.”

“Helen?” asked Archie.

“My sister,” replied Jane. “We lived together, you see.”

“I've got plenty of money, Jane.”

“It isn't money—not altogether. Besides it wouldn't do.”

“But, Jane—”

“I'm not happy,” said Jane, turning and looking at him with her big brown eyes. “I feel I've behaved badly.”

“I suppose you couldn't tell me the whole thing?” inquired Archie with some anxiety.

“There isn't much to tell. Helen wanted me to go on writing, but I couldn't—I tried quite hard but it was impossible—she kept on saying that if only I would finish the book we would go away together for a holiday. At last I could bear it no longer and I told Helen that I wanted a holiday at once and I wanted to go alone. She was very angry,” said Jane, shaking her head. “I had never seen Helen in such a rage. She rushed out of the room saying that I was ungrateful and unkind and that we would both be ruined. It was true, of course,” said Jane thoughtfully. “I knew it was true, but I couldn't help it. I felt as if I were going mad. I
had
to get away.”

“What happened then?” asked Archie. “Did you finish the book?”

“No, I couldn't. I hated the book and all the people in it. I didn't care what happened to them.”

“How did you persuade Helen—” began Archie.

“I didn't,” said Jane. “I told you I ran away.”

“Did you leave a note on the pincushion?”

“Of course.”

They looked at each other and smiled.

“I'm glad you left a note on the pincushion,” said Archie, nodding. There was silence for a few moments and then Archie said, “But honestly you can't go back. The same thing would happen all over again, wouldn't it?”

“No. Helen must be made to understand that if I go back to Angleside I go back as myself—as Jane Watt. Jane will be able to stand up to Helen—Janetta couldn't.”

“Jane is your real name?”

“Yes, Jane Watt. The other was Helen's idea—in fact Janetta was Helen's creation.”

“Is Janetta dead?” asked Archie in regretful tones. “I liked Janetta, you know. I saw Janetta when she spoke at the bazaar and I thought she was a dear. I went and bought all her books—every one that I could lay my hands on—and I read them carefully.”

“I've told you they aren't me,” said Jane in a low voice.

“There are bits of you in them. There are, really. I put the bits together and Janetta came to life. There she was, sitting in the big chair opposite me, darning my socks—”

“You're talking like Edward!” exclaimed Jane in dismay.

“I'm sorry,” said Archie. “It won't happen again.”

“If you were so fond of Janetta—” began Jane.

“But that was just it!” cried Archie. “I loved Janetta dearly—and then I saw Jane.”

“It must have given you a shock.”

“Just for a moment,” he admitted. “Just for a split second it
did
rather take my breath away. That was the reason I couldn't speak to Jane.”

“But you recovered quite quickly.”

“Yes, for all at once I saw the explanation: Jane and Janetta are the two halves of the apple and the real you is the whole fruit.”

“But Archie—”

“I never did like half an apple,” said Archie in reminiscent tones.

“But I must go back,” said Jane. “I really must. Helen doesn't know where I am. She'll be getting anxious about me.”

“You mustn't go back,” said Archie firmly. “I want you so badly. I need you far more than Helen does. I'm very lonely at Chevis Place all by myself. Listen, Jane, you must marry me at once. I shan't interfere with your writing; in fact I can help you a lot.”

“I don't need—”

“Yes, you do. I can teach you all about love—”

“Archie!”

“No, it's all right,” he declared. “I'm merely making a perfectly plain straightforward statement—Edward never did that. I can teach you about love and I can show you life. After the war we shall travel. We'll go around the world, stopping where we feel inclined and meeting all sorts of interesting people. Then we'll come home and settle down at Chevis Place and you'll write your book.”

“No,” said Jane, but she said it a trifle regretfully.

“Don't be silly,” said Archie, taking her hand. “You would like it—you know you would. It would be fun being married to me. What's the use of making a sacrifice of yourself—a sort of burnt offering—”

“You mean a baked apple!” exclaimed Jane, laughing hysterically.

“A baked apple,” agreed Archie gravely. “Don't be a baked apple, Jane. I can't bear them. I don't believe Helen likes them either.”

“It isn't any use talking,” replied Jane. “I've made up my mind about it—but I'm not going to sacrifice myself. I shall make Helen understand that I must be allowed to write what I want.”

“Where do I come in?” demanded Archie.

“You don't come in, I'm afraid,” said Jane.

***

The other two pedestrians did not go much farther. They found a little pool and sat down beside it on a convenient rock. Lancreste began to throw stones into the pool in a listless sort of way.

“Don't,” said Melanie at last. “There may be fishes in it.”

