Orphan Bride (12 page)

Once again she met Julian as she ran home along the old coffin-track, the evening sun full in her face. He watched her as he had done before, aware that each fresh meeting brought a change. She was growing up fast, and he realized with a start that she
w
as no longer plain
.
There was a strange, ardent quality about her that wag very moving. No, she was not plain, his orphan.

The sun was in her eyes as she ran and she did not see him, and he held
o
ut his stick as a bar across her path, waiting for the expected change in her face at the sight of him. But it did not come. She stopped, grasping his stick in both hands and for a moment the face she raised to him was alive with welcome and expectant pleasure.

“Oh!” she said, “Co
us
in Julian! I didn’t know you were coming.”

He stood looking down at her, appraising her with an observant eye.

“I only decided at the last minute, and sent a wire,” he said absently. “You’re getting quite brown, Jennet. It suits you.”

“
It’s a long time since you’ve been down,” she said, walking slowly beside him back to the house. “Is—is your leg any better?”

“Much the same, I’m afraid,” he said shortly, then asked her
how she had been getting on with her driving lessons.

“Oh, very well, I think,” she replied quickly. “Mr. Banks says I can drive quite well now and am perfectly safe. He was a very good teacher.”

“One in the eye for me;” said Julian with a grin. “I take it from that that the gentleman doesn’t pounce.”

She laughed, and slipped a hand through his arm with a natural, confiding gesture which was new to him.

“No, he doesn’t,” she said, “and he said that no one ought to be taught to drive by members of their own family.”

“Does he indeed?” Julian remarked. “I hope that doesn’t apply to all branches of knowledge! So you’ve
adopted us at last, have you, Jennet? We are now members of your own family?”

She looked up at him and her eyes were clear and untroubled.

“You’re all the family I’ve got,” she told him simply. Because he was moved, he drew his arm sharply away, and she clasped her hands behind her, and
edged
a little apart, conscious of an impertinence in touching him. Listening to him exchanging news with Emily over a supper, she wondered what sort of life he led when he was away from them. His casual remarks were seldom revealing, and although he appeared to have many acquaintances, his friends seemed very few. Only Luke Fenton
’
s name was spoken with a warmth and frequency which betrayed his feelings, and women were rarely mentioned at all. He seemed to listen a great deal to music and go occasionally to the theatre, but his pursuits were serious rather than gay, and Jennet wondered if he ever went to, parties, or
gave them in that luxurious flat on the Embankment. Somehow
,
she did not feel he was gay, and she remembered Mrs. Dingle remarking that he was a man old before his time. “And all the fault of that accident,
”
she said. “ ’Tes a thing a woman can’t understand, the pride and bitterness of the maimed, for to a woman their men don’t change because they lose a leg or an arm.”

But for Kitty, Jennet thought, Julian had changed, and—she did not want him any longer. For perhaps the first time, she realized a little of what that blow must have meant to him, and pity filled her, and the old desire
to comfort. She tried to imagine him as he must have been in those early years, young, active and very much in love, but she could not. It seemed impossible to think of Julian giving himself wholly to any human being.

Yet he could be tender. Sometimes he would speak to her or touch her with a gentleness that, surprised and moved her, and then she would have the impulse to say:

“Tell me what you are really like—what you felt and were before you became shut up inside yourself.” But she never could.

Now that the fine weather had come he visited them most weekends. He seemed glad to get away from the noise and heat of London, and seemed content to sit in the orchard smoking his pipe and listening to the drowsy murmur of Homer’s bees, while Jennet la
y
in the long grass beside his chair reading a book. Sometimes he would spoil things by demanding a critical analysis of what she was
reading, or firmly substitute one book for another which he considered more improving, but more often he was content to sit relaxed, without talking, watching the trees’ dappled shadows move across her serious face as she read.

Emily, on her way to and from the kennels, often watched them, thinking they were an odd couple, and wondering if Julian ever spoke to the girl of their future life together. Emily was not introspective or much given to flights of imagination, but it did sometimes cross her mind that Jennet, if she thought about it at all, might view this marriage to a comparative stranger with trepidation.

