That evening, Judy looked her very best, and when Miles arrived at the bungalow for dinner, he couldn't help looking at her admiringly, particularly as the jewellery she wore gave her a sophistication he had never been aware of before.
"Miles," she said intensely, before he could say a word, "why did you humiliate me before a total stranger?"
Miles digested this in silence. Then he said gravely:
"Did I do that? Then I apologise, Judy."
"You think that is all there is to it. You can't wipe out a slight as easily as that. You seem to imagine you can ignore me, or order me about as the mood takes you, and then smooth everything over by saying you apologise. I don't accept your apology."
"I'm sorry."
"You're not. You don't care a hoot. Why should you? You hold the whiphand. You've got me where you want me. Under your thumb! And you mean to enjoy yourself taking full advantage of the position."
"What makes you think I find anything enjoyable about my position?"
"Your delight in thwarting me at every turn—dismissing my guest, pushing in a crowd of your own."
"I see," he said slowly; "so that is the trouble. Do you mind so much about his going?"
"It is the principle of the thing."
"Answer me, Judy!" he rapped out with a suddenness that made her jump. "What does this fellow mean to you?"
"N-nothing. Beyond being a pleasant companion. He's fun. But you wouldn't understand."
"Why shouldn't I? Am I such an Inhuman monster? I may seem old and stodgy to you, but I am only trying to protect you."
"Then please don't," she retorted, surprised at his implied suggestion that she found him old and stodgy. She had found him many things during their acquaintance, but never thought of him as either old or stodgy. But she would rather he believed that than guess how disturbingly she was aware of his nearness.
"Well, I suppose you'll have to buy your own experience," he said then, "but please remember that you cannot marry without my consent until you are twenty-one."
"That pleases you, doesn't it?"
It was his turn to look startled. "What makes you say that? Why should it?"
"Gives you a sense of power. You like power, don't you? Bending people to your will."
"Judy—" his voice held protest—"what kind of man do you think I am?"
Deliberately she hardened her heart against the appeal In his tone. To allow herself to like him could only lead to misery and heartache. She heard her own voice saying:
"I try not to think of you at all. More than is necessary."
"You hate me," he said, in a low voice, "I do believe you hate me. And all I wanted was to…" He stopped, then continued gently: "Judy, I'm sorry. It's all my fault, I expect. I started off on the wrong foot. I don't know how to handle high-spirited young girls. I've had no experience," he smiled disarmingly; "try and be patient with me, and I'll try not to thwart you."
She moved uncomfortably, refusing to meet his eyes; she would not be weak, won over by a smile and a kind word, only to be snubbed as cruelly at some future date.
"This conversation is getting us nowhere," she said.
"On the contrary. I am trying to arrive at a better understanding." Then as she made no answer and still refused to look at him, his expression hardened. "Well, I've done all I can to clear the air between us, without much effect. But I warn you, Judy, here and now. So long as you persist in treating me like a Wicked Uncle, I shall behave like one. Got that?"
"I couldn't care less!" she retorted with childish bravado, her head thrown back, a bright patch of colour on either Cheek.
"I wouldn't be too sure about that If I were you," he retorted grimly.
The door opened and Stevie tripped into the room.
She sensed the atmosphere at once, and was not displeased. The more these two fought, the better for her.
"Larry not here yet?" she inquired lightly, having greeted Miles by his first name and smiled up at him with a new intimacy. "Time means nothing to that young man, I'm afraid. We shall have to type out the hours for meals and pin a copy to the wall of each bedroom."
"Oh, no. This isn't an hotel. I want people to feel at home," Judy demurred.
Stevie laughed, a rather hard little tinkle. "My dear, you'll be done right and left if you're too lenient. Even the nicest people take advantage—you'd be surprised. Believe me, I know. And that reminds me. Cigarettes."
