The Two Mrs. Abbotts

by D. E. Stevenson

  “It’s a pity, really,” said Simon with a sigh. “It would have been fun to get Dorkie out of the way.”

  “There,” said Barbara, locking the chest. “It will be quite safe until tomorrow morning.”

  “Dorkie won’t know,” said Fay gleefully.

  “You mustn’t tell her,” said Simon.

  “Fay won’t tell her,” declared Barbara, who was aware that if anyone told her it would be Simon. Talkers are never the best repositories for exciting secrets.

  “You told her last year,” said Fay.

  “She guessed.”

  “No, she didn’t—you told her.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You did.”

  They were still arguing, and Barbara was trying to make the peace, when the drawing room door opened and Miss Pearl Besserton appeared. Her appearance was so sudden and unexpected, and so extremely unwelcome, that Barbara stood and gaped at her, unable to say a word.

  “I heard you talking,” said Miss Besserton, offering her hand to Barbara and behaving exactly as if she were the hostess and Barbara her guest. “I’m ever so pleased to see you, Mrs. Abbott. I hope you’re quite well—and the kiddies. Such sweet little kiddies, aren’t they?”

  “Oh—er,” said Barbara shaking hands.

  “Been out for a walk with Mum?” asked Miss Besserton, smiling at Simon as she spoke.

  “Yes,” said Simon, eyeing her warily.

  “They said you were out,” continued Miss Besserton, turning back to Barbara. “So I said I’ll wait till she comes in—even if it means me missing my train, I said.”

  “I see,” said Barbara. “Yes—well—I was just going to have tea. Perhaps you’d like to have it with me?”

  “I don’t mind if I do,” replied Miss Besserton.

  The children went upstairs and Barbara followed her guest into the drawing room, where tea was ready and waiting on a little table drawn up near the fire. Barbara had formed the habit of making tea herself, for she could make it as she liked and when she liked, and it saved a good deal of trouble. She proceeded to make it now while Miss Besserton looked on and talked.

  “It looks cozy,” Miss Besserton said. “I was just thinking that while I was waiting. I must say I like a nice fire on a cold afternoon. You don’t bother about the coal rations, I suppose. I mean you just have a fire when you want.”

  “We burn wood,” replied Barbara indignantly. “We don’t use any coal for this fire. My husband cuts down a tree and we saw it up ourselves. We’re very particular about the fuel target.”

  “Sorry, I’m shore,” said Miss Besserton. “I didn’t notice it was wood.” She sat down and took off her furs.

  “Are you staying in Wandlebury?” asked Barbara.

  “No, I’m here for the day. Came down on purpose to see you—if you want the truth.”

  “To see me!”

  “I thort you might know where Lanky’s gone,” said Miss Besserton in a casual sort of tone.

  “He got his orders and left in a hurry,” replied Barbara, looking at Miss Besserton in surprise.

  “I knew he’d gone. I said, ‘Where’s Lanky gone’—that’s what I said.”

  “I don’t know,” said Barbara. This was perfectly true, for in the excitement of finding the box she had omitted to ask Mrs. Marvell for Lancreste’s address. She did not regret the omission.

  “P’raps not, but you could find out, couldn’t you?” replied Miss Besserton. “I mean you could ask his mother.”

  “Why don’t you ask her?”

  “Because it wouldn’t be a bit of good. Lanky’s family haven’t much use for me. They’re not my sort—stuffy old beasts,” she added beneath her breath.

  “I couldn’t,” said Barbara, who had decided that her only hope was to be frank. “I mean I couldn’t ask them for his address and give it to you. I expect he’ll write to you,” she added, softening the blow.

  “You’d think so,” agreed Miss Besserton. “It’s funny, reelly. I haven’t had a letter from Lanky for a fortnight. I wasn’t worrying much, because—because—but a fortnight’s a long time…Lanky generally writes nearly every day. In fact he was a bit of a nuisance like that,” added Miss Besserton in a burst of confidence.

  “Oh…yes,” said Barbara, who did not know what else to say.

