The Two Mrs. Abbotts (21 page)

“I've never seen the house looking so nice,” added Jerry. She had never seen it looking so nice, nor had she ever heard its owner discourse about his treasures in such an interesting fashion. Archie was at his best. He went from piece to piece, fingering it lovingly and telling its history. He told them about the house, too, and this was quite as interesting in its way.

“It has been altered and enlarged,” said Archie. “You can see where the new building has been grafted onto the old. I just wished I could take it all away—all the new part,” declared Archie, waving his arms.

“The old part would be quite a nice-sized house,” agreed Barbara.

“Amply big enough,” said Archie. “It was old Sir Roger Chevis who did most of the building. He lived about a hundred years ago and had an enormous Victorian family so he had to make room for them. Unfortunately he had more money than taste.”

“Perhaps you could alter it—take it down,” suggested Jerry.

“It would cost thousands,” said Archie with a sigh.

He talked on, showing them everything, and presently they arrived at the room where Queen Elizabeth had slept—or was said to have slept—when she visited Chevis Place. It was Archie's
pi
è
ce
de
r
é
sistance,
and like a good showman he had kept it to the last.

Jerry remembered this room as a cobwebby attic, filled with discarded furniture, so she was very much surprised when Archie threw open the shutters and disclosed the room to view.

“
There
,” said Archie. “What do you think of it! I've removed everything except what
should
be here. I wanted to have it right. Of course it may not be quite right—I don't know enough about it.”

The room was long and rather narrow with a low ceiling and an uneven wooden floor. It was paneled in dark wood, but it was not a dim room for it faced west and the setting sun filled it with a mellow light. In one corner there was a large fireplace with iron fire dogs standing in the grate. The furniture consisted of a four-poster bed with curtains, a huge oak chest, and several carved chairs with high backs and leather seats.

On the north wall hung a magnificent portrait of Queen Elizabeth herself, clad in rich brocade and decked with jewels.

“It's new!” exclaimed Jerry, in amazement.

“It's new, but it's old,” replied Archie, smiling. “I bought it with some of the money I got for the furniture. Rather extravagant of me, but I wanted to have it here, in this room…and it really is rather interesting because one of the rings in the picture—you can see it on her finger—was given to my ancestor, Sir Godfrey Chevis, and has been in the family ever since. I'll show it to you.”

The ring was in an old-fashioned jewel case, locked inside the chest. It was an emerald in a very heavy setting.

“Most attractive!” exclaimed Barbara taking it up and turning it this way and that so that the jewel sparkled in the light.

“It is,” agreed Jerry. “Archie said I could have it but it ought to be kept at Chevis Place—besides it's too small for me.”

“Try it on, Barbara,” suggested Archie.

They all tried it on in turn but none of them could wear it—except Jane who found that it fitted her little finger. She was a trifle embarrassed at this discovery and removed it at once—as if it were red hot—and dropped it into Archie's palm. He was smiling to himself in a significant way as he locked it up in the box.

“The room has the right kind of feeling,” declared Barbara, breaking the little silence that had fallen.

“She can't have been very comfortable here,” said the practical Jerry. “No carpet, I suppose.”

“Did they have rushes on the floor?” asked Melanie, looking around with interest and appreciation.

Archie was not sure. He had an idea that there might have been a carpet or at least a large rug. “I'm going to find out,” he said. “I hope the poor lady had a carpet, it would have made all the difference, wouldn't it?”

Jane had not said anything, but now she sighed, like a person waking from sleep. “There's atmosphere in this room,” said Jane in a dreamy voice. “It's the sort of place where one could write a historical novel…if one could write, of course,” added Jane hastily.

“Exactly,” agreed Archie with fervor. “It's what I thought myself, when I was arranging the room. It would make a splendid study for an author. It's so quiet and peaceful and, if I could get the right kind of carpet, it would be quite comfortable. One would want a large table, a solid table, near the window—and a wastepaper basket, of course.”

“You've thought it all out,” said Barbara in surprise.

“What a pity you don't know any authors,” said Jerry.

