Stowaways in the Abbey

by Elsie J. Oxenham

  “Thank you, Miss Joan. Mrs. Watson said you’d know what to do,” and Grace went away comforted.

  “I wish I did!” Joan sighed. “How can I help, when I can’t go after Jen?”

  There was nothing to do but wait. Joan thought and puzzled over the problem, and wondered. In the early afternoon her face lit up with a sudden idea.

  “That might do it! I believe I could make Jen see it. I’ve been dreading her coming back, but now I wish she’d hurry.” And she watched the path that led from the hills with new eagerness.

  Jen came at last, heavily and not looking up. She had sat on the edge of the quarry, unhappy and restless, not understanding her own discomfort, unable to reach a decision without help and unable to find the help she needed.

  “She isn’t a bit like herself, poor kid,” Joan thought, as she watched her come. “How could she be? Everything’s out of tune. With Susie in the Abbey, even that refuge is taken from her. Jenny-Wren! What a long time you’ve stayed with the monks!”

  Jen looked up, with a start. Her eyes were tired and she shrank under Joan’s look. “Oh—Joan! I hadn’t anything else to do. It’s rotten without Jack.”

  “I’m sure you’re missing her. But you might have thought of me. I want somebody to talk to! Joy isn’t strong enough for talking yet, and Mother has to keep quiet. I’m almost fit again, and I’ve been lonely and dull all day.”

  “I’m sorry! Oh, I am so sorry!” Jen cried. “I never thought you could be wanting me!” She put down her rucksack and sat on the stone wall of the terrace. “Joan, I’ve been afraid to ask you. Did they cut off Joy’s hair when she was so ill?”

  Joan laughed. “No, Nurse relented. She talked of it, but she waited one more day, and Joy’s temp. came down, so they spared her hair. I’d have been sorry, and so would Mother. I believe Joy would have been rather glad!”

  “Nurse said she’d shave me, if I took measles. I’ve been worried about Joy. I didn’t want her spoilt.”

  “Don’t worry any more; Joy’s all right. You won’t be so silly as to take measles now, will you, Jenny-Wren?”

  “Oh no! I’m very fit, and so is Jack.”

  “You don’t look too fit,” Joan said severely. “Didn’t you sleep well? Were you missing Jack all night?”

  Jen grew crimson and her eyes fell. She could not run away; that would have been rude to Joan and hard on her, and Jen was incapable of unkindness to Joan. But she would have liked to go and she showed it, as she sat looking at her swinging feet.

  Joan gazed down at her with deepest sympathy. “Feeling bad, Jenny-Wren?”

  “Rotten!” Jen burst out vehemently.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Everything. I don’t know; I don’t understand. Joan, can’t you tell me what’s the matter?” she asked unsteadily, without looking up. “I’m feeling bad about—about Susie; but she did play a rotten trick, Joan! You know how much I wanted to tell you myself. You understand, don’t you? She spoiled it for me, and I was so thrilled about the pictures. I’d looked forward so much to telling you. Why do I feel so rotten about being wild with her? I know that’s what is wrong; I’m as wild with her as I can be, and it’s making me feel awful. But I had the right to be wild, Joan! I’ve thought all day, and most of the night too, and I can’t see why I feel so bad.”

  “You’re rather a brick!” Joan exclaimed. “I never imagined you’d go as far as that all alone.”

  Jen pushed back her plaits and looked up indignantly. “What d’you mean? I am wild with Susie, and I think I’ve the right to be. But it’s making me feel I’m a rotter. What’s bricky in that? I want to know why I feel like that.”

  “I can tell you why quite easily! You’re a brick to have thought it out so honestly. I supposed you’d spent the day hating Susie and feeling ill-used, and that I’d have to tell you it was wrong. You’ve seen that for yourself; you admit it’s making you feel rotten. That means you know it’s wrong.”

  “Well, why?” Jen demanded. “You said you could tell me.”

  “Because you’re generous through and through, and your real self knows that Susie didn’t mean any harm, that you ought not to blame her so bitterly. You’re denying your generous side, and of course you’re feeling bad.”

  “Oh!” Jen reddened again. She sat swinging her foot and staring at her plimsolls. Presently she looked up defiantly. “Then I’ll have to go on feeling rotten for ever. Susie ought to have thought before she babbled to you. I don’t want any more to do with her.”

