Marry a Stranger

by Susan Barrie

  It was not a large or an opulent car, in fact it was a little decrepit; but the fact that it was there immediately struck her as strange. For Miss Fountain, so far as she knew, had few friends in the neighborhood, and scarcely any acquaintances, and so far no one had called upon them, not even the vicar, or the vicar’s wife. Which might have appeared to her as odd, if she had stopped to think about it, for she was, after all, newly married, and the wife of a man with an excellent reputation—at any rate in London!—and she had come to take up her residence at Fountains Court, with the object of making it her home.

  But now, for the first time, she saw someone emerging from the house, and she saw that it was a little, rather dumpy woman, wearing shabby tweeds and a practical felt hat pulled well down over her greying hair, and she was drawing on her gloves as she started to run down to her car.

  Stacey, with Tessa keeping close to her side, came to a halt beside a large bush of rhododendrons. Stacey was wearing a clinging pullover of lemon color, and a skirt that was finely pleated and too good for walking alone in a desolate country district. She was hatless and her dark hair was windblown, and there was a rich color in her cheeks after her recent exercise. She looked much more like the girl who had left Herefordshire three months before than the one who had returned to it a few weeks ago.

  The visitor to the house paused on the steps and looked at her. Tessa started to wag a feathery tail, as if she recognized the caller and was anxious to renew acquaintance, and Stacey moved forward a few paces.

  “Are you—you must be Mrs. Guelder!” the visitor said. If she was surprised, she did not show it, and she smiled in a way that Stacey took to at once. It was a smile that had a strong hint of real humor in it, and although her eyes were shrewd they were kindly as well. “You must forgive me for not coming to see you before this, but I’ve been so busy—terribly busy. What with having the house done up, and the decorators in, and Archie—he’s my husband!—developing lumbago, and a portrait I’m trying to finish—I don’t call myself a portrait painter, but I do accept commissions when they come my way—and a whole multitude of other things...”

  Her voice died away vaguely as she inspected Stacey, and then she held out a hand, and Stacey put hers into it.

  “My name, by the way, is Aden—Beatrice Aden. I happen to be your nearest neighbor, although about half a mile away as the crow flies!”

  “Then yours must be that pretty little cottage just this side of the church?” Stacey said, recalling it at once. “It’s one of the most delightful cottages I’ve ever seen, and I can’t think why you want to waste money on having it done up, when it’s perfectly heavenly as it is!” She had so often noticed it in her walks that she was unusually eager, and Mrs. Aden, recognizing her genuine enthusiasm, smiled at her with a twinkle in her eyes.

  “Well, my dear, it may look delightful, but from time to time we get visitations from unwanted insects who love to settle in that kind of half-timber framework, and threats of dry rot, and so forth, and things have to be done. But I’m so glad you like the place, unostentatious though it is.” She glanced up at the face of Fountains. “Now this, of course, is a habitation to be proud of, although before your husband is through with it he'll probably find that it’s going to cost him a fortune to maintain it. By the way, when I called just now Miss Fountain didn’t tell me you were out. She just said she didn’t know where you were.”

  “Did she? Oh!” Stacey colored slightly. “Probably she didn’t realize I’d gone for a walk.”

  “Probably not. But I expect you do a lot of walking, being so much alone. It’s a great pity your husband has to spend so much of his time in London, but if you like the country it isn’t so bad.”

  All the time she was talking she was still studying Stacey, but Stacey felt no embarrassment beneath the scrutiny she bent on her. For one thing there was only the purest interest in it, and nothing harsh or critical. Stacey said: “Won’t you come inside, Mrs. Aden, and have some tea? If I’d known you were going to call I’d have been in, of course, or let Miss Fountain know when to expect me back. She isn’t always certain how long I’m going to be when I go wandering”—endeavouring to excuse the obvious lack of welcome Mrs. Aden had received from Miss Fountain.

