Judith

by Noel Streatfeild

  Marion was not going to allow a strange young man to close the door which had suddenly begun to open between herself and Judith. She arranged for the two men to have a sleep on the porch while she and Judith went into her room for a long talk. Since Philip was a doctor, she explained in a you’ll-understand voice, “daughter and I have a lot of adjusting to do.”

  Philip would not hear of a sleep. Instead, though it was enormously hot, he took himself for a long walk. Perspiration streamed from him, his hair looked as if he had been in the sea, his shirt was glued to him, but with every step he felt better. It was extraordinary how introductions could turn out. His friend Bill had sworn that his friend Edward was a good sort, and so his brother-in-law Charles was sure to be all right. Now look where he was landed, the next best thing to a loony-bin. Charles Winster had seemed all right in the car, but he had gone to pieces since he had been inside the house. Philip wondered what his family would say if they could see the set-up; he could not imagine what his Mother would think if she could have heard the way Mrs. Winster had talked about Judith crying in her arms. And think what was happening now? That awful girl getting adjusted in the bedroom, and Charles Winster snoring on the verandah! America was all right until you came up against a set-up like this, then you wanted to jolt some sense into them. Bessie and Ben!

  To Marion’s joy the break for luncheon had not changed Judith’s mood. The sun screens made her bedroom a green cave, a feeling enhanced by the water-lily pattern on the walls. Marion took off her dress and lay on the bed, and Judith first crouched, then lay beside her. Marion plunged a needle question straight into Judith.

  “Why did you say those turtles died because you loved them?”

  The words came slowly, the story was incoherent, and at times upset Judith so much that she had to pause and rock to and fro, gripping her solar plexus. But partly from what she heard, and partly because she had already been given a fairly accurate background by Miss Simpson, Marion began to get some sort of picture of what had happened, and the more she understood the more angry she became. She did not blame Charles, he was what he was, and she loved him knowing his faults. Besides, to be fair, it had been good of him to allow Avis to divorce him, and to keep his child, for she was the offender. But why hadn’t Charles noticed what a strange upbringing his child was having? That time when he went to England for the wedding he had seen a lot of Judith, yet he had come back delighted not only with her, but with what he had heard of Avis. She could remember him saying “Avis must have changed considerably, she didn’t show signs of being the maternal type, but that’s how she’s turned out.” If only she had gone over with Charles she would not have been fooled. Marion could not make head or tail of the Carlyle saga. She did not want to interrupt Judith, but several times she had to bite back queries. Why was Judith telling her about Charlotte’s wedding and the Carlyle cousins being angry? Judith had been only twelve at that time, surely there could not have been trouble about her and Robert then? To make the story more confusing, Judith made no break, she went straight from the wedding to her finding herself living with the Carlyles in Hampstead.

  “Oh Marion, it was terrible, being sent there knowing they hated me.”

  “Well,” thought Marion, “that’s the first I’ve heard about hate where Robert is concerned.” But she kept her thoughts to herself and let Judith ramble on, and was rewarded by some sort of picture of Judith’s life in Hampstead. She could not make out whether Judith had really fallen in love with Robert, or had clung, or tried to cling, to him because he was kind, for Judith was so reticent about the trouble when she was found in Robert’s room that it was impossible to guess what had happened. But there was no doubt in Marion’s mind that it was Beatrice and Catherine who had thrown Judith to Lance, and, having got Judith to take her that far through her story, she stopped her. It was clear talking of Lance tightened her up, even caused her physical pain.

  “I know the rest, dear. Stop me if I am wrong.”

  Quietly Marion retold the Lance story, partly as reported in the papers, but mainly as recorded by Miss Simpson, who, in her turn, was reporting Mrs. Killigrew. To Marion it was a pitiful but not unusual story. The weak boy in need of money, a lonely girl in love. Even the wretched end to the affair seemed to her understandable. Lance must have been terribly ashamed, she told Judith, and that made him act the way he did. He was like a cornered animal, and fought with all he had. “You mustn’t be bitter about him, honey, but just try and remember him the way he was when you loved him, for you did love him, didn’t you?”

