The Two Mrs. Abbotts

by D. E. Stevenson

  Once or twice the whole party laughed heartily—and even Lancreste smiled—and Jane, who was sitting next to Markie, turned to her and repeated the joke; but jokes are never very funny when repeated without their context and Markie found it difficult to laugh.

  “Don’t trouble, dear,” said Markie in a low voice. “I’m quite used to it and it does not worry me. Just see if Mrs. Abbott will have a little more tea and pass the scones to Miss Melton.”

  There was no reason why Markie should not have done this herself, for if she was deaf she was certainly not dumb, but Jane was only too delighted to help Markie to look after the guests so she did as requested.

  After tea Jerry suggested a walk. She did not intend to go, herself, of course, but it would be nice for the others…and the sitting room was not large enough for such a large party.

  “Melanie likes walking,” said Jerry in her usual forthright way.

  “I don’t mind at all,” declared Melanie hastily.

  “But it’s a lovely evening for a walk, isn’t it? You go with her, Archie. Take her up through the wood and show her the view.”

  “I expect she’s seen it,” said Archie.

  “Lancreste would like to go,” said Barbara. “You’d like to go, wouldn’t you, Lancreste?”

  “I don’t mind, really,” said Lancreste without enthusiasm.

  “You go with them, dear,” said Markie to Jane.

  “I was going to help you to wash up,” replied Jane.

  After some little delay the four of them started off—they could not avoid their fate without being positively rude—and, as the officers were obliged to return to the camp and Markie was helping Wilhelmina to clear the table, the two Mrs. Abbotts were left alone in the sitting room.

  “Lovely!” exclaimed Jerry. “Just what I wanted. We haven’t had a proper chat for ages—and it’s all the nicer because I didn’t expect it. I mean I didn’t see how we were going to get rid of them.”

  “I don’t think they wanted to go,” said Barbara doubtfully.

  “They’ll enjoy it,” declared Jerry with conviction.

  “Do you think so, Jerry?”

  “Yes, of course. You have to take a firm line with people. If I hadn’t made them go they would just have sat here in a bunch and there aren’t enough chairs for them.”

  The four victims walked up the hill abreast, with the girls in the middle. They had been sent out for a walk and they had come. None of them had wanted to come and each of them was aware that his or her companions would have got out of it if they could. For this reason the conversation was somewhat strained—Melanie and Archie bore the brunt of it. But the evening was so lovely and the sunshine so mellow that gradually they began to thaw…Archie was struck by a brilliant idea.

  “I was telling you about trees,” said Archie to Miss Watt. “You were interested, weren’t you?”

  “Very interested,” replied Miss Watt—what else could she say?

  “Perhaps you would like to see an oak that was blown down last winter?” suggested Archie. “It’s a very fine specimen—must be about three hundred years old.”

  Miss Watt signified her desire to see it.

  “You two can walk on,” said Archie firmly. “We’ll catch you up in half no time.”

  The party split up. Archie and Jane Watt found the oak and examined it, and sat down upon a convenient branch.

  “I thought I did that rather neatly,” said Archie.

  “Did what?” asked Jane.

  “Got rid of the children, of course. You didn’t want them tagging along, did you?”

  “I’m very fond of Melanie.”

  “Oh yes, she’s a dear,” agreed Archie. “But I hate going about in droves. Jerry is a nuisance sometimes.”

  These few sentences put the matter in a nutshell, and having cleared up any misunderstanding that might be lurking in his companion’s mind Archie proceeded to light a cigarette.

  “We mustn’t sit here long,” said Jane in alarm.

  “They won’t mind,” replied Archie. “They can talk to each other. As a matter of fact they’ll get on much better without us. Two’s company, don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, I think I do,” said Jane smiling.

  Archie was emboldened by the smile. He said, “Have I known you long enough to call you Jane?”

  “You’ve known me for a week,” replied Jane in some surprise.

  “Much longer than that,” declared Archie. “I knew you long before you came to live at Ganthorne.”

  Jane looked at him, her eyes wide with dismay.

  “Yes,” said Archie nodding. “Yes, I know all about you…but don’t worry, Jane. I can keep a secret, you know.”

  “You won’t tell anyone?”

  “Not a soul,” declared Archie, smiling at her.

  “How did you know—”

  “I recognized you, of course. Oh yes, you look different but I knew you at once. I was interested, you see.”

  “I don’t want you to think—”

  “But I don’t!”

  “I want you to understand.”

  “That’s nice of you.”

  They were silent for a moment. The woods were very quiet. The sun was going down through a haze; it looked like a big round orange ball caught amongst the trees.

  “I ran away,” said Jane at last. “I suppose it was cowardly but I couldn’t think of anything else to do. I had got caught up in a sort of wheel that kept on turning—it was like one of those wheels you see in a mouse cage. I wanted to get out of the cage—to get right away from everything and try to find out what I was and what I could do. I wasn’t myself,” declared Jane earnestly. “I had been made into something else—and I’m not myself now. Myself is something between the two.”

  “That’s what I think,” said Archie.

