Schoolgirl Jen at the Abbey

by Elsie J. Oxenham

  “I didn’t see him. He was still asleep. I went to speak to Ann. She talked to him last night, and she likes him; she says he seems a nice, quiet old gentleman, but she’s bothered about his asthma.”

  “That sounds as if she’d like to take care of him. Oh, if only——!”

  “If only what, Jen?”

  “If only she had another room! If we could make a room for him somewhere! Ann could be the head of the infirmary for the aged poor, as well as the caretaker for the Abbey. He can’t have your room, of course, but if there was somewhere else——!”

  “I’ve told Ann she may invite him to stay for a few days,” Joan said. “It seemed better——what’s the matter, you silly kid?”

  Jen, with a shriek of joy, had started up and rushed round the table to hug her ecstatically. “Oh, Joan! How marvellous! You’re an absolute angel! Don’t you mind?”

  “You very nearly upset the table; it’s not too steady. Stop strangling me, or I won’t tell you any more!”

  Jen released her hurriedly. “Tell me! Will Ann look after him? Perhaps she’ll like him so much that she won’t want him to go away!”

  “It seemed better to say ‘a few days’ at first,” Joan went on, straightening the cloth and the dishes. “We’ll see how Boniface likes the idea and how Ann and he get on together. I didn’t want to frighten her by suggesting he should live there altogether.”

  “But if they’re both pleased, would you let him stay?” Jen asked breathlessly, eyeing her in rapture. “Oh, Joan, would you? But it’s your room! You couldn’t give it up, even for Boniface Browning! Joan, what do you mean?”

  “I feel that the Abbey customs must be upheld, when a chance comes,” Joan explained soberly.

  “Here is an old man, who loves the Abbey and quite obviously wants to stay. The monks wouldn’t have turned him away. I can make him welcome by giving up my room. He’ll do no harm and be no trouble to anyone. I haven’t any choice. It’s an Abbey duty, and the Abbey is mine. Don’t you agree?”

  “Of course I do! But it’s awfully, frightfully decent of you to see it that way.” Jen, gazing wide-eyed, surprised Joan by taking the idea very quietly, instead of with one of her well-known shrieks of joy. The same thing had happened when she had invited Jen to be her maid-of-honour in the May Day procession. The occasion, it seemed, was too great for a joyful shout, and Jen’s next words, spoken quietly, confirmed this.

  “It makes the Abbey seem so real,” she said.

  “How do you mean, Jen? The Abbey is real enough.”

  “The buildings are real, but the ideas behind them—the monks and their good deeds, and all that—seem sometimes a bit dream-like. It was so very long ago! But when you do something like this—giving up your own precious room, so that the Abbey can welcome an aged and infirm person who loves it—then the monks and the Abbot, and Ambrose and Jehane, all seem quite real. You’re bringing back the ancient custom, because the Abbey is yours. It’s simply marvellous!”

  Joan coloured at the deep feeling in her tone.

  “I don’t see what else I could do. I want old Boniface to be happy.”

  “But you want to keep your room, don’t you?”

  “I want both. If Boniface wants to stay—we don’t know yet that he does—I may as well choose the way that will please both of us.”

  “And me! It makes me terribly happy, to think he’ll have the chance to end his days in the Abbey.”

  “I haven’t suggested that yet. I’ve only invited him to stay for a few days.”

  Jen nodded. “But you won’t send him away, if he likes being here. You’re a real descendant of the monks.”

  “I’ve never claimed to be that! I’m not nearly as generous as you think. If Boniface feels he must go back to his son in Birmingham, I shall be overjoyed. But I do feel he has to be given the chance to stay.”

  “Because the monks would have kept him,” Jen agreed. “Will you mind very much if he decides to stay?”

  “I shall miss my little room,” Joan said honestly. “But he’ll need to have it, for there’s nowhere else. I shall leave him to think it over. Ann will tell him what I said. You and I have something to do to-day.”

  Jen looked up quickly. “I’d forgotten about Vinny Miles. And—oh, Joan, the tree! I’d forgotten it too. They’re going to murder it to-day. Oh, Joan!”

  “It’s better to think about giving a happy old age to Boniface than about a tree which has begun to die,” Joan said practically. “We’ll go at once, and we won’t go through the Abbey. I want the old chap to think over the idea before I speak to him. Fetch your jersey, Jen. We’ll take the shortcut to the village, across the fields.”

