Stowaways in the Abbey

by Elsie J. Oxenham

  “There’s a fear of collapse,” Jack admitted. “I hoped you didn’t know. I wasn’t going to say anything.”

  “Marvellous of you,” Jen said unsteadily. “No, it’s all right, I won’t howl. But—if only this ghastly day would come to an end!”

  “It will, sooner or later. But sometimes days can seem weeks long. Mother was ill once, and I thought we’d never live through the days.”

  “This day’s going on for a month, I think,” Jen groaned.

  CHAPTER XXI

  TELLING TIMOTHY

  “We are two little pigs!” The terrible day had come to an end at last, and Jen, preparing for bed, turned to Jack, her face full of distress.

  “Are we? I rather thought we’d been jolly decently useful,” Jack grunted.

  “That’s all right. But what about Timothy Spindle? We’ve forgotten him. He ought to know about Sir Keith and Mr. Simmonds.”

  “You’ll have to tell him to-morrow. You’re not going to the Abbey to-night,” Jack said firmly.

  “I know. Timothy hardly seems to matter just now. But I wish we’d told him.”

  “He’ll live through it.” Jack jumped into bed.

  Once more Nurse Parker’s early breakfast was interrupted by Jen, who crept down to hear the latest news.

  The nurse looked grave. “Mrs. Shirley is doing well, but is still very tired. Joan seems no worse for being with her yesterday, so she will get up after breakfast and will be company for her mother, who will be better in bed for a day or two. Joy—we can’t tell yet.”

  Jen grew white. “Is she still talking, like she did yesterday?”

  Nurse Parker shot a quick look at her. “No; she is quiet now. But she is very weak; the high fever has worn her out. Don’t be too unhappy; we hope she will pull through. Are you and Jack going to help us again to-day?”

  Jen choked down a sob. “Yes, we’d like to. Please let us help!”

  “Here comes the postman. You can give me any letters for Mrs. Shirley or Joan, or for either of us.”

  Jen sorted the letters quickly. “That’s your lot. There’s one for Joy; Joan will keep it for her.” Her voice was not steady for a moment. “One for Jack, from her mother. They know about Joy and Mrs. Shirley; Jack talked to them by phone yesterday. One for me—from London. How odd! I don’t know anybody in London!”

  “Yes, you do,” Jack had followed her. She took her own letter, as the nurse disappeared upstairs. “You know baronets and people. I expect Sir Keith Marchwood has changed his mind about that locket. Or perhaps it’s the pictures.”

  “He wouldn’t!” Jen said indignantly, but she tore open her letter, looking anxious. “It is from him.” And she sank on the window-seat to read the letter.

  “Oh, how kind he is! Listen, Jack:

  “Dear Miss Jen,—Your charming letter gave me real pleasure. To confirm what we arranged together, I shall be willing to take young Spindle back and to overlook his mistake, on condition it does not occur again. Tell him to take a short holiday with his sister, if you can put up with him for a few days. When he returns to us, I wish him to come to see me at once.

  “I hope your invalids are doing well. Will you let me have your instructions re the Abbey pictures? I shall wait till I hear from you.—Yours sincerely,

  “Keith Marchwood.

  “Oh, how marvellous! My ‘charming letter’! There, Jacqueline Wilmot! He did like it, you see! ‘What we arranged together’! How lovely of him! ‘My instructions re the Abbey pictures.’ I shall write and ask him not to send them just now. Jack, I’m terrified about Joy. I could see Nurse was bothered.”

  “I thought she looked worried,” Jack agreed, her face sombre. “Joy can’t go on being so ill. She must either get better, or she’ll——” She checked herself.

  “I can’t believe that will happen,” Jen said vehemently. “We’ve prayed so hard, all of us. She must get better!”

  “Oh, of course! Don’t talk about her. Come to brekker, and then you can take your message to Timothy. I’ll wash up and do our room.”

  “You’re a sport!” Jen exclaimed. “I must answer this letter; don’t you think so?”

  “He seems to like you, so he won’t mind having another. Ask him not to send the pictures just now. Joan doesn’t want to be bothered with anything till Joy’s better.”

  “No, but when Joy is better, won’t she be bucked about them!” Jen sighed.

  She went to the Abbey presently, to find her “stowaway.”

