I'll Never Marry!

by Juliet Armstrong

  “You oughtn’t to be carrying that great boy; he’s too heavy for you.” Andrew’s voice was sharp and, meeting his eyes, Catherine saw that he looked queerly tired and overstrained. And then he added, with a not very successful effort to appear more amiable: “Can’t you let the kids run ahead and play? I want to speak to you.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t do that sort of thing.” The brusque assurance of his tone revived all her old bitterness. “I’m here to look after these children, not to stand gossiping with all and sundry.”

  He went white at that. “ ‘All and sundry’! You’ve a sharp tongue, Catherine, for all that sweetly soft expression you cultivate.”

  Her anger increased at the sneer in his last words, and she bit her lip, conscious not only of the hateful smile which twisted his mouth, but of the babies’ uncomprehending stares, as they gazed from one to the other of these strange grown-ups.

  It was left to Georgie, of all people, to speak. He had stopped crying for some moments and now, removing his finger from his mouth, smiled sunnily at Andrew and observed coaxingly: “Give I a pick-a-back, man! I falled and hurt myself just now.”

  “Of course I will, old chap, if your kind Miss Cat will allow it,” Andrew retorted quickly, a gleam of triumph in his eyes.

  Not a moment did the traitorous Georgie lose in wriggling out of Catherine’s arms, and his rapid descent was a signal to the other children, who rushed to surround Andrew, clinging to his coat, and clamoring for a ride.

  “We can’t possibly hang about now.” Illogical as she knew it to be, the defection of the babies from herself to Andrew, made her more indignant with him than ever. “It’s time we were getting home.”

  “Very well, if you must play the sulky little spoilsport,” he exclaimed under his breath, his blue eyes harder than she had ever seen them. And then he turned to the excited children: “Not today, kids,” he told them cheerily. “I’ll have to give you pick-a-backs some other time.”

  “When, man, when?” they implored, surging round him in a mass.

  He looked across very coldly at Catherine. “Ask Miss Cat,” he said shortly. “I expect she’ll say ‘When the moon turns blue’.” And with that he freed himself gently but inexorably from the small clinging fingers which sought to hold him, and retracing his steps, took the left-hand turning and in a moment was lost to sight.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It was a somewhat subdued party that made its way back to Garsford House. The babies, disappointed in their hopes of a ride on the broad shoulders of the “Pick-a-back Man”—as they promptly christened Andrew—were inclined to be peevish, and their mood was not improved by the disappearance of the sun behind a big cloud. They were tired and cold and hungry, they decided; and though this factor made their progress speedier than before, Catherine would have much preferred them to loiter happily in their usual fashion.

  “He would put me in the wrong with them,” she told herself angrily; “He even tries to put me wrong with myself. From the way he talks, anyone would think that it was I, not he, who had behaved so abominably.”

  She made up her mind that had he had a reasonable excuse for his conduct, he would have produced it long ago. It was true that she had refused to listen to him, both now, and on the telephone, the day after the dance. But wasn’t there such a medium as the post? It was because his excuse was so flimsy that he wished to make it verbally—and he was not going to have the opportunity.

  Decisions that involve other people are, however, easier made than kept. Less than a week later, having been sent by Matron to a farm cottage on the very outskirts of his land to buy eggs for a sick child, she was caught in a violent thunderstorm, and running for shelter to an old stone barn, which stood not far from the highway, she found to her dismay that Andrew had himself taken refuge there.

  “Right into the lion’s mouth!” He looked down at her with a sardonic amusement which held nothing of surprise. “I couldn’t believe my eyes, at first, when I saw you making straight towards me.”

  “I certainly shouldn’t have come if I’d known you were here,” she retorted acidly. “And what is more, I have no intention of staying.”

  “You’re staying until we have had just a very short conversation.” To her indignation he stepped past her, and blocked the doorway with his great figure. “And you’re going to tell me first of all whether, that night of the dance, old Bradge found you and gave you my message.”

