The Lark Read online

  ‘Here’s a letter,’ said Jane. It wasn’t really a letter just a slip of paper in the well-known handwriting of Mr Arthur Panton.

  ‘Unavoidably called away. Please make yourselves completely at home. – A. P.

  ‘P.S. – Kettle and spirit-stove in the kitchen. Tea in caddy chiffonier.’

  The two girls looked at each other.

  ‘Well!’ they said simultaneously, and Lucilla added, ‘Never mind about tea. Can you carve a chicken?’

  ‘I can try.’

  ‘Try, then, in the name of the Prophet!’ said Lucilla. ‘I can cut bread. If you can’t carve, chop; our lives are saved. I prefer the liver wing. I’ve never had one, but the important people in books always have the liver wing. You can have all the legs. Oh, our guardian is really a gem. Isn’t it the loveliest supper? He must be a man of perfect taste and sensibility. Pass the salad, please. This doesn’t look like a wing, it looks all bone; give me some off the top – yes, that white part. No, I don’t want to wash my hands first, I don’t want to do anything but eat for quite a long time.’

  When they had eaten, they went all over the little house and found a tiny kitchen and scullery, and upstairs three small bedrooms choked with their luggage. From the windows they saw a large garden, painted with many bright flowers and rich with the promise of fruit trees.

  ‘It’s rather a dear little bandbox,’ said Lucilla. ‘I wonder if our mysterious guardian will come to-night or to-morrow?’

  When they had explored every hole and corner and shed and cupboard, and had tried the piano and gone all over the garden, they sat down to wait.

  ‘We won’t go to bed till twelve,’ said Jane, ‘in case he comes. And if he doesn’t, it will be rather a lark to sit up till twelve anyway.’

  But by twelve o’clock he had not come, so they went to bed. They were roused at eight o’clock by a knocking at the door, which repeated itself as they hastily dressed after shouting ‘Coming!’ through the window. Through the glass of the hall door they saw a manly figure.

  ‘Here he is!’ they both said. And so he was. But it was only the postman. He had one letter – a very large, registered one. It was addressed to Miss Jane Quested and Miss Lucilla Craye, and they both signed the green receipt form.

  ‘It’s his writing,’ said Lucilla, as the postman stumped away. ‘You open it.’

  The stout envelope yielded several long, legal-looking papers and a bank pass book. Also a letter.

  ‘Dear Jane and Lucilla,

  ‘Enclosed with other papers of less interest are the title-deeds of Hope Cottage, which is the property of Lucilla. Also a bank-book for Jane. I have paid £500 into Jane’s account at Barclay’s Bank.

  ‘This, my dear Jane and my dear Lucilla, is, I very much fear, all that you will ever see of the fortune bequeathed to you by your late aunt. I have been unfortunate in speculation, and I have decided, rather than face the bankruptcy and other courts, to fly the scene.

  ‘I am leaving you the house, which I cannot take with me, and £500, which I hope may enable you to start in some business that will keep you. A dressmaking business? Horticulture? A bonnet-shop? Duchesses do it, you know, nowadays.

  ‘I can ill spare the £500, but I cannot bear to leave you penniless. And I feel that I am the most unfortunate of men in having to leave you at all. But I have no alternative.

  ‘You have often begged me to take you away from school. Well, now I have done it. And to let you lead your own lives. Well – lead them.

  ‘And accept the warmest wishes for your success in every department of life, from your unfortunate and absolutely dished and done-for trustee,

  ‘Arthur Panton.’

  The girls looked at each other.

  ‘Whatever shall we do?’ said Lucilla breathlessly.

  ‘Well, first of all,’ said Jane, very pale but steady, ‘I think we ought to do what we ought to have done last night.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Feed that rabbit. There’s no reason why he should starve.’

