I'll Never Marry! Page 14

  “I say, Catherine,” he began, pushing his fair, untidy hair away from his forehead, as was his habit when embarrassed. “Can you advise me what to give Hilda for a Christmas present? It’s some time off yet, but I shall be in London next week, and I want to get her something absolutely corking; something she really wants.”

  Catherine stopped spooning marmalade out of a seven-pound jar, and looked at him attentively. “What do you want to give her?” she asked.

  He gave a short laugh. “Something she wouldn’t look at,” he said. “An engagement ring!”

  “I suppose that does want a little leading up to,” she agreed, “after all the ill-humor she’s shown.”

  “But what is she feeling bad about?” Geoffrey burst out. “She used to be a real sport—peppery, of course, but that never worried me. Now she looks at me as though she didn’t see me. What have I done, that’s what I want to know?”

  “My dear Geoffrey, she’s jealous—without the slightest foundation.” Catherine hesitated, then finished helplessly: “Jealous of me, if you can believe it.”

  He stared at her in astonishment. “Why, Catherine, that’s absurd. You and I have always been the best of friends—and we’ve had a chat sometimes about that-blacksmith uncle of mine who lives near your home. But what either of us have ever done or said to give anyone else cause for jealousy—”

  “Jealousy is usually groundless,” Catherine pointed out, with a rueful smile. “Mind you, she didn’t much like the attitude you took up over the damage which she and the children did to Andrew Playdle’s hedge: she seemed to think you were siding against her.”

  “If I’d realized she was feeling so sore, I’d have taken a bit of trouble to show her where she was wrong,” Geoffrey observed thoughtfully. “She probably imagines that a hedge just grows of itself, without anyone working on it. People who have lived in towns all their lives often seem to think that—if they think at all. They look at things without seeing them, if you know what I mean.”

  “And there was that business of your greenhouse,” Catherine went on quickly, afraid that at any moment Hilda might come bustling in and jump to the conclusion that she and Geoffrey were having a pleasant tete-a-tete. “She didn’t like my taking the children across to paint it. She wished she had thought of it herself. In fact, as I said before—she is jealous.”

  His open face cleared at that. “If that is so, she must like me a little, after all,” he exclaimed.

  “Of course she does,” Catherine declared, a shade impatiently. “I should have thought you would have known that.”

  “How on earth can a man know a girl cares for him if she continually snubs him?” Geoffrey inquired somewhat indignantly. “Do you girls imagine that we wretched male creatures are thought-readers?”

  “Hilda’s coming. Off with you.” Catherine, hearing Hilda’s decided footsteps was beginning to look positively nervous.

  “She’ll know I’ve been when she sees the celery,” Geoffrey remarked sagely. “However, I’ll go. You’ve given me a line; and I believe if I play my cards sensibly, between now and Christmas—”

  “Quite,” retorted Catherine crisply, running to the door, and holding it open for him: “Meanwhile, for pity’s sake—get cracking!”

  With the knowledge that, given a little time and tact, Geoffrey would probably succeed in persuading Hilda to become his wife, Catherine felt that the choice whether to go or stay had been taken out of her hands. Geoffrey and Hilda were, she had often thought, admirably suited, in spite of their quarrels and misunderstandings. Hilda’s sharp tongue would blunt itself, very quickly, against Geoffrey’s imperturbable good humor and sense of the ridiculous; and with her energy, and capacity for hard work, she would be of the greatest service to him behind the scenes. His accounts—that bugbear of his—would be taken over and handled with the greatest efficiency; and instead of coming home to slovenly meals prepared by an elderly housekeeper who kept her eyes glued to the clock he would return to a well-warmed house, excellent food and—Catherine had no doubt—an affectionate welcome.

  “If Hilda were to go away now, things might never come right between her and Geoffrey,” she told herself, as she finished her tasks and went up to bed. “Neither of them are good letter-writers, and they’d just drift farther and farther apart. On the other hand, if I leave the Home, he’ll be able to coax her round in less than no time. My departure will be such a blessed relief to her, she’ll feel better at once.”