  “ ‘Old Bradge!’ I don’t know what you are talking about.” Though plainly taken aback, her tone was as cold as ever. And then she added cuttingly: “He’s not by any chance a sudden invention on your part, is he?”

  A dull flush overspread his sunburned face. “What you need, my girl, is a good shaking,” he said, with suppressed violence. “A shaking that would scatter some of the bees which seem to have got into your bonnet. Old Bradge is the head waiter at the Garsford Arms, and on the night of the dance he had been ‘lent’ to take charge of the refreshments. I asked him to let you know—”

  “Sorry, I’m just not interested in messages sent by waiters,” she began icily.

  “Bradge is more than a waiter,” he snapped. “He was on the staff, of the Manor when I was a child, and I look upon him as one of my best and oldest friends.”

  “If he was your twin brother, it wouldn’t make any real difference,” was her curt response. “Even if he had delivered your message which was, I presume, that you had decided at the last moment to cut your next two dances with me, I should still have thought you—” She hesitated, then, stung not only by anger but by grief at the toppling of her foolish dreams, finished hardly: “An unmannerly lout!”

  ‘He looked at her steadily, his eyes blue steel in the half-light.

  “We are having a nice row, aren’t we?” he observed mockingly. “Such an appropriate background for it, too—a good thunderstorm!” A terrific flash, followed by a deafening clap silenced him for a moment, and then he went on evenly: “The message, which I simply can’t understand Bradge not giving you, was that Beryl was ill, and that I felt obliged to run her home. I told him to tell you where Cecily was, and to ask you to stay with her until I got back.”

  “If Beryl wasn’t well—and she looked in excellent health, to me—I should have thought it was up to one of her own party to see her home.” Catherine’s hostility showed no signs of diminishing. “I don’t pretend to belong to the fashionable world, but I do know something of the rules of ordinary decent behavior.” And then she added, with a sense of choking restraint: “You would not have dared treat Beryl like that.”

  “I thought you were the understanding sort, that’s all.” He made no attempt, she noticed, to pursue the matter of Beryl’s indisposition. “But if your opinion of me has worsened of late, so has mine of you. When we first met, I summed you up as one of the gentlest, sweetest-tempered girls I had ever run across. I know now that you are a positive spitfire, capable of the most wounding little speeches imaginable.”

  With a shock Catherine recalled that Roland Alldyke had accused her in similar terms. “Don’t imagine that you are an angel,” he had said. “You run quite a good line in tempers.” Could it be that she had changed so much?—for at home, in Hilliton, not even Marion, critical as she was, had levelled that particular criticism against her. If so, was it this hard and cruel lesson of love unreturned, that was so altering her nature?

  Taking advantage of her silence, Andrew spoke again, and this time more mildly. “Catherine,” he said, and his wrath, she saw, was giving way to pain and embarrassment, “I can only ask you to take my word for this: there was a strong reason why I felt obliged to take her home—myself.”

  The anger died out of her features also and, as if to match their changed mood, the sky grew a shade lighter. She thought sorrowfully, recalling Matron’s revelation: “I know more than he thinks. He found Beryl irresistible that night, and asked her to marry him. He’s not very happy about it now, but he’ll go through with it. An
d even if he didn’t, he’d never turn to me.”

  “Let’s not quarrel any more,” she said, wearily, looking past him to the road. “I can’t pretend that I’m impressed by your explanations, but I’ve said all that I wish to say on that subject, and I shan’t ever refer to it again.”

  “You must hate me, to speak like that,” he exclaimed.

  She shrugged her shoulders. “Not at all,” she said and her voice now was pleasantly conversational. “I’m merely—indifferent. And now, if you’ll let me pass, I’ll make tracks for home.”

  “Go, if you wish. But you’ll be soaked before you get a hundred yards.” He moved aside from the doorway. “Look at those clouds, and the way the wind is blowing. The storm will be worse than ever in a few minutes.”

  “I’ll chance it,” she said, picking up her basket.

  “Nonsense; it my company is so repugnant to you, I’ll clear out, and you can stay here,” he exclaimed.

