Selma at the Abbey

by Elsie J. Oxenham

  A sudden wave splashed almost to Selma’s feet, disturbing the peaceful lapping of the tide. Her eyes swept over the stretch of sunlit water.

  “What did that? Oh, I see! A motor-boat. Fancy the wash coming all this way!”

  Angus did not respond. She glanced round, and then, at sight of his attitude—his head bent and his hands hanging loosely between his knees—she forgot the wave and the motor-boat, and dropped quickly on the rock beside him.

  “Angus, what is it? Tell me! There’s something terribly wrong, to make you look like that!”

  “It was last summer.” Angus spoke hurriedly, with desperate courage. “Rykie was staying with Miss Joan, and she was crazy to go to Hollywood. It was before Belle was engaged to Terry, and there was no money to pay for Rykie to go. She tried to borrow from Miss Joy, who has plenty of money; but they all said she was too young to go to Hollywood, and they wouldn’t give her the cash. I was in London, after that voyage on the beastly ship, and she——”

  “I’d have loved the ship! And you went to South America; lucky you! Never mind. What did Rykie do?”

  “I hated the ship. She wrote to me, and she said that in the Abbey ruins there were some jewels, and if she could get hold of one, just one little one, I could sell it for her abroad somewhere, and we’d share what it brought. She’d asked Miss Joy to give her one, but nobody would listen. She said the stones were no good to anybody, just lying there in a glass case, and they were being wasted, and we needed them so frightfully badly. I was desperate; I’d loathed the ship, and I wanted music lessons. I’d been to a big concert in London—up in the top gallery, where it cost almost nothing; and there was a chap playing the violin—the Tchaikovski concerto, a marvellous thing. I knew that was what I wanted to do; to play with a big orchestra like that; and I believed I could do it, if I had the right lessons.”

  He paused for breath, and Selma nodded. “I believe you will, too, when McAlistair has finished with you.”

  “Yes, but there wasn’t any McAlistair then! I was no’ having any lessons, and I could no’ see any way to get them. There was nothing for me, so far as I could see, but playing at dance halls and night clubs. I could no’ stand that for ever. Then Rykie’s letter came, and I saw that one of those stones would mean lessons for me and Hollywood for her. Oh, Selma lass, do you no’ see? Do you no’ see how hard it was?”

  Selma’s hand slipped into his. “What did you do? Rykie ought to have been spanked. Oh, Angus, did you—did she——?”

  “We tried,” Angus said brokenly. “She let me into the Abbey at midnight and took me up to the big hall and showed me the case with the jewels. They fascinated me! There were a lot of them, and it seemed to me that one little one would no’ be missed. And then—well, there were so many and I knew they were worth a fortune, and—and I said I’d bag the lot. She shrieked at me that I must no’ do that, but I’d lost my head at the sight of them. They flashed in the torchlight, red and green and blue, and—and I was just going to take them when Miss Joan and little Miss Jen came in and found us at it.”

  “Oh!” Selma gasped. “But what were they doing there at midnight?”

  “Miss Jen had heard Rykie go out, and they’d followed her. She—Miss Jen—gave a yell and flung herself on my back. I was bending over the case, no’ expecting anything like that, and it threw me off my balance and I fell. They all sat on top of me, even Rykie, and I could no’ do anything.”

  “What a ghastly mess!” Selma cried indignantly. “Rykie ought to have stood by you! She’d made you go there!”

  “She was upset because I said I’d take the lot. It was mad; I knew that as soon as I’d said it. One little one might no’ have been missed, though Miss Jen said they’d have known.”

  “But they were sure to know, if you’d taken the lot.” Selma nodded. “Oh, Angus, what a good thing they stopped you! You’d have been a burglar, would you no’?”

  “I tried to be one,” Angus said sombrely. “Do you feel like marrying a burglar? I’ll no’ blame you, if you change your mind.”

  Selma’s hand squeezed his. “Go on! What happened?”

