Markie was in bed. She had fainted in the middle of supper—had rolled right off her chair and collapsed in a heap on the ground—and she knew nothing more until she found herself lying on her bed and heard the terrific fuss going on all around her. “Not brandy,” Jane was saying. “Not until the doctor comes. Don’t cry, Wilhelmina—go and fill two hot water bottles.”
“She’s dead!” wailed Wilhelmina.
“Nonsense, go and do what you’re told,” said Jane sharply.
“But Markie is never ill!” exclaimed Jerry’s voice. “Oh dear, she must have been doing too much—and look how thin she has got—two safety pins in her waistband!”
“It was the excitement,” said Jane’s voice soothingly. “And we’ve all got thinner. Don’t worry, Jerry…smelling salts—there, on the dressing-table—I think she’s coming around.”
“I am perfectly well,” declared Markie in a shaky voice, and she endeavored to rise.
“Lie still, darling!” cried Jerry.
“Just until the doctor comes,” added Jane.
“There is no need for the doctor.”
“We’ve sent for him.”
“I won’t see him.”
“Darling Markie, you must. He’s coming. He’ll be here in half an hour.”
“I won’t see him,” said Markie, but she said it feebly, for she felt so ill that nothing seemed to matter very much.
Dr. Wrench was small and thin and agile. He had a brown face, somewhat wrinkled, and a pair of very brown eyes; it was therefore a foregone conclusion that his intimates should call him Monkey. He arrived at Ganthorne in his car before Jerry had expected—though not before she had hoped to see him—and instead of ringing the bell he let himself in and came bounding up the narrow stairs, two steps at a time. He was in Markie’s bedroom, standing at the end of the bed and looking at her before she knew he was in the house.
Having heard of Markie’s exploit—the news of which was already spreading rapidly throughout the district with the usual additions and variations common to news of this nature—Dr. Wrench had expected to find his patient suffering from nervous reaction, and he had come prepared to administer a little gentle badinage and a sedative, but one glance at his patient’s face disabused him of these ideas. Miss Marks was really ill. She was in pain. The first thing to do was to clear the room; Jerry and Jane and Wilhelmina were banished and the door was shut.
“Now, what’s all this?” demanded Dr. Wrench. “What have you been doing to yourself?”
“I walked too far,” replied Miss Marks feebly.
“Where is the pain?”
“It is not bad.”
“Let’s see where it is.”
“There is no need,” began Miss Marks, clinging to the bedclothes with both hands.
But the doctor was more than a match for her and despite her denials and prevarications she was examined thoroughly, prodded and poked and questioned until no shred of privacy remained to her, until every smallest detail had been revealed. Dr. Wrench sat down on a chair beside her bed and looked at her. “I thought you were a sensible woman,” he said.
“I am,” declared Miss Marks defiantly.
“A sensible woman would have taken advice months ago.”
Miss Marks remained silent.
“Why didn’t you take advice?” demanded Dr. Wrench.
“It was not necessary.”
“Nonsense. That isn’t the reason.”
Miss Marks hesitated. “I suppose I was a coward,” she said at last.
“A coward!”
“Yes, I was afraid you might say it was serious.”
“So you just carried on,” said Dr. Wrench with exasperation. “You just went on as usual—don’t you realize that it’s a very dangerous thing to do?”
“I hate being a bother,” explained Miss Marks.
There was a short silence.
“What is it?” asked Miss Marks at last. “Is it serious?”
“Of course it’s serious,” replied Dr. Wrench. “You don’t have pain without a cause. Pain is simply nature’s way of warning us that something has gone wrong.”
“Very serious?” asked Miss Marks anxiously.
Dr. Wrench looked at her. “What did you think it was?” he inquired.
“I thought perhaps,” she began. “I wondered…”
“Oh, so that’s what you thought!” he exclaimed. “You’ve been worrying yourself sick—and all for nothing. Appendicitis is the name of your complaint.”
“Appendicitis!” exclaimed Miss Marks in amazement. “But surely…are you certain…is that all it is?”
“That’s all,” he replied, smiling for the first time.
“I can have it removed, then?”
“Most certainly,” he replied. “You must have it removed as soon as possible. You’ll be as right as a trivet in a fortnight or three weeks.”
“I can’t believe it,” declared Miss Marks. “It is too good to be true…are you perfectly certain, Dr. Wrench? I thought appendicitis was a sudden acute pain accompanied by a high temperature.”
“Yours is a chronic condition.”
“I have lost weight,” Miss Marks reminded him.
“What do you expect? People who worry themselves silly over nothing usually lose weight…What put the idea into your head?” he inquired as he rose to go.
“My father died of it…carcinomata of epithelial origin.”
“You’ll probably die of old age,” said Dr. Wrench comfortingly—and he departed. Markie turned over and shut her eyes. She began to say her prayers but she was asleep before she had reached the end of them.