“Yes, isn't it?” agreed Archie smiling.

When they had all admired the room and discussed its arrangement they turned to go. Barbara and Jerry went first, followed by Melanie; Jane remained to help Archie to shut the shutters. Jane was sorry for Archie, he had behaved very well under somewhat trying circumstances and he deserved a little consideration. They shut the shutters, bolting them firmly with the heavy iron bar, and now the room was dark save for a narrow band of sunlight pouring through a slit.

“Like a sword,” said Jane, pretending to grasp the blade.

Archie took her hand and held it, “I've been very good, haven't I?” he said in a low voice.

“You've been very kind indeed,” replied Jane primly, withdrawing her hand. “It has been most interesting.”

“And instructive,” suggested Archie, imitating her polite tones. “I do hope you have found it instructive, Miss Watt.”

Jane did not reply. She turned to go, rather hastily, for she felt anxious to overtake the rest of the party, whose voices could be heard in the distance, growing fainter and fainter. She turned to go, but her foot became entangled with the leg of a chair she had not seen in the dim light and she almost fell.

Archie caught her, and holding her in his arms he kissed her very gently but very firmly on the mouth. It was the second time, of course, and Jane was not so surprised. In fact she was not surprised at all.

“Don't, Archie,” said Jane, struggling feebly.

“It's too late,” said Archie, kissing her again.

“Too late?”

“Yes, your reaction came a few seconds too late. You liked it.”

“No.”

“Yes, you did. You liked it—and then you thought of Helen.”

This was so true that Jane found it difficult to deny. She disengaged herself and tried to arrange her hat. “I wish you'd be sensible,” she said.

“I am sensible,” said Archie. “I want to marry you. I want you to come and write in Queen Elizabeth's room. She would like you to write here. She would like you to wear her ring.”

“No, Archie.”

“She would, really. She would come and whisper in your ear and tell you all sorts of interesting things.”

Jane could not speak for a moment—it was so extraordinary that Archie should understand—but she pulled herself together and murmured that the others would be wondering…

“Let them wonder,” replied Archie. “I've played the genial host all afternoon; I must have a few minutes to do what I want.”

“It's no good, Archie. I've told you.”

“I must speak to you, Jane. It's important.”

“You can
speak
to me, of course,” said Jane.

“All right, here goes—I've been thinking about it a lot. You can go back to Helen if you like.”

“Thank you,” said Jane with some sarcasm.

“You can go back and have a showdown,” said Archie firmly. “Tell her the whole thing. That's the sensible way to tackle the problem. Tell her you're in love with me, and—”

“Am I?” inquired Jane.

“Of course you are. I wouldn't have kissed you like that if I hadn't been sure. What do you take me for?” asked Archie indignantly.

There was something so very touching about Archie at that moment that Jane very nearly said she would take him for a husband (the neatness of the retort appealed to her tremendously) but she bit the words back. She knew that she would never have another happy moment if she married Archie and left Helen in the lurch. Helen's influence on her had waxed, rather than waned, in the last six weeks.

“Tell Helen you're in love with me,” repeated Archie. “Tell her I want to marry you. She won't stand in your way. Nobody would. It would be the most frightfully selfish—”

“You don't know Helen,” said Jane firmly.

“Do you mean to say—”

“Yes.”

“She must be an absolute gorgon!”

“No, she isn't. I wish I could make you understand. Helen is kind. She really is
very
kind—but she likes to be kind in her own way.”

“I suppose she's one of those loonies who think marriage is wrong,” said Archie. “My aunt was like that. She couldn't bear people getting married.”

“Helen likes people to get married,” replied Jane. “But she wouldn't like
me
to get married. I know that. She thinks I ought to write. She thinks writing is a sort of vocation.”

“You would write much better if you were married,” declared Archie with conviction.

Jane had a feeling that he was right—but that made no difference. She said, “Helen brought me up. I owe her a great deal.”

“I wonder why you ran away,” said Archie, sarcastic in turn.

“I told you why,” said Jane patiently. “I had to find myself. Now that I've found myself I must go back.”

