by Susan Barrie
Carol flushed quite brilliantly.
“I’m sorry if I’m rather stupid,” she said.
His expression softened a little.
“Not stupid—but irresponsible.’’
“Isn’t that the same thing?” she asked, unaware that her voice was tinged as she did so with a faint tinge of melancholy.
“No, I don’t think so at all.’’ He knew that for some reason he had felt badly irritated with her to-night—ever since, in fact, he had watched her chatting so easily with young Brian Winslow in Mrs. Featherstone’ s charming house that afternoon, and afterwards dancing with him. But he tried to get a grip of his irritation. “It’s merely that you don’t, perhaps, think enough, and you are at all times rather unsure of yourself. You must get out of the habit of deferring to people—all sorts and conditions of people! You must develop a will of your own, and not mistrust your own judgment. It’s fatal to appear uneasy and uncertain in the presence of other people, otherwise they are inclined to pity you, and you don’t give them the best picture of what you really are. I’m telling you all this because I do want you to create a good impression. ”
“Of course he did,” Carol thought, feeling as if something deep down inside her was blushing in an agony of humiliation. She was his wife, and naturally he didn’t wish to feel ashamed of her. He had bestowed the name of Carrington, much prized by Meg as well as himself, upon her, and she must behave in a way that would bring no faint shadow of disapproval, or condescension, upon it, and learn how to be worthy of such a name. In short, her childishness was beginning to annoy him, as well as other people, and it was up to her to do something about it, up to her to make herself worthy of her marriage!
“And another thing I do want you to do,” Timothy added, more gently, “it to develop a little more quite ordinary common sense—about such things as falling asleep in an orchard at dusk, and going out in unsuitable shoes. You do realize that that was rather foolish, don’ t you, risking a most unpleasant form of chill?”
Carol nodded her head dumbly. She found herself unable to say anything just then.
He caught the sound of Meg slowing her car in the drive, and he bent forward and lightly ruffled his wife’s curls.
“Get on up to bed, foolish child, and if you still feel chilly ask Agatha to bring you a hot water bottle. And some hot milk might be a good idea.”
Carol stood up automatically, as anxious as he was that she should escape the critical gaze of Meg, and without offering him any form of good night moved towards the door. He hastened to hold it open for her, and as she went up the stairs she heard Meg come in at the hall door, and the sound of Timothy greeting her.
In her own room she started mechanically to undress, but she did not ring for Agatha. Another one to know how foolish she had been, she thought, and to chide her upon it—although in a more kindly fashion, since Agatha was already fond of her—as if she was a great deal younger than eighteen and a half! Had Timothy ever thought of that, she wondered, when he took it upon himself to lecture her, or to criticize her in his own mind—as he probably often did! —and to lower her in her own esteem?
Or had he become so critical tonight because of the comparison afforded him that afternoon between his young and inexperienced wife and the beautiful and supremely poised Viola Featherstone?
It seemed very likely ...
Carol did not even put on her light to undress, and when she was in bed, lying rather miserably between the cool linen sheets, she heard someone tap lightly on her door, and she slid out of bed and turned the key silently in the lock, for she was determined to see no one else that night.
Timothy called softly to her through the door.
“Good night, Carol! ”
But Carol did not answer.
In the morning, when Agatha brought her tea she indicated a note on the tray, and whispered impressively:
“From the master! ”
Carol did not open it until Agatha had left the room, and when she did her fingers shook a little, and her heart beat rather quickly.
“I was in rather a poor humor last night,” Timothy had written, in his firm masculine hand, “and I’ m afraid you got the worst of it! If you smile at me at breakfast I shall know I am forgiven, but if you can’t forgive me I shall turn my face to the wall!
Yours, in dust and ashes.—T.C.’’