Lancreste stopped at once.

“What did you think of Miss Watt?” asked Melanie, who felt she must say something to break the deathly silence.

“Miss Watt!” said Lancreste. “Oh, I didn't look at her, really. I haven't much use for women who wear men's clothes.”

“She doesn't,” said Melanie.

“Well, mannish-looking clothes,” amended Lancreste.

“What do you think they're doing?” Melanie inquired.

“Oh, I don't know,” replied Lancreste. “Talking about the tree, I suppose. What do people like that talk about? They're quite old, aren't they?”

“Old?”

“He must be about thirty-five,” said Lancreste. He hesitated and then added, in a miserable voice, “I've been wanting to talk to you all the afternoon and now I can't.”

“Why can't you?”

“I don't know,” said Lancreste. He picked up another stone and was about to throw it into the pool…and then he remembered about the fishes. “But I don't think there are any fishes there,” he said.

“There are tadpoles, anyhow.”

“Tadpoles!”

“Why should we be unkind to tadpoles?” said Melanie.

There was silence.

“I saw you looking at me,” Melanie said at last.

“You didn't mind, did you?”

“No, I was sorry for you because you seemed so unhappy.”

“I am,” said Lancreste.

“I used to be unhappy,” said Melanie slowly.

“You aren't now.”

“No. You see I've got what I want.”

“I wouldn't be happy if I got what I want,” declared Lancreste miserably.

“Perhaps you want the wrong thing.”

Lancreste was silent. “Yes,” he said at last. “Yes, I suppose that's true—but I want it all the same.”

“You're beginning not to,” she told him. “I mean if you can see it's the wrong thing—”

“It's a girl,” he said.

“I thought it might be,” nodded Melanie.

Lancreste hesitated. It would be a relief to tell her all about Pearl, to tell her everything, but it was not a very pleasant story and Melanie was so young and innocent. It wouldn't be fair, thought Lancreste, looking at her.

“I suppose she's very pretty,” said Melanie suddenly.

“Yes,” said Lancreste.

“And very, very nice.”

“No,” said Lancreste. “No, she isn't, really. I mean I don't like her—but I love her dreadfully. It's funny, isn't it?”

“It sounds—queer,” she agreed in doubtful tones.

“She isn't very kind,” said Lancreste, “and she's rather—rather deceitful, but I love her all the same.”

Melanie considered this. She said, “That's
very
difficult to understand.”

“I don't understand it myself,” admitted Lancreste. “Of course I liked her at first, you know. I thought she was perfect…but now I see she isn't…sometimes she says she'll marry me and sometimes she says she won't.”

“Poor Lancreste!” exclaimed Melanie, looking at him wide-eyed.

“It's awful, really.”

“It must be awful.”

“I can't talk to anyone about it—that's the worst of it,” declared Lancreste, quite forgetting Barbara's patient acceptance of his complaints.

“You must talk to me,” said Melanie, smiling kindly at him.

Lancreste smiled back. She was quite different from Pearl. He did not love her—no, not a bit—but he liked her immensely. There was a strange sort of peace to be found in the nearness of Melanie, a sort of comforting balm. Just to sit beside her, and listen to her voice, soothed him and stilled his restlessness.

“Come and talk to me whenever you like,” said Melanie. “We live at the cottage, Daddy and I, and we're very happy together. I've always wanted to live with Daddy.”

“
That's
what you wanted?”

“Yes.”

“I see,” said Lancreste thoughtfully.

Colonel Melton was worried. He did not know how to tackle the problem that had suddenly presented itself to his notice. The last three evenings when he had returned to the cottage about six, after his day's work, he had found a young man sitting with Melanie in front of the fire—an odd sort of young fellow with sleek hair and a horrid little moustache—and the moment Colonel Melton had appeared this odd young fellow had risen and said he must go—and had gone with unseemly haste, scarcely waiting to reply to Colonel Melton's civil conversation. It was bad enough to have a young fellow hanging about Melanie—thought Colonel Melton ruefully—but the mere fact that the fellow went tearing off like a lunatic and would not stay and talk showed that he was up to no good. Colonel Melton had not seen much of him, of course. He had exchanged a few brief words with him on his way to the door—that was all—but what he had seen of the fellow he didn't much care for. It was most worrying. Perhaps he should not have brought Melanie here. Perhaps he ought to send her back to her aunt, where she would be properly looked after. He was away all day and could not keep an eye on Melanie—she was too much alone—she was very young and innocent and absolutely defenseless. If Colonel Melton had found one of his own officers with Melanie he would not have minded—or at least he would not have minded nearly so much—for he knew them, and knew what they were like, but this strange fellow…

He was in the Air Force, too, and this fact added to the colonel's uneasiness, for, although Colonel Melton respected the R. A. F. and gave its members their due for the skill and gallantry with which they performed their duties, he was aware that fellows in the Air Force were apt to be a bit reckless and hot-headed, a bit irresponsible…and Mell was so young.