  “No, thank you, child—I’m really rather anxious to get back. But come in and see me one afternoon, will you? And I’ll show you my cottage—all there is to be seen of it!”

  “Thank you,” Stacey answered, “I’d love to.”

  And that was how it came about that, a few afternoons later, Stacey paid her first visit to Primrose Cottage, the black and white cottage with the gay garden facing it which had so captivated her when she had seen it for the first time on a walk with Tessa. The inside was just as delightful as the outside, and the Adens had spent years collecting many choice period pieces which were completely in keeping with the cottage. Mrs. Aden's drawing room was agleam with them in the afternoon light, the polished surface of her little Sheraton writing desk particularly attracting Stacey’s attention. Her studio was at the bottom of the garden, a large place like a barn which had been converted to her needs. Stacey looked at the portrait she was painting of a local big-wig who had commissioned it, and decided that however much Beatrice Aden might make light of her abilities, she had genuine talent. The portrait would probably not flatter the sitter, but it was strangely lifelike.

  “Have you ever had your portrait painted?” Mrs. Aden enquired, when tea had been brought to them in the studio, because it was filled with sunshine, and the brightly-covered couches were exceedingly comfortable. She had the sugar tongs poised in one hand and was looking at her guest, her head a little on one side.

  Stacey, in a leaf-green dress of softest woollen, shook her head.

  “I don’t imagine anyone would ever want to waste time painting me.”

  “Wouldn’t they?” Mrs. Aden still had her head on one side, and she looked as if she disagreed. “Well, maybe that’s what you think.”

  After tea they returned to the drawing room. There, Stacey suddenly noticed a photograph on a Buhl cabinet, and it was a photograph of Dick Hatherleigh, her childhood playmate. She uttered a little exclamation, and Mrs. Aden looked at her in surprise.

  “You don’t know Dick, do you? It would be too odd if you do! He happens to be my nephew.”

  “He does?” Stacey wheeled round on her, pleasure which she didn’t think of concealing flooding her face. “Why, Dick and I have known one another for years! We lived in the same village for half our lives—or half his, and practically all mine! He’s in Kenya now, and doing very well. He wrote to me only a few months ago—”

  She suddenly came to a pause, conscious that her hostess was wearing a faintly surprised expression on her face, although there was also a mild sort of little twinkle in her eyes.

  “How extraordinary!” she exclaimed. “Don’t tell me you had a sort of boy and girl love affair?”

  “Oh, no, nothing like that!” But Stacey could not prevent the color from rising up in her cheeks, and for an instant she wondered suddenly whether Dick—whether Dick had ever intended ...? That last letter of his had been a little more than friendly, slightly warmer than any he had written to her before. He had talked of coming home as soon as he could manage it, for a brief holiday, and looking her up as soon as he arrived. He did not at that time know about her father’s death. He had imagined her still safe and secluded and tucked away in the little village where he had left her—the village where they had had good times together. He did not even yet know of her marriage, for she had not written to him since she had received that last letter.

  “Well, my dear,” Mrs. Aden said, smiling at her, “it’s nice to know that you know a relative of mine—a particularly dear relative, as it happens—and when he does come home he’ll probably come and stay with me, so you’ll have an opportunity to meet him again.”

  Before Stacey left, her hostess made a reference to Martin.

  “Such a wonderfully c
lever man,” she said. “So nice to have a clever doctor for a husband. But it’s a pity he has to leave you so much alone.” She secretly thought that Stacey had anything but the aura of a radiant bride about her, although she had only been married a few weeks, and she seemed almost pitifully young and alone. A young man like her nephew, she thought—much nearer her age, and probably with quite a lot in common ... Why had the foolish child married a man who was old enough—or very nearly old enough—to be her father, and whose professional concerns occupied most of his time? And then, of course, there had been that other wife! ... There had been some sort of a tragedy there, but nobody locally knew very much about it. So much of it had been hushed up, and not only she, but most of the people round about, had been surprised that he had kept on Fountains Court. And the unpopular Miss Fountain!

