“Aye, I’d like it all. But, Miss Joan——”
“And if you could stop calling me ‘Miss,’ I’d be so much happier,” Joan said, laughing. “It was quite all right when you had just arrived; very polite and proper! But aren’t we going to be friends?”
Selma grew crimson. “It’s no’ suitable. I’d no’ like to——”
“I’m only three years older than you! You make me feel like a middle-aged lady, and Joy said last night that she felt like an elderly maiden aunt! If you’re going to stay with us, we can’t go on as ‘Miss Joan’ and ‘Miss Joy’! It bores us terribly!”
“Aye, but that’s the trouble, Miss Joan. Am I——”
“Joan! Please, Selma!”
“It’s easy, really,” Jen said encouragingly.
“But am I to stay with you as long as that?” Selma insisted. “Will I no’ be going back to Scotland?”
“We’d like you to stay. Why shouldn’t you?”
“Don’t you want to stay?” Jen asked. “I’m sure it’s nicer than being in a shop.”
“Aye, but—but why?” Selma struggled to put her thoughts into words. “Why would you be bothered with me?”
“I don’t know I’m sure.” Joan smiled at her. “It’s very odd; but if we want to be bothered with you, why shouldn’t we?”
“You won’t be a bother,” Jen said solemnly. “Look how nicely they put up with me! I’m a bother, if you like, coming to stay here over and over again! They’ll like to have you here.”
“Let’s stop talking nonsense and go home to tea,” Joan suggested. “We’ll be glad to have you stay here, Selma. We don’t have many visitors; we haven’t a great many friends yet, except at school. During our growing-up years, Mother was the caretaker of this Abbey and I did the work. We were as busy in our job as you were in the shop; we had no chance of making outside friends. I’ll tell you about those days, and about how we came to live at the Hall; Joy inherited it from her grandfather, you know. Since that time Mother hasn’t been very strong, though she’s a great deal better lately. We still haven’t many friends, except those we made at school. We aren’t at all a gay or lively house! You may find us rather dull. But if you can put up with us—what are you giggling at, Jenny-Wren?”
“I don’t think it’s a dull house! I’ve never been dull for half a second.”
Joan laughed. “We’d like you to stay for quite a while, Selma. It will cheer us up. Don’t bother any more about it; just settle down and be jolly and happy with us.”
“It’s wonderful of you to say that, Miss——”
“Selma!”
Selma reddened and laughed. “Then—Joan! But it does sound queer.”
“That makes me seem rather an ogress,” Joan warned her. “Come along! We’ll show you the rest of our treasures another time. We were a little nervous about bringing you here—because of Angus, you know. But now that there’s no secret we shall feel much happier. Yes, Jen? What is it?”
“Aren’t you going to tell her why you’re so nice to people? About the Abbey and the monks?”
“I’ll leave that to you. When you go to bed you may talk for half an hour; not more, because of school to-morrow.”
“Will Joy take me in the car? It’s an awful fag for her.”
“Sometimes. Or Selma and I will cycle with you and go to the Wycombe shops; we’ll hire a third bike in the village. Or you can go by train quite well.”
“I can, but I don’t like going by train. Still, it’s worth it, to get living with you instead of at school.”
“Will Miss Joy play to us again to-night?” Selma asked shyly. “I love to hear her play.”
“Miss Joy won’t,” Joan said promptly. “But Joy will, if you ask her nicely.”
“Oh! But it’s her house. It seems such cheek!”
“Poor Joy! Do you want her to feel like a maiden aunt?”
Selma laughed. “Tell me more about your monks!” and she changed the subject.
“And we never saw the cats!” Jen said mournfully.
“They must go for walks! Selma shall meet the Mother Superior and Timmy another time. She’s seen the Curate already.”
“Is that the thin black one, who runs about the house?”
“With a white patch under his chin. He’s always prowling about; he goes to call on people in the village.”
“Like a proper Curate,” Jen grinned. “He has a large parish to visit.”
Selma was quietly summoning up her courage, and when they reached the house she went bravely to Joy.
