“Arrol!” cried his mother in dismay. “Arrol, wot ’ave you bin doin’.”
In the ensuing confusion Jerry was able to escape.
“Am I to come?” asked Elmie, following her.
“Yes, of course,” replied Jerry. “We must have a look at your finger, mustn’t we? Miss Marks will put a dressing on your finger…”
“Will it ’ave to be cut off?”
“Goodness, no!” said Jerry in alarm.
“There was a girl in our street wot ’ad to ’ave ’er finger cut off,” said Elmie with gloomy pride.
Fortunately Elmie’s finger was not in such a serious condition, but it was by no means a pleasant sight when Markie unrolled the dirty rag and displayed the festering wound. It must have been very painful, too, thought Markie, looking at her small white-faced patient with some respect. She boiled some water and put on a dressing of wet boracic lint and oil silk and tied it on firmly with the finger of an old glove.
Elmie watched the whole process with interest. Indeed she seemed interested in everything she saw. Her eyes, wide with surprise, roved around the little pantry where the proceedings were taking place. “Everything’s shiny,” she said at last.
“Because everything is clean,” replied Markie, improving the shining hour.
“Mide of silver,” said Elmie, pointing to the lids of Markie’s pans, which hung on little hooks along the wall.
“Dear me, no,” replied Markie. “They are made of tin, just like the pans your mother uses…but I like to keep them clean.”
Elmie said no more.
“There, it is finished,” said Markie at last as she tied the tape around Elmie’s thin wrist. “You’ve been very good and brave. Come tomorrow morning and I will put another dressing on it.”
“Come tomorrow?”
“Yes, twice a day until it is better,” said Markie firmly.
Chapter Ten
Janetta Is Indisposed
Mr. Abbott was on his way to Foxstead. He had been sent for by Miss Walters—not Miss Janetta Walters, the well-known novelist, but her elder sister. “You must come at once,” Miss Walters had told him, on the telephone. “You must come and see Janetta. She isn’t well.”
Mr. Abbott had suggested that a doctor might be more use under the circumstances, to which Miss Walters had replied somewhat enigmatically that it wasn’t that kind of illness. “You must come,” she had repeated—and she continued to repeat the same words until Mr. Abbott agreed to go. Fortunately it was not far from London, and was actually on the Wandlebury line, so he could drop in and pay his visit on his way home.
The train was crowded but it arrived in good time. Mr. Abbott walked up from the station and soon he was sitting in the comfortable drawing room at Angleside talking to Miss Walters. “Where is Miss Janetta?” asked Mr. Abbott, looking around the room. “She isn’t in bed, I hope.”
“Oh no, she isn’t in bed,” replied her sister.
“Writing, I suppose.”
“No. No, she isn’t writing. She’s out. As a matter of fact I didn’t tell her you were coming. I wanted to talk to you.”
Mr. Abbott sighed. He had come here to be talked to, but that did not make it any less boring. Miss Walters bored him. She was not—to Mr. Abbott’s mind—attractive. She was quite nice to look at, of course, and was always extremely well turned out, but she was too managing, too efficient, too self-assured. He preferred Miss Janetta every time. There was something very nice about Miss Janetta…in spite of her books.
Miss Walters had said she wanted to talk to Mr. Abbott but she seemed to have some difficulty in starting, and during the silence that ensued Mr. Abbott had time to wonder what she was going to say. He felt pretty certain that it was something unpleasant—perhaps she intended to ask for a rise in royalties on Janetta’s next book—and he wondered what he could say to head her off. Miss Walters was Janetta’s agent, and to do her justice Janetta could not have had a better one. Mr. Abbott was aware that Miss Walters had got the upper hand of him twice—he wished he had sent Spicer to talk to Miss Walters. Spicer was ruthless, he was not easily rattled. The silence had lasted so long that Mr. Abbott felt impelled to break it.
“The book is selling well,” said Mr. Abbott. “The third edition is almost sold out. When may we expect the next one?”
“That’s just it,” said Miss Walters in gloomy tones.