  CHAPTER III

  When Fortune suddenly upsets the coach and tumbles you on to the hard, dusty road, you can, of course, sit where you are and weep. If you do, something will certainly run over you and your distress will be increased. Or you can move to the side of the road and sit down and cry here in comparative safety. Or you can go your way afoot, cursing the coach and the driver and your own beggarly luck. Or you can pick yourself up with a laugh, protesting that you are not at all hurt and that walking is much better fun than riding. The last is, on every count, the course to be recommended, but it is not everyone who has the qualities needed for such a snapping of the fingers at Fate. To do the thing convincingly you must have courage, a light heart, and, above all, presence of mind. The gesture of ‘I don’t care’ must not come as a second thought. You must not cry out and then protest that you are not hurt. The laugh must follow the smash without an instant’s pause, to be followed as quickly by insistence on the charms of walking – so much superior to carriage exercise. Afterwards you can talk things over with your fellow-victims, if you have any, and decide how fast you shall walk and how far, what shoes are best for walking, and which road you shall walk on.

  Jane, spilled out of the quite luxurious carriage of comfortable income, had at least the presence of mind to laugh and to feed the rabbit.

  ‘And now,’ she said firmly, turning away from his green munchings. ‘Then there’s nothing to do but to go for a walk. Come along in and put on thick boots, Lucy. We’re going to walk miles.’

  ‘All right,’ said Lucilla shortly. And they went in.

  ‘And look here,’ said Jane, ‘don’t let’s talk.’

  ‘I’m not the one who usually wants to talk,’ said Lucilla, busy with bootlaces.

  ‘No. I know. It’s me. But not this time. This time I want to think. Really to think. I’m not sure, but I don’t believe I ever have really thought yet. I’ve only dreamed and imagined and planned. Now I’m going to try to think. Come on – how horribly narrow these stairs are! Latch the gate; it looks tidier. Now we’ll step out. Which way? It doesn’t matter a bit. What was I saying? Oh, that I meant to try to think. And you try to, too. It won’t be easy, because I don’t believe you’ve ever done it before either. And when we get home we’ll tell each other what we think. If we begin to talk about everything now we shall only get confused. We want to see it clearly and see it whole, and –’

  ‘I thought we weren’t going to talk?’ Lucilla put in.

  ‘No more we are. I’ll shut up like a knife in a minute. I want to say one thing, though.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Lucilla. ‘I want to say I think it’s a beastly shame.’

  ‘No, no!’ said Jane eagerly. ‘Don’t start your thinking with that, or you’ll never get anywhere. It isn’t a shame and it isn’t beastly. I’ll tell you what it is, Lucy. And that’s where we must start our thinking from. Everything that’s happening to us – yes, everything – is to be regarded as a lark. See? This is my last word. This. Is. Going. To. Be. A. Lark.’

  ‘Is it?’ said Lucilla. ‘And that’s my last word.’

  They walked on in silence. The houses grew fewer. There were fields instead of market-gardens. Trees; hedges. A lonely, tumble-down cottage. A big deserted house, with windows boarded up, standing in a walled garden. A lane; a stile; more trees, and a long stretch of white grass-bordered road – real country. They walked sturdily along the dusty road. The sun was warm and grew warmer. The road rose and fell in gentle undulations. Still in perfect silence the girls walked on. But their pace was not so good as at first – one might almost indeed have said that their footsteps lagged.

  A turn of the road brought to view a village green, a duck-pond, a pleasant-looking inn. In front of this Lucilla stopped.

  ‘Look here, Jane,’ she said.

  ‘We said we wouldn’t talk,’ said Jane rather faintly.

  ‘Who wants to talk?’ Lucilla asked. ‘What I want isn’t talk
, it’s something to eat. Do you realise that you dragged me out without breakfast?’

  ‘It was silly,’ said Jane; ‘very. At the same time, I’m quite sure we couldn’t have eaten a proper breakfast just after reading that letter.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ Lucilla admitted, ‘but I want my breakfast, and I’m going to have it here – in these tea-gardens at the side of the inn.’

  ‘I’m hungry too,’ said Jane; ‘at least, I feel as if I’d been for hours in a swing-boat. I suppose that’s what people mean when they say they feel faint for want of food. But oh, Lucy, I’m so sorry. I didn’t bring any money!’

  ‘I did,’ said Lucilla grimly, and led the way to the green-latticed tea-gardens.

  In a tumble-down arbour, with faded blue seats and a faded blue, warped table, breakfast was presently served to them.

