Orphan Bride (16 page)

Her forehead remained wrinkled, and he stooped on sudden impulse and smoothed it with a careless finger. Her eyes flew open and she stared up at him with a strange expression.

“Wrinkles,” he said with a sm
i
le. “I’m always telling you.”

“Perhaps people are like that,” she said. “Wrinkles in their characters, I mean. If they’re natural they won’t smooth out.”

“Is that supposed to be a profundity?” he asked, amused.

She said with dignity:

“You asked for my views.”

He lay back in his chair and observed her lazily.

“So
I did. Have you
any more, Miss Jennet Brown?” She gave him a look of grave resignation, and shook her head. No, it was impossible to talk to Julian.

But there were moments during the summer when each could forget for a brief spell the other’s reserve. Talking in the dusk, when personalities seemed to merge into the twilight, he would sometimes listen
to her without remembering their relationship and at times he would talk himself as if, she had been Luke or old Jeremy Pritchard. Once he even discussed the possibility of losing his leg with a calmness which hurt her unbearably, and before she could stop herself she had turned swiftly in the gathering darkness and put her arms round him.

She felt him stiffen, and drew away instantly, feeling suddenly very lonely. The instinct to comfort had become the instinct to be comforted.

“Don’t ever give.me pity. Jennet,” he said harshly. “Gratitude if you must—that at least lends stature—but never pity. Always remember.”

She had been too shy to explain that it was neither one nor the other just then, but plain affection.

Early in August he wrote to Emily that his treatment had finished and he was going to Scotland with Luke. He would probably not be in Penny-St.-Mary again before September. He made no mention of whether the treatment had done him good and there was no further talk of Jennet coming to London.

She felt depressed and lonely, and although she had long ago ceased to expect a letter from Julian, she wished he would write. Scotland seemed very far away, and September only a month of vague promise. Emily was too much occupied with he
r
dogs to wonder if the child was missing companionship. Only Homer noticed how much time Jennet spent with Mrs. Dingle in the kitchen when she should have been out in the fresh air, but he forgot about her unless he actually met her face to face.

She would walk to the village sometimes on an errand for Emily, which gave her the excuse for talking to the
shopkeepers, but as she never had any money to spend herself she was unable to do this very often. Jennet looked forward with dismay to the, winter and remembered the fog-bound isolation of the moor; and she knew that she envied Milly snug and gay in the cheap brightness of Sparks & Spicer with a passion that would have shocked Julian.

Once a nostalgic longing took her to the Thompson’s old home. She would stand, she thought, on the little rise where the moor left the road, and perhaps she would see the
children playing in the garden. But the house was deserted, the windows were uncurtained and thick with dust; it must have been empty for months. They had gone away, where, she would never know. Now there was only Julian
.

Towards the end of August the weather changed with depressing thoroughness. Sheets of rain fell day after day, turning to dense fog in the evening, and Jennet, confined to the house, grew listless and silent. Emily was short of temper, and Mrs. Dingle, with the household in to every meal for days on end, was full of grumbles.

“And Julian, of course, has to choose this moment for a visit
!
” Emily exclaimed, waving a telegram with
ex
asperation.

“Today?” asked Jennet, her face lighting for a moment. “I thought he was in Scotland.”

“Well, he’s evidently curtailed the trip an
d
is coming here instead. Jennet, you must change that frock. You know Julian thinks you’ve outgrown it, and see to your nails before he arrives—you’ve been getting careless lately.
Oh, dear, oh, dear! Julian is always so precipitate!
”

Emily hurried away to break the news to Mrs. Dingle, and Jennet felt no lifting of the spirit. She realized that she had missed Julian, and those queer, brief conversations in the orchard. But it was the wrong moment for a resumption of that difficult relationship. On such a day as this he would almost certainly arrive in a mood of displeasure, upset by the journey, and if this weather continued, they would all be boxed up in the house together, with no means of escape from each other.

But Julian’s mood, at any rate to start with, was not one of displeasure. He had voluntarily cut short the visit to
Scotland upon a last minute, inexplicable urge to see Jennet again, and the fact that, although she was as dutiful as ever, she did not seem particularly pleased to see him, both piqued and puzzled him.

“
You don’t look at all well compared with when I saw you last,” he told her disapprovingly. “Are you eating properly?”

