I'll Never Marry!

by Juliet Armstrong

  “Of course!” Andrew’s voice, though queerly troubled, held that well-remembered note of sarcasm. “You invariably have urgent business in the opposite direction, when I happen to come along.”

  She gave a little sigh. “Don’t let’s quarrel,” she said. “After all, I shall be going away from here before long.”

  “Going away!” He sounded utterly dumbfounded. “You mean to say that you’re leaving this neighborhood, altogether deserting that child, when you know—”

  “For goodness’ sake, don’t talk so loud,” Catherine put in nervously.

  “There you are, you’re ashamed,” he retorted, lowering his voice. “And I should think so, too.”

  She stiffened. How dare he attack her like this? Did he suppose that because he was of some importance locally—a J.P. and a large-scale farmer—he had the right to dictate to an employee of the local authority?—to order her comings and goings?

  “It’s hardly your business whether I go or stay,” she said evenly. “Nor can I see what possible interest my movements can have for you. However, if you are genuinely concerned over Maureen, I don’t mind telling you—in confidence—that when I am transferred, in the New Year, she will be accompanying me.”

  But somehow this reassurance did not have the effect which might have been anticipated. He said moodily: “I can’t see why either of you need go.”

  “Perhaps not,” she rejoined coolly. “Why should you?” And then as some of the children, ready to go on, began to drift into the passage, she turned tail and fled to the wings, where she was to act as prompter, leaving him to make his way to the front of the house.

  Soon the wings were crowded with children, and with a sprinkling of grown-ups who were supposed, not only to send them on in the right order, but to see that they were quiet meanwhile. But some of these older folk, mothers of young performers, were more inclined to chatter than the children themselves. And two of them, standing near Catherine, could not restrain themselves from peeping through a chink in the curtains.

  “You can see her ring from here, my dear,” one of them was whispering excitedly. “A great flashing diamond. Must have cost Mr. Playdle a pretty penny.”

  “I can’t understand why she didn’t choose the other young fellow, all the same,” the second woman returned huskily. “You know—that Mr. Alldyke.”

  “Because he hasn’t near as much money,” was the swift and crushing retort.

  “Lord, Ada, don’t you ever hear anything? It was in the paper weeks ago that an uncle—not the one over at Brexham—had died and left him a packet.”

  The first woman sniffed. She did not seem to appreciate her friend’s insinuation that she was behind the times.

  “Gossip never did come my way,” she remarked acidly. “Any road, there’s still some girls who’d rather wed a fine, upstanding fellow like Mr. Playdle—a man who isn’t afraid to handle a spade or a pitchfork, when needed—than a little chap like that other, even if it meant living in a cottage—which it doesn’t.”

  But Mrs. Number Two was far too thrilled to take offence at the other’s tartness.

  “There,” she murmured ecstatically, her eye still glued to the chink. “He’s gone to sit beside her. Smiling at her, he is, ever so nicely. And she looks—Well, there’s only one way to describe it, Ada—like the cat that’s swallowed the cream.”

  “I guess that’s how she’s feeling, too,” Catherine thought, almost suffocating with misery. “Oh, why can’t I put him out of my mind—a man who scolds and hectors me over something which is absolutely no concern of his, and then goes straight to the girl who is wearing his ring and positively purrs at her? Haven’t I any pride at all?”

  And then, as she clenched her hands in the effort to keep back the angry tears, the lights in front went down, the village band struck up, raspingly but with energy, that cheerful old carol, “Good Christian Men, Rejoice,” and Mary and Joseph took up their positions beside the manger.

  A bell sounded; the curtains were deftly drawn apart. People, everywhere, seemed to be catching their breath.

  Now she must think no more of those two, sitting in the front row, their hands, no doubt, clasped in the friendly darkness: must ache and agonize no more.