  “Across the great church,” Jen agreed. “We know now what it used to look like.”

  “Yes, thanks to you and Jacky-boy and Sir Keith Marchwood. Come along!”

  CHAPTER VII

  VINNY NOT AT HOME

  Jen kept her face resolutely turned from the ruins as they crossed the site of the great church, and Joan rejoiced to see it. But at the wicket-gate by which they went out into the fields she looked back and, with a catch in her breath, waved her hand to the giant elm which hung over the gate-house. Then she ran down the path, and Joan ran after her. “We’ll see if the village can find us a red ribbon for Lavinia, Jen.”

  “Yes—oh, yes! It will save a lot of time if we don’t have to go all the way to Wycombe.” Jen sounded a trifle breathless and incoherent, but her voice grew steadier as she spoke. “I wonder if we’ll see Vinny at the farm? I expect Mrs. Jaikes makes her work in the house during the holidays.”

  “We mustn’t be too late, for Jandy comes to-day,” Joan reminded her.

  “Yes. It will be fun to have Jandy Mac all to ourselves. We must tell her about these new people—Lavinia and dear old Boniface.”

  The village was able to supply red ribbon, to Jen’s delight. Urged on by Joan, she chose a length of crimson. “That’s the right colour, not bright scarlet,” she said, “though I don’t suppose Lavinia would care if we made her wear scarlet with a crimson dress! She’ll love it. We’ll take enough for two big bows, and make her wear her hair in two bunches; she’s got rather a lot.”

  It was not a long walk to King’s Bottom Farm, which stood at the entrance to one of the combes running up into the hills. Joan made the walk longer, however, by proposing to go up over the green shoulder of hill and drop down to the farm from above. She had her own reasons for insisting on the extra tramp; Jen must not return to the Abbey too soon.

  They stood in the wind on the crest of the hill and looked northwards to the Whiteleaf Cross and west to Thame and the distant blue country. The Abbey and the Hall, the Manor and the village, lay almost at their feet, and closer still, right below, was King’s Bottom Farm.

  “Come on!” Joan said. “Now for Lavinia and Mrs. Jaikes!”

  “Vinny?” The tall thin woman at the farmhouse door sounded indignant. “Drat the child! I dunno where she is. Run off and left me all on my own, she has, and knowin’ well enough I’ve more to do than I can get through. At least she could mind the kids! I can’t do nothing with Vinny, some days.”

  “I’m sorry she isn’t here. She ought to help,” Joan agreed. “Perhaps we’ll meet her on our way home. Mrs. Jaikes, Jen Robins—this is Jen—was talking to Lavinia yesterday, and Vinny told her about her relations in America. We know you’ve been very kind, keeping her since her aunt died, but don’t you think she really ought to be with her own people? Her father is still alive, isn’t he?”

  “Aye, but there’s a stepmother. Sometimes they don’t want a man’s first family. Sure, I think she did ought to go to them, and I’d be glad to see the back of her. But how could she go, a bit of a thing like her?”

  “Perhaps they could come to fetch her,” Jen put in, eager to help.

  “Costs too much,” Mrs. Jaikes said briefly. “And we can’t send her. Jaikes and me has as much as we can do with our own. ’Sides, ’tisn’t only the money
. Who’d take care of the kid on the journey?”

  “It is difficult,” Joan agreed. “But you do think she ought to go, Mrs. Jaikes?”

  “I do. Her own folks had oughter have the care of her. She’s got folks. They’d oughter keep her. We didn’t oughter have to do it.”

  “No, it’s hard on you. I’m sure you’ve been very good. Have you her father’s address?”

  “I got it somewheres. I been a-thinking I’d oughter write to him, but—well, I’m no great hand with a pen, and Jaikes, he’s worse.”

  “If you could find the address, we would write the letter for you,” Joan suggested. “We’d remind Vinny’s father that she’s quite a big girl now, and ask if he couldn’t think of some way to get her back to her family.”

  Mrs. Jaikes looked at her doubtfully. “You’ll say as how I done my best for Vinny, and no pay for doing it? If he’s doing well out there, he’d oughter make it up to me. I’d thought that was what I’d say, if I wrote.”