***
Jane and Wilhelmina stood on the doorstep of Ganthorne Lodge and watched the ambulance drive away. It was taking Markie to Wandlebury Hospital, and Jerry had gone with her to see her safely into bed. Markie had been in excellent spirits, talking and joking and giving all sorts of instructions and warnings to her deputies—in fact one might have thought that Markie was looking forward to her operation with delight. When the ambulance had disappeared from view Jane and Wilhelmina went back into the house and looked around.
“It feels funny without either of them,” Wilhelmina said.
“Yes, but Mrs. Abbott will be back tonight,” replied Jane. “As a matter of fact I thought of turning out the sitting room. It seems a good opportunity.”
“I thought I would wash the curtains in Miss Marks’s room,” declared Wilhelmina, “and I was thinking we might make macaroni and cheese for supper.”
“But Wilhelmina—”
“I’ve seen Miss Marks make it ever so often,” said Wilhelmina, interrupting hastily. “You make the macaroni first, with potatoes and flour and fat and a dried egg, and you roll it out and cut it into strips and drop them into boiling salted water. You make the cheese sauce while the macaroni is cooking—and then you put the macaroni in a pie dish and pour on the sauce and brown it under the grill.”
“It sounds easy,” admitted Jane.
“Easy as anything,” said Wilhelmina earnestly. “If you’d give me a hand we could do it beautiful. I know we could…and it’s Mrs. Abbott’s favorite.”
This clinched the matter. “We’ll make it,” said Jane. “We’ll start directly after tea. I’ll turn out the sitting room in the afternoon.”
Jane had profited considerably from Markie’s tuition and she made a very good job of the sitting room. She cleaned it thoroughly and polished all the furniture—and as she worked she thought of all sorts of things. She thought of Markie. What a splendid person Markie was! Jane felt glad to have known Markie, for Markie’s example had shown her that you could do humble things splendidly and be happy doing them—and make others happy. Jane thought of her own problem, she thought of Helen. She had behaved badly to Helen and she must make amends. She began to think of Archie—and then decided not to think of Archie…
Jane was just putting the finishing touches to the room when the door opened and Archie walked in.
“Oh!” exclaimed Jane, looking at him in dismay. She was conscious of untidy hair, dirty hands, and a crumpled overall. She wondered whether her face was clean—probably not.
“What’s happened?” inquired Archie with anxiety. “I heard the most extraordinary tale. What are you doing?”
“Cleaning,” replied Jane. “Markie has got appendicitis. They have taken her to hospital and Jerry has gone with her.”
“Poor old Markie!” exclaimed Archie, sitting down and looking at Jane with rather a curious expression.
“I’m frightfully untidy,” said Jane.
“Untidy but by no means frightful—go on, tell me the whole thing. What’s all this about a spy?”
Jane told him about the spy, she told him everything, and Archie listened and nodded and made the right sort of response, and presently Wilhelmina brought in a small tray with tea and bread and butter and they had it together, sitting by the fire.
“So you aren’t going away!” said Archie, suddenly.
“Not until Markie is better. I promised her I would stay and help Jerry—but it’s a little worrying,” said Jane with an anxious expression. “I feel I ought to write to Helen. I could write, of course—only, if she knew where I was, she might come over and make a scene.”
“That’s easily settled,” replied Archie. “I’m going to London tomorrow for a few days. I’ll post your letter in town.” This was an excellent idea; it was clever of Archie to think of it.
“Write now,” said Archie. “You needn’t say much, need you?”
Jane got out her writing pad and sat down at the desk. She could have composed her letter more easily if she had not been so conscious of Archie’s presence in the room. He sat by the fire, smoking, and looking at the flames…
“You seem to be saying a lot,” said Archie at last.
“I’m not, really,” replied Jane. “It’s difficult. Where’s the wastepaper basket?”
“I should put it in the fire if I were you.”
“Perhaps I’d better.”
The letter, when it was finished, was very short. It contained the news that the writer was well and happy and would return to Foxstead in about three weeks. Jane had tried to explain what her feelings were, her feelings about Janetta, but had given up the experiment in despair.
“That will have to do,” said Jane, handing the missive to Archie. “I shall explain everything when I see her.”
“Everything?” inquired Archie significantly.
“About Janetta,” replied Jane firmly.
More might have been said but at this moment Wilhelmina appeared at the door. “What about the macaroni?” she inquired.
“You can’t get macaroni, now,” said Archie, who shared his sister’s passion for this form of food. “Macaroni is not to be bought for love or money. I’ve tried everywhere.”
“We make it,” said Wilhelmina simply.
“I didn’t know you could!” exclaimed Archie in surprise.
“It hasn’t got holes in it, of course,” Wilhelmina told him. “It’s just long thin strips.”
Archie rose. He said, “I’ll come and help and I’ll stay to supper—that will be all right, won’t it?”
Jane and Wilhelmina assured him that it would.