“Joan”—she said the name steadily—“says I’ve been making you feel like an aunt. I’m sorry; I didn’t mean it. Will you play to us to-night—Joy?”
“Oh, cheers!” Joy cried. “That sounds more homelike. Selma, my dear, I will. I’ve given you Beethoven, and Chopin, and Schubert. To-night you shall have Mozart.”
“I know I will like it, whatever it is,” Selma said happily.
CHAPTER 17
JOAN’S FAMILY
“Is it a real proper love-story, Joan?” Jen whispered, under cover of Joy’s Sunday night concert.
“Not yet, but it will be some day,” Joan replied. “It’s a very good start, but so far it’s just a happy arrangement between two nice young people. They’ll both be the better for it. Angus may be in love with Selma, but she is merely very fond of him.”
“Isn’t that enough? I don’t know anything about being in love.”
“I don’t pretend to know much! But Mother says it’s not enough, though plenty of people may marry on that.”
“You mean, after they were married they might find somebody else they could be madly in love with, and that would be rather awkward?”
“Rather awful, I should say. Just that, Jenny-Wren. But I believe Selma will love Angus some day.”
“I loved the way she said, ‘Ah’ll be gey prood to be marriet to him’!”
“That’s exactly what it sounded like,” Joan laughed. “What are you going to say to her about the monks?”
“You know quite well what I’m going to say!”
“I’ve a very good idea,” Joan admitted. “Don’t be too late, or she’ll ‘sleep in’ again, as she says.”
“So Angus owned up!” Joy said, when Jen and Selma had gone to bed, and Mrs. Shirley and the girls sat by the fire to hear Joan’s story. “Jolly decent of him! And more honest than I’d expected.”
“Their relations are just as I thought.” Mrs. Shirley sounded satisfied. “Some day Selma will wake up to what love really means, and then they will be very happy. For her age, her attitude is right and natural; the boy must wait till she is ready to give him more.”
“I like Angus much better than I did last summer,” Joy commented. “Thank goodness, you’ve stopped that ‘Miss,’ Joan! It was getting on my nerves. I was beginning to feel like a proper grown-up lady, and I didn’t like it one bit.”
Upstairs, Jen turned to Selma. “Shall I come to your room, or will you come to mine?”
Selma looked startled. “Why would we do either way?”
“Joan said we might talk for half an hour. I want to tell you something.”
“I’ll come in your room,” Selma said, with a half-realised thought that if Jen’s “something” was not to her mind she could always come away, but that Jen might be difficult to dislodge, if she had settled down.
“Righto! Slip on your jolly red dressing-gown and come and squat on my bed. I’ll call on you another time. Have a choc? Take that thing off your hair and let it flop; I like to see it dangling round your face.”
Selma obediently removed the ribbon and let her hair fall about her cheeks. “I look like a wild thing, I know. Angus told me to tie it up; when we went on the steamer my hair blew all over the place and he said I’d need to do something about it.”
“You look very neat with the ribbon, but I want you to be comfy and feel at home.”
Selma was a little bewildered, but she said politely, “I’
m comfortable, thank you. Did you want to say anything special?”
Jen laughed. “You aren’t used to bedroom visits! I want to talk about the monks.”
“The monks? The men in those old places we saw?”
“The Abbey. It’s called the Abbey of Gracedieu, and that means ‘Grace of God’ or ‘Thanks to God.’ It belongs to Joan, and she takes care of it and sees that it isn’t damaged and doesn’t get decayed or anything. The monks were awfully decent old chaps, and they welcomed everybody and took them in and gave them just the help they needed; they had an infirmary, though it’s gone now, and they nursed sick people, and they were kind to everybody.”
Selma looked thoughtful. “That’s what Joan and Joy and Mrs. Shirley are like.”
Jen leaned forward and patted her on the knee. “Well done, you! It’s exactly what I hoped you’d say. They—but mostly Joan—have got infected by the thought of the monks and they try to be like them. It’s in the air of the Abbey, I think; the infection, I mean. Anyway, if you ask Joan why she does nice things she’ll say, ‘Because I want to and because of the Abbey.’ ”
“It’s very nice of her,” Selma said. “Then I suppose she feels she has to be kind to me, for that reason? Am I a person coming to the Abbey to be looked after?”