  “They sent me away. They said they’d no’ prosecute me, unless I came back and tried again. I’d come to my senses by that time, and I knew what an awful thing I’d nearly done. I walked all that night, hating myself more every minute. I went back to London, for I was sure Rykie would want to write. I thought perhaps they’d fling her out; after all, though I was soft, it was her idea in the first place. I stayed on in the digs I’d found, and in a few days a letter came from a lawyer fellow.”

  “Oh!” Selma cried. “Were they going to summon you, after all?”

  “No. The next bit is partly why I’m telling you all this. Chiefly, it’s because I want to have no secrets between us, and so you have to know how awful I’ve been. But I feel, too, that if you’re going to stay there you ought to know how wonderful they were. The lawyer said the Miss Shirleys had sold one of their rubies, a big one, and the money was to be used for me, to help my musical education. He asked me to say what teacher I’d like to go to.”

  “They were going to give you the price of the ruby?” Selma shouted. “They’d given one of their stones to help you, after—after——”

  “After I’d tried to pinch it. That’s what you’ve got to know, if you’re going to stay with them. They gave me the price of a big ruby, and that’s how I’m able to have lessons from one of the best men in Glasgow.”

  “What lovely people!” Selma drew a long breath. “Oh, I’m glad I’m going to see them!”

  “You had to know,” Angus repeated doggedly. “It’s only fair to them.”

  “Did they send Rykie to Hollywood?”

  “No; Terry and Belle came home and took her back with them. They didn’t give Rykie anything.”

  “That was fair. It was all her fault. Did you write to say thank you for the lessons?”

  “I went. It was beastly, but I had to go. I couldn’t possibly take the money until I’d thanked them.”

  “Oh!” Selma gazed at him. “That was jolly brave. You’d no’ like doing it, I bet.”

  “I did not. But it had to be done. Rykie had told them about my music and about what I wanted, and they asked what teacher I’d choose. I’d taken my fiddle; I felt if they were going to help me they ought to hear me play, if they cared about it. They were pleased, and they seemed to think I had a chance of making good.”

  “You’ll make good! You’ll be playing at big concerts quite soon. I expect the Miss Shirley who’s keen on music understood how you’d been feeling.”

  “Miss Joy; aye, I think she did. It did something to me.” Angus spoke slowly, pondering his words. “Their kindness, and their understanding like that and being so decent and generous, and—and my having nearly done such an awful thing! It was all a big shock, Selma lass. I think it made me a bit different inside.”

  Her hand squeezed his once more. “You couldn’t ever do anything like it again, could you?”

  “Rather not! I’ve been pulled up sharp, and—I’m glad of it now. We’ve always done as we liked; we’ve been determined to get on, and we’d do anything that we thought would help; Belle for films, Rykie for acting, and me for music. We didn’t care what we did, so long as it would help us to get on. I’ve seen what that leads to; you go too far. You must be honest, and decent to other people, like Miss Joan and Miss Joy have been to me. I’ll be more careful after this.”

  “You were nearly a burglar,” Selma whispered. “But you’re a reformed burglar now.”

  “Will it make any difference?” he asked wistfully. “Do you still feel like us belonging to one another?”

  “Don’t be daft!” Selma pressed his arm, her eyes on a passing steamer. “The only difference is that I think you were fearfully brave and sporting to tell me. And—oh yes, Angus! It makes us belong more than ever, because we both know and we feel the same about it, just terribly sorry it nearly happened, but so frightfully gl
ad it didn’t quite. And we know it could never happen again. It’s a sort of secret, joining us together; do you no’ see?”

  “You are a dear wee brick!” he said unsteadily. “I didn’t really think you’d throw me over, but I’d no’ blame you, if you did. And I’ve been so terribly keen on you for a long time.”

  Selma shot a look at him. There was something here she did not yet understand; his feeling was very much deeper than hers and she realised it. But the afternoon’s talk had warmed her to him, and she drew close to him, as she said, “It was lovely of you to tell me! You did it because we belong, didn’t you?”

  “I did so! I’d no’ want anybody else to know.”

  “Except me. I do like you, Angus!”

  He gave a small laugh. “My girl, you know.”

  “Yes, rather! Angus, you were daft to do it, of course, but I think you were a sort of hero to tell me, and to go back to thank those girls, after what had happened!”