  “I mean to say letters are all very well but you can have too much of that sort of thing. It gets on your nerves. I used to scream almost when I saw his writing. I wouldn’t mind seeing it now.”

  “He’ll write soon,” said Barbara.

  “Yes…yes, I expect so. Of course we had a bit of a tiff—but that was nothing new. I mean to say we’re always having tiffs and making it up again. There’s nothing in that, is there?”

  “Do you take sugar, Miss Besserton?”

  “I like a little shoog if you can spare it.”

  “Oh yes, of course,” said Barbara.

  “It’s funny,” said Miss Besserton, accepting her cup of tea and stirring it thoughtfully. “I mean I got a bit of a shock when I found he hadn’t written for a fortnight. I wrote to him—quite a nice letter it was—and he never answered so I thort I’d better come down and see what had happened. You could have knocked me down with a feather when I heard he’d gone.”

  “He left in a great hurry.”

  “He could have written if he’d wanted to. People always can,” said Miss Besserton, who was no fool.

  “Will you have some jam?” asked Barbara.

  “I don’t mind,” replied Miss Besserton, helping herself lavishly. “They’re pretty stingy with jam at the boarding house where I’m staying.” She hesitated and then looked at Barbara and said, “I thort perhaps you’d know what’s come over Lanky.”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t know anything about it.”

  “I don’t know what to do,” declared Miss Besserton. “I mean Lanky and I have been friends for ever so long—I mean you could depend on Lanky. The girls used to tease me about Lanky and call him Old Faithful—that shows you, doesn’t it? Of course I got a bit bored with him now and then but I always knew he was there.”

  Barbara said nothing.

  “You don’t think he’s making up to another girl, do you?” asked Miss Besserton anxiously.

  “I don’t know,” mumbled Barbara.

  “You would know if he was, wouldn’t you? I mean he tells you things, doesn’t he? I mean I wouldn’t like Lanky to—to find someone else.”

  Barbara made a noncommittal sound. She was terrified of opening her mouth in case she should say the wrong thing.

  “Well, it’s funny,” said Miss Besserton. “I mean of course we had tiffs now and then, but…”

  There was silence. Barbara looked at Miss Besserton and was dismayed to see that her lips were quivering. She was horrified when two large tears formed upon Miss Besserton’s eyelids and rolled down her cheeks.

  “Oh dear!” exclaimed Miss Besserton, brushing them away. “I don’t know why I’m so unlucky, I’m shore.”

  Fortunately for Barbara there was a train to London at five-twenty and, as Miss Besserton was obliged to catch it, the dreadful interview came to a hurried conclusion. Barbara accompanied her guest to the door and watched her walk down the drive and disappear. She had a feeling that Miss Besserton had passed out of her life forever. Poor soul! said Barbara to herself. It’s her own fault, of course, but you can’t help being sorry for her.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The Dentist’s Waiting Room

  It was Wednesday afternoon—market day in Wandlebury—and although the market was a mere shadow of its former self it still carried on and a certain amount of business was transacted. Archie had driven in early to sell some of his produce. He had lunch at the Apollo and Boot and met a good many friends—farmers with whom he had had dealings in better days�
��and he chatted with them and groused with them and bewailed the egg rationing scheme that seemed to be going from bad to worse. At first, when Archie had started to farm his own land, the neighboring farmers had been a little difficult; some of them had been definitely hostile, others had laughed at him behind his back and had prophesied disaster, but Archie was a friendly soul with no airs about him and gradually he had worn down the barrier of prejudice. He was quite popular now, his success was admitted, and his opinion carried weight.

  After lunch Archie went into the lounge and sat down near the window. He took this seat because he wanted a good view of Wandlebury Square, not because he wanted to talk to old Mr. Brown of Fairfarm, who was sitting opposite. Archie took up a paper and pretended to read, but not one word of its contents penetrated to his brain; for this was the day Jane Watt was going to the dentist, and the dentist pursued his somewhat grim business in Wandlebury Square, and Archie had decided to head Jane off and have another talk with her while she was waiting for her appointment.