B
ut it was ea
s
y for Jennet not to dwell on such a far
distant fact as her marriage with Julian, for he never mentioned it. When she considered it at all it was not in any personal light. Julian was the person t
o
whom she owed most allegiance, and whatever his plans for her, it seemed only fitting and natural that she should adapt herself to them.

He would imply in many ways the trend of his intentions.

“Later on,
I’ll take you to hear good music. You must learn to appreciate the good from the bad and discuss it intelligently...”

“We must travel. There is much companionship in visiting fresh places together
...”

“Learning to swim and to ride is a waste of time. Neither accomplishment will be any use to you
...
”

“You must keep up your singing. Later, we’ll find a good teacher for you.”

He often made her sing for him,
bringing down new songs for her to learn for him. But although he asked her, she would not sing
“
Searching for Lambs.”

“Why not?” he asked her curiously. “It used to be your favorite.”

“I don’t care for it any more,” she replied.

“Nonsense!” he said with the old impatience. “Find the music. I’d like to hear it again.”

“I don’t know where it is. I must have mislaid it.”

“Well, I can play it without music. Come along.” Her face remained mute.

“I’ve forgotten the words,” she said, and handed him a fresh sheet of music.

He did not press the matter again, but turned instead to the new song which he had brought for her last weekend.

He seemed unusually impatient of her faults and hesitancies
this time. He expected her to follow the rather complicated accompaniment before she had fully mastered the melody, and as she repeated the same mistake again, he struck an angry chord, exclaiming:

“What on earth’s the matter with you? You have a quick ear and yet you make that identical blunder every time.”

“If you would play the tune with me until I’ve got it,”
she suggested, and felt her throat begin to close with nervous constriction.

“The tune, the tune!” he retorted sarcastically. “You should have got beyond talking like an amateur. Very well, I’ll play the
tune. Now, try it again.”

But she could not sing. Her voice was shaky with nerves, and he shut the music and threw it down on the piano.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” he said, “get your book and go out to the orchard before I shake you. We’ll try again this evening.”

She went to the orchard, but she did not take a book. She lay in the daisy-studded grass on her back, her hands clasped behind her head, and stared up at the summer sky with eyes that were bright with tears. She had not the experience to understand the impatience
of the expert to whom technicalities came so easily. She listened
t
o the sound of his playing coming through the open window,
and
recognizing his changing moods as he wandered from one thing to another.

His mood changed, and he played snatches of old music, the formal plaintiveness of the Elizabethans, and the lovely simplicity of old folk songs. Jennet’s mood changed with his, and contentment flowed back into her. He was
playing “Searching for Lambs,” and she began to sing as once before she had sung to Frankie in the open air
.

“I’m going to feed my father’s flock,

His young and tender lambs,

That over hills and over dales

Lie waiting for their dams
...
”

She did not realize that he had stopped playing, but skipping a verse went on to the one which gave her most felicity.

“How gloriously the sun doth shine,

How pleasant is the air;

I’d rather rest on a true love’s breast

Than any other where
...
”

Sh
e was aware of him beside her, leaning on his stick and looking down at her with a faintly mocking expression. She sat up hurriedly.

“I thought you’d forgotten the words,” he remarked, his dark eyes intent on her face. “Well—the last verse—let’s have it.”

But she shook her head dumbly. She thought that one day she would marry him, and she thought of the tender comfort of the last verse, and she could not sing it.

He sat down in his usual deck-chair and observed her thoughtfully.

“Why wouldn’t you ever sing it for me?” he asked. “I knew you hadn’t forgotten.”

She flushed painfully and stammered:

“I—I can’t explain.”

His grin was a little sardonic.

“Because that boy liked it? Oh, you needn’t look so surprised. I’m not a dolt.”

“Not exactly,
”
she said slowly, and added with faint astonishment: “Hardly at all, really.” But
how much harder to explain this far more subtle reason to Julian.

He did not press for an explanation, however, neither did he ask again for the last verse.

He did not come for the first week-end in June, and on Monday morning Emily had a letter from him which made her raise her eyebrows.

“Julian thinks you should see the Trooping the Color,” she told Jennet at breakfast. “You’ve to go up to London on Friday, and stay over the
w
eek-end.”

