I'll Never Marry! Page 12

  She made no answer, and starting up the ear, he went on, glancing at her curiously: “You’re definitely an eccentric, Catherine. Most girls would be offended if the man who was escorting them home didn’t claim a few kisses on the way.”

  “I don’t believe that,” she flared. “Do you mean to tell me that Cecily—”

  “Oh, I don’t know anything about Cecily. She has too much sugar in her make-up to please me.” He sounded profoundly bored.

  “Personally I think Cecily’s angelic,” was Catherine’s swift and indignant response.

  “Exactly. I don’t care for angels.” Then, giving her a sidelong smile; he observed urbanely: “Don’t imagine that you’re one, my dear, in spite of all this sweet devotion to clean little orphans. You run quite a good line in tempers.”

  Her flush deepened, but she said nothing and he continued, still in that bantering tone: “Incidentally, you’re not telling me that our immaculate Andy hasn’t tried to kiss you tonight! It wouldn’t be like him to waste time.”

  His words shocked her into silence. Conscious as never before of her utter inexperience of men, she was not only angered, but most deeply confused. Was Andrew indeed the kind of man who would kiss any girl he happened to be dancing with—under the impression she was expecting it?

  “Well, here you are; safe in harbor.” He was steering the car up the drive of Garsford House, and never had she been so pleased to come to the end of a journey. But when he came to a standstill, and, getting out, helped her to alight, he could not, it seemed, bear to go away in complete defeat. He took her hand and before she could snatch it away, raised it to his lips.

  “What a lot I could teach you about yourself, my dear,” he said, “if only you would let me.”

  Then, humming cheerfully, he jumped back into the car and drove off without another word, nor even—a backward glance.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Catherine slept little that night, in spite of her tiredness. Her annoyance with Roland was forgotten almost before the sound of his car died away. He simply did not count. It was Andrew who occupied her thoughts, and all her anger was for him.

  How could he have behaved so abominably, she asked herself as she tossed and turned on her narrow iron bedstead. To have cut one dance would have been bad enough. But to leave her stranded for two, when she was his guest—when, too, he was well aware that she knew nobody beyond the little circle to which he and Cecily had introduced her—it was insufferable. Nothing could excuse such caddish behavior; she would never be able to forgive it, for it showed not only bad manners, but an utter lack of heart.

  The irony of it, she reflected, as she tried desperately to keep back her tears, was that during the earlier part of the evening—until, in fact, Beryl had made her appearance in the dance room—she and Andrew had seemed to have reached a closer sympathy and understanding than ever before. Apart from that light kiss, which, no doubt, she should as lightly have ignored, the glimpse he had given her of his arid and loveless childhood had provided her, she had thought at the time, with a clue to his contradictory personality. She had felt that she would never again be hurt and bewildered by his swift changes of mood—his abrupt transitions from kindly humor to wounding satire. Behind the hardness of those steely blue eyes she would see the puzzled and resentful stare of that small frightened boy whose world had so suddenly crashed round him in ruins.

  “I’m just a sentimental fool,” she told herself bitterly. “If the truth were known, it’s probably his wretched aunt and uncle who deserve most of the sympathy. No doubt he was one of those perfectly impossible children—judging by his behavior tonight, anyway!”

  Exhausted as she was through unhappiness and lack of sleep, she was up on the stroke of half-past six. The blue-and-gold dress had to be folded carefully in tissue paper, and put in a cardboard box, together with the silk slip and the dainty shoes; and a brief line of thanks to Cecily had to be written. This done, one of the older children could be asked to leave the parcel at the Manor on the way to school—with careful instructions to drop it in at the back door, and come away at once, in order not to be late for school.

  The first few hours of that morning proved, as she had known they would, an ordeal. Everyone, with the exception of Hilda, who maintained an aloof silence, wanted to know how she had enjoyed herself; and the children’s curiosity could only be satisfied by exact details. They wanted to know who her partners had been, what had been served for supper, how the ballroom had been decorated and, above all, whether there had been any especially pretty dresses; and their innocent assumption that she had had the time of her life made it impossible for her not to play up to them. She had, between mouthfuls of porridge and bread-and-marmalade, to tell them of the splendid supper—racking her brains to remember the menu—and to describe Cecily’s lovely rose-pink frock, thankful that lack of time prevented even more searching questions.