  A dentist’s waiting room may seem a curious place to choose for a talk with Jane, but Archie had no choice in the matter. Jane was leaving Wandlebury almost immediately and this was his only chance of seeing her alone. If he went out to Ganthorne the place was always stiff with people, and Jerry spent all her time endeavoring to pair him off with Melanie. Of course it was just as well, in a way, that Jerry had got this particular bee in her bonnet, for the last thing he wanted was to be thrown at Jane’s head—that would ruin everything—but it was annoying that he could never get a moment with Jane. He wanted to talk to Jane, not to propose to her again, but merely to keep himself in front of her eyes, to show himself to her and let her get used to him…for of course he knew Jane much better than she knew him. He knew her through her books—and this was why he was a bit further on than she was, this was why she was lagging behind. She loved him, of course (she had practically admitted that she loved him) but she did not see—as he saw—that they were absolutely suited to each other; she could not envisage the future. Archie was quite willing to give her time. He had proposed to her twice and both times she had refused him, but he was not in the least cast down. He would let her go back to Foxstead. He would leave her alone for a little—for a fortnight perhaps—and then he would ride over and see her and propose to her for the third time. It might not work, of course. He might have to wait longer; he might have to propose to her four or five or six times before she said yes, but ultimately Jane would say yes, and all would be well.

  She loves me, thought Archie, so it’s bound to be all right in the end. The only snag is Helen. Helen will have to be tackled. When I see Helen I shall know how to tackle her—whether to coax her and wheedle her or take a strong line—and, once I’ve got Helen where I want her, I can go ahead. I shall have to go carefully, of course. I’ve got to remember Edward—and all the other fellows in her books—mustn’t propose to her in the garden, like Julian, or on the top of a mountain like Harold, or on a moonlight night like that ass, Cyril. It’s a pity (thought Archie), it really is a nuisance that Jane has written so many books with so many proposals in them—cramps one’s style a bit…and I mustn’t say, “Darling, I can’t live without you,” or anything like that. Funny (thought Archie, smiling to himself), that’s exactly the sort of thing I want to say to Jane—that’s exactly what I feel—“Darling, I adore you! You’re the most beautiful thing on earth!”

  “Yes, Chevis-Cobbe?” said Mr. Brown, leaning forward with his hand to his ear. “What were you saying?”

  “How are your pigs doing?” asked Archie loudly.

  Mr. Brown began to give Archie a detailed account of his prize sow and her latest litter, and at that moment Jane appeared, walking briskly across the square to the dentist’s. She walked well, with a springy heel and toe movement and a spring from the hip—and Archie, who really was desperately in love, felt his heart go surging out toward her. No time must be wasted, of course (for although Mr. Clare was an extremely busy man and not very good at dovetailing his appointments, it was just possible that he might be ready to see Jane at the proper time), so Archie abandoned Mr. Brown, threw down his paper and ran down the stairs and across the square. He arrived on Mr. Clare’s doorstep just as the door was being opened to admit Jane.

  “Archie!” exclaimed Jane in surprise.

  “I was lunching at the Apollo,” said Archie breathlessly. “I saw you. I’m coming in, too. We can talk while you’re waiting.”

  “My appointment is at three.”

  “But you may have to wait,” said Archie, and he followed her into the hall.

  “But Archie—”

  “You don’t mind, do you?” said Archie, taking off his cap. “I mean I can cheer you up and take your mind off.”

  Jane did not mind at all. It was nice of Archie. She was only going to have a tooth stopped, of course, but still…

  The page boy—who looked about ten years old—ushered them into the waiting room murmuring that Mr. Clare was “a bit be’ind ’and today” and left them to their fate.

  Archie had expected the waiting room to be empty. He had forgotten that Mr. Clare shared the waiting room with his partner. He had forgotten that, being market day, the farmers’ families would have seized the opportunity to get a lift into the town. His heart sank as he followed Jane into the room and saw the crowd. Six people were waiting to see Mr. Clare or his partner, three women, one old man, and two children—they were dispersed about the room, occupying all the comfortable chairs, and, while some of them were making a pretense of reading, others were sitting in disconsolate attitudes brooding upon the ordeal that lay ahead.

