by Susan Barrie
Stacey thought so, too. Her brain was going round in circles, and she could scarcely think, and she had a nasty sensation of faintness creeping over her again. She wondered whether, when she woke up in the morning, she would find herself back in Vera Hunt’s flat, and whether today had been simply a dream—highly-colored in the extreme since it was ending with her the promised wife of a man she knew almost nothing about!
Well, she would know whether it was a dream or not if she awakened to the noise of Vera’s alarm clock going off. If there was no alarm clock it would be reality!
“Good night, my dear,” Dr. Guelder said, in the gentlest tones he had yet used to her. “Don’t bother about supper but go straight to bed. Mrs. Elbe will bring you some hot milk.”
He did not attempt to take her hand, but he smiled at her from the doorway, and then he was gone.
The next few days passed even more like a dream. Stacey occupied them in trying to provide herself with a trousseau, or at least with some sort of an outfit that would become a married woman, and make it unnecessary for Martin Guelder to feel even slightly ashamed of her.
She had a little money of her own in the bank, and she drew most of it out to pay for her shopping. Her few weeks in the Vera Hunt establishment had given her quite a dress sense, and without being extravagant she indulged in the purchase of one or two really well-cut outfits, including a little corded silk suit of palest grey, which she thought would be suitable for the actual ceremony. When she thought about the ceremony her heart beat wildly, but when Martin discussed it with her he gave her the impression that to him it was no more than a simple arrangement—like the details of getting a patient into a nursing home, or convalescent home—and could be dealt with largely by his secretary. Stacey was no longer a minor, and no one’s permission would have to be granted, so the whole thing would be simple enough. A Register Office would be the quickest method, involving least fuss, and although Stacey felt a kind of appalled sensation inside her when she realized that she was not to be married in a church, she said nothing that could give him any clue to her feelings or be likely to complicate his arrangements. For, after all, as she said to herself, to him it was not much more than a business arrangement—the granting to him of the legal right to offer her his protection, in exchange for her promise to look after his home—and he had already, no doubt, once been married in a church, and the memories of that ceremony would scarcely be likely to fill him with any desire to go through a similar ceremony with another woman in a sacred edifice. Certainly not a woman for whom he entertained nothing but a kind of half-paternal feeling of kindliness and concern!
In fact, from the moment when she accepted his offer of marriage in the car until the moment when she stood beside him in front of the local Registrar and became Mrs. Martin Guelder, he treated the whole matter of their marriage in the most forthright and uncomplicated-by-any-sort-of-emotion manner it was possible to bring to such a union. In a way this made it easy for her, and considerably lessened her feelings of embarrassment (which was perhaps one reason why he was quite so businesslike), and she was able to enter into his plans for her future without being too greatly distressed by the thought of the extremely unconventional thing she was doing, and the possibility of its being also a very unwise one.
She felt certain that Mrs. Elbe, if she had known the truth, would have been properly horrified, but to Mrs. Elbe she was merely a very young and unsophisticated girl who was too shy as yet to allow anyone to get a glimpse of her feelings, and the doctor was never one to wear his heart on his sleeve, anyway. Which was much better than all those “darlings” and “dearests” which Miss Hunt had lavished upon him when they were not even engaged, and his flippant manner of answering her sometimes which old-fashioned Mrs. Elbe had not quite liked. Certainly she had not liked those evenings when Miss Hunt had stayed late at his flat, playing his gramophone records and smoking his cigarettes like a chimney, and not really wanting to go home when he told her that he had a busy day ahead of him the following day, and that he wanted to be reasonably fresh for it. Miss Hunt had pouted her over-red mouth at him, and reproached him in her slightly husky voice because “The night was yet young, and she’d seen hardly anything of him lately!” and he’d laughed at her good-humoredly and rung for the porter to get them a taxi.
She was a hussy, that one—a brazen-faced hussy! Or so Mrs. Elbe, with her tight little grey bun and her prim face and her black dress, had long since decided. And she could now offer up wholehearted thanks because he was not going to marry her!