“Not coming along well?” asked Mr. Abbott in surprise, for he was so used to the regular appearance of manuscripts from the pen of Janetta that he could scarcely believe there was any difficulty in their production.
“It was coming along splendidly,” Miss Walters replied. “It was the best of all, I thought. We had decided to call it Love Triumphant.”
Mr. Abbott winced, but he said bravely, “Quite in the best tradition, Miss Walters.”
“Quite,” she agreed. “We were both very happy about the book—and then, quite suddenly, Janetta lost interest in it.”
“Stale,” suggested Mr. Abbott. “All writers have periods of staleness.”
“Not Janetta,” said Miss Walters. “Janetta never gets stale.”
This was perfectly true. Janetta had never suffered from any of the ills of the spirit that beset the owner of an artistic temperament. Janetta’s temperament was equable. She worked at fixed hours. Stories gushed from her pen like water from a well-behaved bath tap. She wrote at high speed and her sister collected the precious sheets and typed them. The process went as smoothly as a factory—which indeed it was.
Miss Walters explained all this to Mr. Abbott (in her own words, of course) and Mr. Abbott listened patiently, for that was his business.
“I see,” he said at last. “Yes, I see…and now she has stopped writing and you can’t understand why.”
Miss Walters nodded.
Mr. Abbott was more sympathetic now, for he perceived that Miss Walters was really very much distressed and he was a kind-hearted man. “You had better tell me all you know,” said Mr. Abbott in soothing tones. “We’ll put our heads together and see what can be done.”
“But I know nothing,” declared Miss Walters in agonized accents. “I only know that Janetta is quite different. I can’t think what has upset her.”
***
It was not surprising that Miss Walters was all at sea, for Janetta had told her nothing. As a matter of fact it would have been difficult for Janetta to explain what was the matter with her even if she had wanted to do so. Mr. Ash was at the bottom of it, of course, but Mr. Ash was not the whole cause of the trouble, for Janetta was so secure in her position as a successful novelist that his criticisms of her books had not worried her unduly—not at the time. She had been interested rather than annoyed. It seemed odd that this young man should be allergic to her stories—but of course he was a very odd young man. They were both very odd, and the tea party had a curiously dreamlike feeling about it. But, in spite of all that had been said, they finished tea quite amicably and parted politely. Immediately afterwards Janetta was surrounded by a crowd of Wandlebury ladies, who had been waiting eagerly to speak to her. She was petted and flattered to an almost embarrassing extent, and her books were lauded to the skies. She had then returned home, quite pleased with herself, to partake of another much better and more sustaining tea with her sister, in her own comfortable drawing room.
“Did everything go off well?” Helen had inquired.
“Very well,” replied Janetta. “The committee were very grateful to me. I signed some books for them.”
“Did they give you tea?”
“Not a very good tea,” replied Janetta, helping herself to another piece of cake.
Helen purred. She was housekeeper as well as amanuensis and gardener and general bottle washer to her gifted sister and she took great pride in her jobs. Janetta would not get such a good tea anywhere as she got at home.
It was
not until Janetta had finished her second tea and had gone into the study to put in a few hours’ work upon Love Triumphant that she remembered Mr. Ash. She hesitated by the big solid desk, which was placed at exactly the right angle near the window, and an uncomfortable feeling assailed her. It was like a breath of cold air, blowing across her soul. “Soppy Stuff”—that was what he had said. But why should she care? He was an insufferable young man. She did not write for his entertainment. He was incapable of appreciating her books—that was all.
Janette sat down, took up her pen, and turned over the pile of manuscript that lay before her on the table, and as she did so a passage caught her eye—it was a passage she had written that morning:
“My beautiful Phyllis,” cried Hector, throwing himself on his knees. “If all women were like you—so pure and good and innocent—how wonderful the world would be!”
Janetta read it twice, and then, resting her chin on her hands, she gazed out of the window. After a little while, there was a knock on the door and Helen looked in. “Am I disturbing you?” she asked in hushed accents.