  There was no bitterness in her heart over this last reflection. She, herself, had suffered—and was still suffering—so keenly over Beryl, that she could sympathize with Hilda’s jealousy. The two cases were, of course, dissimilar, because Hilda, unlike herself, was jealous without the least cause. However, torments, she decided, were no less sharp because they were self-inflicted; one endured pain or one did not; and that was all there was to it.

  She strove hard to concentrate on the possibility of a speedy reconciliation between Hilda and Geoffrey, and to shut the door of her heart on Andrew’s image. But lying sleepless in her small, bare bedroom she found that every effort to banish him brought him more clearly to her mind.

  That first time she had seen him, standing in the station yard, a giant of a man with a pair of shoulders on him that owned nothing to the tailor’s art, and eyes that seemed piercingly blue in his tanned face! She had felt drawn to him just as soon as his set, serious features broke into a smile, just as soon as he began to tease her; he was one of those people, she had decided, whom one knew at once—or never; there would be no slow, laborious process from stiff acquaintanceship to easy comradeship.

  Following that came other pictures of him in rapid succession. She recalled that hard, cold expression he had worn when he had suddenly learnt that her destination was Garsford House, and her career that of a foster-mother employed by the county authorities; his halting attempts to make amends, that day he had been out riding with Beryl, by inviting her and the children to a party in the hay; his blazing anger over the damage done to his hedge, at the busiest period in the whole farm calendar.

  And then with a queer little pain at her heart she remembered that encounter with him in the High Street—his absurd but effective method of getting her to himself for a few moments. Had she really been an utter fool to imagine then, and later on, that she held a place—even a small, unimportant place—in his heart?

  Of course she had been a fool, she told herself in a rush of shame and misery. It was because she knew so little of men—had never had a flirtation, let alone a love-affair—that she had given such a significance to meaningless trifles.

  That moment at the dance when his lips had touched her hair, and her whole being had throbbed with a sudden access of joy! Why couldn’t common sense have come to her rescue and shown her that it meant less than nothing? Why did she have to learn that lesson the hard way—through his neglect and discourtesy, and through Roland’s laughing references to the light kisses that were taken and given at dances by people sensible enough to live for the moment?

  He had tried to excuse his conduct; she must give him credit for that. But even if she had accepted his excuses—and she could not in her heart of hearts do so—where did that get her? Only to the fact that his mild and anaemic liking for her had been eclipsed by the violence of his attraction for Beryl, who had every weapon of the feminine armory at her command. That he was drawn to the other girl by her sheer physical allure—that he did not show the serene happiness of a man who truly loved—made no difference. He was not the first man, nor would he be the last who, in a moment of weakness, telling himself that nothing else mattered, had pledged his word to a woman he desperately wanted, but to whom he could give neither love nor respect. He loved no one; and therefore he would go through with the affair to the end.

  She was roused at that moment by a light tap on her door, and as she switched on the reading lamp at her side Ruth came in, her brown hair tousled, her eyes all a-blink in the light.


  “Miss Cat, do you think you could come to Maureen?” she whispered anxiously. “She’s had a nightmare, and can’t get to sleep again. I tried telling her stories, and Nicola sang to her, very quietly, but it’s no good. And we are getting so tired.”

  In an instant Catherine was out of bed, her dressing-gown thrown round her, cosy bedroom slippers on her feet.

  “Quite right to come for me, Ruth,” she whispered back. “But don’t worry. I’ll soon have Maureen comfy again, and fast asleep. Tell her I’m coming. I’m going down to the kitchen for a minute first, to warm up a little milk for us all.”

  She was upstairs again a few minutes later with a tray, and found Ruth crouched on Maureen’s bed, holding the younger child in her arms and trying, by kisses and soothing words, to hush her quiet but terrible sobbing.

  Well aware of the neglect and harshness which Ruth herself had endured at the hands of her parents Catherine felt a lump rise in her throat,, as she set down her candle, and looked across at the pair.