  “Neither was easy. I felt jolly bad about both,” he told her. “Come on! Let’s walk back to Gourock. I can enjoy a tramp now. I felt too bad before.”

  Selma sprang up, and they set out briskly along the road between the hill and the water.

  “I want to give you something,” he said suddenly. “A good-bye present, but you must choose it. I thought perhaps you’d like a nice umbrella; it’s the sort of thing a girl ought to have. Or a hat!” with a suggestive glance at her wind-tossed curls.

  “I never use an umbrella; they’re an awful bore to carry, and I know I’d lose it. And I loathe hats. Will these people mind? Do they wear hats all the time?”

  “They had no’ any hats when I was there, but they were in the garden or the car.”

  “The car!” Selma exclaimed. “That sounds fine! But must I have a hat? Oh, Angus, if you really want to do something, don’t give me hats! Take me on the water once more, before I go away! I’d like that better than anything!”

  Angus laughed; his mind was greatly eased and he was himself again. “Sure? I can no’ afford a lot. I’m going to hang on to my cash till I know what new things Miss Joan says you need. But if you’re no’ wanting hats or umbrellas——!”

  “I’m not! I’d far rather have a sail!”

  “Righto! You write to Miss Joan and ask her when you may come, after you’ve left the shop, and I’ll plan a last trip down the water. There are no’ many boats running now; winter service! But we can always get to Rothesay, and we could walk over to Ettrick Bay and picnic on the shore.”

  “Angel!” Selma said happily.

  CHAPTER 10

  DARK DAUGHTER OF THE VIKINGS

  All Selma’s life, a trip down the water on one of the river steamers had been her greatest treat. For this she had saved her scanty pennies, and had teased anyone who was able to take her.

  Now, for her last gift from Angus, on the day before they were to go south, she stood in the extreme bow of the boat, radiant with delight, the wind whipping her face, her hair blown back wildly, her cheeks glowing, her eyes gazing steadily forward.

  Angus, sitting on the rail close at hand, looked at her with carefully concealed but loving pride. She was his girl, and she was so gallant, facing the wind and the unknown future with joy.

  All he said, however, was, “You’ll need to do something about your hair; it’s a perfect mop. If you’ll no’ wear a hat, could you no’ tie something round it?”

  Selma pulled a mackintosh hood from her pocket and jammed it on her curls, tying it under her chin. “I knew I’d need it. I don’t mind rain, but the spray’s salty, and I don’t like that. Will the new people think I look an awful sight? I could wear a ribbon, tied round my head.”

  “Might be a good plan. Aye, you do that! Does it no’ take an awful time to comb it?”

  “It does, rather. But I’ll no’ be going on boats, will I? Will I like it, Angus? I can’t believe that to-morrow night I’ll no’ be here!”

  “Finish your words!” Angus said austerely. “Say ‘not,’ not ‘no’.’ You don’t want to have Miss Joan telling you how to speak.”

  “I will not be here,” Selma said, with dignity. “It’s just that I don’t remember. Besides, you do it yourself.”

  “You’ll need to remember. You’ve started talking like Mollie and the rest at the shop.”

  “Well, I’ve been talking to Mollie and the rest! Have I got to—must I do school speaking all the time?”

  “Aye, you must!” he said firmly. “You can do it when you like. Speak the way you had to do at school. Don’t say ‘I’ll no’ do that’, when you mean ‘I won’t do it.’ See?”

  “I’ll no’ mind all the time, I’m afraid,” Selma sighed. “But I’ll try, or you’ll be black affrontit, I suppose. Will I like this place, Angus?”

  “You’ll like every minute of it; I keep on telling you. It’s a bonny place. There’s no need to be feared.”

  Selma’s chin went up. “I’m no’ feared!—or, since you like that better—I am not in the least afraid. I like new things and new places and new folk. But it feels gey queer, all the same.”

  “You’ll never want to go away. There’s your castle!” and they looked across at white Dunselma on its point.

  “Will they think my name is very odd?”

  “I told them how you came by it. Miss Joan said the Vikings must have brought queer names, and she asked if you were like them to look at—tall and fair, with blue eyes.”