  “Timothy Spindle! Oh, there you are! I came to tell you——”

  “What’s the news of Miss Joy?” Mrs. Watson looked anxiously from her door.

  “None. Bad. She’s just the same, and Nurse is worried,” Jen said, as shortly as she could. “Mrs. Shirley and Joan are better. Timothy, I’ve a message from Sir Keith Marchwood. You’re to have a few days’ holiday here with Susie; I’m sure Mrs. Watson will put you up, and we’ll send Susie whenever we can spare her. Then you’ll go back to town and try again. Sir Keith’s terribly nice; he’s been tremendously kind about you. He says he’ll overlook what happened, as he knows you only made a mistake, but of course you won’t ever do it again, will you?”

  Timothy was staring at her, breathless and wide-eyed. “No, miss, I never will! But—but Mr. Simmonds——”

  “Oh, don’t worry about him! He’s gone. Sir Keith knows you didn’t take his brother’s things; most likely old Simmonds did it himself.”

  “Gone?” Timothy gasped, incredulous relief dawning in his face.

  “Yes, rather. They’ve got rid of him, because he was dishonest. If you’d like to dance with joy, please do it,” Jen looked at him wistfully. “I did a jig and then a somersault, when I heard first; Sir Keith was rather frightened. But I don’t feel I can do it just now. It would be all right for you, of course.”

  “I can’t believe it!” Timothy exclaimed. “Seems like it can’t be true.”

  “It’s true. You’ll never be dishonest again, will you? It would be dreadful if they had to get rid of you. It would be letting down the Abbey. After our writing to Sir Keith about you, you couldn’t do that. It’s as if we’ve promised you’ll be all right, you know.”

  Timothy saw that clearly, though it was, to his mind, not the Abbey he must not let down, but “little Miss Jen.”

  “I never will, Miss Jen. Not if they laugh at me or tease me to go with them ever so,” he promised.

  “Then you’ll get on jolly well. When you go back you’re to go to Sir Keith; he wants to speak to you. You needn’t be frightened; he’s terribly kind. Now you think about it, and I’ll send Susie, and you can tell her yourself. Think about Mr. Simmonds, Timothy. Perhaps you’ll dance with joy after I’ve gone.”

  “What years it seems since we were at the Manor, seeing Sir Keith!” she said to herself, as she went gravely through the garden. “And it’s only two days! Yesterday was the longest day I’ve ever known.”

  There was no sign of Jack, or of anybody, when she reached the house, so she crept upstairs and wrote a brief letter before going in search of Jack.

  “Dear Sir Keith,—Thank you very much. Timothy Spindle is so pleased, though he didn’t dance for joy, as I did. I hope I didn’t frighten you. Please don’t send the pictures yet. Nobody would have time to look at them. Joy is very ill with pneumonia, and we don’t know—but of course she’ll get better. She’s much worse than she was when we talked to you, and Mrs. Shirley is ill too, and we’ve two nurses. It’s worse than the measles. Please keep the pictures till everybody is better. I’m sure you’ll understand. I expect they’ll all be better soon now.

  “Thank you again just terribly much for the locket and purse.—With love from

  “Jen Robins.”

  She gazed at the letter. “I wonder if he’ll mind having my love? Now that I’ve talked to him it seems the proper thing to say.” And she addressed and closed the envelope.

  The beds had been made and the room tidied, while she was in the Abbey.
Jen looked round gratefully. “Good old Jack! She must be in the kitchen. I’ll go and help.”

  Jack looked up from the cup she was wiping. “Timothy all right?”

  “Rather! He was jolly pleased.”

  Jack put down the cup and took up another, her hands shaking.

  Jen gave her a startled look. “Jack! Is anything wrong? Jack!” she cried. “What’s up?”

  Jack bit her lip and swallowed hard. “Nurse spoke to me. She said I was to tell you. Beastly of her! She ought to have told you herself.”

  “Told me what?” Jen gasped. “Jack, you don’t mean——?”

  “They’ll know about Joy to-day—very soon now. She wants you to be prepared. She’s afraid they may not save her. But there’s still a chance,” Jack said desperately.

  Jen caught her breath. “It will kill Joan. I can’t bear it! Don’t come, Jack!”

