Just before bedtime, however, when the children were all safely tucked up, and Matron shut away in her office attending to her correspondence, Hilda came up to her, as she gave the porridge a last-minute stir, and asked her curtly if she could speak to her for a minute.
Catherine straightened herself, and pushed a straying lock of hair away from her forehead.
“Of course,” she said coolly. “What is it?”
“I want to ask you this,” Hilda burst out. “Why must you choose the one weekend when I’m away to take the children over to paint Geoffrey’s greenhouse? What’s the great idea?”
Catherine looked at her steadily. “He told us he hadn’t time to do the painting,” she said, “although it was an urgent job. And the children, especially Winnie, were so keen to do him a kind action, I took them across and helped them to get on with it.”
“In other words, you had a chance to shine, and you took it,” was Hilda’s tart retort. “Don’t think I’m blind, that’s all. You can always achieve sweet smiles when Geoffrey’s around—and they’re evidently not lost on him.”
“You’re talking absolute nonsense,” Catherine began, utterly taken aback by this assault.
Hilda gave a short laugh. “Before you came there would have been no question of Geoffrey’s not turning up at the station to drive me home,” she said, “I can tell you that much.” And with a toss of her red head, she stalked angrily away, indignation in every line of her trim figure.
CHAPTER NINE
A sure instinct told Catherine that she would do no good by trying to argue with Hilda over this question of Geoffrey. The wiser course would be to say nothing, but to demonstrate by cool and dignified behavior that she looked upon Geoffrey in no other light than as a pleasant acquaintance, and a kind and generous friend to the children.
She was, none the less, genuinely startled by Hilda’s insinuation. Her lack of success with men, so sharply underlined by the triumphs of her dashing and confident elder sister, had made her long ago decide that marriage and motherhood would never be her portion: that certainty, indeed, was one of her reasons for taking up the career of foster-mother. If she was never to have children of her own, she need at least not waste the treasures of affection she knew herself to possess: she could, unchecked, lavish her warm, maternal feeling on little ones who craved for “mothering” as plants craved for sunshine.
Now it seemed that this view of herself as a born spinster, who could never hope to win a man’s love, was not necessarily shared by everyone around her, as had been the case at Hilliton. In the eyes of the people she was meeting now, in the course of her daily work, she was an ordinarily attractive girl, as likely to make men friends, and find a husband, as anyone else.
What flustered her far more than the astonishing fact of Hilda’s jealousy was the sense of unrest which Andrew gave her nowadays, whenever they met. Hitherto she had been able to tell herself proudly that if no man had sought her out, no man, on the other hand, had troubled her peace. That was something she could no longer say with any truth.
She was not in love with Andrew, or anything foolish like that. But the fact had to be admitted that the very sight of his coppery head and broad-shouldered figure in the far distance, the least sound of his deep voice, disturbed her; and in his actual presence, the singularly sweet expression with which he sometimes smiled down at her—when teasing her a little, perhaps—made her heart-beats quicken in the most disconcerting way.
“How amused he would be if he knew the effect that particular smile of his has on me,” she thought with shame when, passing her in his car one afternoon, he had given a cheerful wave and rushed on— leaving her with racing pulses, and a ridiculous, wholly unwarranted sense of disappointment. “What a fool he would think me if he guessed that just because he had sometimes shown me a little friendliness, a little kindness, simply in my role of foster-mother, I expected him to stop his car as a matter of course and speak to me.”
And on the heels of that reflection came another, even more wounding: “He would have stopped for Beryl Osworth, but then she’s a real friend. He knows nothing of me except in connection with my work here—and will never wish to know anything, in all probability.”
But however hard she found it to keep secret the queer attraction she felt for Andrew, she evidently succeeded, for Hilda’s resentment, though silent, continued. Catherine was scrupulously careful to give her no fresh ground for suspicion, but jealousy needs little food to nourish it, and she was sometimes painfully aware that Hilda was reading into the most innocent remarks and actions meanings which in other circumstances would not have occurred to her.
Geoffrey, who had, Catherine was sure, no idea of the bee which had found a home in Hilda’s bonnet, was at first puzzled, then annoyed by Hilda’s coolness towards him. She had been vexed with him in the past, occasionally—snapping his head off and then apologizing for her quick temper; but there had been something friendly even in her quarrelsomeness.
Now, however, she treated him with a cold and impersonal politeness which, in his simplicity, he could only interpret as a desire to “freeze him off.” And. since he was far too independent to have any notion of intruding where he was clearly not wanted, he, too, took refuge in offended dignity—pointedly asking for Matron, when making arrangements for deliveries of fruit and vegetables, or for Catherine, when Matron was not available.
The more Catherine puzzled over the matter, the more certain did she feel that the affair of the greenhouse, and of Geoffrey’s failure to meet Hilda at the station, were not the primary causes of the other girl’s jealousy. It had been growing for a long time; and though she had doubtless tried to forget his tactless words to her over Andrew’s broken fence, the fact that he had sided against her, had never ceased entirely to rankle.
To do her justice, Hilda was scrupulously careful not to allow her annoyance to affect her work in any way. After that one flare-up her manner to Catherine, though lacking warmth, was irreproachable, and she seemed, keenly anxious that the children should guess nothing of the tension which existed beneath the surface.