  It was a relief when they trooped off to school, rosy-cheeked Ruth going ahead with the parcel for Cecily; for Matron, whose keen eyes had quickly observed that there was something wrong, made no further reference to the dance, and Hilda continued to act as though it had never taken place.

  But in the middle of the morning, when Catherine was busy with a large baking, the telephone, bell rang, and soon afterwards Hilda entered looking extremely supercilious.

  “Mr. Playdle wishes to speak to you on the telephone,” she announced curtly.

  Catherine’s cheeks burned. It was just as she had expected. He would imagine that all he had to do was ring up with some feeble excuse and apology, and she would forget his intolerable conduct. Well, he was due for a surprise, that was all. And looking steadily at Hilda she returned, with equal shortness: “I’m too busy to come to the telephone. If you’ll tell him that, I’ll be much obliged.”

  Hilda’s superior expression gave way to blank surprise and incredulity. “You don’t really mean that!” she exclaimed; adding grudgingly, after a moment’s hesitation: “He says it is urgent.”

  For the fraction of a second Catherine wavered. Then, as a faint smell of burning reached her, she dashed over to the oven, observing angrily as she did so: “My cooking is urgent, too. In any case, I’ve nothing to say to him.”

  Hilda eyed her doubtfully. “I suppose you want me to take a message,” she began.

  “You can tell him what I’ve just said,” was Catherine’s sharp retort, as she dealt with a batch of slightly scorched scones. “I’m sorry to bother you, and still more to seem rude; but I can’t bake and chat at the same time.”

  Ordinarily Hilda would have been furious at Catherine’s words and tone. But she contented herself with observing sourly that dancing till the small hours was a mistake when one was working, and stalking off to the telephone.

  What she and Andrew said to each other Catherine did not hear; and as she kneaded and prodded— with quite unnecessary violence—the dough she had just made, she told herself that she did not care. No apologies could make up for the way Andrew had treated her; and that being so, there was no point in listening to them.

  “If he rings up again, and I happen to answer the telephone, I shall ask him to leave me alone,” she decided, with a sense almost of suffocation, as she recalled every detail of her humiliation of the previous evening. But no call came, and she learned a day or two later, from a casual remark dropped by Geoffrey Barbin, that the Manor House was shut up while the Playdles went on holiday.

  “All these farmers rush off to have a good time, once they’ve got the harvest in,” he said, with pretended impatience, as he dumped a sack of brussels sprouts on the kitchen table. “It’s we poor devils of market gardeners who do the real work. It’s all the year round for us; and if we get a day off once in a blue moon we consider ourselves lucky.”

  “Now, Mr. Barbin, you’re not so badly off as all that,” Matron began, teasing him a little, as she examined the sprouts with an expert’s eye. But Catherine heard no more of their conversation. Angry ove
r the slight sense of shock which Geoffrey’s news had given her, she was trying to convince herself that she was thankful that Andrew was away—and failing most dismally in the attempt.

  Had it not been for the children’s company she would have felt wretched indeed in the days that followed. It was not, she told herself vehemently, that she had been cherishing any romantic notions in regard to Andrew; in spite of that caress, which she could not forget, she had not been foolish enough for that. But she had certainly begun to look upon him in the light of a friend, and his treatment of her, showing so plainly that his faults were not merely those of temperament, but of character, had come as a bitter disillusionment.

  But somehow, with the children around her, it was impossible to mope. Their vivid interest in the most trivial happenings at the Home, their jokes and laughter, the stories they brought back from school of their small troubles or successes, all served to take her out of herself. She was their foster-mother. How could she fail them by appearing aloof and preoccupied when they rushed to claim her attention, and maybe her kisses?