Carol felt her heart begin to sing. She went down to breakfast wearing one of her most charming cottons, and with such a radiant face that Timothy did not need to see her smile, and she accepted her seat at the table with a briskness she had seldom before exhibited. Timothy brought her crisply cooked bacon and a small golden sausage from the sideboard, and she allowed him to pour out her coffee.
“That was rather a severe lesson I read you last night,” he remarked, smiling a little quaintly. “Perhaps it was because you made me feel anxious. No sniffs or colds this morning?”
She shook her head. She had never looked more glowing. “Already you reproach me by beginning to grow up,” he told her, watching the calm, poised way in which she sat at the table, and the utter perfection of her skin in the morning sunlight, to say nothing of the clarity of her eyes. “I was very unfair to you last night, Carol.”
“It doesn’t matter in the least,” she assured him. “And I know sometimes I am rather stupid.”
“I’ve never known you to be stupid,” he told her quite honestly. “You’re frequently a little shy. You’re shy sometimes with me.”
“I know,” she confessed.
Meg had already breakfasted and gone into Dulverton, and they were alone in the dining-room. He suddenly had an idea.
“What are you doing this morning?” he asked. “If you’re not doing anything particular, how about coming and having a look over the farm with me? Would you like that?”
“Oh, I’ d love it! ” she told him truthfully, for he had never asked her before.
“Then run upstairs and change into some sensible shoes, and bring a raincoat in case it rains,” he instructed, “and meet me at the garage in ten minutes.”
She was delighted to obey his instructions, and when he handed her into the car she was thoroughly and obviously prepared to enjoy her morning.
“You’re a nice child, Carol,” he told her, gently. “And by the way, did someone knock at your door last night?” Carol hesitated. He saw the flush creep into her cheeks.
“You turned the key, didn’t you?” he accused her, with a
twinkle in his eyes.
“How—do you know?” she asked, wishing he wouldn’t look at her like that.
“Because I heard you. You see, it was I who knocked at the door, and although you didn’t answer my good night you heard me quite clearly, didn’ t you?”
Carol’ s blush became almost painful.
“In future,” he told her, “don’t bother to lock the door. It really isn’t necessary.”
“I won’t,” Carol promised, in almost a hoarse little whisper.
“No one is going to force their way in on you, you know,” he told her, with a return to the gentleness she had come to associate with him.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The autumn days were slowly shortening, and with the gradual merging into winter Carol found that the process of settling down in her new home was more difficult than even she would have believed when she first came to Brown Furrows. With Timothy of course it would have been easy to settle down anywhere and at any time, and with Timothy alone she was always able to extract a modicum of quiet happiness and a certain measure of contentment from the somewhat uneventful day-to-day routine. Even though he treated her more and more as if she was either his very young and reasonably dear sister (not the independent type like Meg!) or the ward he had once declared her to be, his attitude was never anything but kindly and considerate.
There were occasions when he behaved encouragingly towards her, if he felt she was in need of encouragement, and she was always certain of his protection.
But as a wife—well, Timothy had plainly no need of a wife, not in the sense that most truly feminine women aspire one day to be. If he had ever desired to be provided with a family, have someone who bore his name and shared his interests, taking her rightful place at the head of his home and turning it into a real home—with fun and light and laughter, in place of the cloistered calm which prevailed under Meg—and on the near side of his heart (if it was not the heart of a born bachelor!) then he would have married long ago.
Not even in her own mind did Carol attempt to solve the slight riddle that was the husband she had acquired without ever expecting to acquire one at all, but she did know that about Timothy there was a rock of firmness and a cool, quiet, logical level-headedness which would not be likely to fail him very easily. To her he represented strength and an everyday kind of sanity which was unencumbered by emotion, and he possessed a strong sense of humor which really did delight her, for there at least they had much in common. It didn’ t matter to her that Meg had practically no sense of humor at all, for with Timothy she could share all the jokes and enjoy all the little amusing incidents which are bound to break the monotony of the most humdrum existence, and know that he at least saw eye to eye with her.
