I'll Never Marry!

by Juliet Armstrong

  “I can’t hear anything in all this hubbub,” Catherine told her, as casually as she could, and indeed the chatter and laughter all around her was almost deafening.

  “All right; come into the pantry for a minute. It’s the only place that doesn’t seem to be overrun. But I can’t stop for more than a minute. I’m in the middle of getting my children to bed.” Hilda opened the door and .she and Catherine slipped inside, as they often did when anything private had to be discussed.

  “It can’t take a moment to give me a message,” Catherine said, slightly irritated by Hilda’s grudging tone.

  “She didn’t want to leave one, as a matter of fact—except to ask you to ring up as soon as you got in. But I told her that you were extremely busy at this time of day, and that it would be much more sensible to let me pass on a message of some sort.”

  “Well, what was it?” Catherine demanded, trying hard to conquer her impatience.

  “Oh, something about a dance,” Hilda returned tartly. “It seems that some boy friend of hers in the navy has suddenly got leave, and she wants to know if you will make up a four, with him, herself and her brother, and go to some dance or other in Great Garsford tonight. She was originally going alone with Mr. Playdle, apparently.”

  Catherine’s heart began to thump. “And what did you say?” she inquired quickly.

  “Well, taking it for granted that you wouldn’t appreciate being made a convenience of in that way, I told her the truth—that you were on duty this evening,” was Hilda’s cold response, And then she went on, in a superior tone which Catherine found maddening: “Of course, you may be different from me. You may not mind being treated in that casual manner.”

  “It’s no odds, anyway, what I feel about it!” Catherine found it impossible now to conceal the anger and disappointment which were sweeping over her. “You have refused the invitation for me—which you have a perfect right to do, considering that it’s your turn to have time off, not mine. And there’s nothing more to be said.”

  To her surprise, however, Hilda, instead of opening the pantry door and walking out, looked at her resentfully, and observed crossly: “I told Matron what I had done, of course, and she says you’re to please yourself. She is going to be in all evening herself, so that there will be no need for either of us to stay in, after eight o’clock. It’s up to you to decide whether you wish to be treated as a stop-gap, or not.”

  Just for a moment the cloud of depression lifted from Catherine’s heart, giving way to a heady joy. She was free to accept this invitation—and what did she care whether it came at the last minute or not? Free to experience the delight of being held in Andrew’s arms, of dancing with him—half the evening, perhaps.

  And then, as abruptly, her spirits dropped again. She said flatly to Hilda, her hand on the door-handle: “As I’ve no evening dress with me, there’s really nothing to discuss.”

  “You’d better have a word with Matron, anyway,” was Hilda’s parting observation, and her expression was none too amiable. “She didn’t seem to like my declining the invitation on your account, without consulting her: took occasion to remind me, in fact, that the relationship between you and me is not that of Sister and probationer.” She gave an indignant sniff. “As though anyone could mistake a go-as-you-please place of this sort for a well-run hospital.”

  Resolved to waste no more time in arguing with Hilda, Catherine went straight to the bathroom, where Matron, who always gave a helping hand with the babies at this hour, was busy with soap and flannel.

  She smiled at Catherine, through the steam, and observed cheerfully: “It looks as though you can have a second birthday treat, if you feel like it! A pity you missed speaking to Miss Playdle yourself; but if you ring up right away you’ll probably not be too late to fix things up.”

  Catherine shook her head, trying hard not to look dejected.

  “It’s no go,” she said. “Thank you for letting me off—but I’ve no dress.”

  “That’s a pity. Can’t you go in an ordinary summer frock?” Matron lifted a couple of babies out of the bath, and wrapped them expertly in a big towel. “Anyway, I think you ought to ring Miss Playdle up yourself—and the sooner the better.”

  Hilda came in then, with a trio of lively toddlers, and Catherine escaped, and made her way to the telephone. She had no intention of going to the dance dressed differently from the other women, and reflected rather dismally that even if afternoon frocks were worn they would be of a smarter variety than her own modest wardrobe boasted. Checked washing silk would just not do—whatever Matron, with her sublime disregard of fashion, might think. Still, one bright thread of comfort ran through, the grey cloud of disappointment. Andrew, with his mysterious and smiling hints about Cecily’s forthcoming invitation, had seemed genuinely anxious that she should accept it; he definitely wanted her be there—wanted to dance with her.