  ‘Oh, Lucilla, you are It!’ Jane admitted. ‘Doesn’t the bacon smell lovely? And the coffee? Sweeter than roses in their prime … And real toast in a proper toast-rack! …’

  ‘Don’t talk,’ said Lucilla; ‘eat.’

  After a silence full of emotion Jane spoke again.

  ‘I never had breakfast out of doors before – and all by our two selves, too … Surely even you will admit that this is a lark?’

  ‘It would be,’ said Lucilla, ‘if –’

  ‘No ifs,’ said Jane. ‘It is a lark, unconditionally and without qualification. And I’ve been thinking – at least I haven’t really till this moment, but I’m thinking now. Bacon is an admirable brain tonic. Don’t speak for a minute. I am evolving what they call a philosophy of life.’

  ‘More coffee, please,’ said Lucilla.

  ‘Well,’ said Jane, putting in far too much milk, ‘it’s like this. If we’re going to worry all the time about the past and the future we shan’t have any time at all. We must take everything as it comes and enjoy everything that is – well, that is enjoyable; like this very lovely breakfast. Live for the moment – and do all you can to make the next moment jolly too, as Carlyle says, or is it Emerson?’

  ‘It may be Plato or Aristotle,’ said Lucilla, cutting more bread, ‘but I think not.’

  ‘It’s common sense,’ insisted Jane. ‘We’ve got to try to make our livings somehow. We’ll try all sorts of things, and we’ll get fun out of them if we don’t worry and grouse. But we shall never do anything if we think of ourselves as two genteel spinsters who have seen better days. We must think of ourselves as adventurers with the whole world before us. Frightfully interesting.’

  ‘There’s something in what you say,’ said Lucilla.

  ‘There’s much more in what I am going to say,’ Jane rejoined; ‘it’s wonderful how bacon clears the mind. Have you ever thought seriously about marriage?’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Lucilla.

  ‘There – that’s exactly what I mean,’ said Jane cryptically. ‘Now I have thought about marriage – a good deal; and I believe that one reason why so many married people don’t get on together – well, you know they don’t, don’t you? – is that they’re not polite to each other. They think they know each other well enough to say, “Don’t be silly,” and things like that. No, of course I’m not offended. It was all right to rag each other when we were just cousins with nothing to do but play the fool. But now we’re partners, my dear; almost as much as if we were a married couple. And don’t you think it would be a good scheme to try to be polite, and drop ragging each other?’

  ‘You can’t,’ said Lucilla.

  ‘Well, anyhow, I think we shall have to try; at any rate, not to say, “Don’t be silly” before we know what the other one’s going to say.’

  ‘I apologise,’ said Lucilla, ‘and leave the omnibus.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Jane. ‘I didn’t mean that; it might just as well have been me. And now I’m going to tell you something.’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ said a voice, ‘but can you tell me how far it is to Leabridge?’

  They turned, to find at Lucilla’s elbow a young man in knee-breeches. He held in one hand a panama hat and in the other a glass of ginger-beer.

  ‘Oh!’ said Lucilla, with what was almost a cry.

  ‘I am sorry if I startled you,’ he said.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Lucilla; ‘at least, you did rather, but it doesn’t matter – and we don’t know anything about Leabridge. I’m sorry. But they’d know in the inn, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘I suppose they would,’ said the young man, as though this were a completely new idea. ‘They’re sensible people, I suppose?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Lucilla; ‘we aren’t staying here. We just came to have breakfast’ – she indicated the greasy plates and sloppy cups. ‘But they’ll be sure to know, of course.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you so much,’ said the stranger. ‘You see, I’ve been in the Red Sea for over four years, and I don’t seem to know where anything is. It’s wonderful how different Kent is to the Red Sea.’

  ‘It must be,’ said Lucilla, rather stiffly. ‘I’m sorry we can’t help you.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said he vaguely. ‘Thank you so much.’ And with that he retreated to the furthest of the green tables.

  ‘We’d better go,’ said Jane. ‘Whatever did you want to snub him so for?’

  ‘He didn’t really want to know about Leabridge. He just wanted to talk to us.’