What did concern her about Meg was her sister-in-law’s obvious and growing complacency about their marriage. At first she had made it plain—to Carol, at least—that she resented it, that it had come as something like a bombshell to upset her own ordered life. But as soon as she realized that it was not in any sense of the word a normal marriage she became not only reconciled, but prepared to make the most of it.
She felt that Carol was the wrong type altogether ever to become a menace to her own peace of mind, that Timothy had behaved quixotically in marrying her, but that as he had done so the situation had resolved itself into something she herself should be able to handle very easily. Viola Featherstone would have been a different matter, but Carol, so young, so inexperienced, so much on the threshold of life that she herself did not know what it was she required from it, made everything so much more simple. If Timothy had to marry, Carol was the one type he could have chosen who could have ensured for Meg a continued rule in her old home and a right to maintain her old supremacy.
For if she was not easily moulded the girl would presumably ‘grow up’ one day, and then she would discover tastes and desires of her own which might easily conflict with Timothy’s future plans for her. A schoolgirl entering into womanhood was one thing, but a young woman very much alive and conscious of all the things she was missing, despite the fact that the world believed her to be a married woman, was another. And Carol, Meg thought, had a look in her eyes which promised no half-hearted development once the stage at which she left her undemanding youth behind was passed.
Carol at eighteen was already lovelier than many women could ever hope to be. She had eyes and a mouth which proclaimed that one day her temperament might be quite ardent, and a husband so many years older than she was who regarded her—and possibly always would regard her—as the little girl who needed to be cared for and protected was not perhaps the type of husband she would always desire. And even if Timothy had secret designs where she was concerned—and Meg dismissed that as completely unlikely, for if that was the case why wait until the girl, who at present owed him quite a lot and undoubtedly held him in high esteem, had had a chance to grow away from him and overcome all her early sensations of gratitude?—the situation was scarcely altered, for there was still Carol to be considered. And the considerable gap between their ages rendered it highly unlikely that she would form any violent attachment for him, especially as at the moment he did little to encourage any possible aspirations of that sort on her part. Which proved him to be acting with a good deal of indiscretion if Carol, as a real and permanent wife, was his sole and ultimate aim in life. Even Meg could have told him that, and Meg had dismissed the one opportunity she had ever had to marry.
Carol was not altogether taken in by her sister-in-law's attempts to provide her with entertainment and occupation during those early weeks of her marriage, while she was still trying to fit herself in to a somewhat alien household. She had no part or lot in the running of the house itself. She was like a guest who might become established there in time, and for whom some useful tasks must be devised. She was not to be allowed to be bored; she was just a cog in a wheel, but the wheel would continue to revolve with beautiful and undiminished smoothness whether she was there or not, and that was the impression that found its way most forcefully into her mind.
Meg had suggested that she might ride, and urged Timothy to procure her a horse, but that was because Meg rode herself, and she could not imagine anyone living in the country and not doing so. And when the girl obtained her mount and it was such a beautiful little bay mare that she decided to call it Beauty, Meg smiled and said it was quite a suitable name, although she privately considered it rather childish. But Carol must call it what she liked—for Carol was the one to be humored! Carol might also like to undertake work for the church bazaar. She might spend her evenings knitting for one or other of the charitable organizations patronized by Meg; she could, if she liked, lend help with the accounts—if her arithmetic was sufficiently good. And when the dogs needed exercise she might take them for their walks. All those things were necessary, but other people could do them if Carol did not wish to undertake such tasks.
Meg made it plain that she was trying to include Carol in all the little daily doings, but there was no vital role which she might fill, unless one was specially vacated for her. And the only really vital role which a mistress of Brown Furrows might be expected to wish to fill was the one occupied by Meg herself, and she was quite sure Carol would not wish her to desert her post at just that precise juncture, when Carol herself was so inexperienced.
‘Inexperienced’ was the word which was forever on Meg’ s lips in connection with Carol, and she had forgotten all about the course of household management. Although Carol had not.