Jennet’s eyes were enormous.

“With Cousin Julian?” she asked with alarm.

Emily rustled the letter impatiently.

“Of course not,” she said. “He doesn’t say what arrangements he’s made for you, but you may be sure if Julian has anything to do with it, it will be most circumspect. You are to
go up
o
n the eight-thirty from Plymouth, and he will meet you at Paddington. And
you’re to bring
—
” Here followed a short list of the
clothes Jennet was to take.

“Yes, Aunt Emily,” said Jennet, but she was doubtful.

If Julian had the arranging of things, there might be comfort, but there would scarcely be relaxation. But as the week went on, she experienced a rising excitement. She would be among crowds and traffic again, and the quiet and solitude of the moor would be temporarily forgotten in movement and noise and fresh faces. She began speculating as to where she was to stay and who of Julian’s many acquaintances she would meet, and she pressed
c
lothes and washed her hair with extra care that she should not disgrace him.

On Thursday Emily got a telegram saying that Julian was unable to meet Jennet himself at Paddington, and shelf was to wait there for Luke Fenton. Jennet felt her spirits lift. Luke was gay and was easy to talk to. She could ask him questions which she would be too shy to ask Julian. Cornish drove her into Plymouth with strict instructions to see her into the train, and she sat back
in her
corner, and inspected the pound note Emily had given he
r
in case of emergencies. “Not that you’ll need money, dear. Julian will see to all that.” Jennet fingered the note with satisfaction. It was the first time she had ever owned any money.

She stared out of the window, remembering that other journey of eight months ago, with Julian sitting silent and alarming in his corner opposite her, and herself in her hideous orphanage uniform. She smiled a little ruefully,
t
hinking how her appearance must have offended his fastidious taste, and she thought it seemed a long time since she had accompanied this dark stranger into the unknown. He was still a stranger, and still, upon occasion
,
alarming, but he was familiar now, just as the moor with its changing moods was familiar, and she would miss them both if they were taken from her.

Upon arrival at Paddington she saw Luke almost immediately, his plain, attractive face creased in its many wrinkles as he searched for her, and breaking into an engaging smile when he caught sight of her.

“Hello, Galatea!” he exclaimed as he joined her. “I was afraid I wouldn’t recognize you after all thi
s
time. How are you?”

“Very well, thank you,” she replied politely, “and my name is Jennet.”

His eyes twinkled at her.

“I stand corrected,” he said. “I take it you don’t know the story of Pygmalion and Galatea? You must get Julian to tell it to you some time.” He looked her up and down, then laughed. “Yes, y
o
u have changed,” he said. “Do you remember when we last met you told me sixteen was a horrid age, neither one thing nor the other? I think you’re growing up. Miss Jennet Galatea Brown. Now, what would you like to do?”

Jennet looked enquiring.

“What am I supposed to do?” she asked. “Cousin
Julian
—”

“He’s still Cousin Julian, is he?” said Luke with a grin. “He couldn’t meet you himself as he had to go to the hospital for another X-ray. He told me to take you along to his flat, and he’ll be back as soon as possible. Come along, I’ve got my car.”

He took her case, and led the way out of the station, talking and asking questions all the time. She thought he talked more than anyone she had ever met, and as he settled her into the car, she thought with pleasure that he had a care-free capacity for enjoyment and easy turn of speech which immediately dispelled her shyness.

He drove her slowly round London, pointing out first one thing, then another, negotiating the congested traffic with skilled ease, and talking all the time. Jennet listened and stared. Never had she imagined such huge buildings, so many people, such color and hustle.

“Color makes up for so much,” Jennet said, her eyes on the milling crowds.

He pulled into the
p
ark, and
stopped the car to light a cigarette and observe her with closer attention.

“I remember you telling me that affection was the important thing,” he said, with his bright, probing glance. “Have you found affection, Jennet?”

She looked a little startled.

“I don’t know,
”
she said slowly. “People—the people I know—don’t seem to need it.”

“Meaning Cousin Julian, I suppose. Everyone needs affe
c
tion sooner or later—like color. Poor Galatea
!
It’s uncomfortable work being a statue, isn’t it?”