“No, she’s not,” Emily replied for her. “But the weather has been very trying, and we are all too much in the house.”

“Do you feel ill?” he asked, frowning.

She shook her head, wishing he would leave her alone, and Emily answered impatiently:

“Of course she doesn’t feel ill. Don’t go putting ideas into the child’s head.”

Julian raised his eyebrows. It was unusual for Emily to be on edge.

“Well, she’s thinner, and she certainly doesn’t look well,” he said, and added with more irritation than he really felt: “For heaven’s sake go and change that dress, Jennet. It takes every scrap of color out of your face.”

It was a bad beginning, and the rest of the evening was no easier. Julian, who had travelled from Scotland the night before and only broken his journey for a couple of hours at his flat before coming straight down to Plymouth, felt tired and chilled by his reception.

After supper, they sat in the fireless living room, listening to the rain and talking very little.

Homer went to bed early, soon to be followed by Jennet, and Julian cocked a disgruntled eyebrow at his aunt.

“What’s the matter with her?” he demanded irritably. “If she isn’t ill, then she’s indulging in temperament, and you ought to check that, Aunt Emily.”

Emily retorted with unusual sharpness:

“Are you the only one who’s allowed to indulge in temperament? Why can’t you leave the girl alone, Julian? You only make her worse by all this fuss and interference.”

He filled a pipe with impatient fingers.

“What on earth’s the matter with you all?” he said.
“
I shall
begin to wish I’d stayed in Scotland after all, before very long.”

“It’s the weather,” said Emily apologetically. “We’ve all been cooped up too much together, and it’s dull for Jennet with two old fogies. She needs change.”

“And I’m no change, you mean to imply,” he said with a short laugh. “She doesn’t seem to appreciate the fact that I altered my plans at the last minute simply on her account.”

“Well, dear, there’s no reason why she should,” said Emily mildly. “It might be better if you tell her so.”

“I will,” said Julian in no uncertain tones, “I’ll tell her to-morrow. I’m hanged if I’ll be cold-shouldered by my own foundling.”

But when the morning came, it brought with it not only continued bad weather, but
a first-class family disturbance such as he did not remember since his childhood days.

CHAPTER
T E N

I
t all started with Mrs. Dingle’s annoyance at Julian’s unexpected visit. After breakfast she made a great display of having too much work to do, insisting on dusting Jennet’s room before she cleared the dining table, a thing she never normally did.

Jennet, making her bed with some idea of helping, listened to her grumbles and watched a little anxiously the careless duster flicking over the furniture with angry slaps.

“Oh, be careful!” she pleaded. “You’ll break something if you’re so violent.”

“I don’t need to be taught my work by any little maid from an institution, either,” Mrs. Dingle snapped.

“You needn’t be rude,” Jennet said. It was a long time since Mrs. Dingle had shown her resentment of the orphanage.

The woman snorted and continued her operations with more violence.

“Leave the mantelpiece, please. I’ll do it,” said Jennet, her eyes on Frankie’s china fawn.

“Stop
c
hittering,” said Mrs. Dingle, with a fine disregard for her own flow of words. “I know my place, I hope, though there’s some ’as doesn’t. Come to that, there’s none of this silly old trade would be missed if it were broke. Collecting dust and such like—oh, my dear soul, ’tes fallen abroad!” The duster had caught the fawn in its devastating passage, and swept it on to the hearth, where it lay in fragments.

Jennet went white.

“You did it on purpose!” she accused, her voice shaking. “You did it on
purpose, you wicked woman! My little fawn—the only thing in this room I loved.”

Mrs. Dingle stood irresolute. She was genuinely sorry she had broken the ornament, but Jennet’s accusation riled her anew.

“Who be you, calling me wicked?” she retorted, her dialect broadening in anger. “Why, you’m not even born respectable, you poor little toad, and talking like that to me! ’Tes too much. I’ll see the missus and hand in my notice.”

Emily tried to deal with them both as quietly as possible, but Mrs. Dingle did not believe in hiding her feelings or her views. Jennet certainly did not shout, but she stood there
looking so strained and wild that Emily was at a loss to understand what in so trivial a misfortune as a broken ornament could cause such unreasonable emotion in each. Finally, she lost her temper, sent Mrs. Dingle packing to the kitchen and told Jennet she ought to be ashamed of herself for creating such a disturbance.