“To write books for Helen!” exclaimed Archie in disgust.

They said no more but went down the stairs in silence and joined the rest of the party in the hall.

Markie was better. Her condition was so much improved that she was able to receive visitors, and, hearing this news from Jerry, Barbara decided to go and see Markie and cheer her up. She armed herself with the
Geographical
Magazine,
which seemed a suitable periodical for a person of Markie's erudition, and walked over to the hospital. It was a fine day and the walk was pleasant, and Barbara had time to think of all sorts of things as she walked along. If it had not been for the war and the petrol restrictions she would have gone in her car and it would have taken a quarter of the time, but walking was good for one…and what would she have done with the time saved? Barbara did not know the answer to that question. She had always been busy and she still was busy but, somehow, not any busier than before.

Markie was delighted to see Barbara. They were good friends. Markie respected Barbara because she ran her house well, made her husband happy, and had produced two satisfactory children. Barbara respected Markie's brains.

“How kind of you to come and see me!” exclaimed Markie.

“I'm so glad you are better,” replied Barbara.

They shook hands solemnly. The nurse placed a chair beside the bed for Barbara to sit on, and went away.

Markie looked quite different, thought Barbara. It really was most extraordinary to see Markie in bed…she was not the sort of person who makes a good show in bed: no lace cap decorated Markie's well-shaped head, no gorgeous creation of silk and wool was flung with careless elegance around her shoulders. She wore a gray flannel bed jacket, a truly sensible garment, and her gray hair, which was usually frizzled and waved, was perfectly straight and smooth, brushed back from her extremely good forehead. She looked like a man, thought Barbara, she looked like a very handsome man—and this was all the more strange because Barbara had always considered her rather a plain woman.

“You ought to wear your hair like that always,” said Barbara impulsively.

“Do you think so?” asked Markie with interest. “As a matter of fact I have been considering the matter. It would be a great saving of time and trouble if I did not have to put curlers in my hair every night.”

“And so much more comfortable,” said Barbara, nodding. “Yes, I
do
think so, Markie. I like your hair much better straight.”

“I shall consult Jerry about it,” said Markie.

The subject was closed and Barbara was searching for another when Markie forestalled her.

“I shall soon be perfectly well,” said Markie with a satisfied look. “I am feeling much better already and to tell you the truth I am quite enjoying my little holiday. The nurses are most kind and attentive. I had never been ill before and this illness has been an experience I shall not forget.”

“Nurses are usually nice,” put in Barbara.

“It is very curious how things work out,” continued Markie. “One thinks a good deal when one is forced to lie in bed, and I have been thinking.”

“About Jane?” inquired Barbara.

“How clever of you!” said Markie in surprise. “Yes, I was thinking of Jane Watt. When she came to Ganthorne I was not very happy about it, for I was afraid her advent would change our lives, but now one sees that the whole thing was intended. It is most fortunate that she is able to stay on with Jerry while I am laid up.”

“Yes,” agreed Barbara, seizing the point. “Yes, how lucky! How lucky that Jerry happened to meet her on Mr. Tupper's doorstep! If Jerry had been a few moments earlier…”

“Or a few moments later,” said Markie.

They looked at each other in complete understanding.

“It's a pity she's going away,” said Barbara.

“Perhaps she will return,” replied Markie with a smile.

Barbara had a feeling that more was meant by these simple words than appeared on the surface. “Return!” she inquired.

“Why not?” asked Markie hastily. “There is no reason why she should not visit us again—next summer perhaps.”

“No, of course not,” agreed Barbara.

“And then there is Wilhelmina,” continued Markie. “I confess I was very much disturbed when Wilhelmina returned to Ganthorne—and now she has become so useful that I do not know what I should do without her.”

“That wasn't good luck,” replied Barbara with conviction.

“No?”

“No, it was an opportunity. It was bread upon the waters,” said Barbara, struggling to convey her meaning. “If you hadn't seized the opportunity and
made
something of Wilhelmina she wouldn't be useful to you now.”

“Perhaps you are right,” agreed Markie with a sigh.