I shall have to speak to Mell, thought Colonel Melton as he tried, for the third time, to read and understand an account of a brilliant bomber raid upon one of Germany's most important industrial towns.

“Anything interesting in the paper, Daddy?” asked Melanie as she began to lay the supper table.

“No, nothing,” replied her father.

“I thought you seemed very intent on it,” she continued. “I meant to listen to the news at six but of course I couldn't.”

Colonel Melton cleared his throat. “Er—Melanie—” he began, but he did not get any further for she put down the knives and forks and came and sat on the arm of his chair and leaned against him.

He put his arm around her.

“Daddy,” said Melanie. “I want to ask you something.”

His heart seemed to miss a beat. “What is it?” he inquired.

“I'm afraid you won't like it. I'm afraid it's going to be rather a nuisance for you, darling.”

He was thoroughly frightened now. “Mell,” he began.

“I know,” said Melanie, stroking his hair. “I know you don't want to be worried and bothered when you come home tired and try to read the paper—but it really
is
important. In fact I should have told you before. I've been putting it off and putting it off because I
do
hate worrying you.”

He couldn't speak. He couldn't find breath enough to ask her what was the matter. Why couldn't she tell him quickly, so that he would know the worst?

“It's the pans, Daddy,” said Melanie, regretfully.

“The pans!”

Melanie nodded. “They're old and they haven't been properly looked after. I'm afraid the woman who was here before wasn't very—very careful. Miss Marks told me she wasn't, as a matter of fact.”

“
Pans
,” repeated Colonel Melton.

“They're all singed, Daddy—every one of them and of course once a pan has been singed it's so apt to burn the food. We could ask Mrs. Abbott for new ones, I suppose, but I don't like to do that because she has been so kind to us, hasn't she?”

“Why did you frighten me, Mell?”

“Frighten you?” she asked.

“I thought it was something to do with that young fellow that was here.”

“Lancreste!”

“Is that his name?”

“He can't help it,” Melanie pointed out. “He didn't choose it, darling.”

“I don't like him,” said Colonel Melton frankly.

“No,” said Melanie. “No, I didn't think you would. That's why I told him to go away when you came home.”

“What?”

“I told him,” explained Melanie. “I said he could come to tea but he must go away whenever you came in.”

“You told him that!”

“Yes, darling, I had to, really. He's rather the type that stays on and on and doesn't know when to go away. You didn't want him to stay, did you?”

Colonel Melton was dumb.

“
Did
you?” asked Melanie, looking at him in surprise.

“No-o,” replied her father doubtfully. “Not exactly—but I like to—to know your friends.”

“You wouldn't like him,” repeated Melanie, rising from her perch and walking toward the door.

“Do
you
like him?” asked Colonel Melton.

She hesitated at the door with a thoughtful look. “Part of me does,” said Melanie slowly.

Colonel Melton looked at her across the room. I wish she had a mother, he thought. Aloud he said, “How much, Mell?”

“Quite a lot,” she replied. “You see I'm so sorry for him and I'm trying to help him. You can't help a person without liking them.”

“You don't—love him, do you?”

“Oh
no
,” cried Melanie. “No, of course not. Lancreste is in love with someone else…and she's a beast,” added Melanie. “She's an absolute beast. I haven't seen her but I know she must be.”

“I don't like it,” said Colonel Melton. “It isn't a good thing to encourage the fellow to come and talk to you, Mell.”

“Oh Daddy, how funny you are!”

“Funny?”

“Yes, you're afraid I shall fall in love with him, I suppose. As if I should ever fall in love with poor Lancreste!”

“No chance of it?”

“None,” declared Melanie, shaking her head violently.

Colonel Melton smiled. He said, “I'm glad to hear he isn't your idea of a suitable husband.”

“Poor Lancreste!” said Melanie again—and said it with such a pitying smile that every trace of anxiety vanished from Colonel Melton's mind. If Melanie could speak of him in that kindly, but somewhat disparaging, manner there was no need to worry; Melanie was safe.

Colonel Melton was so pleased at his discovery that he felt like teasing his daughter a little. “Well, well,” he said. “Perhaps you could give me some idea what sort of a son-in-law I may expect.”

