by Sara Seale
“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 to 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...”
She 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 week-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 on 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 clothes 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 her 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, thinking 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 this 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, you 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 park, 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 affection 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 out 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, sliding 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 that 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 immediately. “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 having 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.”
Luke 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 looked tentatively at Julian, but he was 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 voice 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 manage 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 would 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.”
He grinned, waved his elegant hat at them both, then let himself out of the flat.
CHAPTER E I G H T
As the door closed behind him, Jennet thought longingly of tea. She had had no lunch, and now Julian was going whirl her off somewhere to choose a hat.
“Where am I going to sleep, Cousin Julian?” she asked.
“You’re staying with Piggy,” he replied. “You remember I talked to you about Piggy—Miss Piggott, my old governess? We’ll go and find that hat and then we’ll go along to Piggy’s flat.”
Julian drove to a hat shop in South Molton Street. Jennet just sat before a mirror, not daring to move, while the sales woman fitted many preposterous confections on to her head and Julian stood in the background criticizing and discarding. Finally he was satisfied, and even Jennet had to admit that the absurd little hat which sat on the back of her head, framing her thin face with flattering demureness, was a distinct improvement on the one of Emily’s choosing.
“Leave it behind,” Julian said as she picked up the old hat to take away. “They can burn it or give it to the char or something.”
“That,” said Jennet reprovingly as they came out on to the pavement, “is the second good hat you’ve made me throw away.”
He looked at her standing on the pavement waiting for him to unlock the car, and was aware of the grave charm of her small face, the soft brown hair curving out under the new hat like a child’s just starting to curl. He grinned suddenly.
“Well, don’t you think the result justifies my wastefulness?” he said. “Or have you no vanity?”
“Matron used to say wastefulness was never justified,” she replied solemnly, then she gave her sudden grin. “But I think I must be vain, and I love the hat. Thank you, Cousin Julian.”
They were inside the car now, and Julian glanced at her sideways.
“I think we’ll drop the cousin now,” he remarked. “You’re getting a little old to go on addressing me like an elderly relative.”
She gave him a startled look.
“You mean I’m just to call you Julian?”
“I mean you’re just to call me Julian.”
She sighed.
“I’ll never remember,” she said.
He frowned, and pressed the self-starter, and the car slid away from the curb. Jennet leant back on the cushions and felt suddenly very tired.
“Do you think we could get some tea anywhere?” she said at last, a little desperately.
He glanced down at her, thinking that she looked a little white, and said instantly:
“Of course. I’m afraid I always forget about tea when I’m in London. You got some lunch on the train, I hope.”
“No.”
“For heaven’s sake, why not? Women have the most crazy notions about meals and then wonder why they feel faint.”
“I don’t feel faint,” said Jennet with dignity. “I didn’t have lunch because the dining car was full, and you haven’t given me a
chance to have any tea with all this nonsense about hats.”
He laughed and all at once his mouth was tender. “Quite right, I haven’t,” he said. “And we’ll go straight away now and have the best tea this great city can provide.”
Over tea he suddenly became talkative, describing tomorrow’s ceremony, and from where they were to watch it, telling her stories about Piggy and his old nursery days, while she ate ravenously and drank cup after cup of tea.
“You were famished, weren’t you?” he said a little ruefully. “I’m afraid I’ve been very remiss in my attentions.”
“You couldn’t have known about lunch,” she said politely, and he grunted.
“It would have been more to the point if Luke had taken and fed you instead of trailing you round to see the sights.”
“He didn’t know, either,” she said quickly. For some reason, Luke’s kindness seemed to annoy him. “Besides, I enjoyed it. It was interesting.”
He smiled.
“What a child you are!”
She blinked at him, then lowered her eyes.
“You don't have to be a child to enjoy things,” she said gently.
He moved impatiently, and beckoned for his bill. “You’re quite a philosopher, aren’t you!” he said, and his smile was a little wry.
She put on her gloves with care.
“Why does Mr. Fenton—Luke, I mean, call me Galatea?”
He regarded her with sardonic humor.
“You don’t know the story of Pygmalion and Galatea?”
“No. Luke said I was to ask you to tell it to me.”
Julian paid his bill and got to his feet.
“Luke would,” he said a little grimly. “Some other time, Jennet. We must be getting along to Piggy s flat. I’m dining out tonight.”
Julian’s ex-governess lived in one of the old-fashioned converted houses in a quiet street near Gloucester Road Station. Her rooms were crammed with photographs and mementoes of her various pupils, and she herself was a dried-up little woman of indeterminate age, still wearing the neat starched collar and cuffs considered suitable for a governess in her day. To Jennet she had a distinct flavor of orphanage correctness, but when she talked to Julian, the eyes behind the pince-nez often gleamed with a dry humor.