But Carol did not under-estimate Meg’s powers, or her value in the house. She knew that she herself had a lot to learn, but she was unlikely to learn it from Meg. And therefore at times she was aware of an acute loneliness, for since his return to the farm Timothy had begun to take a much keener interest in his property than he had ever done before, and was absent a good deal of the day for at least five days of the week. He had ideas for expansion, and experiments which he wished to carry out. He was also much interested in a greater amount of modernization of the farm-house; he and his bailiff spent a lot of their time in conclave, and those conclaves naturally excluded Carol.
Apart from an early ride with him in the morning—if he was not getting up extra early to ride with Meg—and sometimes a walk with him in the evenings, before dinner, Carol saw actually very little of him. After dinner Meg was always seated with them in the long low drawing-room—which Carol had no desire at all to alter, thinking its furnishing lovely—and Meg always out-sat her sister-in-law, who retired to bed long before she did, being unaccustomed as yet to keeping late hours.
Occasionally they had friends to dinner or visitors to tea, but not often. Meg was not really sociable, and Timothy certainly was not. He gave the impression when he came in at night, after, perhaps, a long day in the open fields, or a visit to some distant town in search of new implements or special ‘feeds,’ of being glad to sink down in his arm-chair by the fire with one or other of his two women-folk seated near to him, especially when the days began to shorten still more, and winter was really upon them.
There would be Carol in her low chair close to his knee, her bright hair a flame in the lamplight, Kate the spaniel curled up at her feet—for Kate had taken a really violent fancy to her new mistress, not altogether earning Meg’ s approval—and Meg engaged in petit-point beside her work-table near the window. Meg would have the Siamese cat on her lap, for he at least was faithful to her, and Agatha would come in about ten o’clock with a tray of coffee and sandwiches—
and hot milk for Carol, who was being fattened up. Carol disliked hot milk intensely, but Meg was insistent. She was far, far too thin.
Sometimes Carol, who was not yet accustomed to the strong northern air, fell asleep over her knitting, and Timothy gently prodded her awake when it was time for her to go to bed. When she opened her eyes he would be smiling at her, in that gentle fashion she had always liked, his blue eyes very blue in the fire-glow, his eyelashes very long, and he would say as if he was speaking to a child: “Up to bed, my poppet! If you can’ t get there on your two feet I’ ll carry you—but up to bed you go! ”
And Meg would. smile at them both indulgently.
“Poor Carol! It’s a good thing we don’t do a lot of entertaining, she would find it so difficult to keep awake! ’ And Carol felt, whether it was intended or not, that it was a reflection on her being so very young, and having no proper control over her senses.
Once Timothy did actually carry her up to bed, depositing her as if she was no heavier than a feather in the arm-chair beside her turned-on electric fire, which was giving off a comforting heat. She was so heavily drowsy on that occasion that she could do no more than blink at him under her short, thick eyelashes, and his smile as he gazed down at her was touched with a hint of tenderness.
“Would you like me to act lady’s maid and see you into bed?” he suggested. “I believe you’ ll simply stay there and fall asleep again if I leave you.”
“Oh, no!”
She struggled up into a sitting position, and the bright banners of color invaded her face. All in an instant she was completely awake and filled with confusion.
“Quite sure?” But there was something a little odd in the reflective glance he directed at her face, and her suddenly downcast eyelids. From her he looked round the room, taking in all the feminine appointments, the white dressing-gown over the foot of her bed, her slippers beside the bed, the insubstantial nightdress laid out over the pillow. Kate had followed them and was wagging her tail from the fleecy rug in front of the dressing-table, obviously intending to stay there the night, and the light glowed softly over the array of toilet jars and bottles, and the gold-backed hairbrushes and hand-mirror he himself had given her. “You look very cosy in here,” he remarked. “Are you perfectly comfortable? I hope you are.”