  “You must come and see me whenever you want to,” she said to Stacey at parting. “My cottage is so close to Fountains that you can drop in at almost any odd time.”

  Stacey thanked her, gratefully. Mrs. Aden felt perplexed and a little perturbed as she watched her walk away down the garden path to the gate. Tessa had come with her and was keeping close to her. Tessa seemed to be her only near companion, for that awful Miss Fountain would do nothing but try to make the girl’s life a misery, she was sure.

  The next time Martin returned to Fountains an invitation was sent to him and Stacey to dine at Primrose Cottage. For once he intended to stay a few days, and so the invitation was accepted, and Stacey found herself setting out for the first time in her married life accompanied by her husband to spend a social evening with their nearest neighbor.

  Stacey felt almost excited as she dressed; for a whole evening with Martin, away from the depressing atmosphere of Fountains, and the disapproving looks of Jane Fountain, in the company of pleasant new friends who wished her well, meant that it was going to be a kind of red letter evening for her. She couldn’t quite make up her mind what to wear, for her black was her most sophisticated dress, and had been her most expensive purchase before she left London, and yet it seemed a little sombre for a bride making her first appearance in public with her husband. In the end she decided on the cloudy grey georgette, with the slightly Puritan fichu. She clasped a small row of pearls, which had once belonged to her mother, about her neck as her only adornment, apart from her wedding ring, and when she was ready, descended to the hall to meet Martin. He looked impeccable, as she had known he would, in his evening things, and he subjected her to rather a close inspection.

  “You look nice,” he told her, at the end of it, “very nice! But we must get you something slightly more impressive in the way of jewellery to wear on occasions such as this. That necklace is rather schoolgirlish, but it suits you.”

  “It was my mother’s,” she informed him; a little stiffly.

  “Was it?” He smiled at her. “Well, no doubt even your mother would expect you to acquire a few trinkets of your own now that you are a sedate married woman. And do you realize I haven’t even given you a wedding present yet? That thought was exercising my mind this week, and I wondered what you would like?”

  “Nothing,” she answered rather hastily. “You don’t have to give me a wedding present, because—”

  “Because what?” he asked, looking down into her eyes.

  She lowered the eyes immediately, and the color rose in her cheeks.

  “Because—because ours is not a—a normal marriage!”

  “Isn’t it?” The color was sweeping up over her face and neck, and even disappearing under her hair. “But we need not let the world know that it is not, need we? And the best way to prevent the world from learning the truth is to turn a highly conventional face to it, and to allay suspicion with, at least, an engagement ring! You must let me know the kind of stone you fancy, and then if you’ll also provide me with one of your gloves I’ll set the matter in train when I get back to London. I can’t have my wife causing surprised looks, can I? She must at least appear as other wives are!”

  Whether he was laughing at her or not she could not tell, but at least she did recognize the fact that he was probably serious when he said that speculative looks must at all costs be avoided. A man in his position could not afford to have his domestic life providing a subject for discussion amongst his neighbors—a subject for gossip!—and in a country district where gossip was often the breath of life to people deprived of much excitement.

  So she said meekly: “Very well,” and he helped her on with her coat, and as it was only such a short distance to the cottage they walked through the gathering dusk and the faint star-shine that was piercing the autumn haze which overhung like a misty blanket the distant line of dark Welsh hills.

