The Two Mrs. Abbotts

by D. E. Stevenson

  “’ere, where d’you think you’re goin’!”

  “Hi, you can’t go in there!”

  “And who are you, anyway?” added a blond giant, laying a detaining hand on Archie’s shoulder.

  “I’m Mrs. Abbott’s brother,” replied Archie, wrenching himself from the giant’s grasp. “Do I have to obtain your permission to visit my sister?”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said the giant, stepping back defeated by the unmistakable voice of authority. “I’m very sorry, sir. I wasn’t to know, was I?”

  “We’ve been told to look out for suspicious characters,” added another man, coming to the help of his friend.

  Archie smiled. He was not angry now. “Do I look like a suspicious character?” he asked.

  “But they don’t,” declared a third man who had joined the group. “They look natural-like. That’s what Major Cray said.”

  “Oh, you’ve been warned to look out for somebody, have you?” asked Archie in surprise.

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “What sort of a person?”

  “We don’t know,” said the first man.

  “We’re just to keep our eyes open,” said the second.

  “We’ve to stop anyone snooping around the camp,” said the third.

  They seemed to know no more of the matter—at any rate no more information was forthcoming—and Archie pushed open the baize door and went into the front part of the house. He hesitated for a moment in the hall, then he opened the door of the sitting room and peeped in. Miss Watt was the only occupant of the room; she was sitting by the fire darning her stockings.

  “Oh!” said Miss Watt in surprise. “Oh, I’m afraid Jerry has gone out—”

  “Has she?” said Archie.

  “I could find Markie. I think she’s in the pantry.”

  “Don’t bother,” said Archie. He came in and sat down in the other chair and took out a cigarette. “Do you smoke?” he inquired.

  “No,” replied Miss Watt firmly.

  “From principle?” inquired Archie, raising his brows.

  “Because I can’t,” said Miss Watt, smiling. “It makes me cough. It makes my eyes pour with water…”

  “Curious!” said Archie.

  “Yes, isn’t it?” she agreed.

  “I hope you aren’t any the worse for yesterday,” said Archie.

  “Not physically,” replied Miss Wait. “My self-esteem is somewhat the worse for wear.”

  “Starlight has always been temperamental,” declared Archie. “She didn’t know you—that was all. It was rather silly of Jerry to let you ride her.”

  “Jerry can manage her—”

  “Of course. She knows Jerry. That’s why.”

  “My self-esteem feels better, thank you,” said Miss Watt, laughing.

  There was a short silence (it was a peaceful silence). Miss Watt darned her stockings and Archie smoked. Presently Miss Watt raised her eyes and saw Archie looking at her. She said hastily, “You’ve been cutting down trees.”

  Archie agreed that this was so. He began to talk about trees and, now that he had found a subject, he talked quite a lot. He explained how important it was that trees should have plenty of space to grow, and that woods should be carefully thinned out. But it was a great mistake (said Archie) to cut down the outer trees of a wood for, in so doing, one exposed the inner trees to the fury of the wind. The outer trees were used to the wind (said Archie), toughened by years of exposure, and if they were removed the inner trees that had grown up in the shelter of their neighbors were often blown down.

  Miss Watt was interested. “You know a lot about it,” she said.

  “I’ve learnt,” replied Archie, throwing away the stub of his cigarette and rising to go. “I knew nothing when my aunt died and left me Chevis Place, so of course I made a good many mistakes. I had to learn about farming too. You know,” said Archie, a trifle uncomfortably, “you know I’m a farmer—I mean that’s why I’m not a soldier—it isn’t because—”

  “Of course not!” exclaimed Miss Watt vehemently.

  “I wouldn’t like you to think.”

  “Of course not!” exclaimed Miss Watt more vehemently than before.

  “I just thought I’d explain,” said Archie, looking at the toe of his shoe. “I mean some people—don’t quite—understand.”

  He went away.