  All her attention must be given to the players on the little stage, and to the book she held.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  There were few hitches in the performance, and when it was over, and the audience streamed out, it was to rapturous murmurs of appreciation. Nicola’s solo had perhaps been the high spot—knowledgeable people were saying that she ought to rest that silver voice of hers now until she reached her late teens, and then receive a first-rate training. But the whole production had been excellent, and every member of the cast—not omitting the Playdle’s old collie—had seemed to enter into the spirit of the play.

  Catherine, helping the children change, and bustling them into their warm winter coats, gave no sign of the unhappiness which possessed her. She laughed and chatted with the youngsters, and praised their doings, as though she had not a care in the world, and congratulated Cecily, Hilda and the other helpers over their magnificent effort with a cheerful enthusiasm which deceived them all completely.

  She saw no more of Andrew, nor did she expect to. He would doubtless have made it his business to run Beryl straight back to the Manor, leaving Cecily to return in her own small car when she had finished her innumerable jobs behind the scenes. For Beryl now was the one important person in his life.

  As, heavy-hearted, she walked back to Garsford House with Hilda, she wondered whether the children would feel a little flat now that the first, longed-for presentation of the play was over. But as they ran and slid joyfully along the frozen road, their tongues wagging nineteen to the dozen, she realized that this was by no means the case. One treat was over, and now all those who had spent a previous Christmas at the Home were describing to the others the delights still awaiting them: the great business of decorating the house, Christmas Eve supper and carols, the hanging up of the largest stockings that could be borrowed—and finally, on Christmas Day itself, turkey and plum-pudding, and a lighted, gift-laden Christmas tree.

  “All very well for them,” Hilda laughed—she had been considerably more amiable, oddly-enough, since her spill in the snow—“but for us it will be sheer hard labor from now on until Boxing Day. We shall be falling asleep, standing on our feet, before we’ve done.”

  Tired already with Christmas preparations—in which the choosing of individual presents, for the whole Garsford House family had loomed large— Catherine found, that this prophecy held very little exaggeration. Certainly by the following evening when, Christmas Eve supper having been cleared away, all but the youngest members of the big family were gathered round the piano to sing carols, she was glad to sink back in a comfortable chair, her shoes half pushed off, in order to ease her aching soles.

  Matron, Hilda and Geoffrey formed the rest of the audience, sitting with Catherine in a semicircle round the blazing fire; for mercifully Nicola was well up to the job of accompanist, and no grown-up assistance was needed.

  They had just finished their third carol—“I Saw Three Ships”—when there was a loud rat-tat at the door, and at once there was a combined shriek of, “I’ll go!” and a stampede of all the performers, including the pianist, to the front door.

  “I don’t know who it can possibly be,” Matron murmured doubtfully. “The tradesmen have all sent, and there can’t possibly be a post at this hour.”

  And then came another cry: “It’s Father Christmas,” and back trooped the children in the wake of a large gentleman with white beard and scarlet, hooded robe, and with a bulging sack on his back.

  Matron gave a gasp and looked across at Geoffrey as though to make sure he was really there, and not masquerading in fancy robes, and Hilda and Geoffrey seemed equally bewildered. It was only Catherine who, meeting the blue eyes in that unusually rubicund countenance, penetrated immediately behind the d
isguise, and recognized the visitor as Andrew.

  “Your chimney’s too sooty; I had to come by the door,” he announced hoarsely. “This visit is my first this evening, you see, and I had to keep my posh new clothes clean. Now who wants a present?”

  “We all do!” The children were dancing round him in the greatest excitement.

  “That’s good.” He swung the sack down on to the floor. “Now, what’s this first parcel in here— something for Matron, so far as I can make out from the label.”

  Matron, who had by now, of course, recognized Andrew, took the package he proffered with a smiling “Thank you” and then, opening it, gave a little cry of delight.

  “Gardening gloves!” she exclaimed, “and simply packets of seeds. Oh, you clever Father Christmas.”

  He bowed, and dived again into the sack, bringing out this time a flat parcel for Nicola, which proved, to the little girl’s delight, to be a volume of Mozart sonatas.

