Authors: Juliet Armstrong
He got the lighter going at last, and in the sudden little spurt of flame she saw that he was looking remarkably pleased with himself.
“
Oh, it
’
s not just that,
”
he observed, ignoring her second sentence, and concentrating on her first.
“
You are the sort that matures well—like good wine, or certain types of dessert apple. A trifle crude, perhaps, in the early twenties; but from now on, right
i
nto the forties
—
delightful.
”
“
I didn
’
t know you set yourself up as a connoisseur of women,
”
she told him sarcastically.
“Didn’t’ you
?
”
His tone was blandly surprised.
“
I do, I assure you. And why not? Burlen may choose
to
devote himself to his hunters, and Andrew to his prize pigs. I, being a civilized person, prefer to direct my attention to women. They form a most interesting study.
”
“
We
ll
, we can
’
t sit here any longer studying me,
”
Catherine declared, growing every moment more incensed,
“
If you won
’
t start the car up, I
shall
get out and walk.
”
“
There wouldn
’
t be much of those pretty shoes left, if you did,
”
was his quick retort; and remembering suddenly that they, no less than the dress she was wearing, belonged to Cecily, she bit her
li
p, flushing.
“
I think you
’
re insufferable,
”
she began;
“
if I had realized
—”
“
If you had realized how much I wanted to kiss you, there would have been no question of your asking me for a lift,
”
he interrupted teasingly.
“
Be a sport, Catherine. You
’
ve used my car twice as a taxi without paying any fare.
”
And he slid his arm expertly round her waist.
The speed with which she wrenched herself free startled him, for the first time, from his
smiling
complacency.
“
Heavens!
”
he exclaimed.
“
Talk about agility!
”
And then, observing that she was trying to get the door open, he gave an impatient laugh,
“
Don
’
t be absurd. I
’
m not going to force my kisses on you, if you don t want them. Close the door again—it needs a good ban
g
—and sit tight. I
’
ll have yo
u
home in a few minutes—if my company is so repulsive to you.
”
She made no answer, and starting up the ear, he went on, glancing at her curiously:
“
You
’
re definitely an eccentric, Catherine. Most girls would be offended if the man who was escorting them home didn
’
t claim a few kisses on the way.
”
“
I don
’
t believe that,
”
she flared.
“
Do you mean
to tell me that Cecily
—”
“
Oh, I don
’
t know anything about Cecily. She has too much sugar in her make-up to please me.
”
He sounded profoundly bored.
“
Personally I think Cecily
’
s angelic,
”
was Catherine
’
s swift and indignant response.
“
Exactly. I don
’
t care for angels.
”
Then, giving her a sidelong smile; he observed urbanely:
“
Don
’
t imagine that you
’
re one, my dear, in spite of all this sweet devotion to clean little orphans. You run quite a good line in tempers.
”
Her flush deepened, but she said nothing and he continued, still in that bantering tone:
“
Incidentally, you
’
re not telling me that our immaculate Andy hasn
’
t tried to kiss you tonight! It wouldn
’
t be like him to waste time.
”
His words shocked her into silence. Conscious as never before of her utter inexperience of men, she was not only angered, but most deeply confused. Was Andrew indeed the kind of man who would kiss any girl he happened to be dancing with—under the impression she was expecting it?
“
Well, here you are; safe in harbor.
”
He was steering the car up the drive of Garsford House, and never had she been so pleased to come to the end of a journey. But when he came to a standstill, and, getting out, helped her to alight, he could not, it seemed, bear to go away in complete defeat. He took her hand and before she could snatch it away, raised it to his lips.
“
What a lot I could teach you about yourself, my dear,
”
he said,
“
if only you would let me.
”
Then, humming cheerfully, he jumped back into the car and drove off without another word, nor even—a backward glance.
”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Catherine slept l
ittle that night, in spite of her tiredness. Her annoyance with Roland was forgotten almost before the sound of his car died away. He simply did not count. It was Andrew who occupied her thoughts, and all her anger was for him.