“It’s not only you. She wants you to stay because of Angus; it will please him to think you’re here. And she likes you; we all do. But there have been other people; Vinny Miles—we told you about her; and old Boniface Browning—Joan was just marvellous to him; and Rykie, last summer. For that matter, there’s me! Never mind the grammar; they’ve been most awfully decent to me, having me here at all sorts of times. You’ve come into Joan’s family, that’s all.”
Selma gave a sudden laugh. “What a funny idea! The family of people she’s been kind to?”
“That’s what I mean. Joan’s crowd; it’s a nice sort of crowd to belong to.” And Jen plunged into stories of Joan’s “family” in the past.
“Will I go to my bed now?” Selma asked at last. She had been interested, but she had a conscience and she knew they had talked long enough.
“Gosh, yes, you’d better! I forgot the time,” Jen cried in dismay. “It will be letting Joan down, if you stay any longer. I’m sorry, really I am. If she says anything I’ll tell her it was my fault.”
“It’s been very interesting. Thank you for telling me,” Selma said sedately, as she picked up her discarded ribbon. She paused at the door. “I think I will like going to school with you.”
“I wish you’d come to-morrow! But Joan’s plan is sure to be best. I’ll tell Jack and the others about you, and they’ll be glad to see you at half-term. Jack’s my very special chum; we’re rather like a married couple. We once adopted a daughter for a few weeks. You’ll like Jacky-boy. She’s one of the very best.”
“Then I know I will like her,” Selma responded suitably.
CHAPTER 18
SELMA ASKS QUESTIONS
“Will I no’ help you, Joan?” Selma came into the kitchen, when Jen had reluctantly gone off to school, racing through the woods to the little train.
Joan looked up from the porridge bowl she was drying, while a small maid washed another. “That’s very nice of you! I do this for Susie, to save her time. This is Susie; Susie Spindle.”
“How do you do?” Selma said politely.
“Nicely, thank you, miss. That’s the last one, Miss Joan.”
“Suppose you take my teacloth and dry the silver, Selma, while I put these things away. Then we’ll go and find some fresh dahlias for the hall, and I’ve some dusting to do. After that, Joy has a plan for you, and I think you’ll like it.”
“Is it as nice as her plan for Saturday? If it is, I know I will like it.”
“It’s the same sort of plan. She has to go to Oxford for a music lesson; a very fine pianist lives there, and Joy goes to him once a week—sometimes twice. If you’d like to go with her in the car, you can prowl about Oxford for an hour and a half; the city’s well worth seeing.”
“I would like that!” Selma’s face lit up. “I like new places. Oxford is famous, isn’t it?”
“Oh, everybody ought to see Oxford! You’ll want to go more than once; I expect Joy will take you with her often. We know it rather well, through going with her when she has her lessons.”
“I’d no’ have thought she needed any more lessons.” Selma polished forks carefully.
“She doesn’t feel like that. She says she still has lots to learn.”
“Has she any book about Oxford? I’d like to read about it. And will she lend me a map, to see the way we’re going?”
“That’s doing the thing properly! You’re a real explorer,” Joan exclaimed. “Joy will love you, if you like maps and guide-books. Oh yes! She’ll lend you both, and plans of Oxford, so that you can find your way, without wasting time.”
“I like to know all about places.”
“Joy will approve of you,” Joan said, laughing.
“I want to know something,” Selma said abruptly, as they went out to the garden, armed with basket and scissors.
“Is it anything I can tell you?”
“I’m no’ sure o’ that, but I thought I’d ask. It’s about money.”
“Yes?” Joan asked gently, not much surprised. “Money’s important, isn’t it?”
“It is that, when you’ve no’ got any.”
Joan laughed, and agreed. “But you don’t need much money just now. You’re our visitor, and we’re very glad to have you here.”