  “Yes, we’d say that,” Joan promised. “But I expect Vinny has been a great help to you with your babies, although she has run away to-day.”

  “She ain’t done very much—not near as much as I’d have liked,” Mrs. Jaikes said. “I’ll have a look for the address. I got it somewheres. If I find it I’ll make Vinny bring it along to you.”

  “Yes, please do. We’ll look out for her on our way home.” And Joan turned to go, followed by a silent Jen.

  “You didn’t leave the ribbon for Lavinia, Joan?”

  “Don’t you want to give it to her yourself? I thought it was better not to give it to Mrs. Jaikes.”

  “She might have bagged it for her own infants,” Jen admitted. “I don’t like the creature, do you?”

  “Not very much. But one can sympathise with her. She’s had Lavinia left on her hands, and she’s done her best for her, and then Vinny runs away and leaves her with the children and the housework to do all alone. It isn’t fair.”

  “No, Vinny isn’t being sporting,” Jen owned. “But I expect she’s completely fed up. She sounded like it.”

  “It would be easier to help her, if she played the game. She gives Mrs. Jaikes a real grievance. I shall scold Lavinia,” Joan said decidedly.

  “Don’t make her more fed up than she is already!” Jen pleaded hurriedly. “She thinks such a lot of you!”

  “I’ll be careful,” Joan promised, much amused. “Now, Jen, we can’t go home yet; it’s too soon. What shall we do with ourselves?”

  Their eyes met in complete understanding. “Whatever you like, Joan-Queen,” Jen said gloomily.

  “Then come with me!” And Joan set her face to the hills again. “We’ll go to Wycombe, after all, and have a spot of lunch, and then we’ll come home by bus to the village.”

  “We shan’t meet Lavinia, if we go that way.”

  “We might. She may be up on the hills. Keep a look-out for her.”

  “I expect she’s gone to the Abbey, to say good-bye to our poor tree again.”

  “That won’t make her feel any better. It’s a pity she didn’t stay at home and keep herself busy by helping Mrs. Jaikes.”

  “Perhaps she’ll meet old Boniface,” Jen remarked.

  “She may know him. It’s only three years since he left the Abbey,” Joan reminded her. “But she may never have gone there in his day. I don’t suppose he encouraged the village kiddies to hang about.”

  “I think Lavinia only went there to see you, when you had your drill class.”

  “That’s quite possible,” Joan assented.

  “What did you do with them? I’d like to see you being a teacher!”

  “Oh, marching and wand drill, and free-arm exercises. There were some green stakes the gardener used, and we helped ourselves to those. I was very fierce and made them keep strict time to my counting, if Joy was out and we couldn’t have music.”

  “We’ll write to Joy. There’s a lot to tell her—Lavinia and Boniface, you know.”

  “I shall write to Mother to-morrow; they’ll be wanting letters. You can write to Joy.”

  “And Jandy Mac can write to her Alec. So we’ll all be busy. We’ll buy a present for Boniface in Wycombe.” Jen cheered up at the thought. “If we take red ribbon for Lavinia, we must take something for him too. What would he like, do you think?”

  “Tobacco, I expect,” Joan said, with a laugh. “But we wouldn’t know what sort to buy.”

  “The man in the shop would tell us. Or what about sweets? Don’t old people like sweets?”

  “I’m sure they do. Sweets would be best. We’ll find something for Boniface,” Joan promised.

  “Something better than he could get in the village! There’s much more choice in Wycombe.” And Jen looked happier as they climbed the hill.

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE TREE FALLS

  As Joan said later, things happened all at once.

  With Jen, she walked up the lane from the village, and stopped in dismay as they reached the Abbey gate, for the big tree was still standing, though shorn of its branches. Matthew Edwards had promised to have the work finished in good time, but the men were still busy, with ropes round the great trunk to control its fall.

  “I didn’t trust Mr. Edwards. I was afraid he’d be late,” Joan groaned. “We’ll go on and up the avenue, Jen.”

  Jen’s lips were quivering as she looked at the tree. “No,” she said bravely. “It’s much farther, and you’re tired. We’ll go through the Abbey. We won’t look. Oh, Joan, there’s Lavinia! Do you see her red frock? I said she’d come to watch. There, by the gate-house, in the corner!”