  The nights were the worst time, but even then she was prevented by her work from brooding too much over Andrew’s behavior. On the go all day, she was so tired, physically and mentally, when bedtime came, that she was usually asleep within a few moments of laying her head on the pillow.

  For more than a fortnight she heard nothing of the Playdles, and gradually she began to hope that the indifference she was assuming towards Andrew was becoming a reality. And then came an afternoon when she learned that the wound he had inflicted had by no means healed: that her suffering was, in fact, only beginning.

  It was Matron who brought the news, and Catherine had an idea that her very direct way of handling it was due, not to thoughtlessness, but to the sound belief that a short, sharp operation was more bearable than long-drawn-out agony.

  She and Catherine were sitting in comfortable chairs by the growing kitchen fire after supper, a basket of mending between them, and Crusoe and Friday dozing happily at their feet, when she began to chat about the usual monthly meeting she had attended, that afternoon, at the Women’s Institute.

  “We had quite a good attendance,” she told Catherine casually, holding a small grey sock to the light, and then attacking it with her ever-ready darning needle. “It was a business meeting, you know, and they wanted me to be secretary in place of old Miss Forle. I said I’d stay on the committee, but that I was far too busy to take on the secretaryship, so they elected Miss Playdle. She’s a bit nervous about it, but I told her she was the very one.”

  “I didn’t know she was back,” Catherine, thrown off her guard for a moment, stooped to pick up the tabby kitten, and cradled her hot face in its silky fur.

  “Oh, they’ve been home several days, apparently.” Matron seemed absorbed in her darning. “She’s very keen about the Women’s Institute Christmas party; wants the school children—ours included, of course—to act a Nativity Play for the benefit of the grown-ups, with a silver collection in aid of the Red Cross. A very good idea, I told her.” She bit off the strand of grey wool. “That Miss Osworth is coming to stay at the Manor for Christmas, she says, and will be a great help; she’s had a good deal of experience with theatricals of all sorts, it seems.”

  “She doesn’t seem particularly at home with children, nor they with her.” For the life of her Catherine could not keep back the tart observation.

  “Oh, I dare say she’ll be all right if she’s working at something she’s keen about. And the children will be so excited, they’ll go more than half-way to meet her.” Matron was dealing with a toddler’s suit now, frowning a little over the all-too-numerous thin places. “She may be pleasanter, too, when she’s happily married. I don’t know when the wedding is likely to take place. But I gather there is a strong possibility of her announcing her engagement at Christmas.”

  Misery gripped Catherine then and held her in a vice; she asked, with a heroic attempt at nonchalance: “I suppose Mr. Playdle is the lucky man?”

  Matron nodded. “No doubt about that. But for some reason, they don’t want it talked about yet.” She gave a short laugh. “Rather ridiculous—considering the whole village has been expecting to hear of the engagement for months past.”

  “I don’t suppose it will make much difference to us here.” Catherine hardly recognized the voice that uttered this quite untruthful remark as her own: it sounded so convincingly unconcerned.

  “Very little, I should think.” Matron was careful not to meet Catherine’s eyes. “It’s evident that Miss Playdle will be continuing to live at the Manor for a time, or she would hardly have accepted the secretaryship of the Institute. She and Miss Osworth seem to get on remarkably well.”

  “Most fortunate, in the circumstances. Of course, they are old friends. They were at school together.” The kitten, feeling neglected, scrambled on to her shoulder and, purring loudly, rubbed its small head against hers.

  “Crusoe! Your claws are like needles!” Glad of an excuse for the tears which had forced themselves to her eyes, Catherine gently disengaged the kitten, and put it down on the hearth-rug by the sleeping puppy. Then, standing up, she stretched herself.

  “I think I’ll turn in now, Matron, if you don’t mind,” she said quietly. “It’s going to be rather a heavy day tomorrow. The Guides are having their sing-song and supper here, you know.”

  Matron nodded. “You’re very wise, my dear,” was her crisp reply. And if the thought that lay behind these simple words was: “Get your cry over, Catherine, and you’ll feel a sight better,” she mercifully gave no hint of it.