  ***

  Miss Watt was correct in her surmise that Markie was in the pantry (somehow or other nobody had learned to call it the kitchenette). She was preparing an apple pie for supper and Wilhelmina was receiving a lesson in the art of making pastry. When Markie had finished her job she walked across the hall and looked into the sitting room and saw the couple sitting by the fire. She could not hear what they were saying, of course, but Archie seemed to be talking very earnestly and Jane seemed to be hanging upon his words, and altogether they looked so intimate sitting there together by the fire that Markie had not the heart to disturb them. She withdrew silently and stood in the hall for a moment, nodding her head and smiling. Then she went upstairs.

  Archie and Jane, thought Markie. Well, why not? Jane is a dear. She would make him a very nice wife. I shan’t tell Jerry, thought Markie. Better not. Jerry is apt to be impatient, she has very little tact. People dislike being thrown at each other’s heads. Of course there may be nothing in it—nothing at all—but then, again, why not? Jane is very nice-looking (thought Markie as she dived head first into the linen cupboard and began to count out clean sheets): such nice brown eyes, such a lovely complexion, such pretty hair. I thought she looked a little odd, at first, but now she doesn’t look odd. Is it because I have got used to her appearance or because her hair has grown? (Markie hesitated with the pile of sheets in her arms.) Because her hair has grown, decided Markie. That nice wave in front makes all the difference.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Tea in the Nursery

  A fortnight had passed since Barbara’s visit to Miss Besserton and a good deal had happened in the interval. Miss Besserton had recovered from her indisposition and had departed to Bournemouth to visit a friend and left Lancreste lamenting. Barbara, who was really sorry for Lancreste, did all she could to brighten his lot, inviting him to tea and taking him to the pictures, but she was aware that she was not much use to Lancreste—she was too old for him. If only there had been somebody else, thought Barbara, some young girl who could talk to Lancreste in his own sort of language…but there was not. Wandlebury was bereft of young women; they were all in the forces.

  Lancreste mooched about miserably for a day or two and then he began to recover. On the fifth day after Miss Besserton’s departure there was quite a difference in him; Barbara was beginning to congratulate herself and to hope for a complete cure when suddenly Miss Besserton returned. Her return threw Lancreste into ecstasies. He came around to see Barbara at half-past nine the next morning and walked about the room, talking like a lunatic and declaring that Pearl was marvelous and they were going to be married at once.

  “At once!” cried Barbara in dismay.

  “Yes, that’s what I came about, really,” declared Lancreste. “We’re going up to town to arrange everything. We’re going to have a party at the Magnolia Tree the night before the wedding—just a few special friends—and—”

  “But Lancreste—”

  “It’s a secret, of course. We aren’t going to tell anyone—”

  “Lancreste,” said Barbara, firmly. “Lancreste, listen to me a moment. What about your father and mother—what do they think?”

  “I’m not going to tell them a thing,” declared Lancreste. “They were rude to Pearl—they were frightful to her. You can’t expect her to ask them to her wedding when they were frightful to her.”

  “Oh, Lancreste!” said Barbara, appalled at this. “Oh, Lancreste, you can’t—”

 
“Pearl doesn’t want them. She doesn’t want anyone except you.”

  “Me!” exclaimed Barbara more dismayed than before.

  “You’ve been so decent to Pearl,” explained Lancreste. “You understand her. It isn’t everyone that understands and appreciates her.”

  “Oh goodness!” exclaimed Barbara, who neither understood nor appreciated Pearl. “Oh, Lancreste, I couldn’t…”

  “We’re depending on you,” continued Lancreste, who was imbued with the idea that he was conferring a favor upon Mrs. Abbott and was deaf to her protests. “Pearl is depending on you. She says you can stay the night at the boarding house with her—the night before the wedding—and help her to dress and all that sort of thing. It’s you she wants.”

  “Is it?” said Barbara in amazement. “But why? I mean it’s very nice of her, but—”

  “Yes, isn’t it?” said Lancreste, smiling. “She says she’d rather have you than anyone.”

  “But I can’t,” declared Barbara, who saw the trap closing and realized that her only chance of escape was to be really firm.