  Surely—oh, surely!—this work among little ones whose childhood had been blighted so cruelly was rewarding enough in itself to make one’s personal grown-up troubles seem of small account.

  “What would Ruth have become by now, left to that drunken, thieving father, that sluttish, bawling mother? Where would that warm heart, that natural gaiety, be leading her? Hardly to this gentle “mothering” of a younger child; for until she had come into Matron’s care, what had she known of tenderness?

  There was deep relief on her face as Catherine entered, and she needed no second injunction to get quietly back into bed without waking the now sleeping Nicola.

  “Now, Maureen darling, put this dressing-gown round you, and sit up.” Her tone was so brisk that Maureen’s flow of tears began at once to lessen. “I’ve some warm, sweet milk for you, and one of your favorite biscuits. Here you are, dear; hold your cup properly. I want to pour some milk out for Ruth as well.”

  In a few minutes Ruth, dead tired, had followed Nicola’s example and fallen fast asleep; and then Catherine, who had been stroking Maureen’s forehead with a practised, rhythmic movement, bent down and asked the child whether she was beginning to feel drowsy herself.

  “I’m afraid of going to sleep again.” Maureen was looking up at her with the eyes of a small, terrified kitten, and her usually pale face was blotched with the marks of her weeping. “That nasty dream might come back.”

  “What dream, darling?” Catherine smiled down at her confidently. “I expect we shall both think it awfully silly if you trot it out.”

  “It was about the Missis,” Maureen whispered back, and there was more than fear in her eyes; there was sheer panic. “I dreamt she came here to take me away. I tried to run, but my legs wouldn’t move.”

  “That always happens in nightmares,” Catherine assured her.

  “Oh, but it used to happen to me in real life,” Maureen muttered. “I never could run away from the Missis, like I could from anyone else. She used to call out, very loud, ‘Wait’—and—and”—her voice sank—“I always waited.”

  “Well, if you were so obedient to her, you try doing what I tell you now.” Catherine spoke with a lightness she did not feel, for at that moment the whole room seemed charged with the atmosphere of fear. “Think about the Nativity Play we’re going to act at Christmas. We shall be settling the parts soon and what everyone is going to wear. There will be Mary and Joseph, and the shepherds—”

  Maureen nodded—to Catherine’s relief a little sleepily.

  “Ruth wants to be a shepherd,” she said, softly, but in a natural tone again. “She’s going to train Friday to act like a quiet old sheep dog.” She yawned. “I’d like to be a shepherd, too, if I could have Crusoe with me. I could bring him as a present to put in the manger—or do you think he could be just a cat that was living in the stable already?”

  Catherine smiled and kissed her, and Maureen asked, still more drowsily: “What are you going to be in the play?”

  “Grown-ups won’t be in it,” was Catherine’s quiet response, and looking down at the child, very nearly asleep now she thought with a sharply painful sense of guilt: “I’ve been considering my future movements from so many angles. I haven’t thought of them once from the point of view of those who matter most—the children! What will Maureen do when I go away?”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Next morning Maureen still looked desperately tired, and Catherine, having explained briefly to Matron what had happened in the night, gave the child the tremendous treat of “breakfast in bed,” and the welcome message that she need not go to school that morning unless she particularly wished to do so.

  She managed to discover a little later, not from Maureen herself, but from Nicola, the original cause of the attack of night terrors. It seemed that on the way back from school, in the dinner hour, the two children had seen in the far distance, coming out of the Blue Boar, a woman, who Maureen had declared nervously, looked very much like the much-dreaded “Missis.” Nicola had assured Maureen that the woman was a cottager from the other end of the village, and Maureen had eventually been convinced. But the incident had started up an old train of fears, and a nightmare had resulted.

  “Mind you, I’m not absolutely certain about the lady living in the village,” Nicola concluded ingenuously. “But you know how Maureen is always imagining things. I said it to comfort her. I was sure, anyway, there was nothing to be frightened of, and that the lady wasn’t really her stepmother.”

