The Two Mrs. Abbotts (4 page)

Loud clapping proclaimed that everyone agreed. The chairwoman smiled complacently, waited for the noise to subside, and then continued:

“I'm not going to say any more because of course no one wants to listen to me when they can hear Miss Walters, but I just want to say how grateful we are to everyone who has helped us, and sent flowers to decorate the hall and—and decorations. And of course we are grateful to all the people who helped to decorate it. Everyone has taken such a lot of trouble, in fact everyone has been quite splendid, and I feel sure we shall raise
ever
so much more than we expect for home missions—or—well, I won't keep you any longer because I know you all want to hear Miss Janetta Walters.” Miss Walters came forward. She looked a little shy, Sarah thought, and liked her all the better for it. There really was something very attractive about her, and her voice was pleasant and clear. She made quite a neat little speech, Sarah thought.

There were two young men in air-force blue waiting for Miss Walters when she stepped off the platform; for Lancreste had been fortunate enough to run across a friend in the Apollo and Boot, to which hostelry he had repaired—just before the bazaar opened—to obtain a little Dutch courage for his part in the proceedings. It had not been easy to induce Tom Ash to come, but Lancreste had used all his persuasive powers, and these, reinforced by a couple of whiskies and sodas, had done the trick. Mr. Ash was a few months older than Lancreste; he was a lieutenant and sported pilot's wings. He had flown over Germany fourteen times. He had been to Berlin and Wilhelmshaven. Ham, Cologne, and several other centers of Axis industry had been the worse for Mr. Ash's attentions…on two occasions Mr. Ash had descended by parachute from a disabled plane. All these things Mr. Ash had accomplished without turning a hair for they were merely part of his job—but he had never taken tea with an author before. The effect of the whiskies and sodas and of Lancreste's eloquence was wearing off and Mr. Ash was nervous. “Great snakes, I must have been dotty,” he whispered to himself as he followed Miss Walters and Lancreste to the tea room.

The tea room was empty. They settled themselves at a table in the corner and ordered tea—at least Lancreste ordered it; Mr. Ash seemed to have lost the use of his tongue.

“Ash is a pilot,” Lancreste said. “Ash goes to Germany and all that. Don't you, Ash?”

“Yes,” said Ash.

“How interesting!” exclaimed Miss Walters.

“Ash baled out in the drink the other day. Didn't you, Ash?”

“Yes,” said Ash.

Miss Walters looked a trifle puzzled.

“Tell her about it, Ash,” said Lancreste.

They waited for him to begin but, despite anguished glances from his friend and a couple of somewhat painful kicks on the shin bone, Ash remained as dumb as an oyster. If the author had been an elderly woman Ash might have been able to speak to her, but she was much younger than he had expected and quite good looking with fair hair and rather nice brown eyes. The effect was spoilt—or so Ash thought—by her fluffiness. She had fluffy hair in curls and fluffy clothes. Ash liked good lines. His bomber—he called her Sybil—had marvelous lines. She was his only love. He compared Miss Walters with Sybil to the detriment of the former.

All this time Lancreste had been struggling manfully with the conversation. He had been struggling so hard that Miss Walters had no chance of taking a hand in it and putting him at his ease, but now Lancreste had shot his bolt, he had exhausted the subject of the weather and he could think of nothing more to say. There was a jar of sweet peas on the table. Miss Walters leaned forward and smelt them.

“They're your favorite flowers,” said Lancreste with sudden inspiration.

“How did you know?” Miss Walters inquired.

“Mother knew—and Mrs. Cole. She's my aunt. That's why she put them there.”

“How thoughtful of her!” said Miss Walters smiling.

“I've read one of your books,” continued Lancreste, swallowing nervously. “The Duke of Something or other, it was called.”

Miss Walters looked a little surprised. She did not recognize her story under this curious title.

“
You
know,” said Lancreste desperately. “It's about a fellow called Edward who dies of pneumonia—at least he doesn't actually die—because he takes off his coat and wraps up the girl in it.”