“What on earth’s all the shindy about?” Julian’s exasperated voice demanded from the doorway. “This house
I
hold seems to have lost its wits since I was last here.”

“Then you’d better deal with Jennet yourself and see if you can get any sense out of her,” retorted Emily, “for I’m sure I can’t. She seems to think Mrs. Dingle broke an ornament of hers on purpose, which, of course, is absurd, but it’s not absurd when Mrs. Dingle wants, to leave. I could never replace her, and I’m surprised at you, Jennet, for making trouble. It’s not like you.” Emily ran an |agitated hand through her hair, added that she supposed she must somehow placate Mrs. Dingle, and went out of the room.

Julian looked curiously at Jennet. She was still very white.

“
No, it’s not like you,” he remarked. “But you haven’t been like yourself since I arrived yesterday. What’s the trouble?”

“
She broke my fawn—my china fawn,” said Jennet, her mind
cl
inging to one thing only. “Perhaps she didn’t do it on purpose, but she broke it all the same
!
”

“Well, it was unfortunate, but things do get smashed,”
he said impatiently. “Anyhow, it wasn’t
broken yesterday and you were behaving very oddly then.” He realized then
that she was nearly in tears, and said with kindly raillery:

“Do you realize, young woman, that I gave up the
rest of my holiday especially to come down and see you, and so far I haven’t been able to get a word out of you?”

“I’m sorry,” said Jennet tonelessly. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

He was nonplussed at the lack of impression he was making on her.

“Well, then, try and pull yourself together.”

“She broke
my fawn,” Jennet repeated, and he glanced at her sharply. The child’s manner was very strange.

“For heaven’s sake! I’ll buy you another fawn. Where did you get it?”

“That wouldn’t be at all the
same,” she replied. “It was given to me.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“Oh? I didn’t give it to you as far as I remember. Who else would have given you a present?”

“It was given to me,” she repeated with dignity, and added politely: “It doesn’t matter really.”

His dark eyes narrowed.

“Oh, but I think it does. You’re making an inordinate amount of fuss about a cheap china ornament. Who gave it to
you?”

She made no answer and he said, his voice hardening: “I suppose it was the same young fellow whom I seem to remember causing trouble between us before.”

She stared at him helplessly, grief at her loss swamped in the far more upsetting act of reviving that old displeasure.

He began to fidget with his stick.

“Really, Jennet, I gave you credit for more common sense. I’m sorry if a sentimental attachment for a china ornament should make you indulge in such an exhibition, but feel it’s a little irrational all the same.”

Her forehead wrinkled in the old perplexity. It was too difficult to make him understand that Frankie’s gift had long since ceased
to be a sentimental reminder of
the donor. It had become a symbol of comfort and affection and loving-kindness.

“You don’t understand
—
” she began falteringly, but
he interrupted her.

“I understand only too well, and it appears to me that isolating you here at Pennycross, though no doubt dull for you, is an excellent precaution until you’re old enough to adjust your emotional values for yourself. I realize, of course, that it will scarcely be the same thing, but I’ll replace your china fawn as soon as I get back to town, and hope, in the fullness of time, it may claim a small portion of your misplaced affections.”

He could always defeat her with sarcasm. She felt the tears spring to her eyes, and backed to the door.

“Oh, no,” she cried. “Oh, no, Julian, you are so wrong.
I can’t
—
” She broke off, not knowing what it was she
could not make him understand, and, turning with a swiftness that was too quick for him, ran from the room and out of the house into the pouring rain.

He limped to the front door, angrily calling her back, but she paid no heed and he could not hope to catch her in his crippled state. With an exasperated shrug he slammed the door shut and flung himself into a chair.

She was not back
by lunch time, and Julian moodily picked at his food, and was inclined to snap when he w
a
s spoken to. The rain had stopped, and fog was beginning to seep up from the moor.

“If she isn’t back soon, she won’t be able to see a yard in front of her,” Julian remarked grimly.

Emily glanced out of the window
.

“She won’t stay out in this,” she said practically. “She’s a very sensible child, really—besides, fog frightens her.”