He was going to marry Stacey Brent—quiet, reserved, appealingly lovely, touchingly youthful daughter of a doctor like himself. One who knew the ways of the profession, and could respect the demands it might make upon him. Not one who wanted to dance the night away, and was peevish if neglected.
As a matter of fact, Stacey had never danced a night away in her life, and she had seldom been to a theatre. She knew what it was to be taken out to dinner for a rare treat, and to wear a pretty frock for the event: but only on one occasion had she worn something which she knew would stand comparison with any other dress she was likely to meet in an exclusive London restaurant, and had a man in a superbly-cut dinner jacket at her side—a man, moreover, who attracted feminine glances wherever he went—and that was on the night before her wedding.
Martin himself had suggested the outing, for the plans for their marriage had gone forward so hurriedly that there had been little time for him to dance any sort of attendance on her, and in addition she had been looking rather too frail. But on the night before they were married he had rung her up and suggested that, if she really felt up to it, he would take her out to dinner. And Stacey had felt as if some little unexpected treat had dropped into her lap, and accepted eagerly—so eagerly that he wondered rather guiltily whether she had been feeling neglected.
She wore a dress of lavender tulle which swirled about her slender ankles like a lavender mist, and a tight sash of deep violet-colored velvet encircled her slender waist. Her hair was brushed until it shone, and formed soft curls about her wide white forehead, and her large, greyish-violet eyes were bright with unusual excitement, which also added a faint touch of pink to her cheeks.
Dr. Guelder looked at her critically when they first met, and then he said something which dampened her enthusiasm a little: “I said you would look well at a dinner table!” he observed, and suddenly the thought of their marriage on the morrow, and the reasons for it, overwhelmed her like a flood. She stammered a little: “It’s a new dress—I—hoped you would like it...”
“Like it? It’s terrific!” he exclaimed, smiling at her. “And what is even more important, you look terrific inside it!”
“Do I?” She tried to smile and look gay and carefree. “I’m afraid I’ve been rather extravagant and spent rather a lot of money buying new clothes.”
“Well, why shouldn’t you?” he asked. “After all, you only get married once in your lifetime—at least, usually...” He broke off and bit his lip. He turned away rather abruptly. “Come along, let’s go,” he said.
But when they reached the restaurant, where he was obviously well known, his urbanity and usual quiet good humor had returned to him. He was looking, she thought, particularly attractive, with his white shirt-front, and the dark contrast of his dinner jacket against his lean, bronzed cheek. A crimson silk handkerchief escaped from the end of his sleeve and drew her attention to his well-formed, beautifully-cared-for hands—the hands of a first-class doctor.
“What are you going to eat tonight?” he asked, scanning the menu. “I suggest that we have a bottle of champagne—we really should, you know, on the eve of taking one another for better or worse.” He looked at her gravely, those Irish-grey eyes of his making her heart turn over. “For your sake I hope it will not be for worse.”
Stacey was smitten dumb. She thought he must hear the wild hammering of her pulses, and thought, if only theirs was to be a completely normal marriage, how wildly,
deliriously happy she would be tonight, and whatever the future might hold—even if disaster was in store!—it would be worth it, and more than worth it.
The excitement of the thought made her feel a little faint, and she was glad when the champagne arrived and she could sip it. It certainly did much to bolster her morale, and she even felt a sudden surge of confidence concerning the future. Or, at least, she was not quite so much afraid that she was deliberately tempting providence.
During the sweet course Martin outlined his plans for the following day in detail to her, and by the time coffee and an emerald liqueur—which she discovered was crème-de-menthe, and was unable to decide whether she liked or disliked—arrived, she knew that the wedding ceremony was to be attended, apart from themselves, by only Mrs. Elbe, as a witness, and a certain Dr. Bruce Carter, a friend of the bridegroom, also as a witness and best man, if he chose to look upon himself in that role. Immediately afterwards, they were to have lunch at a little hotel, and then start off for Herefordshire in the doctor’s car. They should reach their destination by early evening quite comfortably—possibly stopping to have dinner on the way—and by the time they reached Fountains, which was the name of his house, she would have had quite a full day.