“
Her
Prince
at
Last
,” murmured Miss Walters.

“Yes,” said Lancreste, nodding. “Yes, that was it. Aunt Edith gave it to me to read—she's my aunt, you know. I told you that, didn't I?”

“Yes,” said Miss Walters doubtfully.

“I read it this afternoon,” said Lancreste proudly. “I just skimmed through it, you know, and—”

“I've read two of them,” said Ash in a husky voice.

They were both pleased to hear him speak—Lancreste especially.

“Which did you like best?” asked Miss Walters smiling at Ash in an encouraging manner.

“I didn't like either of them,” said Ash.

Miss Walters was surprised. She was aware that the English-speaking world contained people who did not care for her work, but never before had she met one of these people in the flesh—not so far as she knew. Reviewers were sometimes unkind, but reviewers were different…Miss Walters stared at Mr. Ash with her mouth slightly open and her tea cup, from which she had been about to drink, poised in the air. Lancreste was equally surprised and much more upset. He lashed with his foot in the direction of his friend's legs but could find nothing to kick, for Mr. Ash, in his excitement, had curled his feet around the legs of his chair.

“Well, you asked me,” said Ash. “I mean—well—you asked me, didn't you? I wouldn't have read them but there wasn't anything else to read—it was in hospital, you see.”

“Most people like my books,” said Miss Walters faintly.

“Most people are saps,” said Ash.

There was a short but pregnant silence. Miss Walters had a feeling that she ought to be angry, or offended, or deeply wounded, but strangely enough she was none of these. She was—yes, she was
interested.

“But why—” she began.

“Oh, well,” interrupted Ash, running his finger around the inside of his collar that all at once seemed to have become too tight. “Oh well—of course I know lots of people like the soppy stuff—I mean of course we know they do.”

“Mother likes them,” babbled Lancreste. “So does Aunt Edith. Don't listen to Ash. He's mad. Have a cake, Miss Walters.”

“I'm not mad.”

“You are mad. I wouldn't have asked you if I'd known. You ought to be locked up. Aunt Edith would be simply livid if she knew—if she thought.”

“But Marvell.”

“Hold your tongue for the love of Mike!”

“You wanted me to talk.”

“I don't, now,” declared Lancreste. “I've changed my mind. Have a bun, Ash.”

“No, thank you.”

Another silence ensued but Miss Walters felt she could not leave the subject. She had heard too little—or too much. It was a mystery—so Miss Walters felt—and unless she could clear it up it would remain in her mind and haunt her for the rest of her life.

“But why?” said Miss Walters again. “Weren't you interested in the characters, Mr. Ash?”

“They aren't real,” replied Ash shortly.

“Not real!” echoed their creator in surprise.

“They're like people out of a fairy tale—not human at all…I suppose it's difficult for you,” continued Ash more kindly. “I suppose you sit in your study—or wherever it is you sit—and write for hours and hours. You haven't time to go out and bump up against real live people and see what they're like. You're a sort of fairy-tale person yourself, aren't you?”

“Am I?”

“Oh, definitely. I mean look at the stir you make wherever you go: Everyone nudging each other and saying, ‘There she is. That's Miss Janetta Walters, the authoress.' Everyone bowing and scraping and saying how wonderful you are…”

“Ash, for Heaven's sake!” cried Lancreste.

“As a matter of fact you
are
rather wonderful,” continued Ash thoughtfully. “I mean I thought I knew exactly the sort of person you would be, but you aren't like that at all. I bet you could write something really decent if you tried.”

Miss Walters hesitated. She made a considerable income by the books—so heartily despised by this extraordinary young man—and she and her sister lived in comfort, not to say luxury, upon their proceeds. She hesitated whether or not to disclose this interesting fact to the extraordinary young man but eventually decided not to do so. I don't write for money, she thought. At least…

“You must have gone off your chump,” Lancreste was saying. “Aunt Edith will skin me alive if she gets wind of this. I wish to heaven I'd never set eyes on you.”