It was probably for this reason that Matron whose serenely smiling eyes missed little of what went on at the Home, made no comment on the situation. She took one step, however, which eased matters a little. Knowing that Hilda was at her best with toddlers, who took more kindly to strict routine than the older children, she arranged that for the rest of the term she should work chiefly with the tinies, leaving the care of the school children to herself and Catherine, a sound scheme which resulted in less friction all round, since Hilda and Catherine were no longer brought into constant contact, and were free, to some extent, to go their own ways.
Late summer merged into early autumn, and the great business of harvesting went on. With the hedges covered with ripe berries, the older children were no longer content to spend their free time in the garden, but roamed the fields, bringing home blackberries, to be transformed in. Matron’s gleaming preserving pans into bramble jelly for winter use, and rose-hips for the good-natured Geoffrey to take in to the Government centre at Great Garsford as their contribution towards the nation’s store of vitamins.
Usually the children went off by themselves on these expeditions, in small parties which included their special school friends. But one glorious day, having discovered by the size of Catherine’s post that it was her birthday, they got together after breakfast in an excited group, and then issued an invitation to her to come on a picnic with them, by way of celebration.
“We want it to be our show entirely,” Ruth declared, trying hard to remember the dignity required of her now that, Winnie having left, she was the oldest girl in the Home. “You and Matron, and Miss Dewney, haven’t to bother one bit about eats and drinks. We’re seeing to all that.”
“If we had known beforehand we could have made a birthday cake.” Nicola, who had spent a very happy birthday at Garsford House, spoke a trifle reproachfully.
“Or we could h
ave saved up and taken you for a lovely long bus ride,” Maureen put in. “We’ve only enough pocket-money now for lemonade and buns.”
Ruth, shocked at these financial disclosures, frowned at Maureen who, less easily upset now by other people’s displeasure, and unaware of having been tactless, added hastily: “And doughnuts!”
“Well, I call that a lovely idea!” Catherine was quick to avert the impending storm, heralded by loud “S-sh”-es to Maureen. “Now don’t any of you tell me any more about it—except the time I’m to be ready to start. It will be the first birthday treat I’ve had for years, and I feel as excited as anything.”
She lost no time, however, in seeking out Matron who, though deeply involved with the kitchen flues, was ready, as usual, to switch her attention over to other domestic matters.
“The children want to spend their own pocket-money on giving me a picnic,” she exclaimed, lowering her voice in case sharp young ears should catch what she was saying. “I don’t want to hurt their feelings, but it worries me to think of their poor little store of coppers going into lemonade and cake for my benefit. Is there anything we can do— tactfully, I mean—”
“Certainly not!” Matron’s tone was crisp, as she laid down her flue brush for a moment, and looked back at Catherine. “Don’t all their friends at school save up their pocket-money to give their mothers and fathers presents, or treats, on their birthdays? We’re all the parents they have, poor darlings; and if we don’t let them act the way the other children do, we stamp them immediately as different.” And then, turning back to her grimy but satisfying task, she added, over her sturdy shoulder, “They know you have had presents from your little niece and nephew! What do you suppose they will feel if they, your foster-children, are allowed to do less for you?”
The delight which the children took in their mysterious errands to the village shop, and their general excitement over the whole expedition, made Catherine feel the soundness of Matron’s outlook.
But when, starting out, armed with baskets, they led her straight over Andrew’s land, she experienced a slight tremor as to the wisdom of allowing them to keep the venue of the picnic a complete secret. Suppose they chose some quite unsuitable place, and once again incurred Andrew’s wrath?
And presently, after a considerable tramp, her fears were reinforced. Maureen, who never found it possible to keep a secret, let drop something about “nuts,” and she realized then that the party was making for a certain spinney famous for its hazel nuts.
Knowing that the spinney was in all probability a preserve for game, and by no means anxious, in any case, to help herself to the Playdle’s nuts, Catherine felt extremely perturbed. On an ordinary occasion it would have been easy, to tell the children that the copse was out of bounds to them; but they were so excited, so full of joyous anticipation, she shrank from pouring cold water on their plan.
She felt, however, that a protest was inevitable, when she heard Ruth telling the lively puppy, whom she had been carrying most of the way, that he would soon be able to get down and hunt for rabbits, And she said, to the child, as lightly as she could: “I’m afraid we shall have to give that spinney a miss, you know. Mr. Playdle won’t appreciate our trespassing there, and disturbing his game.”
To her surprise, Ruth continued to smile brightly. As for the other children, their hilarity only increased, reaching, a crescendo when Andrew himself, of all people, suddenly came out of the copse, and made his leisurely way towards them.
“What does all this mean?” Catherine, her heart beating uncomfortably fast, looked in bewilderment at Ruth.
“Oh, it’s all right,” the child told her gaily. “Matron said that if we wanted to go after hazel nuts on Mr. Playdle’s land we must get his permission. So I popped across to the Manor; and as he said “Yes,” I asked him, as a lovely surprise for you, to come to your birthday party, too.”