“No,” replied the author. “No, I was just thinking. I don’t feel like writing at the moment.”
“You’re tired!”
“No, not really.”
“What is it, then?”
There was no answer.
“What is the matter?” asked Helen, coming into the room and looking at her sister in concern.
“Nothing at all,” said Janette. “But I think I shall leave it till tomorrow. There’s no hurry, is there?”
Janetta slept well and arose feeling refreshed and ready for work. After breakfast she sat down at her desk, took out a clean sheaf of paper, and began to write. Her pen raced over the page in the pleasantest manner imaginable; she pulled the wires and the puppets danced to her tune. Hector proposed to Phyllis and was refused—he had proposed to her on page fifty-seven but there was no reason why he should not repeat the experiment—later, at the very end of the story he would propose again. The third time was lucky.
Suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, Janetta’s pen faltered. She sniffed the air in a tentative manner and her eyes fell on a vase of sweet peas on the table beside her desk. (Helen had gone out early and picked them for her—it was a delicate attention.) The sun was shining in at the window and the warmth was drawing out the strong sweet perfume of the flowers—the room was filled with their scent. Janetta looked at the flowers and, as she looked, she seemed to see that young man’s face—that insufferable young man’s oafish face—and to hear his curiously husky voice: “I bet you could write something decent if you tried.” What a thing to say! How dared he say such a thing! “Something decent”—what an expression to use!
Janetta was so upset that she laid down her pen and went out through the French window. She passed through the garden without a glance at the roses and the sweet peas, which were the pride of Helen’s heart, and opening the wicket gate at the top of the garden she wandered into the woods. The woods were peaceful and soothing; sunshine fell in golden rain between the leaves. Janetta sat down on a bank and tried to reason with herself. It was ridiculous to allow that young man to interfere with her work—quite ridiculous. She had not liked him, he was not her kind of person, he was not worth thinking about…“But I’m not thinking about him,” said Janette aloud. Neither she was. It was his words that haunted her…and they haunted her because they found an echo in her heart. She realized that for some time past she had been feeling a little dissatisfied with her books.
Janetta sighed. She reminded herself that hundreds of thousands of people enjoyed her stories and showed their appreciation by borrowing her books from libraries—or, better still, buying them and keeping them in their bookcases. She reminded herself of the large “fan mail” that poured into Angleside from all over the world (not only letters, but also parcels of food from admirers in America and Canada and South Africa who were anxious to sustain her so that she might continue to delight them with her books). Two letters had arrived that very morning, one from Baltimore and the other from Birmingham—letters full of praise and thanksgiving. Janetta felt in need of encouragement so she took them out of her pocket and looked at them. They began in much the same fashion by assuring Miss Walters that the writer had never written to an author before but after that they differed. The Baltimore lady declared that Her Prince at Last had soothed and sustained her through a sharp attack of flu. The Birmingham lady had read Her Loving Heart and was extravagantly delighted with it. Janetta found it very pleasant to have these timely reminders that her stories were enjoyed by people in two hemispheres, but they did not remove her discomfort—not entirely. “Most people are saps,” that was what he had said, and it was only too obvious that the writers of these letters belonged to the great majority.
Several days passed. Love Triumphant lay upon the desk in a half-finished condition while its author wandered in the woods.
“Couldn’t you finish it?” asked Helen anxiously. If you could just finish it we might go away for a little holiday.”
“I can’t finish it,” said Janetta.
“Finish it—do,” said Helen in wheedling tones. “There are only a few chapters to write and I can type them out in half no time. Then it will be off your mind.”
“It isn’t on my mind,” said Janetta.
Helen pretended not to hear. “You could finish it in three days,” she declared. “You have only got to let Phyllis find the letter in the bureau drawer and discover the truth about Hector—that Hector has been faithful to her all along—and then the ending. You’re so good at endings.”
“It wouldn’t have happened like that.”
“What do you mean? What would have happened?”