  Selma chuckled. “I’m a dark daughter of the Vikings! I’d have loved to live in those days and go adventuring in the long ships with shields on the sides! Perhaps I did, in some earlier life. Perhaps I came here in a ship, a thousand years ago.”

  “Havers!” said Angus. “But you’ve a lot of your father in you. Perhaps some day you’ll sail round the world.”

  “There’s nothing I’d like better! I feel I’m setting out on an adventure to-morrow.”

  “You are that!” he agreed. “But the Dark Daughter of the Vikings must go by train, in these days.”

  Selma laughed. “My new name! It suits me, I believe.” She clung to a rope and braced herself to meet the wind, as it came sweeping up from the sea.

  “When I come back and want a job, I shall put on slacks and a jersey and cut off my hair, and then I’ll come on one of these boats as a cabin-boy,” she said.

  “You might get taken on as a stewardess. But that would no’ be much use, for you’d be below all the time, serving teas and looking after seasick ladies.”

  “No’ much fun in that! No, I’d better be a cabin-boy. But I’m going to see England first.”

  He rejoiced inwardly in her gallant courage. But it was no surprise to find that he had to keep reassuring her at intervals during the next day’s long journey.

  She was worn out long before they reached London, and he wondered how she would stand the noise and bustle of the traffic as they crossed from Euston to Paddington. Her excitement was so great that she could not settle to the book he had bought for her, but was constantly dashing out into the corridor to see what lay on the other side of the line, or springing up to look at the map on the carriage wall and see where they were now and how far they had still to go. The length of the journey startled her; she had never thought one train could go such a distance. Her experience had been limited to the run from Glasgow to Gourock, or to boat trips across or down the Firth; that a train could go on and on at full speed all day was frightening and quite incredible.

  As they rushed through the southern Midlands during the afternoon, she subsided into her corner from sheer exhaustion, and lay leaning on Angus and gazing out at the miles of green country.

  “More hedges than we have and no’ so many stone walls! Oh, Angus, I do feel queer!”

  His arm went round her quickly. “Does the shaking upset you?”

  “Oh no! I don’t mean sick. But—well, just a bit shy and—and almost frightened. Suppose I don’t like your Miss Joan?”

  “Then you’ll come back
to Glasgow,” he said cheerfully. “And that will be jolly for me, because I’ll see you again. But I hope you’ll no’ do it too soon.”

  “It would be wasting an adventure,” Selma agreed. “I guess I’ll stick it out for a bit. But I hope it’ll no’ be too bad. You say the old lady’s nice? What are you laughing at?”—indignantly.

  “You,” Angus told her. “You’re going to have the time of your life, and you talk about ‘not being too bad,’ and ‘sticking it out for a bit.’ You’ll love Mrs. Shirley; she’s the perfect grandmother, but rather a grand lady too. You’ll no’ want to do anything that would upset her. Come and have some tea! That will wake you up.”

  Their lunch had been sandwiches and cakes, chocolate and apples. Tea in the restaurant car was a new experience that thrilled Selma completely, and she was very wide awake when at last the train began to run through the London suburbs.

  “We have to get another train, out into the country,” Angus was explaining, as they stepped down to the platform. “We’ll need to take a taxi to the other station, because of the luggage.”

  “Oh, no, you won’t!” said a masterful voice behind him. “We’ve come to look after you.”

  They both swung round, to face a tall, pretty girl, in a big leather coat, with dark red hair tucked under a cap, and another girl only slightly smaller, with long yellow plaits, and eager blue eyes which matched her coat, and hatless.

  “We’ve come to take you home. We thought you’d be so tired of trains,” the younger girl cried. “Are you Selma? Janet Selma, isn’t it? I’m Janet too, but I’m always called Jen.”

  “Miss Joy! Miss Jen!” Angus stammered, taken completely by surprise.

  Selma, suddenly tongue-tied, could only stare, not yet understanding why they had come.

  “We’ve brought the car,” Joy said briskly. “You must be sick of trains. It’s a long ride, but it saves the change of stations and the crossing of town. Where’s your luggage? A trunk in the van? You find it, Angus, and tell a porter to bring it along. The car’s just here.”