Wilhelmina had laid out everything very neatly on the pantry table and weighed the ingredients with care. The potatoes had been boiled; they were divested of their jackets and mashed into a bowl with fat and flour and dried egg. Archie seized the bowl and a wooden spoon and proceeded to beat up the mixture. He was anxious to show Jane that he was a capable person, versatile and resourceful, and glancing at her he was glad to see that he was creating the right impression.
Jane was not to be outdone, and when the mixture had been thoroughly beaten and turned out onto a floured board she took up the rolling pin.
“Yes, you roll it out,” said Wilhelmina, who was enjoying herself. “You roll it out and then you roll it up into a sort of swiss roll and then you take a knife and cut the roll into slices and that makes long thin strips of macaroni.”
“I see the idea,” said Archie. “It’s very clever, isn’t it? Roll it out, Jane.”
Jane started to roll it out, but the dough was cloggy and, instead of forming a nice neat mat on the baking board, it stuck to the rolling pin.
“It’s all right,” said Archie. “We’ve forgotten to knead it, that’s all. You must do it with your hands—I’ve just washed mine.” He turned up his sleeves and plunged into the struggle.
The dough clung to his fingers, enveloping them in a white sticky mess. He tried to squeeze it off but it clung to him more lovingly than before.
“Good lord!” he exclaimed. “The stuff is like glue. Can’t you do something about it, Jane?”
Thus appealed to, Jane tried to do something about it, but without success, for the dough wound itself around her fingers too. Their hands were covered with it. They were helpless.
“You should—have floured—them,” gasped Wilhelmina, leaning on the table and shaking all over with laughter. “Oh dear—it’s as good as the pictures—oh dear!”
“We should have floured them, Jane,” said Archie gravely. “You realize that, don’t you? If we had floured our hands the dough wouldn’t have stuck.”
“But what are we to do!” cried Jane.
After some difficulty they managed to scrape off the dough and return it to the board—there was less of it now, and it was still very cloggy.
“We can’t roll it up,” said Archie, eyeing it warily.
“We must cut it,” declared Jane. “We must cut it up into neat pieces. We can’t waste it.”
They cut it into pieces—not neat pieces, for that was impossible—and dropped them into the pan of water boiling on the stove.
“It will taste the same,” said Wilhelmina without conviction.
“Oh, of course,” agreed Archie with enthusiasm.
Jane said nothing. She was looking at the pan, watching the queer bloated lumps that had begun to rise to the surface. After that the cooking operations went quite smoothly and according to plan, and when the dish was ready and nicely browned on the top it looked exactly like macaroni and cheese.
“Have we got to wait for Jerry?” inquired her brother. “I mean it smells so good and it’s a pity to spoil it. Things like that ought to be eaten when they’re ready.”
Jane decided not to wait—her decision might have been different if she had been sure that the macaroni was a success—if Jerry came in later she could have an egg, and the macaroni experiment could be repeated another day.
“More flour and less potato,” said Wilhelmina nodding. “We’ll know better the next time.”
Having agreed upon this Archie and Jane settled down to supper together and discussed the fruits of their labors.
“It’s extremely good,” declared Archie in some surprise. “The stuff doesn’t taste like macaroni, of course, but you could hardly expect it. You know, Jane, things always taste nicer if you cook them yourself—even boiled eggs. Have you noticed that?”
“No, not really,” replied Jane.
“Have some more,” suggested Archie as he took a second helping.
“I’m not very hungry,” said Jane—nor was she, for she could not forget those strange bloated lumps rising slowly to the surface of the water and turning over and over as if they were alive—as if they were some horrible sort of fish.
Archie could not stay long—he took his departure soon after supper—and, as he had left his horse at the stables, he persuaded Jane to walk down to the stables with him and see him off. She was all the more ready to be persuaded because she had been working indoors all day and because it really was a most beautiful night with a bright moon and a cloudless sky and a soft breeze that went whispering through the trees. They walked along together, not saying much, for Jane was never very talkative and Archie was busy with his thoughts. His thoughts were rather strange. If it had been wet or misty or if the moon had not been quite so gorgeous Archie might have proposed to Jane again (for, thanks to the macaroni, they had moved on a good deal further in their relationship), but Archie had just finished reading Her Loving Heart by Janetta and, in this extremely romantic tale, Cyril had proposed by moonlight…the moon was sailing in a cloudless sky and the treetops were silvered by its light. All the world seemed to be made of silver and black velvet and the air was heavy with the perfume of nightstock…it was an admirable setting for a proposal and Cyril had won his heart’s desire.
Archie might have tried his luck if it had not been for Cyril. The treetops were silvery, and the world was made of silver and black velvet, but Archie could not do a thing about it because Cyril had spoiled the market. Archie understood Jane; he knew that she was sick of sentiment and romance. She would recover, of course, and in time she would realize that romance was a good thing in the right place. It was not the whole of life—as Janetta had made it—nor was it entirely foolish, as Jane seemed to think. It was like chocolate cream, thought Archie, a certain amount of it was good for you and extremely palatable; too much of it made you sick.