"There are plenty In the box on that table…"
"There were, dear! Larry Peters has smoked nothing else since he arrived. Guest Houses are not expected to supply drinks or cigarettes and we can't sell them because we haven't a licence. I've been thinking we ought to have a private office. Just for ourselves. One room where the guests cannot penetrate…"
The belated appearance of Larry broke up the session and they all went in to dinner.
Conversation was light, although Judy couldn't help sensing Miles's disapproval of Larry throughout the meal. When it was over, Stevie presided over the coffee tray as if she had been hostess there all her life.
Larry came over to Judy and muttered under his breath. "Why does Her Ladyship do the honours? I thought you were the owner of the house."
"I asked her to take over. She's older than I am, and I didn't want her to feel humiliated."
"She'll be running the whole show before she's finished. You and the Guest House and the Big White Chief and all."
"Miles?" said Judy. "I don't think Miles would allow any woman to run him."
"She's out for his blood," said Larry.
Judy laughed disbelievingly. "Don't be absurd."
They had strolled to the veranda doors out of earshot of the others.
"What makes you think it's absurd?"
Suddenly Judy realised that it wasn't absurd after all.
Miles and Stevie! She was alarmed to find how little she liked the idea. She moved away from Larry and turned back into the lounge, as Miles strode over to the grand piano that sprawled across one corner of the room, sat down and began striking soft chords at random in a minor key.
Larry filled his cigarette-case surreptitiously from the porcupine-quill box. He prided himself on never missing his opportunities, and Judy had told him to help himself.
Stevie relaxed in her chair, pleasantly satisfied with the way things were shaping. She leaned back with half-closed eyes, presenting her profile, which was good, for Miles's edification.
The strains of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata crept out over the quiet room.
Judy fetched her embroidery and ensconsed herself under the standard lamp in her usual place. Listening to the music she could almost imagine her father back again. How often had they sat like this, the three of them—Miles playing idly, drifting from one scrap of remembered piece of music to another; her father slumped in the chair where Larry sat now; herself sewing, and glancing up to find Miles's dark eyes upon her.
She glanced up now and her heart lurched. Miles's gaze was not upon her any more. It was fixed with an unfathomable regard upon the clear-cut profile of Stevie.
Suddenly Judy could not bear the quietness of the shadowy room, the nostalgia of her thoughts. She jumped to her feet, tossing aside her embroidery.
"Let's dance," she said abruptly, going over to the radiogram.
Miles stopped playing in the middle of a bar, and Stevie opened her eyes.
"But, Judy—Miles hadn't finished—"
"It's of no consequence," he said.
Judy saw Miles rise to his feet, and Stevie hold out her hands to be pulled from the chair.
Miles was a good dancer, but Stevie was too short to be the perfect partner for him; however, they seemed to get along excellently together, Stevie speeding girlishly across the floor to put the record back to play an encore as soon as it had finished.
Judy danced briefly with Larry, then they went out on to the veranda to get some fresh air.
"Have you ever been kissed?" he asked softly.
She s
hook her head. "I'm waiting for the right man."
"How will you know who is the right man if you don't experiment?"
"I know he isn't you." She softened her words with a smile.
"Cruel Judy! And I thought you were going to be kind."
"I'm sorry if I'm proving a disappointment."
"You're not. I should have been disappointed if you'd been easy."
"Care to dance?" cut in Miles's voice above her head.
Judy looked up, startled. Engrossed in parrying Larry's advances, she hadn't heard Miles's footsteps.
Larry shot off when Miles came up, and went sliding across the floor like a small boy to where Stevie was standing. He seized her hesitantly, and they danced off together laughing. Judy hesitated:
"I don't think I want to dance any more."
"Don't be absurd. However much you dislike me, we must behave conventionally at times. I'm sorry if I interrupted an absorbing moment. You looked very engrossed. Perhaps I should not have butted in?"
"It was rather rude."
"Nearly as rude as your putting on the gramophone while I was playing the piano."
"I couldn't stand that. It made me think of Daddy."
"Still wallowing in self-pity."
"Why are you being so horrid?" she burst out then. "I won't dance with you. I won't!"