“Oh!” cried Melanie. “That's easy, really. Someone much older than me and much cleverer: someone big and handsome and strong; someone who would have jokes with me and laugh at the same things:
someone
like
you
.”

“Like me?”

“Just like you…but really and truly I don't want to marry anyone—not for years and years.”

“You're quite happy,” he asked.

“Very happy.”

“All you want is pans.”

She ran across the room and hugged him. “Two,” she said. “Just two, Daddy. It will make such a lot of difference to have them—but I'm afraid they'll be terribly difficult to get.”

“I'll send Fraser into Wandlebury tomorrow. If anyone can get them he will.”

They were very happy together all the evening.

It was half-past ten and the Meltons were getting ready for bed when there was a knock on the front door. The colonel went downstairs in his dressing gown and found Bobby Appleyard on the step.

“I'm awfully sorry to bother you, sir,” said Bobby. “The fact is we've caught the fellow that's been hanging about the place.”

“Well, what of that?” said Colonel Melton.

“Major Cray sent me to tell you about it, sir.”

“What's he like? Where did you catch him?” asked the colonel.

Bobby realized that the colonel was not pleased. “I'm awfully sorry,” repeated Bobby. “The fellow's making rather a fuss. We've got him in the guard room, of course. He's small and rather dirty, dressed in a dark-blue suit—Major Cray thought you should see him.”

“What,
now
?” asked the colonel. “Surely it would do if I saw him in the morning.”

“I don't know,” replied Bobby. “Major Cray said…and the fellow is making rather a fuss…Major Cray doesn't know what to do with him.”

Colonel Melton went upstairs and dressed. As he laced his boots he murmured uncomplimentary things about Major Cray. Cray was afraid of taking an ounce of responsibility; he was too fond of “passing the buck.” This was not the first time Colonel Melton had thought hard things about his senior major; it was merely the last straw. He decided that he was not going to take Cray on active service…Cray wasn't the sort of fellow…too windy…no use having a fellow like that…

The night was dark and wet (a fact that helped to seal the fate of Major Cray). Colonel Melton and Bobby groped their way down to the guard room with the aid of an electric torch. Major Cray was there, waiting for them, so also was the guard—three large red-faced men in battledress—so also was a small, white-faced man in a navy-blue suit.

“Where was he found?” asked the colonel.

“In the lines, sir,” replied Major Cray. “He was—”

“I worn't,” said the man huskily. “I worn't in no lions. I wor lookin' in at the 'ut where the suppers wor cookin'. I wor 'ungry that's wot. I've as much roight ter be there as you.”

“Have you taken down a statement?” asked the colonel.

“He won't make a statement,” said Major Cray in anxious tones.

“What's your name?” asked the colonel, looking at the man as he spoke.

“No bisniss of yours,” replied the man.

“He won't say anything,” declared Major Cray.

“Come now,” said Colonel Melton. “What's the use of going on like this. You're only making things harder for yourself. You've been hanging about the place for days—what's the meaning of it?”

“I 'aven't,” replied the man. “I 'aven't bin 'anging about. I got 'ere this arternoon—come down in the bus—I got bisniss 'ere.”

“What sort of business?”

“It's Mrs. Abbott I wants ter see.”

“He can't see Mrs. Abbott tonight,” said Bobby hastily.

“Of course not,” agreed the colonel. “He can spend the night in the guard room. Give him something to eat; I'll see him again in the morning.”

“'ere!” cried the man. “'ere, I say! Wotter you gettin' at? You ain't got no roight ter keep me locked up. You'll get inter trouble fer this. Wot 'ave I done! You carn't keep people locked up when they ain't
done
nothin'.”

“I can,” replied Colonel Melton, smiling at the little man's indignation. “You were in the lines without authority and you refuse to give an account of yourself.”

“I'm in a aircraff factory,” said the man. “That's goverment service jus' as much as a soldier. I came down 'ere on private bisniss, ter see Mrs. Abbott. I ain't sayin' a word maw—not ter you, any'ow.”

“He ought to be shackled,” said Major Cray in an undertone. “He's a desperate character—a spy—we were warned about him, sir.”

“Nonsense,” said the colonel. “The guard will look after him. I suppose you've disarmed him.”

“He wasn't armed,” said Bobby quickly.

The colonel hesitated at the door. “Come on,” he said (not unkindly, for the man had plenty of spunk and spunk was an attribute that appealed to the colonel). “Come on. Why not make a clean breast of it? What have you been doing here?”

“I ain't bin doin' nothing. I tol' you I come down 'ere this arternoon. They give me two days off fer privit bisniss—strike me pink if it ain't the trooth.”

Somehow or other Colonel Melton felt that it was.