  Cecily answered the telephone herself, and seemed delighted that she had rung up.

  “Now, do say you’re able to come, after all,” she exclaimed. “It’s a very short notice, but our naval friend didn’t arrive until just after lunch, and I knew, from what Ruth had said this morning, that you would be out and not getable until six. Surely that nice Matron of yours will fix things so that you can come—considering it’s your birthday.”

  “It’s all right from that point of view,” Catherine admitted, “and I’d simply love to come. But as I never imagined, when I took this post, that I’d ever be asked to go dancing, I didn’t bring an evening frock.”

  “Why, that won’t matter. I’ll lend you one.” Cecily’s response was so natural, so spontaneous, that Catherine’s heart warmed to her instantly. “We’re very much of a size,” she went on gaily, “and if you wouldn’t mind a borrowed frock, I’m sure I could fit you out. I had to borrow one myself the other day, when I was staying in London with friends. They suddenly announced they were going to some new dance-club, having warned me beforehand that they never went anywhere.”

  “It’s perfectly sweet of you,” Catherine stammered. “But it—it isn’t only the question of a dress, you know.”

  “What size do you take in shoes?” Cecily demanded. “If it is the same as mine, let’s clinch the thing, and arrange that you come.”

  “I take fives,” Catherine faltered.

  Cecily gave a warm, ‘bubbling laugh. “That settles it. So do I. Now, what time can you get across? The dance begins at nine, but we needn’t be punctual. You must have a meal with us first, of course.”

  “That’s hopeless, I’m afraid. I’m on duty until eight o’clock, and it will take a little time to dress—I—I mean, if you are serious about lending me a frock!”

  “Serious! I should say so. Come over as soon as you can. Meanwhile, many happy returns—and goodbye. I’m ringing off now before you change your mind.” And putting her words into action, she clicked up the receiver.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Perhaps it showed a lack of moral courage on Catherine’s part, but she could not bring herself to broadcast the news that she was going to the dance in one of Cecily Playdle’s frocks.

  She would have told Matron gladly, had she been able to find another chance of speaking to her alone, and the children, too, might have known, for all she cared. But she could not face having her pleasure damped by one of Hilda’s cutting remarks, or even by her contemptuous silence.

  So she went off, feeling rather a hypocrite, in her navy blue coat and Sunday dress of checked silk, and thankful that no comments were made, beyond a chorus of praise from the children, who declared loyally that she looked “lovely,” and who insisted that she must tell them “every single thing” about the dance tomorrow morning.

  Before she reached the gate, however, a car slid up and drew to a standstill, and in the dusk she saw Andrew’s tall figure emerge. Bare-headed, as usual, he was wearing a dinner-jacket; and she thought, with a queer little throb, that she had never seen him looking more attractive.

  “
You shouldn’t have bothered to come for me,” she exclaimed with a breathlessness which was not entirely due to having hurried down the path.

  “Quite the contrary,” he returned twinkling. “You should have taken it for granted that I would fetch you.” And then he added-smiling, as he opened the door for her: “I often think of that absurd mistake we made at the station. In retrospect, it’s really very amusing.”

  “It didn’t seem so at the time,” Catherine declared, settling herself comfortably in the seat next him. “I felt awful.”

  He laughed. “So did I—when I realized, after my silly joke about your fellow-passenger, that it was Beryl who had tried to bilk the railway company. She was just as much of a stranger to me as you were—I met both of you for the first time that day—and there was I, into it with both feet.”

  “She wouldn’t realize that you knew it was she,” Catherine told him comfortingly. “I’m the one she was angry with—for of course we recognized each other immediately.”

  “Not a very good start to a friendship.” He let off the brake and the car began to move. “Of course, I never can understand feminine notions of honesty. They’ll cheerfully defraud a railway company, if they think they can do so undetected. Yet the idea of taking a ha’penny out of a fellow-traveller’s pocket would shock them to the core.”