  Hilda’s turn came next, with a well-fitted work-box. Then for Ruth there was a hockey stick—“How did you know we were going to start hockey next term, Mr. Play—I mean, Father Christmas!”—and for Maureen a flaxen-haired and cuddly doll. There were, in fact, presents for everyone, chosen with an almost uncanny knowledge of the recipients’ tastes; even the babies had not been forgotten: there were furry animals for them, and colored blocks and gay rubber balls.

  Catherine’s present came last—a white, cardboard box containing a spray of lilies of the valley which, even as she lifted it out, seemed to fill the room with perfume.

  “Lilies of the valley in winter!” she exclaimed, confused and nervous. “How lovely!” And when everyone had done admiring them, she pinned them to her breast, with stammered words of thanks, wondering a shade dizzily how Andrew had come to hit on her favorite of all flowers. Cecily, by judicious inquiries among the children, had doubtless helped him choose their gifts successfully; but she could have sworn that never once, since coming to Garsford House, had she happened to mention her love of lilies of the valley.

  “If I had known you were going to be here, I’d have brought you a present, too, Barbin,” Father Christmas was saying, now as he began to remove his white wig and beard and wipe his hot face. “But perhaps it’s as well I didn’t, for I’m pretty certain your choice would have been—in elegant language—a load of fertilizer!”

  Geoffrey laughed. “Nothing to stop you from delivering it at my home address,” he said. “But not, if you please, through the chimney.” And then he went on, smiling, as Father Christmas stripped off his scarlet robe and revealed himself as the everyday, tweed-clad Mr. Playdle: “My presents are of the general variety—fruit, mostly! The only particular gift for a particular person is this.” And lifting Hilda’s unresisting hand he displayed a charming little emerald and diamond ring which, unnoticed hitherto by everyone, was firmly in position on the third finger of her left hand.

  Great excitement and hearty congratulations greeted this announcement; and then Andrew observed, rather haltingly: “I suppose you all know about this other engagement which has just come off between our friends—Beryl Osworth and Roland Alldyke!”

  The children did not even pretend to be interested in this piece of news: they were far too busy examining Hilda’s ring. As for Matron, she suddenly discovered that the fire needed a good poking. It was only Catherine who made any response to his remark; and this response, to her own horror, took the form of a violent blush.

  Luckily Matron, recovering herself, managed quickly to produce a suitably polite reply; but Catherine could only murmur incoherently that she had left some chestnuts on the hob, and that if everyone would excuse her, she would go and rescue them.

  She had barely reached the kitchen, however, when Andrew overtook her, with his long stride; and when, her heart beating fast, she turned and met his eyes, she saw that they held a troubled and perplexed expression.

  “I’m afraid I’ve been rather clumsy, Catherine,” he said uncomfortably, perching himself on the edge of the kitchen table. “But surely you’ve known for ages that Roland’s engagement to Beryl was in the offing. Cecily told me she had given Matron a hint of it, some time ago.”

  “She said something to Matron about an impending engagement, but didn’t go into any details,” Catherine returned, trying desperately to make her voice sound casual and composed.

  “Well, whose else would it be?” Andrew exclaimed, in evident surprise. “Those two have been falling in and out for years, I believe.” Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he wait on with a nervousness most unusual to him: “As a matter of fact, it dawned on me yesterday afternoon, when you told me you were leaving here—though not until I had nearly bitten your head off, I’m afraid—that you were going because you were unhappy over Roland. But honestly, Catherine, he’s not worth one tear on your part. He’s just a charming philanderer.”

  “Me shed a tear over Roland Alldyke!” In her amazement and indignation, Catherine’s self-consciousness temporarily vanished. “What next?”

  “That’s what I’m beginning to wonder,” he observed, after a slight pause, staring at her uncertainly. “But, listen. I’ve found out at last why you never got the message I sent you at that ill-fated dance. Roland met old Bradge, the waiter, looking for you, and promised to deliver the message himself, then deliberately failed to do so.”