  When Jane and Archie walked in six faces were turned in their direction and twelve eyes looked at them with furtive interest and then looked away again…and twelve ears will listen to every word we utter, thought Archie in dismay.

  “Don’t bother to wait,” said Jane in low tones as she and Archie sat down at the table on the two remaining chairs.

  “Nothing else to do,” murmured Archie.

  “No good,” whispered Jane. “Awfully grim for you—may have to wait hours.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  They said no more—it was impossible to talk when you knew that twelve ears were straining to hear your remarks—but all the same Archie decided to stay, for he had a feeling that Jane was glad to have him there, that she was touched by his solicitude. He offered her an illustrated weekly and took another himself and silence fell—complete silence, save for the ticking of the clock.

  Archie’s paper was an ancient number—he had given Jane the new one—he turned over the pages and looked at pictures of planes and tanks and warships and generals with boyish faces and steady eyes. If Jane won’t have me I shall join up, thought Archie, who was suffering from a sudden wave of pessimism (which may or may not have been due to the atmosphere in the room). If Jane says no quite definitely I shall take the shilling and the farms can go to hell.

  Jane’s paper was new and crisp, but it contained much the same sort of pictures—tanks in the desert and planes and warships and generals—she turned over the pages without being able to take much interest in them; and then, quite suddenly, her eye was caught and held. There, in the column devoted to literary gossip, was a well-known name, blazoned in large type.

  JANETTA WALTERS (read Jane, holding the paper up to the light so that she might see it better) JANETTA WALTERS, the popular author, has completed a new novel to be published shortly. It is entitled Love Triumphant and Miss Walter’s large circle of admirers need not be told to make a note of it for their library lists. The story is well up to her usual standard, it is sensitive and delicate and full of romance. Miss Walters has had a slight nervous breakdown, due to overwork, and has gone to Cornwall to recuperate. Her next book, which is already well on its way, is entitled Love’s Garden and we are informed on good authority that it will have a Cornish setti
ng.

  Jane read the notice three times before she could believe her eyes…and then, gradually, the meaning of it dawned upon her and she smiled to herself with amusement. She had thought of all sorts of ways in which the problem of Janetta might be solved, but she had never thought of this…and yet, of course, it was the obvious way and the very best way of all…Helen had donned Janetta’s cloak.

  Jane could not help wondering in what circumstances Hector had proposed—probably in the rose garden on a moonlight night—and she wondered whether Phyllis had accepted him at once or kept him on tenterhooks for a page or two. She wondered how Helen would get on with Love’s Garden and whether the lovers in it would do much bathing; whether they would go sailing or merely wander along the cliffs and watch the birds…these were the sort of things one did when one went to Cornwall, or so Jane believed.

  “Cornwall!” said Jane to herself. “Why Cornwall? Helen might have chosen somewhere less hackneyed.”

  Jane smiled more broadly than before. She almost laughed—but a dentist’s waiting room is no place for laughter—for now she was beginning to realize the whole thing clearly and all its implications. She passed the paper to Archie, putting it down in front of him on the table and pointing to the paragraph she wanted him to read.

  He read it carefully—and then he looked at Jane. There was a question in his eyes. Jane nodded.

  “Miss Watt next, please,” said the diminutive page.

  The door of Mr. Clare’s house burst open and out rushed Archie. He was hatless and there was a wild air about him, an air of madness. He went straight across the square to the fountain and sat down on the edge. The fountain was not playing, of course. If it had been playing he could not have sat down on the edge of it without getting wet. He sat there for a moment in a dazed sort of way and then he got up and walked around…he could not sit still. No, it was impossible. He was too excited. He felt as if he wanted to shout and dance the hornpipe or to seize hold of somebody and say, “It’s all right! Of course I knew it would be, really, but still…”