“You’re very kind,” Selma said gravely. “But if I go to school, who’s to pay for that? You must no’ pay for my schooling.”
“Rykie never asked who was paying for her at school! But you’re a very different person from Rykie; much more grown-up.”
“And clothes,” Selma insisted. “Will I no’ need to have things like Jen has?”
“A blue tunic and blazer, and a beret for the winter. Yes, you’ll want those. We must see about it. Don’t worry, Selma! It will be all right.”
Selma looked at her with troubled dark eyes. “It’s no’ just the school things. I’ve no’ got lots of clothes, and if I stay here a long while I’ll need more dresses and shoes and a winter coat.”
“That sounds like a jolly day’s shopping in town. Joy will drive us in and we’ll get you a regular outfit.”
“But the money!” Selma persisted. “I’ve no’ got the money for all those things. Who’s to pay for them?”
Joan sat on a wooden bench under a chestnut-tree which had already turned rusty brown.
“Sit down, Selma, and we’ll talk about it. The flowers can wait. You won’t want very many new things; we live quietly, as you can see, without much need for dressing-up; but you must have enough to make you feel comfortable. You’ll want a dancing frock, if you join the Hamlet Club, but we can help you to make it, if you’re any good at dressmaking; the pattern is very simple. Jen will show you hers; we all made our own. You should wear pink or red or gold; you’ll look nice in gay colours! I’m content with grey, but Joy has bright green and Jen has deep blue. As for paying”—she had been talking lightly to give Selma’s mind time to calm down, and now she finished in a completely matter-of-fact tone—“Angus wants to see to that, you know.”
Selma turned deep brown eyes, even larger than usual, upon her. “I ken that fine. I mean, I know he does. He said it to me on the steamer. But is it right? Can I let him pay for me? He said I could ask you and you’d tell me.”
“How clever of Angus! I think you must let him do it. He wants it so much; he’s really in earnest about it. He wants you to have what you need.”
“It’s no’ as if he was my father!”
Joan laughed. “Oh, Selma! It isn’t your father he wants to be; it’s something much more important!”
“You think it makes it different—that he wants us to get married some day?”
“It does make a difference! He feels you belong to him, and
he wants to give you things. He hasn’t asked you to wear a ring yet, and I think he’s right in that; it’s too soon. But you can let him give you other things.”
“He’s no’ got a lot of money.”
Joan looked at her in approval. “Nice of you! No, but he has enough for this. Mr. Van Toll sent him a present; did you know?”
Selma nodded. “But it was to buy things for himself.”
“He’d much rather buy things for you. Really, Selma, he’ll get far more fun out of it. We’ll ask him to come for a week-end, and he shall see the things you’ve bought.”
Selma’s face grew suddenly wistful. “It would be nice to see Angus.”
“Then do as he wants, and write a letter thanking him and saying you’re going shopping in London.”
“But the school?” Selma was still uneasy. “Will he pay for the school too? Ought I to go to school?”
“He’ll be very glad that you should go,” Joan said gently. “Don’t disappoint him! Angus feels that some day he will have a very different life, wider in every way, meeting people and travelling. At present he is preparing for it. He wants you to share it, and he is eager to help you to prepare for it too. The more experience you have, the readier you will feel; and going to a new school will be a big new experience. Throw yourself into it and enjoy it and learn all you can, and you will repay Angus for anything he spends on you. As it happens, and thanks to Mr. Van Toll, he can afford to do it. He’ll get far more pleasure in using the money for you, in helping you to feel more fit to be his wife some day, than in spending it on clothes or concerts for himself.”
Selma reddened. “I’m no’ wanting to be married yet. And I’m no’ fit to be anybody’s wife, forbye.”
“Oh, not for some time, of course! You’re only sixteen. But it’s time to be getting ready. Do you know, Selma, I believe you’ll make a big step towards being ready for Angus, if you can learn to take presents from him graciously? It isn’t always an easy thing to do. You can’t be proud with him if you’re really fond of him. And you couldn’t hurt his feelings!”
Selma at the Abbey Page 9