  “Do you mean you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “Because I’ve read your books.”

  “But they aren’t me!” she cried in alarm. “It was because I hated my books that I ran away—because I suddenly realized they were no good at all.”

  “I like them,” said Archie. “Yes, honestly I do. There’s something very charming about your books. I don’t mean that you couldn’t do better, of course. I believe you could…if you knew more about life.”

  “I’m trying to learn,” said Jane.

  “And more about love,” said Archie boldly and with that he put his arms around her and kissed her in a most satisfactory way.

  “Archie!” exclaimed Jane, when she could speak. “Archie—really—I don’t know what to say—”

  “I want to marry you,” said Archie. “You will, won’t you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Of course you will,” he declared.

  “I don’t know you,” cried Jane. “I mean I never thought—”

  “Well, think about it now,” said Archie. “I assure you I’m perfectly respectable. I have no bad habits and I’m clean and tidy and pleasant about the house—”

  “Really—” said Jane, half laughing.

  “Honestly,” said Archie seriously. “Honestly, Jane, I’m quite a decent sort of fellow—and I adore you. I feel all sentimental about you—”

  “No—”

  “Yes, really. But I’m not going to talk like the fellows in your books. You don’t want me to, do you?”

  “No,” said Jane with a shudder.

  “Well, that’s settled, then.”

  “What’s settled?”

  “We’re engaged of course.”

  “No,” said Jane.

  “Why not?”

  “Because—because it’s absurd. I hardly know you—”

  “That can be remedied—”

  “I’m going h
ome next week.”

  “Going home?” asked Archie in dismay. “Going back to Foxstead? But, Jane—”

  “I must go back,” declared Jane. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot and I’ve come to the conclusion that you can’t just cast off all your responsibilities like a cloak. I thought you could, but I was wrong. Helen depends on me and I owe Helen a good deal.”

  “Helen?” asked Archie.

  “My sister,” replied Jane. “We lived together, you see.”

  “I’ve got plenty of money, Jane.”

  “It isn’t money—not altogether. Besides it wouldn’t do.”

  “But, Jane—”

  “I’m not happy,” said Jane, turning and looking at him with her big brown eyes. “I feel I’ve behaved badly.”

  “I suppose you couldn’t tell me the whole thing?” inquired Archie with some anxiety.

  “There isn’t much to tell. Helen wanted me to go on writing, but I couldn’t—I tried quite hard but it was impossible—she kept on saying that if only I would finish the book we would go away together for a holiday. At last I could bear it no longer and I told Helen that I wanted a holiday at once and I wanted to go alone. She was very angry,” said Jane, shaking her head. “I had never seen Helen in such a rage. She rushed out of the room saying that I was ungrateful and unkind and that we would both be ruined. It was true, of course,” said Jane thoughtfully. “I knew it was true, but I couldn’t help it. I felt as if I were going mad. I had to get away.”

  “What happened then?” asked Archie. “Did you finish the book?”

  “No, I couldn’t. I hated the book and all the people in it. I didn’t care what happened to them.”

  “How did you persuade Helen—” began Archie.

  “I didn’t,” said Jane. “I told you I ran away.”

  “Did you leave a note on the pincushion?”

  “Of course.”

  They looked at each other and smiled.

  “I’m glad you left a note on the pincushion,” said Archie, nodding. There was silence for a few moments and then Archie said, “But honestly you can’t go back. The same thing would happen all over again, wouldn’t it?”

  “No. Helen must be made to understand that if I go back to Angleside I go back as myself—as Jane Watt. Jane will be able to stand up to Helen—Janetta couldn’t.”

  “Jane is your real name?”

  “Yes, Jane Watt. The other was Helen’s idea—in fact Janetta was Helen’s creation.”

  “Is Janetta dead?” asked Archie in regretful tones. “I liked Janetta, you know. I saw Janetta when she spoke at the bazaar and I thought she was a dear. I went and bought all her books—every one that I could lay my hands on—and I read them carefully.”

  “I’ve told you they aren’t me,” said Jane in a low voice.

  “There are bits of you in them. There are, really. I put the bits together and Janetta came to life. There she was, sitting in the big chair opposite me, darning my socks—”

  “You’re talking like Edward!” exclaimed Jane in dismay.

  “I’m sorry,” said Archie. “It won’t happen again.”

  “If you were so fond of Janetta—” began Jane.

  “But that was just it!” cried Archie. “I loved Janetta dearly—and then I saw Jane.”

  “It must have given you a shock.”

  “Just for a moment,” he admitted. “Just for a split second it did rather take my breath away. That was the reason I couldn’t speak to Jane.”

  “But you recovered quite quickly.”

  “Yes, for all at once I saw the explanation: Jane and Janetta are the two halves of the apple and the real you is the whole fruit.”

  “But Archie—”

  “I never did like half an apple,” said Archie in reminiscent tones.

  “But I must go back,” said Jane. “I really must. Helen doesn’t know where I am. She’ll be getting anxious about me.”