  She rushed away out of the house and back to the Abbey, through the chapter-house, down into the little old church, and flung herself on the steps of the Abbot Michael’s tomb, praying with all her heart that Joy might live.

  “Give her back to us! Think what she means to Joan! And poor Auntie Shirley; they’ve been so good to Joy. Don’t take her from us!” she sobbed.

  CHAPTER XXII

  JACK TAKES CHARGE

  Jack watched Jen’s flight with troubled eyes. “The silly kid will go into the Abbey, of course. She won’t stop to think, and those ruined places are fearfully draughty. We don’t want any more pneumonia. She told me not to go, but I don’t believe it’s safe to leave her alone.”

  Grim and determined, she followed Jen. On the garth she met Timothy and put a hurried question.

  “Miss Jen came running, and she went in there,” he pointed. “Looked like she’d seen a ghost, she did. Can I do anything for her?”

  “Give me a rug and some cushions from your room,” Jack commanded.

  With the rug slung over her shoulder and cushions under both her arms, she went cautiously down to the crypt. “Jen likes this place, and it’s the only sort of church there is left. Yes, I thought so! On the cold stone, in a thin frock—ass!”

  Over-strain made her voice sharp with anxiety as she bent over Jen. “Idiot! You’ll have a chill next. Don’t you know how risky it is? Come on this rug at once!”

  “Oh, Jack, go away!” Jen gasped.

  “Not till you’re on a rug,” Jack said firmly.

  Jen thrust the rug under her, and Jack seized the chance to make sure she was protected properly. Then, instead of going away, she put down the cushions and sat on them, flung her arm round Jen’s shaking body, and crouched beside her.

  “It hasn’t happened yet, Jen. Keep on hoping! Let me hope—and—and pray too. You said two would be better than one. I won’t talk, but we must do what is best, and if two are better, then let me be the other one.”

  Jen’s hand clasped hers and they lay in silence.

  Presently Jack, with rare understanding of her friend’s need, drew her hand away. She knelt and kissed the back of Jen’s neck, between her two plaits. “You’d rather I wasn’t here. I’ll come back presently.” And she crept away.

  For a while she worked gravely in the kitchen and pantry. Then, glancing at the clock, she went to consult Cook.

  A few minutes later Jack trudged across the lawn to the Abbey gate, heavily laden. She set down her basket and a rucksack on the garth, and went back to the crypt.

  Jen lay as she had left her, as quiet as if she was asleep. But her tense position showed that she was all too wide awake.

  Jack bent over her. “Get up!” she commanded, the authority of a team captain in her tone. “You’ve been here long enough. Come up into the sun.”

  “Is there any news?” Jen rested her tired head on her hands.

  “Not a scrap. The doctor’s there. They’re doing everything. Come up to the garth, Jen.”

  Jen hesitated. “I’d rather stay here. Can’t you leave me alone?”

  “No. Come on! I want you. Come now!”

  Utter astonishment made Jen obey. Jack had never spoken in that way before. She rose silently and followed.

  Jack put the basket on her arm and slung the rucksack over her own shoulder. “Now come with me. I’ll let you come back quite soon, if you do what I tell you. But we must do something; I can’t bear this hanging about and waiting any longer.”

  Jen’s wrath at the tone of authority died away. Suddenly she knew that Jack needed her; that Jack was almost breaking down, and that she had been doing nothing to help.

  “I’ve been a beast. I only thought of myself,” she said apologetically. “Sorry, Jack! You’re my visitor, and I’ve buried myself and left you all alone. What do you want to do?”

  “Go somewhere. Do something. I won’t talk, if you’d rather not, but I can’t bear that house just now.” Jack’s voice was unsteady. “Let’s get out of it for an hour. The Abbey may be a help to you, but it’s no use to me. We’re different. Come out on the hills. There’s a flask of hot milk, and sandwiches and fruit in this bag, and you’ve got hard-boiled eggs and cake. Cook says she’ll be glad not to have to give us lunch.”

  “Will it really help her? I don’t want to feel I’m having a picnic while Joy may be——”

  “But perhaps Joy isn’t,” Jack broke in. “It’s not a picnic. It’s a tramp on the hills, for exercise. We’ll feel better when we’ve walked, no matter what happens.”