  She slid from her seat and picked up her bag. “I’ll go and have a wash before tea.”

  “One moment, Jenny-Wren,” Joan said quietly. “There’s something you haven’t thought of. Jen, there’s another fugitive in the Abbey—another stowaway! What about the ancient rights?”

  Jen stared at her wide-eyed. “Joan! What do you mean?”

  “In the Abbey, hiding from her enemy. Susie’s taken refuge there, and she won’t come back. She’s cried till she’s almost ill, because she cares so much for you and she knows she’s hurt you. She never meant any harm; she didn’t understand it was a secret. She isn’t educated; she doesn’t think clearly. All she can say is that you hate her and won’t speak to her, and she wants to die.”

  “Silly little idiot!” Jen muttered, her lips trembling.

  “Of course. But she means it and she’s very unhappy. No one can persuade her to come out of the Abbey. She’s a stowaway, right enough, and she’s taken refuge. Now, Jen, what about it? Are you going to restore the ancient rights of the Abbey, when it really costs you something?”

  Jen stood kicking a rose-leaf and staring at the ground.

  Joan went on relentlessly. “Does the Abbey really mean anything to you, or is it only sentimental talk? I know it will need a great effort for you to forgive Susie, but that means you’ve a chance of doing something for the Abbey that is really worth while—of proving how much it means to you. You see that, don’t you?”

  “Joan, do stop!” Jen cried desperately. “The Abbey’s ruined for me now!”

  “I think it will be, if you let this chance go. I honestly don’t think you’ll ever be quite comfortable in there again, unless you play the game now. You’ll feel you’ve let the Abbey down. It’s almost like a challenge, isn’t it?”

  Jen, with a hunted little gasp, fled into the house.

  “Poor kid!” Joan half laughed. “I had to say it, but I hated doing it. She’ll rise to it. I’m certain of that. But she’ll have a fight, and nobody can help her. She’ll have a bad time. But the Abbey will win!”

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  ANOTHER STOWAWAY IN THE ABBEY

  Jen crept down to her lonely tea, looking white and tired. She had spent a rebellious, unhappy hour in her room, with the door locked, but she knew that if she refused to appear Nurse would come to look for signs of measles. For the first time she was glad that Joan was not yet certified quite free from infection.

  Nurse, meeting her in the hall, glanced at her curiously, but Joan had told her a little of the trouble, so she asked no questions, but made a note to keep an eye on Jen for the next day or two.

  Shut in her room again, Jen’s struggle went on. Susie had no right—it had been enough to make anybody wild—how could such a thing ever be forgiven?

  A stowaway in the Abbey—well, she deserved to be. There was something to be said, after all, for the enemies who pursued the guilty person fleeing from justice. It was a mean trick to run to the Abbey, knowing he—or she—would find refuge; a rotten trick! Any one who was guilty ought to face up to the consequences, not hide in a church.

  Jen, in the depths of misery, threw off her clothes and flung herself into bed.

  “I can never go into the Abbey again. It’s ruined for me. I can’t help it; Susie’s a rotten little pig, and I can’t—I couldn’t—oh, everything’s awful! I’ll go back to school and never come here again. I know what Joan thinks; I shan’t be able to come back.”

  She fe
ll asleep, worn out with the struggle that tormented her. One thing which Joan had said she dared not admit to her mind; with all her strength she fought to keep it at bay.

  But when she slept her defences were down and her real self came into its own. For hours she lay without dreaming, exhausted; then, in the early morning, she suddenly sat up with a jerk.

  “Joan said—she said Susie had been crying for two days, till she was nearly ill—because of me! She said Susie wants to die, because I won’t speak to her. Oh, gosh! What shall I do? I can’t let the kid go on like that!”

  That was the picture she had been holding at bay—Susie crying hour after hour, refusing to leave the Abbey, not taking refuge from punishment, but because she was miserable. “Because I said I wouldn’t speak to her. I’ll have to put that right. She’s only a kid, and I suppose she really didn’t understand. What did Joan say?—‘Not educated. Can’t think clearly.’ And she has nobody, like a mother, or Joan, to go to. She upset me terribly badly, of course,” and her lips quivered at the memory of her disappointment, “but I seem to have upset her, too, much more than I thought. I don’t know why she cares so much. But she mustn’t go on crying like that!”