  But she shook her head, and hurrying towards the gate, passed on to the high road. For a second it seemed as though he intended to follow her, and her heart began to thump. Evidently, however, he changed his mind, for his footsteps ceased abruptly, and she was left to continue her way alone.

  A car flashed by, as she plodded along in the teeth of the wind, going in the direction of the Manor, and she saw, with a dull pain at her heart, that it was Beryl who sat at the wheel. Since she would have to pass the gates of Garsford House she might very well have offered Catherine a lift; but she did not trouble even to wave as she went by. She just sat there staring in front of her, a long cigarette holder between her lips; and it must be owned that Catherine was, in the circumstances, only too glad to be ignored.

  On went Catherine for a few yards; and then, as Andrew had prophesied, the storm suddenly broke again. The rain came down in torrents, blown all about her by the wild west wind, the lightning zigzagged blindingly from the inky clouds, and bang went a terrific thunderclap, right over her head.

  For a moment she was tempted to run back to the bam; then she reminded herself of the old country saying that lightning was less dangerous when it was raining hard, and pushed on. But after a few moments deliverance came. Another car drove up, and stopped beside her; and this time the driver was Roland.

  “Hop in, quick!” he exclaimed. “My hat, you’re wet. Where are you bound for? The Playdles’ cocktail party, same as me?”

  “Nothing so exciting; I’m on my way home,” she told him, rather glad than otherwise that Andrew was probably watching her getting into Roland’s car. Then she took off her soaking beret, and mopped her wet face with her handkerchief.

  “If you’ll drop me at Garsford House, I’ll be everlastingly grateful,” she said, adding laconically, without quite knowing why: “Beryl Osworth went by just now.”

  “And didn’t play the Good Samaritan? Well, well!” He seemed sourly amused. “As a matter of fact, I was to have picked Beryl up at the Burlens—they can’t come by the by—and brought her along. But because I was a little late—it’s a bit of a detour from my uncle’s village, you know—her ladyship nips into her own car and drives off alone. Anything for a few extra moments of Andy’s society.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll get my own back on her, don’t you worry. I haven’t known her all these years for nothing.”

  Catherine eyed him in faint disgust. His reference to Andrew had made her wince, but it showed that he was well aware of the state of affairs between the pair. That being so, it was pretty caddish to talk of paying Beryl out.

  It seemed that he guessed her thoughts, for his expression changed, and he gave her a comical grin.

  “You’re so straightforward and honest, Catherine, you don’t come within a mile of understanding rotters like myself and—and Beryl. Utter and absolute selfishness—that’s the clue to our characters, and to those of a number of our charming acquaintances. We’re out for ourselves, all the time.”

  She thought wretchedly: “And this is the girl who is going to marry Andrew.” But she said, conjuring up a smile: “You must have a streak of honesty yourself to speak so frankly of your shortcomings. I don’t believe you’re nearly so bad as you make out.”

  “Oh, I haven’t what are known as ‘criminal tendencies’,” he agreed. “In fact I’ve often thought that if I had a girl like you for a friend, I might be quite a nice person.”

  She had to laugh then. “You would be bored in no time,” she declared.

  “Much more likely you’d be bored with me. Chaps of my sort are two a penny. You, my dear Catherine, are an original; I’ve never before met anyone who even remotely resembled you.”

  “In what way am I—odd?” She could not resist the question.

  “You’re entirely lacking in vanity, for one thing,” he told her.

  “But certainly not in pride,” she flashed.

  “Heavens, no! You’ve too much of that, and it springs from your lack of conceit.”

  “I’ve never had anything to make me conceited,” she countered.

  He smiled. “I could enumerate several just causes for vanity on your part; and I think I will, even if you get huffy and want to box my ears. You can’t and won’t believe—come on, fly into a temper if you please!—that with that curved slenderness of yours, and those absurdly candid grey eyes, you’re a very desirable woman.”

  “You’re saying that because you want to see how I react,” she exclaimed and, recalling the way he had spoken once of “the study of woman,” she flushed crimson.