"Don't be silly," he retorted, and pulled her to her feet and into his arms. She was obliged to dance, or indulge in an undignified scrummage. His arm round her waist was like a band of steel, as masterfully he impelled her forward. She held herself stiffly erect within his grip, refusing to allow herself to relax to the rhythm of the music. He released her instantly as the music stopped.
"You'll have to do better than that if you hope to become a social success," he said unforgivably. "You should take a few tips from Stevie," he finished pleasantly; "she dances beautifully."
He hated himself more with each deliberately wounding word he spoke, and yet felt powerless to control the whip-lash of his tongue. Well, he had probably upset her more than ever now, when all he really desired was her happiness. If he could only be sure In which direction her happiness lay.
CHAPTER TWO
Judy was waiting in some trepidation for the arrival of the Whitechurch family. She felt their coming would mark the official opening of her house as a Guest House.
Their car, a large blue saloon, drew up with a scrunch below the veranda steps, and a thin lanky man in the middle thirties, with sandy hair, jumped out. He was attired in a creased khaki shirt and a pair of shorts.
Turning to Judy, he said, "My name's Whitechurch- I believe you are expecting us?"
"Yes. I'm so glad you have arrived."
"Not half so glad as we are!" cried a woman's voice gaily, and from the seat next to the driver's Judy saw Mrs Whitechurch extricating herself, and a baby.
"Come and give me a hand, Stewart," she admonished; "take this basket, and for heaven's sake don't drop it, the flask is in there with Paul's evening feed. Oh! How lovely to unfold one's legs at last. Out you get, lads." She turned to release two small boys who had travelled in the back of the car, almost hidden by a mountain of hand-luggage.
Then she gazed up at Judy. "Miss Maitland? But you look so young! I'd visualised a horsy female In riding breeches! I'm Fran Whitechurch—I do hope you won't find us too awful. We're rather overwhelming, but we're not hard to please. The trouble is nobody seems easily pleased with us! Hotels loathe us, and they all say they need our rooms after we've been in them a week."
"I won't," said Judy, her smile embracing first Mr. and Mrs. Whitechurch and the plump, pink-cheeked baby clutched nonchalantly under his mother's arm, then the two small boys, twins of five; sandy-haired like their father.
"Oh, my dear, don't make rash promises. I shan't hold you to them. Other people's children are always tiresome. But it is so frightful to be pushed around from pillar to post, and our own place won't be ready for another month. When my husband told me Mr. Beresford said we could come to your farm I just burst into tears with relief. I never want to see a hotel lounge full of disapproving adults again. Children's voices are so penetrating in hotels, somehow." She paused for breath, glanced around, and burst out again: "What a heavenly place you have here. What a beautiful garden—and what a view."
"I'm so glad you like it, and I do hope you'll be happy here," said Judy warmly. "We're not at all fussy, and I love children. Do come in. You'd like a cup of tea and then a bath, I expect."
"Tea! Baths! Stewart, we've found heaven, or Valhalla, or the Happy Hunting Ground." Fran Whitechurch mounted the veranda steps as if she had come home, and Judy knew instinctively that they would be firm friends…
In the days that followed, their laughter rang out frequently from the veranda or the garden. Judy conscientiously tried to include Stevie in this companionship, but Stevie developed a habit of going off by herself, either withdrawing to the office, or setting out for a walk alone.
One evening Judy accosted her as she was leaving the bungalow. "Stevie—I—I haven't done anything to upset you, have I?"
"To upset me? Of course not. Whatever made you think such a thing?"
"I don't seem to see much of you nowadays."
"You're very occupied with Fran, aren't you?"
"I know. But I don't want you to feel left out."
"Of course not, silly child. I'm glad you've found a congenial companion. Personally I have nothing in common with Fran, that's all. But I'm perfectly happy. Don't worry."
"So long as you're not peeved with me…"
Stevie laughed her brittle laugh that had no mirth in it. "Peeved with you! What an idea!"