  “But why?” Catherine exclaimed suffocatingly.

  “It all came about because Roland and Beryl were engaged in the most protracted quarrel they had ever had,” he told her, scowling. “Roland was furious with both Beryl and me, and had the brilliant idea of trying to console himself with you. By the way, I only heard about all this today. Bradge has been away from his job for weeks, in hospital, and I haven’t had a chance of talking to him. But this morning I ran into him, in Great Garsford; and after he’d given me his version of the incident, I nipped across to Brexham, where Roland is staying, and got the truth out of him.”

  Catherine flopped down weakly into the arm chair by the hearth.

  “I still don’t understand why you had to leave me like that, and take Beryl back,” she declared. “There’s no excuse for Roland’s disgusting behavior, but I don’t wonder he was worked up over you and her.”

  “Very well, Catherine, if you must have the truth, you shall.” He was looking past her to the grate, where the chestnuts popped and sizzled. “Beryl, who is just about as constant in her affections as Roland, got it into her head that I was really the man she wanted, and that she was going to marry me. This is strictly between ourselves, mind you. I had to tell her there was nothing doing—whereupon she had the nerve to accuse me of having led her up the garden path.”

  And then, suddenly, he was looking, not at the chestnuts, but at Catherine.

  “I’m not, as you know, very famous for my tact,” he went on jerkily, “and I not only told her it was an utter lie, but that I was steadily getting keener and keener on another girl. She’s a spoilt little wretch—always been allowed to throw a scene if she didn’t get her own way—and off she went into hysterics. I didn’t want a scandal and a scene, so I got hold of Bradge to give you a message—and that, my dear, is that.”

  “I see,” Catherine said faintly; but the words were only half true, for she was blinded by a sudden mist of tears.

  “Do you?” he said, very gently; and now he was bending over her, and taking both her hands in his. “And do you know why I gave you those flowers tonight?”

  She shook her head, unable to meet his eyes.

  “Well, I’ll tell you,” he said, “on one condition. You remember how the children were arguing over a name for that puppy I gave them! They wanted to call him by my second name—and I said it was rather a silly one.”

  “I remember,” she murmured, beginning to feel mystified again.

  “It’s a family one, and I’m quite proud of it, really,” he went on, smiling. “And if you’ll agree to call me by it sometimes, I’ll explain exactly why I gave
you lilies.”

  “Andrew, you’re crazy!” She was beginning to laugh now, although a tear or two was still trickling down her face.

  “The name is ‘Darling’,” he informed her triumphantly, pulling her up to her feet. “And the reason for my gift is equally brief; the loveliest and dearest flowers—lilies of the valley are very dear in December, you know—for the loveliest and dearest girl. How’s that—darling?”

  She did not speak. Possessed by a happiness too deep it seemed, to be borne, she just swayed into his arms, and laid her head against his broad, tweed-clad shoulder.

  He tilted up her face with his hand; then, catching her close to him, he kissed her, gently at first, then passionately on the lips.

  And then, as they stood thus, there was a muffled exclamation from the doorway, and wheeling round they saw Maureen, her blue eyes like saucers in her pale little heart-shaped face.

  “Come on, Maureen, you’re in this!” At once Andrew was holding his arms out to the child, a smile on his tanned features. “I want Miss Cat to come and live with me at the Manor for ever and a day, and I’m sure she won’t unless you come too. Don’t you think we could have fun—we three!”

  “Do you mean it—do you really mean it?” Maureen came flying across to them over the tiled floor, and tumbled into their arms. “Only it would be four of us, because I couldn’t leave Crusoe, any more than Miss Cat could leave me.”

  “Crusoe! Of course he must come.” Andrew was smiling across at Catherine with that sweetness which had always done such strange things to her heart.

  Now, forgetting all her fears, all her bitter bewilderment, she smiled bravely back at him. “Darling!” she said.

  And over the child’s head their lips met again.

  THE END