“Fountains is rather an unusual name for a house,” Stacey remarked. “Did you name it, or is it an old house? And is there some reason why the name suits it?”
“It is a very old house,” he answered quietly, stubbing out a cigarette in the ash tray. “Actually it used to be known as Fountains Court, but nowadays we drop that part of it. In any case, it’s hardly been kept up in a style to merit it over the last few years.”
“Is it your old home?” she asked, feeling a stirring of interest, seeing that it was so soon to become her home as well. “A family home?”
“Not my family home, no.”
“Then I suppose you bought it?”
“I did buy it,” he admitted. He was engaged in lighting a fresh cigarette, and frowning a little over the operation. “It attracted me. I hope it will attract you, too.” The subject was not one he apparently wished to enlarge on, but he gazed at her in rather a peculiar fashion, as if inwardly he was pondering a problem, and in some way the problem concerned her. “At least you like the country,” he observed, smiling at her suddenly, “and you’re scarcely likely to feel lonely. Country lovers—genuine country lovers—don’t need much else to keep them happy, do they?”
“Don’t they?” She sounded a little uncertain.
“One or two dogs, some pleasant walks, log fires on a winter afternoon ... A village concert occasionally, help with the Women’s Institute, afternoon tea at the Vicarage, and church on Sunday. Isn’t that the way it works out?”
“More or less,” she admitted. “But you make it sound a little dull.”
“Not if you like that sort of thing, surely?”
There was a whimsical gleam in his eyes, and a teasing note in his voice.
“Oh, of course I like it, but—” How could she tell him that there were other things to life—life that was really satisfactory, and could be spelled with a capital L—besides dogs and walks and village concerts, and interest in village concerns?
“But what?” he asked. “Don’t tell me you’ve developed a preference for London after all? Or should I have included an occasional bridge party, dinner once a month at the local manor-house, and such exciting events as the annual Agricultural Show?”
He was laughing at her, she knew, and she joined in his laughter, because it helped to conceal from him the fact that she was feeling temporarily uneasy—almost hollow again inside her. Was that the kind of future that was to be hers as his wife, in the long-drawn-out intervals between receiving his friends at Fountains?
And how often would he be at Fountains?
That night, when he had left her at the flat—saying goodbye to her for the last time as Stacey Brent, virtual stranger to him—Mrs. Elbe looked at her a little oddly when she brought in her ritual glass of hot milk and some sandwiches.
“I thought I'd better tell you, Miss Brent,” she said, “that Miss Hunt telephoned during the evening and asked for you. I told her that you were out.”
“Oh!” Stacey stood looking rather white and tired in the lavender dress, and felt uneasiness clutch at her again. “What did she want, I wonder?”
“I don’t know, Miss. But it was you she asked for—”
Even as she spoke the telephone shrilled again on its rest in a corner of the room, and Mrs. Elbe picked up the receiver. She looked at Stacey.
“It’s Miss Hunt!” Her mouth framed the words. “Will you speak to her? Or shall I say you’ve gone to bed—?”
“No.” Stacey reached for the receiver. “I’ll speak to her.”
“Is that Miss Brent?” Vera Hunt’s cool voice enquired, as if from the next room.
“Yes.” Stacey spoke quietly, but very clearly. “Is there anything particular you have to say to me?”
“Well—” She could almost see Vera’s strange, cold blue eyes glimmer with the faintest of smiles, like a flash of wintry sunlight on ice. “I’ve nothing really ‘particular’ to say to you, but I’d like to wish you happiness in your married life. I understand you’re getting married tomorrow?”
How, Stacey wondered, had she learned that? “That’s right, isn’t it?”