“But Marvell,” said Ash in reasoning tones. “She asked me to tell her. She
asked
me to tell her, Marvell.”

“Shut up,” said Lancreste.

“It's just the plots,” said Ash. “I may as well go on—”

“If you say another word I'll strangle you.”

“She
asked
me,” muttered Ash.

Barbara Abbott's gigantic tea party was over and she and Sarah were left alone in the disordered drawing room.

“It looks as if there had been a battle,” Barbara remarked.

“It feels like it, too,” replied Sarah, sinking into a chair.

“Everyone enjoyed themselves,” said Barbara with a sigh. “There wasn't enough food but that didn't seem to matter.”

“It didn't matter in the least.”

“You were splendid, Sarah. I wish I could talk to people like that.”

Sarah was about to disclaim any part in the success of the entertainment when the door opened and Mr. Chevis-Cobbe walked in.

“Oh, Archie!” cried Barbara. “I'd forgotten all about you. I'm afraid there isn't anything to eat.”

“I didn't come to eat,” replied Mr. Chevis-Cobbe with a smile.

“You came to see Arthur,” said Barbara. “I'll go and find Arthur and tell him you're here.”

Sarah was quite pleased to renew her acquaintance with Jerry's brother, for the few words they had exchanged over the broken vases had given them a good start; and Sarah was anxious to explain the whole matter of the vases and the picture to the young man so that he should understand why she had felt at liberty to take such a very strong line. She explained, and Archie understood at once—which showed that she had not been mistaken in him—he examined the picture and congratulated Sarah on her find.

“Try it with a mount and a narrow white frame,” suggested Archie, screwing up his eyes and looking at it in a knowledgeable way.

Having settled the fate of the picture they spoke of other matters. “What did you think of Miss Walters?” Archie wanted to know.

“I was surprised,” replied Sarah. “I thought she was most attractive.”

“Why were you surprised?”

“She was different from what I had expected.”

Archie hesitated for a moment and then he laughed. “I went and bought all her books—all that I could get hold of—I suppose it was rather silly.”

“Hadn't you read them before?”

“No, I haven't much time for reading.”

“I'm afraid you may be a little disappointed,” said Sarah thoughtfully.

There was no chance to say any more for Barbara returned with her husband and the children (who had been waiting in the nursery until the tea party was over and they could have their usual romp) but Sarah was so interested in her new acquaintance that, after he had gone, she asked Barbara to tell her more about him, and Barbara was only too ready to comply with the request.

Archie Chevis-Cobbe was a little older than Jerry—about thirty-two, Barbara thought. They were tremendous friends, and were really devoted to one another but sometimes they were very rude to one another and quarreled with a ferocity that was a trifle alarming.

(“You never had any brothers or sisters, Barbara,” put in Sarah.)

When Archie was very young he had been a gay spark and had gone the pace but now he had mended his ways and settled down. The change in Archie dated from the death of his aunt, Lady Chevis. She left him Chevis Place on condition that he took the name of Chevis—he had been Archie Cobbe before—and from that moment Archie had become a different person. It was not because he had changed his name, of course, it was because he had inherited the property and with it a great deal of money. Archie had always wanted Chevis Place and now he had got what he wanted. He was one of those people who are improved by responsibility. “He's nice, now,” said Barbara, using her favorite word of praise, and she added, “Arthur likes him,” which was the highest praise of all.

“Wasn't he nice before?” asked Sarah with interest.

“He was rather a nuisance,” replied Barbara. “Jerry used to worry about him a good deal…but young men are often wild. There was nothing really bad about him, you know.”

“Go on,” said Sarah.

Barbara continued her tale. She explained that Archie was a bachelor. Barbara had done her best to marry Archie—not to marry him herself, of course, for she had a perfectly good husband already—to marry Archie to a really nice girl.

She had trotted out every girl she could lay her hands on, but it was no use. Archie was wedded to Chevis Place; it absorbed all his attention, so he had no time for a wife. It was a pity, of course, for Chevis Place needed a mistress—but what could you do?