  “Right you are,” Jen said heavily. “I’ll go wherever you like.”

  Jack handed her a bar of chocolate. “Tuck into that. Sure you haven’t caught a chill in your inside?”

  “My inside’s feeling rotten, but it’s not a chill. Not that part of my inside,” Jen explained.

  Jack gave a short laugh. “I washed and wiped dishes and dusted till my inside began to go funny too, and I couldn’t bear it any longer. Not a sound; nobody to speak to; Grace snivelling, and Cook looking like thunder. And you buried in the depths of the earth!”

  “I’m sorry,” Jen said abjectly. “I’m beastly sorry, Jacky-boy. I’ll do anything you like, to make up for being such a pig.”

  “We’ll climb to that cave and have our grub there,” Jack proposed. “Then we’ll come back and see how things are. Two hours might make a difference.”

  Jen agreed, though not very cheerfully, and they took the track to the hills in silence. They had to cross the lawn to reach the lane, and both glanced up at Joy’s window, in their minds seeing her as she had sat there, calling to them, two days before. They looked at one another, but there was no need for words.

  They were opening the gate to the steps through the wood, when a cry from behind made them swing round, white and breathless.

  Susie Spindle raced along the path. “Oh, miss! Nurse, she called me; she saw you from the window. She said—catch them and say this, ‘Don’t feel too bad. Miss Joy is holding her own. We hope we’ll save her.’ Oh, Miss Jen! Will she get better?”

  “It’s not as good news as all that.” Jack glanced at Jen’s white face. “But it means there’s hope. Buck up, Jen, old thing! Did you think it was——?”

  Jen leaned on the gate. “It might have been. Oh, that’s better news! If she can hold on long enough, surely she’ll come back! Thanks awfully, Susie! I’m glad you caught us. Will you do something else for us?”

  “Sure, Miss Jen! What is it?”

  “When you can be spared, go into the Abbey to Timothy. He wants to tell you something; it’s something good, so you needn’t worry. But don’t go yet, Susie. I want you to meet us here, at this spot, in an hour, to tell us if there’s any more news. Keep watching for Nurse, and ask her, if you have a chance.” She looked at Jack. “It will be better than going to the house, not knowing what’s happened.”

  Jack agreed. “If it should be bad news we could bolt to the Abbey again. Better say two hours; Susie hasn’t time to hang about waiting for us, and we won’t be down in an hour.”

  “All right,”
Jen gave way, but her voice was wistful. “Are you going to drag me right to the top?” They waved to Susie and turned to climb the mossy steps through the wood.

  “Right to the cave,” Jack said firmly. “It will buck us up to have a good climb in the wind. I should think you’d want to go. Didn’t your monk friends go up there to say their prayers?”

  “To be away from people. Yes, we think they did. I feel rather like one of them to-day.”

  “Going to say your prayers in the cave?” Jack asked.

  “Shouldn’t wonder. I’m saying mine all the time.”

  “How d’you mean—all the time?” Jack demanded. “You’re not!”

  “I think perhaps it’s not what we say but what we really feel that is the praying,” Jen struggled to explain herself. “Not the words, but wanting something terribly badly. If we pray for a thing without caring much about it, that isn’t praying; it’s only a recitation. But if we want something fearfully much, with every single part of us, then perhaps the words don’t matter, and we go on praying all the time, when we’re too busy to say things, all through the other jobs we have to do. See what I mean?”

  “Gosh! It’s rather a decent idea,” Jack exclaimed. “I shouldn’t wonder if you were right. I’m afraid there’s a good lot of recitation about me, but not when I’m thinking about Joy.”

  “No, we’re in deadly earnest about her. I believe we’re praying all the time, even if we’re washing cups or making beds or climbing hills.”

  Jack shot a glance at her. “Jolly idea,” she said briefly.

  “I am so glad you’re here!” Jen broke out. “Think if I’d been all alone just now! You do understand, and you don’t make me feel silly when I try to say things!”

  “You aren’t silly. But sometimes you have rather grown-up ideas and it’s difficult to put them into words.”

  “Awfully hard,” Jen agreed. “It’s marvellous of you to understand.”

  Jack coloured. “I don’t have ideas like you do. All I can do is appreciate yours. I say! This is too steep for talking!”