  When they arrived at the cottage there was a bright log fire burning in the pleasant drawing room, and a tangy odour of chrysanthemums and cigarette smoke, and several people already gathered there and sipping glasses of sherry and waiting for the two latecomers to arrive before going in to dinner. Stacey was a little surprised, and not unpleased, when her hostess actually kissed her lightly on the cheek before introducing her to the rest of the guests—the vicar and his wife (the latter apologetic because she had not yet called upon the new Mrs. Guelder) and the local doctor and his wife, both young, while the former was obviously very much in awe of Martin Guelder—and in the warmth of such undoubted welcome Stacey felt, for the first time since her marriage, a kind of lightening of her spirit, as a result of which she was more confident than under the eyes of Miss Fountain, and more completely at her ease. Although she knew that a certain amount of surprise might be occasioned by her youthful appearance—a man like Martin Guelder should have a wife with the polish and the poise of a Vera Hunt, she thought secretly, and imagined that others would think so as well—and there was that curious first marriage of his concerning which she knew so little, although others would probably have, all the facts—she lost her customary rather childish gaucherie, and discovered a poise which became her very well indeed.

  Mr. Aden, a rather dried-up but very humorous little man, a solicitor in Beomster, paid her a great deal of marked attention—possibly because his wife had instructed him to do so beforehand—sat beside her at dinner, and talked to her upon all sorts of subjects after dinner. The only subject he avoided was the subject of Fountains and the family who had once occupied it, although he talked of other big houses in the district, and Stacey thought that that was probably because he had decided it would be more tactful. But when he caught her glancing across at Dick’s portrait on the Buhl cabinet he suddenly gave vent to a slightly teasing laugh, and wagged a finger at her.

  “So ho!” he said. “So you and Dick know one another, do you? What a dark horse he is! And yet I always thought, somehow, that there was a girl who had turned him down at some time or other.”

  Stacey looked a little uncomfortable.

  “Oh, but Dick and I were only friends,” she said. “Nothing more.”

  His eyes studied her with a quizzical expression in them.

  “That’s what you say,” he told her. “But as Dick has quite a good pair of eyes in his head, and you seem to have known one another quite a long time...” He was thinking that, in that grey dress, and with that shapely little head covered in the silken dark curls, and her rather wonderful, sombre eyes, she would be scarcely likely to make no impression at all on a young man. And Dick was impressionable all right!

  “Who is this young man you’re talking about?” Martin Guelder enquired suavely, moving over to them from the hearthrug, where he had been having a conversation with the local doctor. “Some cast-off swain of my wife’s?”

  His expression was almost bland, his eyes faintly humorous. He sank down in a chair near them, and appeared to relax at the same time that he looked questioningly at his host.

  “We were talking about my nephew,” Mr. Aden explained, “or my wife’s nephew, rather. That’s him over there, in the photograph. A good lad—Dick Hatherleigh. Trying to make his fortune at t
he moment in Africa, although whether he’ll succeed or not I wouldn’t like to say. But he’s the right sort to try—plenty of grit and perseverance and so forth.”

  “Is that so?” Martin murmured. He turned a little in his chair and studied the photograph. The young man had a pleasing face, if it was not exactly handsome, and his eyes were level and direct in their gaze. He looked as if he undoubtedly had what his uncle described as “grit”. “And you know him, Stacey?” he asked.

  “Dick and I have known one another since I was about six,” Stacey answered rather shortly—for her—for although there was no reason why she should ever have mentioned young Hatherleigh to her husband there was something about his manner of posing the question to her that made her feel almost guilty. Which was absurd, of course.

  “Really?” Martin murmured. “You never told me about him.”

  “I never thought of telling you about him,” Stacey said truthfully.

  Mr. Aden’s eyes twinkled.

  “We all have our boy and girl love affairs,” he said, “but we get over them. I remember I fell violently in love with a girl I knew when I was twelve, but by the time I was sixteen I was rapidly cooling off,. By the time I was twenty I’d forgotten all about her.”

  “This young man,” Martin said smoothly, ignoring the excerpt from Mr. Aden’s past—“your nephew. He’ll be coming home on leave some time, I expect? No doubt he’ll be coming to see you?”

  “As a matter of fact we’re expecting him some time before Christmas,” his host confessed, and rubbed his hands together as if pleased at the thought.