  “You can’t?”

  “No, it’s quite impossible.”

  “Why?” asked Lancreste in amazement.

  Barbara knew why it was impossible. She did not approve of the marriage (for not only were the principals unsuited to each other, but they also were entering upon the state of matrimony unadvisedly and for the wrong motives). The marriage was doomed to failure—complete and absolute failure—and what on earth would the Marvells say if they heard she had aided and abetted Lancreste in his mad scheme? All this Barbara knew, but she could not explain it to Lancreste, for she was not good at explaining things and she was not ruthless enough to attempt to state her feelings in plain words.

  “Why?” asked Lancreste again.

  “I couldn’t,” said Barbara. “Your parents wouldn’t like it—and you’re too young.”

  “I’ve been in love with Pearl for years—well, nearly a year—”

  “Yes, I know, but—”

  “I thought you understood.”

  “Couldn’t you wait? Couldn’t you think it over?”

  “No, she might change her mind,” said Lancreste desperately. “I’ve told you before how she keeps on changing her mind.”

  “That’s just why—”

  “And she’s got to turn out of the boarding house,” continued Lancreste. “And I may have to go back to duty at any moment. We must get married at once—it’s the only thing to do.”

  “But, Lancreste—”

  “And Joan is getting married at the end of the month—you know who I mean, the girl she used to have a flat with—and of course Pearl wants to be married before Joan.”

  “Why?” asked Barbara.

  “Because—because—I don’t really know,” said Lancreste vaguely. “I only know she does. Perhaps it’s a bet or something.” Barbara was speechless.

  “So you will come, won’t you?” said Lancreste in wheedling tones. “It will make all the difference if you’re there—and Pearl is depending on you to see her through. It’s rather an ordeal for a girl, isn’t it?”

  “She must get someone else—”

  “It’s you she wants. I mean she said I was to come around and ask you and I don’t know what she’ll say if I go back and say you’ve refused. She’ll be terribly hurt, Mrs. Abbott.”

  “I can’t,” repeated Barbara. “Honestly, Lancreste. She must get someone else—or else wait and arrange things properly.”

  “But we can’t wait!” cried Lancreste, and he began to explain all over again why it was impossible to postpone the wedding.

  They talked for a whole hour—Lancreste did most of the talking—and at the end of that time Barbara was so exhausted and confused that she did not know whether or not she had made Lancreste understand her point of view. She was just trying to collect her wits for a final effort when the door burst open and her cook appeared, slate in hand, and inquired if Mrs. Abbott wanted the remains of yesterday’s stew made into a curry for dinner. Cook was not a patient woman—as Barbara knew to her cost—and she had got tired of waiting in the kitchen for her mistress to appear, so she had taken the somewhat unconventional course of pursuing Mrs. Abbott to the study and breaking in upon her conversation. The curry was merely an excuse, for she knew quite well that practically the only thing to do with the remains of the stew was to convert it into curry, but any excuse was better than none, and cook was angry. She was very angry indeed and there was such malignance in the gaze she turned upon Lancreste—who had kept her back in her work and wasted her time—that he took fright and departed in haste with murmured apologies.

  “Thank goodness!” said Barbara as the door closed behind him, and she held out her hand for the slate and entered upon the daily discussion of food without more ado.

  For three whole days Barbara did not set eyes upon Lancreste. She was grateful for the respite, but she could not help thinking about him and wondering what he was doing. Had he gone to London with Pearl and got married, or had Pearl changed her mind again? Perhaps his parents had got wind of his intentions and managed to put a spoke in his wheel. Barbara was not sure whether or not it was her duty to reveal Lancreste’s plans to his parents. On the one hand it seemed dreadful to keep the matter to herself and allow Lancreste to wreck his life without raising a finger to save him, but on the other hand the Marvells were so odd, so unlike ordinary sensible people, that you never knew how they would take things—and however they took the news that Lancreste was bent upon matrimony they could do nothing to prevent him carrying out his intention. Barbara tried to imagine herself sitting in the Marvells’ drawing room and telling the Marvells—telling them all she knew—but she was unable to imagine the scene, she was unable to imagine the Marvells’ reactions. Last but not least Lancreste had trusted Barbara, and, although she could not remember making any sort of promise, she was aware that he depended upon her to keep his secret.