  Catherine gave an odd little laugh. “I suppose I’m not acting altogether honestly in going to this dance in borrowed plumes.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I wasn’t aware that you were. However, if you’re worrying about borrowing a dress from Cecily—don’t. She and her friends seem to be for ever swapping clothes: all girls together, you know!” And then he gave a great laugh. “But can you imagine me popping over to your friend Geoffrey Barbin to borrow the sweetly pretty tie I’d seen him wearing once or twice, because it went just perfectly with my dinky new suit?”

  She echoed his laughter. “I can’t,” she confessed; then added, on an impulse: “I don’t know why you call Geoffrey my friend.”

  He shrugged his shoulders, his eyes on the bumpy drive to the Manor. “You seem to act towards him in a delightfully benevolent manner,” he said lightly. “No nice girls ever come and paint any of my sheds, by way of giving me a pleasant surprise.”

  “That was the children’s idea,” she told him, flushing. “He’s been so good to us all at the Home.”

  He made no comment on this beyond a noncommittal, “H’mph,” and indeed, on that rough track, had a good excuse for silence; for, skillful driver as he was, it was difficult in the poor light, to avoid ruts and stones.

  A few moments, however, brought them to the massive oak door of the farmhouse, and out flew Cecily to meet them, distractingly pretty in rose-pink tulle.

  “Isn’t this fun!” she exclaimed. “Many happy returns again, Catherine!”

  Andrew, covering the radiator of the car with a rug, looked up and chuckled. “I’m more privileged than you are, Cecily,” he declared, “I’ve been given formal permission, by a young person of the name of Maureen, to call our guest, ‘Miss Cat’.”

  “I shan’t call her ‘Miss Anything!’ ” Cecily retorted, seizing Catherine’s hand, and hurrying her into the house; and then called back, over her shoulder: “Look after Nick, Andy, there’s a dear. We won’t be longer than we can help.”

  The dainty, chintz-hung bedroom into which Cecily took Catherine was a clear reflection of its owner’s personality, and the modest luxury which pervaded it formed a pleasant contrast with the somewhat ascetic atmosphere of Catherine’s own room at Garsford House. There was nothing grand or pretentious about it, nor was there any trace of originality in pictures or furnishing; it was just delightfully cosy and feminine.

  Two dresses were spread out on the divan-bed, together with a long silk slip, some sheer stockings, and a pair of gold shoes. One frock was a fluffy affair of petunia chiffon, the other was of dull blue and gold lame, beautifully cut; and a brief trial before the gilt-framed mirror, ended unanimously in favor of the second.

  Not only did the soft hints harmonize with her hair and eyes, but the long, sweeping line gave her an air of youthful dignity which was altogether charming. Seeing herself standing there, erect and slender, her grey eyes bright, her lips parted in faint wonderment at the image which confronted her, she knew, for the first time that she had the makings, at least, of an attractive woman.

  Then, abruptly, she woke from her day-dreaming. “But, Cecily, this must be your very best dress,” she exclaimed in distress. “It’s perfectly new.”

  “Nonsense! You look grand, and that’s all that matters.” Cecily was beaming. “Sit down and pat your shoes on; and while you’re doing that, I’ll get a comb and curl up the ends of your hair. It’s worth the trouble, because your hair is really very pretty.” The titivating that followed took longer than Catherine would have imagined possible, but Cecily seemed to consider that the whole affair of dressing had been carried out in record time. At any rate they went downstairs again just before nine, to find their escorts waiting without visible signs of impatience, so Catherine could only conclude that she herself was apt to give far less time than the average woman to the matter of personal adornment.

  Cecily’s friend, Nick, proved to be a pleasant young naval officer, who quite obviously found his hostess adorable. He was ready, however, in true sailor fashion, to be friendly with everyone, and made, Catherine thought—forgetting that she, not he was the last-comer—an ideal fourth to the party.