  He shook his head, and turning in at the drive of Garsford House, drew up to the front door with a flourish. “I say it because it’s true,” he said. “Would I like to kiss you? And how!” And jumping out, he bowed her out of the car, with a sudden secretive smile which made her see him for an instant, not as a sleek young townsman of the twentieth century, but as a Pan, primitive, desirous, crouching among the reeds.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The arrival of a private car at the front door, on a day when everyone was at home, was naturally noticed, though it was only the children who displayed open interest. Matron was far more concerned with her dripping clothes, and sent her at once to change “from top to toe,” adding that when she came down again she wanted a word with her in the office.

  Aware that the babies’ bedtime was approaching, Catherine hurried to get into dry garments, and running downstairs to Matron’s sanctum, knocked lightly at the door.

  The quick, “Come in,” was as serene as ever, and the cosy warmth of the little room sent her thoughts flying to the first time she had entered it, many months ago. Much had happened since then; yet those early impressions of Matron and of the atmosphere which she had created at Garsford House had not altered. She still looked upon the “Office,” flower-filled at all times of the year, as a place of refuge where troubles and problems could be discussed and a wealth of wise counsel received; a happy place.

  “Sit down, Catherine, I’ve some news for you,” Matron told her rather seriously. “No, take that chair nearer the fire. I’m scared of your catching a chill, after being out in that deluge.”

  Obediently Catherine took the seat indicated, and held out her hands to the cheerful blaze.

  “I hope there’s nothing wrong,” she said, struck by Matron’s unusual gravity.

  Matron shook her grey head. “There’s to be a change in the running of Garsford House, that’s all. Apparently the county authorities have come to the conclusion that we trained and experienced foster-mothers have to spend too much time on chores: a bad thing, from their point of view, because there aren’t enough of us, anyway, to open and run the new homes that are needed.”

  “Oh dear—they aren’t going to move you, surely!” Catherine was looking utterly dismayed.

  “No; it is either you or Hilda who will be transferred, as soon as I can fix up with some nice, suitable woman from the village to, come in everyday and help with the housework and cooking.” Matron stooped and stirred the fire. “The move wil
l mean slight promotion, and it seemed only right to give Hilda the first choice. But she tells me that she doesn’t care in the least whether she goes or stays; that she leaves the decision to you.”

  For a moment Catherine did not speak. She just sat there, twisting her handkerchief between her hands, until it formed a little ball.

  “Could I have a few hours to think it over?” she asked abruptly.

  Matron nodded understanding. “Of course, my dear. It’s much better to sleep on a thing of this sort. Let me know tomorrow morning, and I’ll be satisfied. Now run and get me out a few extra towels, I’m going to give some of the babes a shampoo as well as a bath tonight. The kitchen fire is specially good.”

  Catherine’s thoughts were in a-turmoil that evening, as she went about her usual duties. Although this chance of leaving Little Garsford seemed, in the circumstances, providential, since it would free her from the ordeal of seeing Beryl installed at Garsford Manor as Andrew’s bride, the prospect of cutting herself off completely and for ever from Andrew was agonizingly painful. She told herself vehemently that it was not only weak, but definitely wrong, to wish to remain in Andrew’s neighborhood when he was married to another woman, yet she continued to feel, with an abjectness that infuriated her, that life would be empty of all meaning if she were never again to see that coppery head of his, set so erectly on his broad shoulders, if she were never to hear his deep voice and laugh,, feel his eyes on her face.

  It seemed as though two voices were wrangling in her tired brain. One was maintaining firmly: “It’s despicable to hang round after a man who doesn’t want you, who has merely been engaged in a mild flirtation with you.” And the other cried desperately: “I can’t bear to go right away. I’d rather stay—and continue to suffer.”

  Gradually pride, coupled with inherited tradition, began to win the day. And victory over her weakness was assured by a brief conversation with Geoffrey Barbin, who arrived unexpectedly with some fine heads of Celery, when she happened to be alone in the kitchen, getting the breakfast crockery together for the morning.