How could he have behaved so abominably, she asked herself as she tossed and turned on her narrow iron bedstead. To have cut one dance would have been bad enough. But to leave her stranded for two, when she was his guest—when, too, he was well aware that she knew nobody beyond the little circle to which he and Cecily had introduced her—it was insufferable. Nothing could excuse such caddish behavior; she would never be able to forgive it, for it showed not only bad manners, but an utter lack of heart.
The irony of it, she reflected, as she tried desperately to keep back her tears, was that during the earlier part of the evening—until, in fact, Beryl had made her appearance in the dance room—she and Andrew had seemed to have reached a closer sympathy and understanding than ever before. Apart from that light kiss, which, no doubt, she should as lightly have ignored, the glimpse he had given her of his arid and loveless childhood had provided her, she had thought at the time, with a clue to his contradictory personality. She had felt that she would never again be hurt and bewildered by his swift changes of mood—his abrupt transitions from kindly humor to wounding satire. Behind the hardness of those steely blue eyes she would see the
puzzled and resentful stare of that small frightened boy whose world had so suddenly crashed round him in ruins.
“
I
’
m just a sentimental fool,
”
she told herself bitterly.
“
If the truth were known, it
’
s probably his wretched aunt and uncle who deserve most of the sympathy. No doubt he was one of those perfectly impossible children—judging by his behavior tonight, anyway!
”
Exhausted as she was through unhappiness and lack of sleep
,
she was up on the stroke of half-past six. The blue-and-gold dress had to be folded carefully in tissue paper, and put in a cardboard box, together with the silk slip and the dainty shoes; and a brief line of thanks to Cecily had to be
w
ritten. This done, one of the older
c
hildren could be asked to leave the parcel at the Manor on the way to school—with careful instructions to drop it in at the back door, and come away at once, in order not to be late for school.
The first few hours of that morning proved, as she had known they would, an ordeal. Everyone, with the exception of Hilda, who maintained an aloof silence, wanted to know how she had enjoyed herself; and the children
’
s curiosity could only be satisfied by exact details. They wanted to know who her partners had been, what had been served for supper, how the ballroom had been decorated and, above all, whether there had been any especially pretty dresses; and their innocent assumption that she had had the time of her life made it impossible for her not to play up to them. She had, between mouthfuls of porridge and bread-and-mar
malade,
to tell them of the splendid supper—racking her brains to remember the men
u
—and to describe Cecily
’
s lovely rose-pink frock, thankful that lack of time prevented even more searching questions.
It was a relief when they trooped off to school, rosy-cheeked Ruth going ahead with the parcel for Cecily; for Matron, whose keen eyes had quickly observed that there was something wrong, made no further reference to the dance, a
n
d Hilda continued to act as though it had never taken place.
But in the middle of the morning, when Catherine was busy with a large baking, the telephone, bell rang, and soon afterwards Hilda entered looking extremely supercilious.
“
Mr. Playdle wishes to speak to you on the telephone,
”
she announced curtly.
Catherine
’
s cheeks burned. It was just as she had expected. He would imagine that all he had to do was ring up with some feeble excuse and apology, and she would forget his intolerable conduct. Well, he was due for a surprise, that was all. And looking steadily at Hilda she returned, with equal shortness:
“
I
’
m too busy to come to the telephone. If you
’
ll tell him that, I
’
ll be much obliged.
”
Hilda
’
s superior expression gave way to blank surprise and incredulity.
“
You don
’
t really mean that!
”
she exclaimed; adding grudgingly, after a moment
’
s hesitation:
“
He says it is urgent.
”
For the fraction of a second Catherine wavered. Then, as a faint smell of burning reached her, she dashed over to the oven, observing angrily as she did so:
“
My cooking is urgent, too. In any case, I
’
ve nothing to say to him
.