  But Catherine shed few tears that night. Her unhappiness went too deep for that. For the first time she was realizing, fully and completely, that she loved Andrew, as she had never thought it possible to love any other human being; that, in spite of his indifference and neglect, to tear him out of her heart was beyond her power.

  She might scourge herself with bitter gibes, reminding herself of the pitying contempt; reserved for women who gave their love unasked, who attached greater significance to a man’s words and looks than had ever been intended.

  !t was of no avail. She had learned, unconsciously, it seemed, to love him; and it was a lesson which, she thought brokenly, she would never unlearn, however long she lived.

  She found herself trying to analyze, as she lay there, the quality and nature of this strange emotion which had taken possession of her. For it was indeed an emotion, and no more. Other girls, she, well knew, could not dissociate love from such things as engagement rings and house-hunting, the buying of new clothes and furniture. She, foolish romantic that she was, had not even thought of marriage as a possible result of the growing intimacy between herself and Andrew. Living in the clouds, she had known only that to be in his company gave her happiness so keen as to be almost painful, that to feel his arms around her, his lips on her hair, as on the night of the dance, brought her the sheerest ecstasy.

  Now, however, that Andrew was engaged to marry Beryl, she found herself suddenly awaking to the fact that she was much the same as these other girls, after all. Seeing him as another woman’s future husband, she now, for the first time, tormented herself with the thoughts of the joy which marriage with Andrew might have brought her. To live with him, his love, his constant companion, in that mellow, stone house which had been his childhood home, to bear him sturdy boys and girls who would fill the big rooms with their chatter and laughter—what happier fate could there have been? Oh, it was all very well to remind herself that he had a streak of cruelty in him—that he could be most desperately unkind. Her head might harbor this knowledge—but her heart refused to listen.

  Would his marriage with Beryl turn out happily? That was a question, she, decided desperately, she must not ask herself. Even if she could not stop loving Andrew, she could hide that love deep down in her heart, accepting his engagement with a dignity not only of bearing, but of mind. To give way, even in her own thoughts, to spite a
nd jealousy, would be not only to increase her wretchedness, but to make her unfit for her chosen work. How could she train these waifs in proper pride and self-respect if she herself failed to live up to the precepts she was seeking to instil?

  The knowledge that a keen pair of eyes would be upon her next morning also had a bracing effect on her. Aware, to some extent, of Catherine’s feeling for Andrew, it must have been an ordeal for Matron to disclose, in that apparently easy and conversational way, the news of his engagement to Beryl. Nothing but kindness, Catherine felt sure, had prompted her to this step; she had wanted to guard her from hearing the tidings at an awkward moment, when, in public, possibly, and off her guard, she might have given herself away.

  But though she nerved herself to behave with courage and serenity in the days that were to come, she hoped with all her heart to be able to avoid Andrew. And it was with a feeling of actual physical sickness that, the very next afternoon, she saw him coming down the lane along which she and a bunch of toddlers were making their somewhat erratic and leisurely way.

  There was a slight wind blowing from the west, and the babies, looking like elves in their gay knitted caps and rompers, were in their element, shouting and laughing as they chased the bright leaves, bronze and gold and scarlet, which came whirling down from the trees with which the lane was bordered.

  Escape was out of the question. True, there was a left-hand turn a short distance ahead, but no power on earth could have marshalled and hurried that round dozen of dawdling infants down that way before Andrew came up with them.

  Mercifully—for her!—a diversion occurred just then. Georgie, one of the three-year-olds, who was always inclined to be a cry-baby, stumbled over a stone and fell headlong. And although a quick onceover assured her that he was not hurt, he clung to her yelling, the tears pouring down his chubby face.

  Automatically she picked him up and comforted him, adjuring him to remember that he was a big boy now, and ought not to cry over nothing. His only reply, as always, was to burrow his head into her neck, and she was holding him thus, the other children pressing round her, when Andrew drew level with her.