  Her spirits were high, as they started off in the car. This was certainly the most exciting birthday she had had since nursery days, and she wished impetuously that Marion could see her, well-dressed, happy, and confident. Then, as quickly, she thrust her sister out of her mind. It was Marion’s overwhelming personality which had so often spoiled things for her in the past. Maybe even to think of her now would bring bad luck.

  It was not difficult to forget Marion. A few moments after arrival at the hall, crowded—though not uncomfortably so—with dancers, she was in Andrew’s arms; and her only worries now were whether Andrew would be aware of the ridiculous thumping of her heart, and whether, from sheer nervousness, she would make a fool of herself by tripping and stumbling.

  Both anxieties were quickly dissipated. Andrew’s guidance was so definite, his movements so assured, that at once they were dancing like one person, and the first thrill of being held by him gave way to a calmer feeling—that of serene and flawless happiness.

  He did riot talk when he was dancing—except to exchange cheerful greetings with the numerous friends who hailed him—and this, too, pleased Catherine. Words, she felt, would destroy the spell, and drag her from her dream.

  When they sat out together, however, he had plenty to say. He wanted to know about her home and her people, and why she had taken up her present work; and though she was far too shy to speak of her gradual belief that she was the kind of girl who would never marry, she succeeded in showing him the appeal which the thought of mothering these homeless, parentless children, had made to her.

  “It must be rewarding work, certainly.” His eyes were unusually thoughtful as they rested on her. “The way young Ruth spoke of you, when she came over to see me this morning about the nutting party, was just the way an ordinarily affectionate child would speak of her mother. There was nothing sentimental in her attitude—in fact, she seemed rather to take you for granted.” He hesitated. “I don’t know quite how to express it, but her anxiety over your birthday had nothing in common with: ‘Our teacher is kind and nice, and we must try to please her’.”

  “Naturally,” Catherine put in quickly. “We’re foster-mothers, not teachers. Our business is with the children’s home-life, not with the school—except in so far as all good parents are interested in their youngers’ education.”

  “Exactly. You belong to them and they belong to you—and that they shouldn’t do something about their mother’s birthday is unthinkable. But what will they feel when you l
eave them? I mean—you’ll be getting married one of these days—”

  “Not in the least likely.” All Catherine’s shyness, all her gaucheness returned with a rush. “I look upon my job as a permanent one.”

  “That’s as may be.” He gave her a cigarette and then lit one for himself. “Lots of girls talk that way about marriage. Yet most of them end by tripping to the altar.” And then he went on slowly, his mind reverting, it seemed, to the children: “I didn’t even have a foster-mother. All I had, when our parents were killed, was an aunt and uncle who adored Cecily, but thought me quite detestable.” He kicked moodily at nothing. “I probably was. A boy of ten, dazed and sullen through the collapse of his little world is a very different proposition from an angelic, year-old baby, all fair curls and blue eyes and dimples.”

  “I had no idea you’d lost both your parents in childhood.” Her voice was startled.

  “They died together in a car crash. My aunt and uncle took Cecily and brought her up, and I was sent to boarding school.” He gave a short laugh. “School was all right, but the holidays weren’t so good. There was no ill-treatment. I was just made to feel that I was horribly in the way. I was Andrew —never ‘Andy’—to my face, and ‘that boy’ behind my back.”

  “But the Manor was your house, surely, even though you were a minor. I mean, your aunt and uncle were, in a sense, your guests.”

  “Oh, the house was let. I didn’t take it over until I was twenty-one, and had finished my training at an agricultural college.” He spoke jerkily, as though the whole subject was distasteful. “If it hadn’t been for Pogson, my present bailiff, it would have been a lonely furrow to plough. Cecily didn’t join me until she was eighteen, so I had several years in splendid solitude.”

  The band struck up again, and immediately he got to his feet and led her to the dance floor. “You oughtn’t to let me bore you with my morbid reminiscences,” he said, smiling down at her, and holding her, for a moment, very close to him. “You hear enough of that sort of thing, no doubt, when you’re on duty. Let’s dance.” And he swung her into the heady rhythm of the rumba.