CHAPTER TEN
Whatever Catherine felt about the “surprise” so carefully planned for her—and her emotions were decidedly mixed—she had no time for comment of any kind.
Andrew’s long, deliberate stride—the characteristic stride of a farmer, she had often thought, brought him abreast with them now; and taking her hand in his, he smiled down at her, an air of school-boyish mischief on his tanned features, and wished her, “Many happy returns.”
“But I’ve an apology to make,” he went on, forgetting, it seemed, to free her hand. “Queer how I always seem to be apologizing to you, isn’t it! This time it is because, having accepted the invitation to your party, I find I can’t stay.”
Now she discovered that her feelings were not mixed at all. A sharp sense of disappointment pervaded her, and her smile, as she disengaged her hand, was cool.
“It was absurd of Ruth to ask you,” she said lightly, able to speak freely since the children had already scattered, leaving her alone with Andrew. “When she sprang it on me just now I was horrified.”
The laughter died out of his blue eyes. “That’s a pretty unfriendly word to use,” he observed abruptly “You wouldn’t have been so dismayed, I suppose, had they invited Geoffrey Barbin along.”
She flushed, her thoughts going at once to Hilda, and her sharp jealousy. “Indeed I should,” she declared ingenuously. “More so, in fact.”
The glance he bent on her now was bewildered. “What a funny child you are!” he remarked. “I can’t make head or tail of you, sometimes.”
Just for a second she was swept by a secret, irrational delight. If he could use that word “child” to her, surely she was not the hopelessly dull, foredoomed spinster she had felt herself to be of recent years at Hilliton; surely he found her—likeable.
The next instant, however, common sense made her shrug the compliment aside and, forced by her uncompromising honesty, she flashed back at him “Child! Do you realize that I’m twenty-eight today?”
Oddly enough he showed no signs of discomfiture at this painful revelation. “Heavens, how ancient,” he mocked. “But I’m even more of a Methuselah. I was seven when you made your bow to the world. Of course, by using a hair-restorer every morning and lacing myself well into my clothes—”
She broke into a gust of laughter at his nonsense, and he went on then, impetuously. “Listen! I’m frightfully sorry I can’t stop and picnic with you and the kids. I’d have loved it. But I have to go and give a hand with a sick cow—a very Valuable Friesian. Can you make it all right with the children—and incidentally see they don’t spoil my trees? I don’t preserve any game round here, so there’s no need to worry on that account.”
“I’m sorry you can’t stay, too.” Somehow as she smiled up at him she felt more at ease with him than ever before. “You don’t know what you’re missing—lemonade and doughnuts—”
“On the contrary, I’ve a very clear idea of what I’m missing,” he interrupted quickly, and something in his voice and expression made it impossible any longer to meet his eyes. “However, if you’ll give a favorable reply to Cecily, when she rings you up sharp at six this evening, I shall be amply compensated.”
“What do you mean? What is your sister going to say when she rings me up?” Curiosity got the better of her sudden attack of shyness, and she looked up at him again in bewilderment.
He shook his head. “Sorry. I was particularly told to keep out, when I suggested handing you the invitation myself.’ Well, I won’t say goodbye, because I hope it’s au revoir.” And pausing only to explain to Ruth and one or two other children, who came running up just then, his reason for not being able to stay to the picnic, he gave them all a cheery wave and went on his way.
Although devoured with pleasurable curiosity over this highly mysterious communication, Catherine did her best to put it out of her mind, and. concentrate on the “treat” provided for her by the children. They would be bitterly hurt, she knew, if they guessed that she was thinking more about the Playdles, and their forthcoming invitation, than about their own entertainment.
Naturall
y, however, they interpreted her added vivacity and sparkle simply as a sign that she was thoroughly enjoying the party; they had not heard her conversation with Andrew, and had they done so would still not have realized what a thrill it had given her. All they knew and cared was that their treat was proving a tremendous success. Indeed she would have been a very strange person if she had failed to enjoy herself. No children, whatever their circumstances and upbringing, could have made more charming hostesses than these erstwhile waifs.
Tea, of course, was the first item, if only for the reason that until some of the baskets were emptied, it was useless to begin nutting. And when Catherine saw the lavishness of the “spread” she was once again—despite Matron’s words—filled with dismay that the children should have spent their small pocket-money so freely on her birthday treat. Every variety of bun which the Little Garsford baker could produce was represented, and no less than three kinds of “mineral”—each more gaseous than the last!—made their appearance.
Her only difficulty was in doing full justice to this rather filling feast, but she did her valiant best; and since the children’s appetites were excellent there were no leftovers to be carried back.
Their hospitality did not stop here, however. When it came to gathering the nuts, with the help of a crooked stick which Andrew had thoughtfully—if not altogether altruistically—left for them, the best were promptly put aside for Catherine. And it was she who had to choose the games which they afterwards played in a nearby meadow.
She remembered, needless to say, to keep an eye on the time, and had them all home, as previously arranged with Matron—by six o’clock. Even so, however, she was just too late—to her sharp disappointment—to take Cecily’s call.
Hilda, coming out to meet her, said rather sourly that she had a telephone message for her from Miss Playdle.
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