“Nothing,” said Sarah, smiling. “I mean if you couldn't find Archie a wife nobody could. You paired off everybody of marriageable age in Silverstream.”

Chevis Place was well worth the care and thought lavished upon it by its new master. It was a stately mansion in the early Tudor style, surrounded by fine old trees. Queen Elizabeth had spent a few days at Chevis Place during one of her royal progressions. Her visit was authenticated by an old account book that showed Sir Godfrey Chevis had spent a good deal of money in furbishing up his house and laying in stocks of food to entertain the royal lady and her train. Since those far-off days the house had undergone alterations. It had been endowed with bathrooms and electricity, and although this detracted from its interest it had added considerably to its comfort…And after all (said Barbara) if you happen to be the person living in the house, convenience is more important than history.

There was a great deal of land attached to Chevis Place, land that had belonged to the Chevis family for hundreds of years, and when Archie inherited the property he discovered that most of the land was leased to neighboring farmers. This might have been quite satisfactory if the land had been properly cared for by the tenants, but it had been neglected and misused and was rapidly becoming derelict. Archie could not bear to see his precious inheritance in such a condition so he decided to farm the land himself, and to farm it in the latest and most scientific manner, and gradually, as the leases expired, he took over one farm after another and got it into trim. Tractors and ploughs and reapers of the latest pattern made their appearance at Chevis Place; hedges were mended and ground that had been allowed to become a wilderness of thistles was ploughed up and made to yield crops. All this had cost money, of course, and for a time there was little return, but, after some years of fostering care, the farms began to thrive.

“Clever of him,” said Sarah thoughtfully.

“More than clever,” declared Barbara. “It's been terribly hard work and he's had all sorts of disappointments and setbacks, but he's never lost heart.”

This was Barbara's tale, and although it was all true, it was not quite complete, for there were certain aspects of Archie's life Barbara did not know, which nobody knew except Archie himself. Only he knew of the hundred and one mistakes he had made—due to lack of experience—and of how he had taken them to heart and labored to rectify them. Only he knew how near disaster he had been, how the money had rolled out and none had rolled in until he was on the verge of bankruptcy…and then, quite suddenly, the tide had turned and he realized that he was safe. The farms began to pay and the fine herd of Jerseys that grazed in the meadow near the stream grew larger and more productive.

He was safe, but he was by no means satisfied, for there was always more to do, more improvements to be made in the working of the farms, more improvements on the land. There was the bog, for instance, fifteen acres of unproductive land in the very middle of his property—it had always been an eyesore to Archie, but he had been too busy with other matters to do anything about it. Now that he was safe he could tackle the bog; he could drain it. Archie was about halfway through his ambitious scheme when Hitler marched into Poland.

“War!” said Archie to himself. “Good Lord, what a mess! What am I to do? I must go, of course…but how can I go? Good Lord, this is awful!”

He spent several very uncomfortable days and sleepless nights worrying about the war and the farms and the bog…two people seemed to be quarrelling inside him, he was swayed first one way and then the other. At last he could bear it no longer and he decided to consult someone else, some unprejudiced person who could see both sides of the question and settle it once and for all. I shall ask Arthur Abbott, thought Archie. He's thoroughly sound. I shall leave it to him and do whatever he says is right.

Archie rode over to Wandlebury the same day—it was a Sunday—and, finding Arthur alone in his study he explained the whole thing. “Am I to go or not?” inquired Archie. “Is it my duty to go or to stay and get on with the work?”

“Stay where you are,” replied Arthur without a moment's hesitation.

“But look here.”

“You're a specialist,” said Arthur. “You're a valuable person.”

“No.”

“Oh, I don't mean valuable in yourself, but valuable to the country. You're getting twice as much out of the land as an ordinary farmer, aren't you?”

“A third more, perhaps.”

“We shall need it.”

“But look here, I'm perfectly fit.”

“I tell you we need our farmers. Just wait till the U boats get into their stride. We shall need every ounce of food that this country is capable of producing.”

“I hoped you'd say I should go,” said Archie, who had just discovered this interesting fact.