“That’s quite right,” Stacey answered, trying to keep her voice free from the agitation of a nervous quiver which strove to invade it.
“Well, my dear, that’s wonderful, and Martin’s a lucky man!” Stacey wondered whether it was purest sarcasm she was listening to, but if it was it was sarcasm wonderfully controlled. “You’ll have to put him on a leading-rein if you want to see him sometimes, you know”—with a kind of gentle humor—“for his work is the one absorbing preoccupation of his life. But you are young and you must have something to attract him—and if you don’t make the mistake of becoming jealous of his other interests—” Her voice died away for a moment, and then resumed: “I suppose you’ll go to Fountains after the honeymoon?”
“Wewe are going to Fountains,” Stacey said.
“But not for long, I hope?” Vera observed. “It’s quite a charming old house—I’ve stayed there many times!—but in a very lonely position, and terribly quiet and cut off. The Fountains owned it, of course.”
“The —Fountains?” Stacey enquired.
“Yes my dear; don’t tell me you didn’t know? Fenella Fountain—Martin’s first wife! She got him to buy it when her father died, and it was put up for auction. Of course he would have done anything for her at that stage, but I don’t think he ever fancied living in it after her death. Memories, and that sort of thing—they were too much for him!”
“I—I see,” Stacey said, but she didn’t really see at all—she only felt suddenly desperately afraid of what she was planning to do on the morrow.
“Jane Fountain runs it for him now—Fenella’s cousin. They were brought up together, and devoted to one another, and all that sticky kind of sentiment, and I only hope you won’t find her a bit hostile. She’s the sort who could be.”
“If Martin is giving her a home I shall not interfere with her ways,” Stacey told her quietly, in a firmer voice.
“Won’t you? Well, for your sake, I hope she won’t interfere with yours!”
She hung up abruptly, and Stacey put down the receiver and felt herself trembling a little. Why, she wondered, hadn’t Martin told her anything at all about the Fountains, and in particular about his cousin by marriage? And why hadn’t he told her something—when she had asked him—about Fountains Court?
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was already dusk when they crept quietly up to the door of the house, and Martin switched off his engine. After that the silence about them seemed absolute, like something living and vital which pressed upon them from the tall trees which bordered the drive. And when an owl hooted suddenly Stacey, although accustomed from her cradle to the slightly sinis
ter noises of those strange birds who prefer the shadows of the night time to the glory of the daylight, almost jumped in her seat beside the wheel of the car.
But despite the gloom, and the hush which now struck her as strange after many weeks in London, she could smell the freshness in the air which came in at the open car window, and there was a sensation of open spaces beyond the clustering trees. Before they had turned in at the drive gates the road, which had dipped and climbed all the way from Beomster, had afforded her glimpses of the far-off Welsh hills, brooding like grave giants through the sunset’s afterglow, and now, although a sudden sharp shower of rain had caused the sky to darken prematurely, she knew that there was wild beauty on all sides of her, and a softer beauty, too, in the nearness of flowers hidden in the dusk.
She could smell roses, and the spicy odor of phlox and clove-pinks. There was the heavier scent of lilies, and—it might have been honeysuckle wafted on the rain-cooled air.
The door of the house was shut, and it looked like the stout door of a church, crossed with bands of iron, and studded with nails. A bell-chain hung beside it, antiquated, the type that would echo eerily all round the house when it received a hearty tug. Stacey had an impression of windows, deep set in sombre stone and half shrouded with green stuff, looking down at her like eyes, and in one of them there suddenly appeared a light.
It was a light above the staircase, as she realized afterwards, and must have been switched on from the landing above it just after their car came to rest at the foot of the short flight of steps. Martin threw open his door and climbed out, stretching luxuriously after the long, cramped journey which had only been broken by a stop for dinner. He went round to pull the bell-chain, but before he reached it the door opened and a tall, thin woman stood framed against a background of highly polished oak furniture and oak-lined walls bathed in the mellow rays of discreetly shaded electric light.