Barbara noticed the sigh, and, as she had been warned not to stay too long, she presented her small gift and came away. “Such a nice old lady,” said the nurse as she and Barbara went down in the lift together.

“Do you mean Miss Marks?” asked Barbara in surprise.

“Yes,” said the nurse.

Somehow or other Barbara had never thought of Markie as an old lady. She was by no means young, of course, and she was a lady in every sense of the word—but “old lady!”

“No trouble at all,” the nurse was saying. “And that's lucky for me because my other patient's a ringer.”

“A ringer?” asked Barbara.

“Yes, there goes her bell again. She'll just have to wait till I've seen you off,” added the nurse defiantly.

Barbara hurried home, for she was having lunch early and immediately after lunch she was taking the children to Wandlebury to buy a present for Dorkie's birthday. Last year Barbara had taken Simon only, but this year Fay was considered old enough to join the expedition.

Tomorrow was Dorkie's birthday. Nobody knew how old she was, of course, for Dorkie maintained a discreet silence on the point. “As old as my tongue and a little older than my teeth,” declared Dorkie when pressed. Simon guessed her age as thirty-nine. Fay had suggested eighty. “Somewhere between the two,” said Dorkie in her usual placid way.

The children had hurried over their lunch but they took so long to dress—owing to their interest in Dorkie's age—that their mother was waiting for them in the hall when they came downstairs.

“Good-bye, Dorkie,” said Simon. “We're going for a walk with Mummy,” and he winked at Barbara in an impish manner as he spoke.

Barbara said nothing. She knew it was fun, of course—and she knew Dorcas was not deceived by the statement—but all the same she did not like Simon telling lies, and telling them in that very glib and competent manner. It made her a trifle uneasy.

They set off together; Fay trotting along with her hand tightly clasped in Barbara's, saying nothing but enjoying herself immensely; Simon hopping and skipping and talking hard as he always did except when he felt unwell.

“Dorkie didn't know,” said Simon gleefully. “Dorkie thinks we're going for a walk. She doesn't know we're going to buy her a present. Let's get Dorkie a dressing gown. Her old one is awfully old.”

“I'm afraid we haven't enough coupons,” said Barbara regretfully.

“Bedroom slippers, then.”

“We can't spare the coupons, Simon.”

“A box of chocolates.”

“Coupons, too,” said Barbara with a sigh.

“What shall we buy her, Mummy? I know, we'll buy her a founting pen.
That's
not coupons, Mummy.”

“We can try,” said Barbara doubtfully. She was aware that for some reason or other, “founting pens” were practically nonexistent.

“What about a cup and saucer!” cried Simon, hopping with excitement. “A cup and saucer with a picture on it for Dorkie to drink her tea out of.”

“We can try,” said Barbara again.

“A little clock,” said Fay, giving her hand a squeeze. “I think Dorkie would like a little clock.”

“We'll see if we can find one,” said Barbara, varying her reply but not her meaning.

She had known before the expedition started that it would be a long and wearying one, but she had underestimated the time and trouble it would cause. They went from shop to shop asking for the various things Simon and Fay had suggested and at every point they were met with the same reply.

“Oh no, we haven't had any for months.” Sometimes the reply was polite and regretful; sometimes it was scornful and rude. Sometimes it was uttered in the tone of voice that really meant, “Don't you realize we're at war?” Barbara would have liked to explain that she knew about the war and that she was merely asking for cups and saucers and clocks and pens at the behest of her children, who could not be expected to know very much about the war owing to their tender age. The oddest thing was that the shops did not look empty. They looked quite well-stocked, but they were full of all the things one did not happen to want—just like
Alice
through
the
Looking
Glass,
thought Barbara.

“We'll get it at West's,” said Simon, tugging at her arm. “West's have everything, don't they? Come on, Mummy. Here it is.”

Barbara was dragged into West's. She was quite ashamed to voice her requirements by this time and murmured in apologetic tones, “I don't suppose there's the slightest hope, but have you by any chance got a founting pen?—I mean a fountain pen. No, I thought not. Have you such a thing as a clock. Quite a small one would do.”