”
Hilda eyed her doubtfully.
“
I suppose you want me to take a message,
”
she began.
“
You can tell him what I
’
ve just said,
”
was Catherine
’
s sharp retort, as she dealt with a batch of slightly scorched scones.
“
I
’
m sorry to bother you, and still more to seem rude; but I can
’
t bake and chat at
the same time.
”
Ordinarily Hilda would have been furious at Catherine
’
s words and tone. But she contented herself with observing sourly that dancing till the small hours was a mistake when one was working, and stalking off to the telephone.
What she and Andrew said to each other Catherine did not hear; and as she kneaded and prodded—
with quite unnecessary violence—the dough she had just made, she told herself that she did not care. No apologies could make up for the way Andrew had treated her; and that being so, there was no point in listening to them
.
“
If he rings up again, and I happen to answer the telephone, I shall ask him to leave me alone,
”
she decided, with a sense almost of suffocation, as she recalled every detail of her humiliation of the previous evening. But no call came, and she learned a day or two later, from a casual remark dropped by Geoffrey Barbin, that the Manor House was shut up while the Playdles went on holiday.
“
All these farmers rush off to have a good time, once they
’
ve got the harvest in,
”
he said, with pretended impatience, as he dumped a sack of brussels sprouts on the kitchen table.
“
It
’
s we poor devils of market gardeners who do the real work. It
’
s all the year round for us; and if we get a day off once in a blue moon we consider ourselves lucky.
”
“
Now, Mr. Barbin, you
’
re not
so badly off as all that,
”
Matron began, teasing him a little, as she examined the sprouts with an expert
’
s eye. But Catherine heard no more of their conversation. Angry over the slight sense of shock which Geoffrey
’
s news had given her, she was trying to convince herself that she was thankful that Andrew was away—and failing most dismally in the attempt.
Had it not been for the children
’
s company she would have felt wretched indeed in the days that followed. It was not, she told herself vehemently, that she had been cherishing any romantic notions in regard to Andrew; in spite of that caress, which she could not forget, she had not been foolish enough for that. But she had
certainly begun to look upon him in the light of a friend, and his treatment of her, showing so plainly that his faults were not merely those
o
f temperament, but of character, had come as a bitter disillusionment.
But somehow, with the children around her, it was impossible to mope. Their vivid interest in the most trivial happenings at the Home, their jokes and laughter, the stories they brought back from school of their small troubles or successes, all served to
take
her out of herself. She was their foster-mother. How could she fail them by appearing aloof and preoccupied when they rushed to claim her attention, and maybe her kisses?
The nights were the worst time, but even then she was prevented by her work from brooding too much over Andrew
’
s behavior. On the go all day, she was so tired, physically and mentally, when bedtime came, that she was usually asleep within a few moments of laying her head on the pillow.
For more than a fortnight she heard nothing of the Playdles, and gradually she began t
o
hope that the indifference she was assuming towards Andrew was becoming a reality. And then came an afternoon when she learned that the
w
ound he had inflicted had by no means healed: that her suffering was, in fact, only beginning.
It was Matron who brought the news, and Catherine had an idea that her very direct way of handling it was due, not to thoughtlessness, but to the sound belief that a short, sharp operation was more bearable than long-drawn-out agony.
She and Catherine were sitting in comfortable chairs by the growing kitchen fire after supper, a basket of mending between them, and
Crusoe and Friday dozing happily at their feet, when she began to chat about the usual monthly meeting she had attended, that afternoon, at the Women
’
s Institute.
“
We had quite a good attendance,
”
she told Catherine casually, holding a small grey sock to the light, and then attacking it with her ever-ready darning needle.
“
It was a business meeting, you know, and they wanted me to be secretary in place of old Miss Forle. I said I
’
d stay on the committee, but that I was far too busy to take on the secretaryship, so they elected Miss Playdle. She
’
s a bit nervous about it, but I told her she was the very one.
”