“I don’t know,” replied Janetta. “It isn’t any use to try to think what would have happened because they aren’t real people.”
“It’s a story,” said Helen soothingly.
“I want to write a story about real people,” Janetta said. She was quite surprised to hear herself make this statement because she had not thought of it before, but if she surprised herself it was nothing compared with the amazement and consternation her simple words engendered in her sister’s bosom.
“A story about real people!” cried Helen in horror-stricken tones. “Janetta, what do you mean! You can’t think of changing your style!”
“Why not?”
“It would be ruin!” Helen declared. “It would be the end of everything. Think of your reputation! Think of your public! Think of your sales! You would lose all you’ve gained—all these years of building up! You can’t do it. It isn’t fair. I’ve toiled and moiled to make you what you are and now you propose to throw it all away.”
“You’ve toiled and moiled!” echoed Janetta.
“Of course I have,” said Helen. “I’ve made you what you are. You know that as well as I do. It isn’t only your books that have made your success—it’s you. You’re a sort of tradition—a symbol if you like the word better—and I’ve made you. I’ve worked like a slave. I’ve been your publicity agent. I’ve had you photographed and interviewed; I’ve chosen your clothes and the way you do your hair. I’ve built you up and created an atmosphere about you; I chose your name and made it a household word.”
Janetta gazed at her. It was true, of course. Helen had done all that and more. Helen had created Janetta Walters—Janetta was not a real person at all.
“You’re a fairy-tale person, yourself,” murmured Janetta—it was extraordinary how every word that young man had said remained written in indelible ink in Janetta’s memory.
“What?” asked Helen.
“Nothing,” replied Janetta. “I mean of course it’s quite true.”
This little conversation with Helen did not help Janetta at all, and Love Triumphant got no further. Sometimes Janetta would rise in the morning and come down to breakfast
full of good intentions to settle down and finish the story without any more fuss…but the moment she sat down at her desk and took up her pen she would discover within her bosom a loathing for the unfinished book—a loathing that, no matter how hard she tried, it was impossible to overcome. The only thing comparable with this extraordinary sensation was the loathing for food Janetta had once experienced after a sharp bout of influenza. Then (as now) she would sit down to the table quite happily and after one look at the dish before her she would rise in disgust.
Helen badgered Janetta, which was the worst thing possible, of course, for the more Helen badgered the less Janetta felt inclined to work. Helen was always asking, “What about Love Triumphant?” for Helen was not of the breed that can wait patiently and leave things to right themselves. She was a born meddler. In the garden, for instance, everything was directed by Helen. The raspberry canes, the sweet peas—even the ramblers were obliged to grow in the direction Helen thought best. She bent them to her will, tying them firmly to stake or trellis with pieces of green bass she carried in her pocket for the purpose. Janetta had always bent so easily—there had never been any trouble with Janetta until now.
A crinkle of anxiety became permanent between Helen’s well-marked eyebrows, for the situation had perfectly appalling complications. It was Janetta’s stories that kept the roof over their heads and cooked their food, and cleaned their shoes and dug their garden. She and Janetta ate the stories—and wore them. Helen had a lively recollection of the small stuffy house in Bayswater where they had lived before Janetta discovered her marvelous gift. The house smelt of cabbages—or sometimes of kippers—smuts drifted in whenever the windows were opened, children played hopscotch in the street. She remembered darning and patching and “making things do” and all the other discomforts and inconveniences attendant on poverty. And then Janetta had written her first story Bride of May and to their amazement it was accepted. Royalties went up by leaps and bounds and Janetta was launched upon her career.
Remembering all this and brooding over it as she went about her daily duties Helen worked herself into such a condition of alarm and despondency that she suddenly found she could bear it no longer—something would have to be done. Perhaps Mr. Abbott could do something about it. She must get hold of Mr. Abbott. After all (thought Helen) it was to Mr. Abbott’s interest that Love Triumphant should be finished and another book begun. The firm of Abbott and Spicer made a good income out of Janetta’s books.
The Two Mrs. Abbotts Page 8