She did not understand his allusion, but she said with a sigh:

“They all treat me like a child, but they’re very kind.”

“
You’re not a child,” he said. “Not in essence. You’re one of the ageless ones
!
You’ll be just the same ten,
twenty years from now if life is kind to you.” He grinned suddenly and patted her knee. “It’s nice to see you again, Orphan Annie. I’ve thought about you quite a lot.”

“Have you?” she asked, surprised.

“Of course. The whole situation is such wonderful copy, and I’m a very inquisitive novelist, you know. Now
I
suppose I’d better be taking you back to Julian.”

Julian’s car was parked outside the block of flats, and Luke shepherded her inside the building and rang for the
lift.

“I
wonder where I’m staying,” Jennet said.

“Not here, I imagine!” laughed Luke. “Cousin Julian is very careful for his ewe lamb.”

Jennet looked up at him gravely. Yes, Julian was careful, so careful sometimes that he drained the color out of existence.

In the small, brilliantly lighted space, Luke looked down at her with a wicked twinkle.

“You look quite disappointed,” he said.
“
Is it possible that you were hoping he’d park you in his bachelor establishment? I must tell Julian he’s missing a golden opportunity.”

Jennet flushed scarlet. Luke was a
born
tease. She could quite imagine him coming
o
ut with just such a remark to Julian.

“If you do, I’ll never speak to you again so long as I live,” she told him urgently, and the lift stopped. He looked at her with amused curiosity.

“I believe you’re afraid of him,” he said, s
lidin
g back the doors. “All right, I was only teasing. Put your hat on straight, or he’ll think I’ve made a pass at you in the
lift!”

She tugged at her hat, thinking in her embarrassment
t
hat Luke’s
railleries
could be as disconcerting as Julian
’
s snubs, then Luke was ringing the doorbell of the flat.

Julian opened the door himself, and
Jennet saw at
once that he was annoyed.

“Where on earth have you been?” he demanded im
m
ediately. “The train was due at two and it’s now after four. I was beginning to think you must have missed each other.”

“We’ve been touring the West End and hav
in
g a very
interesting conversation,” said Luke cheerfully.

The annoyance in Julian’s face was still more marked as he replied shortly:
“Really, Luke, you might have troubled to follow my instructions. I was getting worried. I would have shown Jennet the town myself after tea.
”

L
uke was quite unruffled.

“I bet you would never have thought of it,” he retorted. “You never had the tripper mentality like me and Galatea. Anyway, now we
have
come, you might invite us in.”

“I’m sorry,
”
said Julian curtly, and stood aside for them to enter.

Jennet walked into the well-remembered living room, reflecting that her welcome did not seem much warmer than upon the first occasion. She
l
ooked tentatively at Julian, but he
w
as standing in the window with his back to them, and when he did speak it was to Luke.

“Thanks,” he said. “I’m grateful for your trouble, Luke. We’ll be seeing you to-morrow at the Trooping.”

Luke made a hideous grimace at Jennet,
but his
v
oice as he answered Julian was friendly and sympathetic.

“Bad news at the hospital?” he asked gently.

Julian shrugged and turned back into the room.

“No news at all till they develop the plates,” he replied, then he looked at Jennet and smiled. “Hello!” he said.

“Hello!” said Jennet rather blankly.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t
m
anage to meet you myself, but evidently Luke was an excellent substitute.” He contemplated her hat and shook
his
head. “Hats were always your weak point. We’ll just have time to buy you another before the shops shut.”

“Yes, Cousin
Julian,” she said meekly, and was aware of Luke’s amused expression.

“Can I come on the hat-selecting jaunt?” he asked, and when Julian briefly said: “No,” remarked: “I think your approach is all wrong, old boy, but no doubt you have your reasons. Well, I’ll take myself off.
Au revoir,
Jennet.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Fenton, and thank you for meeting me,” said Jennet, and wished he
w
ould stop.

“What’s
wrong with calling me Luke?” Luke asked. “After all, you’re in the family now, though I’m hanged if I’ll be any charming young woman’s Cousin Luke!”

She glanced at Julian, but he was unsmiling, and she said a little nervously:

“All right—Luke. Good-bye.”