  “Silly child!” Joan said indignantly. “Has she been watching them saw off the branches? What a senseless thing to do!”

  Jen stood looking past the tree, which swayed, ready to fall. “There’s old Boniface, by the Abbey door. He’s just come out. He wants to see—oh! Oh, I say! She’ll be right under the tree!”

  A flash of red—Vinny Miles had darted towards the old man, with a shout which sounded like “Uncle Bonny!”

  A streak of blue—Jen was after her, just as the tree crashed to the ground.

  “Jen! Jen!” Joan shrieked. “Oh, Jen! Why did you do it?”

  Shaking with fear, she rushed with the men to the tree, which lay stretched on the meadow. The two small girls were underneath.

  “We’ll get them out, Miss Joan,” panted one of the men. “Maybe they aren’t much hurt.”

  “They came so quick,” groaned another. “We couldn’t do nothing.”

  “We was all running to stop that there Vinny Miles, but little miss was faster than any of us,” said the first, as they wrestled with the mass of small branches which had fallen with the tree.

  “Oh, be quick!” Joan sobbed. “Get them out! Help me!” And she struggled to lift the boughs.

  “We’ll do it, miss.” The men were working in feverish haste.

  “Here’s Vinny. Her be all right. Little missy flung her forward and then fell a-top of her.”

  Joan looked round wildly, for Jen still lay buried.

  “Mr. Browning, call Ann Watson and ask her to see to Vinny,” she cried to the old man, who had come hurrying up. “I can’t think about her just now. She isn’t much hurt.” For Vinny, white with terror, was asking weakly what had happened.

  Joan turned from her to the men, who had prised up a short bough which was pinning Jen down. They drew her out very gently and began to examine her limp body with careful hands.

  “I dunno,” said one. “Best get her to the house and send for doctor.”

  “She isn’t—isn’t——” Joan began brokenly.

  “Her’s not dead. Heart’s all right. But it hit her head,” said one of the men. “Look! It caught her there. Didn’t touch her back; that’s one good thing.”

  “I thought her back would be broke,” growled somebody.

  “Dry up, you fool!” snapped another. “It’s her head, not her back. She’ll come round soon. But best hav
e doctor.”

  “Put her on this. Lift her gentle like.” Two lads, with great presence of mind, had rushed to the farm and brought a hurdle.

  Feeling dazed and numb, Joan followed, as Jen was carried carefully through the Abbey door and across the garth. It had all happened so suddenly. Five minutes ago they had been walking up from the village. Now Jenny-Wren might be dying—for these men did not know very much.

  She unlocked the gate, and they went through the garden.

  “If you’d run on and ring up doctor, Miss Joan,” a man began.

  Joan pulled herself together. “Yes. Thank you —yes, I’ll go. But don’t touch her. We don’t know what’s wrong. She may be hurt—injured——”

  She caught her breath in a sob and ran to the house, thankful as she had seldom been that Joy had insisted on having the telephone put in as soon as the Hall came into her hands.

  Then, with the promise that the doctor would come at once, she went to help. “Leave her lying just as she is,” she ordered. “The doctor will be here in a few minutes. He’ll know if it’s safe to move her.” She brought rugs and spread them over Jen, who lay still and unconscious.

  “Perhaps two of you would wait, in case he wants her carried upstairs on the hurdle,” Joan suggested unsteadily.

  The men withdrew to the terrace, silent and unhappy, and Joan dropped into a chair, her eyes on Jen.

  “The worst few minutes of my life,” she said afterwards.

  Then, with a quick, silent leap, she was beside the stretcher, for Jen’s eyes had opened.

  “Joan?” she whispered drowsily. Then, more clearly: “Oh, Joan! Vinny! Was I in time? Did the tree hurt her?”

  “Oh, thank God!” Joan whispered, and dropped on her knees because they were shaking so terribly. “It’s all right, Jen, dear. You saved Vinny. She isn’t hurt. You pushed her out of the way.”

  “Oh, good! I thought she’d be killed,” Jen murmured. “Did it hit me, too? I’m so tired, Joan-Queen!”

  “Try to go to sleep,” Joan urged unsteadily. “The doctor’s coming to have a look at you, just to see if any parts of you are broken. Does anything hurt you, Jen?”