  ‘I should think he did! After four years of the Red Sea anybody would want to talk to anybody. But that wasn’t it. Don’t you see, he came into the garden just when I was saying I was going to tell you something. He had to let us know he was there. I think it was very, very nice of him. Now, Lucy, you must bow as we go by.’

  ‘We won’t go by,’ said Lucilla; ‘we’ll go round the other way, and turn our backs on him at once.’

  They did. And it was rather a pity, because if the young man had seen more of Jane than a large hat and a chin, and if Jane had seen the young man distinctly, either or both might have been moved to oppose Lucilla’s severe and severing tactics. I don’t quite see what either could have done – but I incline to think that the situation would have been changed.

  As it was, Jane and Lucilla paid their bill and John Rochester was left to drink ginger-beer in the sun and wonder why he couldn’t be allowed to talk for half an hour to two ladies just because no one had mumbled their names to him and his to them. He was thirsty for the companionship of women – any decent women. So that presently he carried his glass into the bar and tried to talk to the barmaid; he found a nice, respectable woman with very little conversation. Then he rode on to lunch with a wealthy uncle who had expressed a wish to see him. Later he would go down to his mother’s. He had not seen her yet. The uncle had been imperative. He wondered whether Miss Antrobus was married, and then he thought of the gold-crowned child in the moonlit wood, and wondered …

  Little did he think – as our good old standard authors would say … But volumes could be ineffectually filled by the recital of what Mr Rochester didn’t think. The point for us is that he had seen the child again, and that she had seen him. He did not recognise her now that she wore a straw hat and the charm of nineteen instead of a crown and fifteen’s wild woodland grace. And she did not recognise the face that had come in answer to her invocation, because four years in the Red Sea set their mark upon a man, even without that scar that he got when his ship was torpedoed. They have not recognised each other, but they are in the same county; more, they are in the same district: she anchored to a house called Hope Cottage, he less closely attached, but still attached, to a resident uncle. If there is anything in these old charms the two will meet again quite soon. If there isn’t anything – well, still they will probably meet. Of course he may fall in love with Lucilla – it was she who spoke to him. If he does, we shall know that charms on St John’s Eve are worse than useless.

  Anyhow, he is now definitely out of the picture, which concerns itself only with the desperate efforts of two inexperienced girls to establish, on the spur
of the moment, a going concern that shall be at once agreeable and remunerative.

  They talked it over. The forethought of the defaulting guardian in providing an intelligent, drab-haired woman to come in and do for them left them free to talk. And talk they did. Presently talk crystallised into little lists of possibilities. As thus:

  Be milliners. Be dressmakers. Market-gardening. Keeping rabbits (‘We’ve got one to begin with, anyhow,’ said Lucilla). Keeping fowls. Taking paying guests. Writing novels. Going out as governesses (‘Not if I know it,’ said Jane. ‘Think of Agnes Gray’). Selling the house and furniture and going to Canada (‘Too cold,’ said Lucilla. ‘Besides, they have no old buildings,’ said Jane. ‘Your mind would be cold there as well as your body’). Wood-carving. Going about as strolling minstrels.

  It was not an unhappy time. Freedom was theirs. They might be unlucky, but there was no one to tell them whose fault it was. The house, though small, was very comfortable, as houses are that have been lived in for years and had all that houses need gradually added, a little at a time – not crammed down their throats in one heavy, dusty meal, by a universal provider or a hire-system firm.

  The garden was full of flowers – daffodils, tulips, wallflowers, forget-me-nots, pansies, oxlips, primroses – and on the walls of the house cherry-coloured Japanese quince. The buds of iris and peonies were already fat with promise, and roses were in leaf and tiny bud.

  Twice a day a long procession of workmen passed the house, on their way to and from the new estate that was being (developed). The girls got quite used to the admiration which their garden excited in these men. As they passed every eye was turned to it. One day Jane was cutting the pyrus japonica for the house when the procession began.

  ‘You might spare us a buttonhole,’ said a fat, jolly man with a carpenter’s bag.

  ‘All right,’ said Jane handsomely, and handed him a little sprig of red blossom.

  ‘Thank you, I’m sure,’ said the workman.

  ‘But what about me?’ said the man behind him.