  Catherine didn’t feel equal, at that hour of the morning, when the children were all rushing to get ready for school, to giving Nicola a homily on the virtue, and wisdom, of complete truthfulness, and before long the matter went out of her head. There was always so much work to get through in the mornings, and she wanted to find time, during “elevenses,” to have a word with Matron on the subject of her future plans.

  Sorry as she felt for Maureen, she knew, in the cold light of morning, that, if she were to tell Matron she thought it her duty to stay on at the Home, simply for the benefit of one particular child, she would probably receive a kindly but flattering reminder that good as she had been with Maureen she was not indispensable and that both Matron herself and Hilda had had far more experience in dealing with children of just this nervous and imaginative type.

  “And it’s true,” Catherine reflected. “Maureen will be scared of Hilda for a few weeks, maybe, but Matron will gain her confidence in no time. I must, after all, put other considerations first. There is a strong reason why I should be the one to go; and an even stronger one why Hilda should remain.”

  This decision reached, she was fortunate enough to get Matron to herself for a few minutes, and found that the older woman, though genuinely reluctant to part with her, seemed to consider that she was making the right choice.

  Nothing was said either about Geoffrey Barbin, or about Andrew; and though Maureen was mentioned, Matron merely looked thoughtful and declared that she would have to make, a special fuss of the child until she got over the parting and settled down.

  “The worst of it is, you’ll have to go quite soon,” she told Catherine regretfully. “There will be no question of staying here over Christmas. I am afraid all the children, not only Maureen, will be fearfully disappointed—”And then she broke off, to ask, frowning: “Where is Maureen; by the way? Did she go to school?”

  “No; she’s in the garden with her skipping-rope,” Catherine returned placidly. “I sent her out there not twenty minutes ago.”

  “Well, I didn’t see her just now when I went to get some parsley.” Matron looked faintly anxious. “I don’t quite like this business of Maureen thinking she saw her stepmother in the distance. There’s just one chance in a thousand that she may not have been mistaken, after all. Run out and see that she’s all right, there’s a dear; she may be out in the paddock, getting some green stuff for the rabbits.”

  Evidently Catherine showed the surprise she felt at this sudden display of co
ncern on the part of Matron; for Mrs. Hosbank went on quickly: “I’ve had tiresome relatives turning up many a time, in course of my work. There have even been cases where they have tried to smuggle children away.”

  “I can’t see Maureen being persuaded to go away with that dreadful woman,” Catherine thought, confidently, as she hurried away to call Maureen, and satisfy Matron’s fears. But when she found to her dismay that there was no trace of Maureen, either in the house or the garden—or even out in the paddock beyond—she remembered with horror the way the child had spoken of the paralyzing effect “the Missis” had had upon her and redoubled her efforts at searching for her.

  After a few minutes, she gave up in despair, and hurrying back to Matron told her that she could find no trace of the little girl.

  “She may have gone to school after all,” Matron said, appearing, characteristically, several degrees calmer now than when she had first raised the matter. “Get on your bicycle at once, Catherine, and have a good look for her round the village. Someone will have seen her, for sure.”

  Losing not a minute, Catherine got out her bicycle and pedalled vigorously in the direction of the village, keeping a keen look-out as she went. And suddenly as she turned a corner she saw two figures ahead of her, a stout, respectably dressed woman, and a child, whom she recognized instantly as Maureen. They were plodding along together at a good pace, and though it seemed as though the child were finding some difficulty in keeping up, there was no sign of any deliberate attempt on her part to hang back.

  They were evidently making for the “request” bus stop, some fifty yards farther on, and recalling with dismay that a bus was due in a few minutes’ time, Catherine decided not to call out to them from behind, but to pass them, stop, and head them off. She felt certain that if she were to tell Maureen that she must return with her at once to Garsford House, she would find the moral courage to break away from this stepmother of whom she was so pitifully afraid.