  “You mustn’t go back,” said Archie firmly. “I want you so badly. I need you far more than Helen does. I’m very lonely at Chevis Place all by myself. Listen, Jane, you must marry me at once. I shan’t interfere with your writing; in fact I can help you a lot.”

  “I don’t need—”

  “Yes, you do. I can teach you all about love—”

  “Archie!”

  “No, it’s all right,” he declared. “I’m merely making a perfectly plain straightforward statement—Edward never did that. I can teach you about love and I can show you life. After the war we shall travel. We’ll go around the world, stopping where we feel inclined and meeting all sorts of interesting people. Then we’ll come home and settle down at Chevis Place and you’ll write your book.”

  “No,” said Jane, but she said it a trifle regretfully.

  “Don’t be silly,” said Archie, taking her hand. “You would like it—you know you would. It would be fun being married to me. What’s the use of making a sacrifice of yourself—a sort of burnt offering—”

  “You mean a baked apple!” exclaimed Jane, laughing hysterically.

  “A baked apple,” agreed Archie gravely. “Don’t be a baked apple, Jane. I can’t bear them. I don’t believe Helen likes them either.”

  “It isn’t any use talking,” replied Jane. “I’ve made up my mind about it—but I’m not going to sacrifice myself. I shall make Helen understand that I must be allowed to write what I want.”

  “Where do I come in?” demanded Archie.

  “You don’t come in, I’m afraid,” said Jane.

  ***

  The other two pedestrians did not go much farther. They found a little pool and sat down beside it on a convenient rock. Lancreste began to throw stones into the pool in a listless sort of way.

  “Don’t,” said Melanie at last. “There may be fishes in it.”

  Lancreste stopped at once.

  “What did you think of Miss Watt?” asked Melanie, who felt she must say something to break the deathly silence.

  “Miss Watt!” said Lancreste. “Oh, I didn’t look at her, really. I haven’t much use for women who wear men’s clothes.”

  “She doesn’t,” said Melanie.

  “Well, mannish-looking clothes,” amended Lancreste.

  “What do you think they’re doing?” Melanie inquired.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” replied Lancreste. “Talking about the tree, I suppose. What do people like that talk about? They’re quite old, aren’t they?”

  “Old?”

  “He must be about thirty-five,” said Lancreste. He hesitated and then added, in a miserable voice, “I’ve been wanting to talk to you all the afternoon and now I can’t.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “I don’t know,” said Lancreste. He picked up another stone and was about to throw it into the pool…and then he remembered about the fishes. “But I don’t think there are any fishes there,” he said.

  “There are tadpoles, anyhow.”

  “Tadpoles!”

  “Why should we be unkind to tadpoles?” said Melanie.

  There was silence.

  “I saw you looking at me,” Melanie said at last.

  “You didn’t mind, did you?”

  “No, I was sorry for you because you seemed so unhappy.”

  “I am,” said Lancreste.

  “I used to be unhappy,” said Melanie slowly.

  “You aren’t now.”

  “No. You see I’ve got what I want.”

  “I wouldn’t be happy if I got what I want,” declared Lancreste miserably.

  “Perhaps you want the wrong thing.”

  Lancreste was silent. “Yes,” he said at last. “Yes, I suppose that’s true—but I want it all the same.”

  “You’re beginning not to,” she told him. “I mean if you can see
it’s the wrong thing—”

  “It’s a girl,” he said.

  “I thought it might be,” nodded Melanie.

  Lancreste hesitated. It would be a relief to tell her all about Pearl, to tell her everything, but it was not a very pleasant story and Melanie was so young and innocent. It wouldn’t be fair, thought Lancreste, looking at her.

  “I suppose she’s very pretty,” said Melanie suddenly.

  “Yes,” said Lancreste.

  “And very, very nice.”

  “No,” said Lancreste. “No, she isn’t, really. I mean I don’t like her—but I love her dreadfully. It’s funny, isn’t it?”

  “It sounds—queer,” she agreed in doubtful tones.

  “She isn’t very kind,” said Lancreste, “and she’s rather—rather deceitful, but I love her all the same.”

  Melanie considered this. She said, “That’s very difficult to understand.”

  “I don’t understand it myself,” admitted Lancreste. “Of course I liked her at first, you know. I thought she was perfect…but now I see she isn’t…sometimes she says she’ll marry me and sometimes she says she won’t.”

  “Poor Lancreste!” exclaimed Melanie, looking at him wide-eyed.

  “It’s awful, really.”

  “It must be awful.”

  “I can’t talk to anyone about it—that’s the worst of it,” declared Lancreste, quite forgetting Barbara’s patient acceptance of his complaints.

  “You must talk to me,” said Melanie, smiling kindly at him.

  Lancreste smiled back. She was quite different from Pearl. He did not love her—no, not a bit—but he liked her immensely. There was a strange sort of peace to be found in the nearness of Melanie, a sort of comforting balm. Just to sit beside her, and listen to her voice, soothed him and stilled his restlessness.

  “Come and talk to me whenever you like,” said Melanie. “We live at the cottage, Daddy and I, and we’re very happy together. I’ve always wanted to live with Daddy.”