  Arthur, when consulted, seemed to take the matter very lightly. “Don’t get mixed up in it,” he said.

  “But I am mixed up in it,” Barbara pointed out. “The fact is I seem to get mixed up in everything that happens—when all I want is a quiet peaceful life.”

  “Of course you do,” agreed Arthur, smiling in his kind way. “It’s because you’re interested in people.”

  “Then you don’t think I ought to tell them?”

  “If I were you I should keep clear of this particular mess up.”

  “As clear as I can,” agreed Barbara in doubtful tones.

  “Tell Lancreste I won’t let you go to London,” suggested Arthur, and he took up his paper as if that settled the matter comfortably.

  But there was no need for Barbara to use this excuse (which married women in every age have found so extremely useful and of which they will continue to avail themselves until the marriage vows are altered), for on the fourth day Lancreste appeared at tea time with a woebegone countenance. One glance at him showed Barbara that this was no bridegroom who had come to her for congratulations; in fact Lancreste bore much more resemblance to a funeral mute. It so happened that Dorcas was out; she had taken the bus to Camberley to see her niece who was the wife of a sergeant in the Green Buzzards, and Barbara was looking after the children in her absence. Barbara explained this to Lancreste and invited him to come and have tea in the nursery, hoping with all her heart that he would refuse…but Lancreste accepted and soon they were all sitting around the nursery table indulging in bread and margarine, raspberry jam and buns.

  Dorcas rarely went out, so, when she did, it was a treat for everybody (they all loved Dorkie, of course, but still it was a treat), and if Lancreste had not been there Barbara and Simon and Fay would have had great fun together and enjoyed themselves immensely. They might have had a story—the children loved stories and Barbara was a very good storyteller�
�or they might have played a game Simon had invented and was known to the initiated under the descriptive title of “Eating Like Pigs.” This game was the more delightful because Simon and Fay and Barbara were all aware that it was “naughty” and that Dorkie would disapprove of it most heartily.

  All day long Simon and Fay had been looking forward to tea time with keen anticipation, but now the treat was spoiled. The treat was completely ruined by Lancreste’s appearance at the table. There he sat, toying with a bun and talking on and on, talking to Mummy and paying no attention to Simon and Fay—which seemed a funny sort of way to behave when he was having tea in their nursery.

  Barbara was thinking much the same thing, and already she had begun to regret her impulsive invitation to Lancreste, for Lancreste was talking exactly as if he and Barbara were alone, or as if the children were deaf and dumb. They were dumb, of course (though how long they would remain dumb nobody could foresee), but they were by no means deaf. Their eyes dwelt upon Lancreste—large, round, inquiring eyes. What were they making of it, wondered Barbara anxiously.

  “Yes, she’s gone,” said Lancreste in lugubrious tones. “She went to London this morning. She said I wasn’t to come with her and of course she isn’t going to marry me after all—I told you that, didn’t I. It’s quite definite this time. She’s fed up with me. She’s been fed up with me before, of course, but never so definitely fed up. I mean there’s always been a vague sort of hope before…I don’t suppose I shall ever see her again. The worst of it is I don’t really know what it was all about—we had a bit of a row. At least she got fed up with me all of a sudden. One moment everything was all right and the next moment it was all wrong, and I don’t even know what I did. That’s the worst of it, if you see what I mean—because I don’t know what to do. I mean if I knew what it was all about I could do something, couldn’t I? I could put it right if I knew. Well, of course, I tried to put it right but that just seemed to make it worse. What do you think I ought to do, Mrs. Abbott? Do you think I ought to write and say I’m sorry, or do you think I ought to go to London and see her? You see I don’t know what I did to offend her—or what I said. Perhaps she would be angry if I went to London—”