  She was dressing quickly. It was not, after all, loyalty to the Abbey or to Joan that had wrought the change, though it was by the appeal to the Abbey that Joan had won her attention and had been able to paint that harrowing picture of Susie sobbing in the Abbey. It was her own friendly nature, coming back into its own, after shock and bitter disappointment had driven it out. Susie was in terrible trouble; she must be helped. No one else could do it.

  “It’s because of me,” Jen thought, marvelling as she brushed her hair. “She seems to care a terrible lot about me. I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s because of Timothy. That was Joan, really, but Susie will think I did it. I’d better put her right about that. But first I must stop her crying. I can’t do anything else till I’ve seen to that.”

  She could not have lain in bed with that picture of Susie in her mind. It was not yet seven o’clock, but the garden was full of sunshine and singing birds, and she had slept enough. She put on plimsolls and crept downstairs to the garden door.

  At the Abbey gate she remembered that she had no key and that it was now kept in Mrs. Shirley’s room. During the night the gate would be locked; yes, she could not open it. She hesitated, then raced by the shrubbery path to the beech avenue, and set out to go all the way round to the front gate of the ruins—down the avenue, and along the road, till she came to the entrance which led to the big gate-house.

  “It will take quite ten minutes,” she said to herself. “But there’s nothing else to do. I couldn’t scream till Mrs. Watson heard and came to open the gate; and the underground doors would be locked too. I couldn’t possibly sit down and wait till Nurse could fetch the key. It might not be till nine o’clock! Now that I’ve thought about Susie crying like that, I can’t sit still till I’ve done something to stop her.”

  She remembered the time when she and Jack, locked into the Abbey instead of out of it, had rushed home by this long way, very late for dinner, in the days when the school had been living at the Hall. That had been more than a year ago.

  “It’s a gorgeous morning for a walk.” She turned into the road and went more soberly along towards the gate-house. “Nothing was nice yesterday, but somehow to-day seems different. I wonder if Mrs. Watson will be up yet? She ought to be; it’s almost seven.”

  It was early for Ann Watson, but her mind was not easy about her guest in the little room, and she had risen to go and look at her. Jen’s tap on the outer door brought her to the entrance, looking startled.

  “Eh, Miss Jen! At this time o’ day!”

  “The gate was locked, and I couldn’t wake Mrs. Shirley to ask for the key. I want to speak to Susie.”

  “Well, there now! I hope as how you’ll be able to make her see sense,” Mrs. Watson exclaimed. “She just lays there and weeps. I can’t do nothing with her.”

  Jen’s shiver was partly due to dismay over Susie and partly to horror at Ann’s English, which was worse than usual in her annoyance with Susie. “Where is she, please?”

  “In the wee room you slep’ in t’other night. I locked her in; Miss Joan said to do it, for fear she’d run off somewhere. She’s in a state and no mistake.”

  Mrs. Watson led the way to the garth and unlocked the door in the cloisters. “I don’t like her looks. Seems to me she’s downright poorly.”

  “I’ll speak to her. Please don’t come in!” Jen pleaded. “She might not like it.”

  Ann shrugged her shoulders and went to put on her kettle. “A cup o’ tea wouldn’t hurt nobody,” she said to herself.

  Jen slipped into the room and closed the door. “Susie!” she said gently. “I say, Susie, I’m just terribly sorry. I didn’t understand until this morning.”

  With a wild cry Susie started up, flinging back her untidy brown hair. “Miss Jen! Oh, Miss Jen, I didn’t mean it! I’m that sorry! I didn’t know you’d care! I never meant no harm, Miss Jen!”

  She was flushed and hot, and her eyes were bright with fever. One look was enough for Jen; she spoke quickly and with energy, but went no nearer than the door.

  “I say, Susie, have you a bad cold, or is it just crying? Is your throat sore? I’m quite sure you’ve a headache.”