"Don't go out alone. Would you like me to come with you?"
"I'm perfectly all right alone. I enjoy my own company sometimes."
"Fran's putting the children to bed. I'll fetch the dogs and come, too."
"I thought you liked helping to put the children to bed."
"I do. But I need not make a habit of it. I'll come with you this evening."
"Judy, dear—do I have to tell you in words of one syllable that you are not wanted?"
"I'm afraid you are saying that just to be nice. I should hate you to feel left out."
"If you must know," Stevie said in mock resignation, "I've an appointment with Miles. He is going to show me his garden. Now are you satisfied that I shan't be lonely?"
Judy flushed scarlet.
"Oh!" she gulped. "I'm sorry, Stevie. I didn't mean to be tiresome… I never dreamt…" she stopped in embarrassment.
"Good-bye," said Stevie sweetly.
She set off across the lawn and down through the wattle trees, pleasantly conscious of the confusion she'd left behind.
As was often the case with Stevie's statements, the announcement that she had an appointment with Miles was not strictly correct. But it soon would be, so why worry?
He had mentioned his garden one day, and Stevie had expressed a wish to see it. So now she was going to call on him to see the garden. And she had no intention of getting Judy to bring her along. Judy was thoroughly taken up with Fran, so she could remain with Fran.
She crossed a stretch of land beyond the dam, skirted the coffee shamba by a footpath, and then, rounding a group of trees, came abruptly upon Miles Beresford's house. It was not nearly as Inspiring a bungalow as Kahawa, being little more than a glorified shack, like a square box on piles, with a corrugated iron roof, plastered walls, and a veranda running all round.
The little house was distinctly picturesque in its bower of blossom, but Stevie's eyebrows lifted in disdain.
It was absurd that, now his partner was dead, Miles should have to remain in a humble little place like this He had all the worry and responsibility of running the estate and therefore, surely, it was only right that he should live at Kahawa. Of course, Judy insisting upon remaining was most unfortunate for Miles. The obvious thing for her to do was to sell him her share in the place and leave. But she wouldn't see it.
Sultan raised his handsome head and growled softly as Stevie approached. Miles came out of the room beyond the open glass doors. He looked surprised.
"Stevie! Nothing wrong, I trust?"
"Wrong? Of course not. This is a social call."
"How nice. Do come up. Where are the rest of the party?"
"There is no party. I came alone. Judy is helping Fran put the children to bed. Don't you remember inviting me to see your garden?"
"Why, of course. We had better go round now, before the light fails."
Stevie followed him along the bright flower borders and neat lawns, stimulating an interest she did not feel. Seeing the garden was merely a pretext to see the man. She wanted to impress herself upon him as a woman, an attractive woman in her own right, not just as an obliging chaperon for Judy. He must be made aware of her as someone infinitely more worthwhile than a silly young girl. But how to do so. How to win his sympathy and attention?
He liked her well enough, Stevie thought, but the acquaintance was not making any particular progress and she had no intention of burying herself up here for long unless there were some signs of her hopes materialising.
"I'm rather proud of my giant zinnias," he was saying; "they are exceptionally good this season."
Stevie stared at the stiff-stalked scarlet and yellow blooms, making suitable comments, inwardly chafing.
She was waiting for an opening to switch the conversation on to more personal topics. His loneliness, her own future—anything but flowers. She had enough of those from Judy.
They arrived round at the front again and Miles said, "Come in and have a drink, and then I'll see you home." She accepted with alacrity.
"Would you care to come inside, or shall we have our drinks out here?"
"Out here, please."
"Won't you be chilly? Did you bring a coat? Here, slip this round your shoulders."
He picked up a tweed sports jacket that had been hanging on the back of the chair; draped It carelessly across her back. Stevie drew the jacket about her possessively. It had the faint peaty smell of Harris tweed mingled with tobacco smoke. She liked it; sniffed appreciatively.
The Foolish Heart Page 3