“Well, I don't say anything of the kind,” replied Arthur flatly.

Arthur had been right, of course—time had proved him right—but it had not been easy for Archie to take his advice and stay at home. All his friends had joined the forces; many of them had been killed. There had been a certain amount of unpleasantness to bear—hints and innuendos that had found their way to Archie's ears—but the fields had been his comfort for they had burgeoned and filled his barns to overflowing.

As for the house, Archie shut up the best part of it and retired to the gun room with his personal belongings. The house was unsuitable for a hospital or for evacuees so he was left to his own devices…he cooked his own breakfast and made his own bed and the wife of his head cowman came in daily and “did” for him. He was perfectly satisfied with Mrs. Frith and with her arrangements for his comfort, nor did he mind being alone at night for if there were ghosts at Chevis Place they did not show themselves to Archie.

The following morning, when Barbara was listening to the American news, which she always found extremely interesting, she was interrupted by the entrance of Lancreste Marvell. It was a pity Sarah was not here to talk to Lancreste, for Sarah was so good at talking to people, but Sarah had gone to Wandlebury to do some shopping and could not be expected back for some little time. Barbara turned off the wireless regretfully and welcomed Lancreste as warmly as she could.

“I don't know if you really meant me to come,” said Lancreste doubtfully. “I mean sometimes people say ‘come' and they don't really want you to come at all.”

“Of course I wanted you to come,” declared Barbara.

She disliked telling lies—even very white ones like this—but Lancreste looked so dejected.

“I meant to bring Pearl, of course,” added Lancreste, who seemed to have got hold of the erroneous idea that he would have been more welcome if he had brought her.

“It doesn't matter,” said Barbara hastily—and, before he could say any more upon the subject, she changed it by inquiring how he had got on at the bazaar.

“The bazaar?” said Lancreste, looking at his feet.

“You were going to have tea with Miss Walters, weren't you?” Barbara inquired.

“Yes,” said Lancreste.

“Didn't you have tea with her?”

“Yes,” said Lancreste.

“How did you get on?” asked Barbara in encouraging tones.

Lancreste was silent.

“Did you talk to her about her books?” asked Barbara, pursuing the subject for the sole reason that she could think of nothing else to say.

“Ash did,” said Lancreste in a husky sort of voice.

“Ash?”

“He was there too. I asked him.”

“Oh, I see! You asked a friend to help you. That was a splendid idea.”

Lancreste said nothing.

“A splendid idea,” repeated Barbara desperately. “I'm sure you must have entertained Miss Walters beautifully—you and your friend.”

Lancreste was completely dumb. He was staring at his boots as if he had never seen them before and did not like the look of them.

Oh dear, I wish Sarah was here, thought Barbara. Aloud she said politely, “How is your mother, Lancreste?”

“She's all right,” said Lancreste.

“Splendid,” said Barbara. “I'm so glad…and your father?”

“He's all right.”

Barbara was about to express her delight at this excellent piece of news when Lancreste suddenly came to life.

“Pearl's ill,” he said.

“Oh dear!” exclaimed Barbara, changing her expression rapidly to suit the case. “Oh dear, what a pity!”

“It's frightful,” declared Lancreste. “It isn't only her being ill, though that's bad enough. Everything has gone wrong. You liked her, didn't you?”

“I only saw her for a few moments,” Barbara reminded him.

“But you liked her—I could see that at once. Mother doesn't like her.”

Barbara was not as surprised as Lancreste seemed to expect. She murmured, “What a pity!” and left it at that.

“And Father doesn't like her either.”

“Doesn't he?”

“No, he was frightfully rude to her,” said Lancreste miserably.

Barbara was just going to say what a pity, but she remembered she had said that before so she said, “How very unfortunate!”

“But I can't help that,” declared Lancreste. “I mean I can't help whether they like her or not, I'm going to marry her.”

“But Lancreste.”

“I
must
marry her,” said Lancreste more miserably still. “There's nothing else for it. I suppose once we're married she'll be different.”