  “I don’t know. I’m sore all over. Miss Jen, I never meant——”

  “Don’t worry about that any more. Listen, Susie! I’m sorry for what I said. I didn’t mean it; about not speaking to you, you know. It was all rot; but I’m sorry I said it. I didn’t know how you felt; and you didn’t know how I felt! We’d better call it square and say no more about it. So you’ll stop crying, won’t you? You’ve nearly made yourself ill, you silly thing! Now you’re to lie down and stop thinking and try to go to sleep. I’ll come back presently and sit beside you, if I can; but I’ve had no breakfast yet. You can wait till I’ve had something to eat, now that you know it’s all right, can’t you?”

  Susie dropped back on her pillow, with a sob of relief. “It’s all right! Oh, I am so tired!”

  “You’d better rest. Now that you’ve nothing to worry about, I expect you’ll go to sleep.”

  Jen slipped out, and, closing the door quietly, went to Mrs. Watson’s kitchen. “Will you give Susie some breakfast? I hope she’ll be able to eat it. She’ll be all right now; she won’t cry any more. May I have the key of the garden gate? Thanks! I’ll bring it back presently.”

  She went off by the tresaunt, to let herself into the garden of the Hall.

  “If that’s not measles, I’ll be surprised! Just fancy Susie having it! We never thought of that. I don’t believe anybody could look so much like measles and not have it. Nurse will need to see her at once!”

  CHAPTER XXIX

  A LONGER HOLIDAY

  “Nurse!” Jen called up to Joan’s window. “Can I speak to you? I’m afraid it’s rather important.”

  Nurse looked out at her with startled eyes. “I’ll come down—Well, what’s the matter?”

  “Susie Spindle. She’s in the Abbey, and if she isn’t beginning measles I’ll eat my hat.”

  Nurse gave an exclamation of dismay. “And you’ve been with her?”

  “I didn’t go past the door; I have some sense! As soon as I saw her I guessed, and I didn’t go near her. But I had to talk to her, or she’d have gone on howling herself into hysterics. It may be only crying, of course, but I’m afraid it’s measles. I thought you’d like to look at her.”

  “If it’s measles, you won’t go back to school this term,” Nurse said grimly.

  Jen stared at her. Then with a whoop she dashed down to the lawn and began to turn head over heels at express speed.

  “Oh, cheers! Oh, good! Joan will be better and I’ll still be here! Oh, marvellous!”

  “What you need,” Nurse said sternly, “is a severe attack and a fortnight in bed, and to have your head shaved.”

  �
��There’s not a thing the matter with me,” Jen assured her. “I’m as fit as anything. I felt rotten yesterday, but it wasn’t measles. I’m going to have another fortnight here, and it will be simply marvellous.”

  “They might as well send you home to Yorkshire. There won’t be any term left by the time all this quarantine is finished.”

  “Well, wouldn’t that be marvellous too? Whatever they decide I’ll be lucky,” and Jen turned a cart-wheel and came upright again at the foot of the steps. “But I don’t think they’ll send me home. I may have caught a germ from Susie this morning. Auntie Shirley and Joan will want to be sure I’m safe; they wouldn’t like me to take their measles home to my family.” And she whirled over on her hands again.

  “Jenny-Wren, what are you doing?” Joan, still in her dressing-gown, called from the window. “You seem to have come back to us; you weren’t our Jen last night! Is anything the matter?”

  Jen, with a whoop, dashed up to the terrace. “Joan! Oh, Joan-Queen, I’m sorry I was a pig to Susie. I let down the Abbey badly, didn’t I? And I let you down too. But it’s all O.K. now, Joan. I’ve talked to Susie and she won’t cry any more.”

  “That’s good news! I’m very glad to hear it. I don’t wonder you were celebrating.”

  “Oh, well!” Jen reddened. “I was rejoicing, of course, but I know it was a bit brutal. Nurse is shocked, and you will be too. I’m sorry about Susie; I really am. I was thinking about my own good luck. It’s so wildly unlikely, and yet it seems to have happened. You see, Joan, I’m afraid Susie’s going to have measles.”

  “Gracious!” Joan exclaimed, startled. “Oh, I say, I hope not!” She looked at Nurse in dismay.

  “I’m going to see the child,” Nurse said. “If it’s true, it’s most unfortunate. Jen seems sure, but perhaps she’s mistaken.”