“We haven't had any clocks for months,” said the assistant.

“Of course not,” agreed Barbara hastily. “I didn't really think you would. What about a cup and saucer?… No, I'm afraid a plain white cup without a handle wouldn't do. It's for a present, you see. '

“Nail scissors, Mummy,” said Simon hopefully.

“You won't get nail scissors,” said the girl.

“Mummy!” said Fay, tugging Barbara's skirt. “Dorkie would like a little lamp for beside her bed.”

“We have no bedside lamps,” said the girl.

They were about to leave the shop in despair when Barbara had a sudden brilliant inspiration, namely that the problem should be tackled from the other end.

“I know,” she exclaimed. “You can walk around the shop and see if you can find anything that Dorkie would like. How would that do?”

Simon and Fay received the suggestion favorably and went off hand in hand, with the assistant following in their wake, and Barbara was standing watching them and thinking how perfectly sweet they looked when she felt a touch on her elbow. She looked around and found Mrs. Marvell standing beside her.

“Oh, it's you!” exclaimed Mrs. Marvell vaguely. “I thought it was Mrs. Dance.”

Barbara was not pleased. She was aware that Mrs. Marvell was short-sighted but she had never suspected her of being stone blind.

“Why don't you wear spectacles?” asked Barbara with less than her usual pleasantness of manner.

“They don't suit me,” replied Mrs. Marvell frankly.

“But if you need them.”

“I can see all I want without them.”

The inference was not very complimentary, but Mrs. Marvell did not mean to be rude. It was just her way.

“I was watching you,” continued Mrs. Marvell. “You seemed to be asking for things. It isn't any use asking for things in shops. It just makes them angry.”

“But how can you get things if you don't ask for them?” Barbara inquired. As usual, when she spoke to Mrs. Marvell, Barbara had begun to feel as if they inhabited different planets and were shouting at each other across millions of miles of space.

“It's no use,” Mrs. Marvell said, and left it at that.

“How is Lancreste?” asked Barbara.

“He's gone,” replied Mrs. Marvell.

“I know, but how is he? Have you heard from him?”

“He's all right,” said his mother. “He's in the north somewhere. I can give you his address if you want to write to him. Newcastle or Hull or somewhere.”

“He went off in a hurry, didn't he?”

“It was rather a rush. He left a message for you,” added Mrs. Marvell with a surprised air.

“A message?”

“Oh, just the usual sort of thing.”

“What was it, Mrs. Marvell?” asked Barbara firmly.

Mrs. Marvell looked slightly annoyed, for she hated having to use her brain. “You know the sort of thing,” she replied in fretful tones. “He hadn't time to say good-bye and thank you for being kind to him. I was to tell you he felt much better and that he would write.”

“Thank you,” said Barbara smiling. She felt glad that Lancreste had remembered to send her a message in the hurry and bustle of his departure.

“He looked better,” continued Mrs. Marvell. “Lancreste has been very difficult lately but he was better before he went away. More cheerful, somehow…”

“That's good,” said Barbara happily.

“Mummy, we've found a box!” cried Simon. “It's really and truly
here,
and we don't have to pay coupons for it, the lady says. I think Dorkie would like it to keep things in. Look at it, Mummy!”

“Yes!” exclaimed Barbara. “Yes, it's simply splendid. How clever of you to find it!”

The box was large and solid, it was carved oak with a brass lock and key, and Barbara, who knew Dorkie's tastes, was perfectly certain that she would love it.

Could we have it wrapped up with paper and string?” asked Simon hopefully. “It's a present, you see, and Dorkie might see it before tomorrow.”

“No paper or string,” said the assistant firmly.

“Oh
dear
!” said Simon in dismay. “Oh dear, that's dreadful. Dorkie will
see
it.”

“No, she won't,” declared Barbara, paying for the box and putting it under her arm. “We won't let her see it. We'll have to hide it, Simon. You will go and scout and see if Dorkie is out of the way while Fay and I carry it in. It will be fun, won't it?”