But Pennytor was invisible, and a damp white blanket
c
linging round the house, and still Jennet had not come. Somewhere out on the moor a bell began to toll eerily, its sound muffled by the fog, and Emily said, “That’s Princetown. There must have been a prison break.” She glanced uneasily at Homer. “They usually choose a fog.”

Julian turned from his post at the window where he had been standing for a long time.

“I’m worried, Aunt Emily,” he said, and the
lines o
f
pain had deepened round his mouth. “You know as well as I do the moor is dangerous in fog. The child may have had an accident—twisted her ankle or something
.
She might wander round in circles for hours and fetch up in one of the old tin workings.”

“I know, dear,” she said, “but I don’t see
what we can do.”

“I can get a search-party from the village to go out and look for her,” said Julian.

Emily hesitated.

“If you think that will do any good,” she said, then
:
“But let Homer go. It would take you too long, and you couldn’t help much in the search.”

Julian’s lips tightened.

“Very well, let Homer go. I’m well aware I’m very little use in an emergency these days,” he said.

Homer got up.

“I’ll go, of course,” he said, “but the chances of finding her are rather slight until the fog lifts
.
The warders will be out, anyhow, searching. They may run across her.
”

“If she has any sense, she’ll stay where she is until it does,” remarked Emily.

“But she hasn’t any sense,” said Julian, and added with sudden tenderness: “No sense at all, poor little scrap.”

Homer put on his old deer-stalking cap a
n
d his Burberry and went out into the fog. He seemed to be gone a long time, and presently Julian ceased his restless tapping on the window-pane and said in a frayed, taut voice:

“I can’t stand this any longer. I’m going out after her.
”

Emily made a gesture of dismay.

“Julian, it’s madness! You’ll be much too slow and probably crock up that leg of yours for good and all on the moor, and then we’ll have to send a search-party for you.”

“I can’t stay here doing nothing. The whole thing’s my fault, really. If I hadn’t—Don’t worry, Aunt Emily. I’
ll
stick to the track and keep calling, just on chance,” Julian said, and she did not try to stop him again, but hoped with his enforced slowness the men would catch up with him before he had got very far, and turn him back.

It was Julian who found her, quite near home. If they had stood at the gate and shouted, she must have heard.

Julian, making his slow and painful way over the rough ground, called at intervals and thought he heard an answering whimper, but all sound was confused.

It was some while until she answered, and then a little voice almost under his feet quavered: “W-who is it?” He stood quite still, trying to pierce the fog with eyes which were already strained and stinging.

“Jennet! Where are you? It’s Julian.”

“I’m here,” the little voice wailed. “And I’ve lost the path.”

“
Are you hurt? Can you come to me?”

“No, I’m not hurt, but I can’t see you.”

“Try to follow my voice. If I leave the track we shall both be lost.”

There was a pause, and something rustled quite near at hand, then her voice said apologetically:

“I c-can’t. I’m afraid to move.” She could hear quite clearly his answering grunt of exasperation.

“All right
.
Stay where you are and try and guide me,” he called, and feeling cautiously with his stick he turned in the direction of her voice.

Almost at once he found her, wet and shivering, crouched in a clump of bracken, and she gave a little cry of fright as his stick touched her. He could see her now, her thin frock clinging to her slight body like a wet rag, her hair limp and straight about her scared face. The hours of anxiety, the slow, painful progress along the track were too much for him, and he took her by the shoulders and shook her thoroughly.

“You crazy little fool!” he said angrily. “Giving us all such a fright! Why on earth couldn’t you have shouted? You’re quite near home.”

Her teeth chattered, partly from cold and fright, partly from his rough handling.

“I didn’t know,” she said. “I thought I was miles away, and—and then I
heard the bell, and I didn’t dare move.”

“
Why didn’t you answer when
I
called
”

“
I—I thought you were a convict.”

He gave her another shake.

“Really, Jennet! I said you had no sense,
and by heaven, you haven’t! How do you
suppose, a
convict would have known your name?”

She began to tremble.

“I don’t know. I was scared. Oh, Julian, don’t
poun
ce
,
”
she whimpered, and began to cry.

His anger left him, and he felt instead a new, strange tenderness which made him gather her close int
o
his arms.

“Don’t cry,” he said gently. “You’re safe now, and I promise I won’t pounce. It was all my fault anyhow.”