  Marion’s words were so wonderful that Judith felt as if she wanted to pick up each one and hold it. Marion understood everything, even about Lance. Lance had not got to be forgotten, it was not wrong to think about him. He had not been wicked, and she had not been wicked to know him. She flung herself at Marion, and in a tone of voice Marion had never heard her use, cried:

  “Oh darling angel Marion. I do love you. Can I stay with you for ever and ever?”

  * * * * *

  It did not take Marion twenty-four hours to realise that the new thawed-out Judith was as much of a problem as the old Judith. She wished she could get hold of Eunice for a long talk, but Eunice was on vacation, and she had no address for her. Eunice had said Judith was searching for affection and had to feel needed. Well, now she had got affection, and knew she was needed, and though it was true she no longer acted like a clam, she stuck like a limpet, which was just as unnatural. Somehow, while never ceasing to tell her how glad she was to have found a daughter, she must give the girl a push so that she got around on her own, with young people of her own age. For this purpose she used the young person to hand—Philip.

  Philip was a cautious mover, and while he was still looking for an excuse to leave the house, Marion, on the telephone, had fixed up a party in her house and engagements for him and Judith in the homes of friends, who had children around their ages. Though Marion had no idea Philip contemplated leaving, she had done the one thing which was certain to make him stay. Invitations given or received in his home were not treated lightly. If you were invited to something and accepted, nothing short of serious illness or death must keep you from fulfilling the engagement. On this occasion he had neither been invited nor accepted, but Marion was not only giving a party for him but had accepted others for him, and, since she clearly thought these commitments binding, he gloomily bowed to the inevitable, though wondering how he was to get through them without losing his temper and telling Judith just what a crashing little idiot he thought she was.

  The longer he stayed with the Winsters the more Philip worried over and puzzled about Judith. Every girl he had ever known, even the American girls who scared him, were always more or less the same person. But the Judith whom he had met yapping about turtles was not the Judith he had met when he returned from his walk that first afternoon, and as day followed day she changed more and more. She had of course been upset when he first saw her, and, according to Mrs. Winster, had been crying, but allowing for that he had thought her uninteresting, both in appearance and personality. But he had been forced to reverse that judgment. He was sure it must be an illusion, but to him it seemed that she changed while he watched her. Her hair from being dull turned golden, her eyes, which he would have sworn were muddy grey, became the colour of periwinkles, and he could not help enjoying listening to her, for, apparently unconsciously, she imitated everybody she spoke about. What was so maddening was that, turning out so much better than he had hoped, the girl was so irritating. It was all very well to love your stepmother, but it was unhealthy when it meant a near-scene every time you left the house, and it was downright rude when you made the scene in front of the man who had to take you out. The queer thing was that the Winsters did not seem to think Judith was behaving badly, or, if they did, that he would understand and not mind. Nobody appeared to get on to the fact that it turned his stomach to hear.

  “Must I go,
Marion? Honestly I’d much rather stay with you.”

  And the reply:

  “I know, dear, and Daddy and I will miss you every minute, but going places is good for you, and I’ll be waiting right here when you come home.”

  The worst visits come to an end. After eight days Philip realised there were no more definite engagements, and he was free to go, and, even as he accepted the fact, he found the wish to leave had left him. He was driving Judith to a dance when he made this discovery. He had been listening with half an ear while she told him, as she did every time they went out, about how happy she was, how much she loved Marion, how glorious it was to feel wanted. Then suddenly all the fury bottled up in him rose to the surface. He stopped the car and turned to face her.

  “Shut up.”

  Judith gaped at him.

  “What?”

  “I said shut up. You’ve no idea how you go on about your stepmother.”

  Judith, by the violence of his attack, for the first time since he had been in the house was forced to think about Philip. He had been nice in a quiet way, and she had become accustomed to talking to him. Now he was angry. Why?

  “I’m sorry if I’ve bored you, but you don’t know how marvellous it is to be so happy after such ages of being miserable.”

  “What were you miserable about? Those turtles?”

  Judith had taken it for granted he had been told all about her. Ever since Lance everybody had always been told all about her.

  “Of course not.” Then, looking at Philip’s square honest face, Judith found she wanted him to know what she had been through. In the loving understanding world in which she now lived she was becoming unused to hard looks. The look in Philip’s eyes was scorn. She would tell him everything, then he would understand.

  On the side of the road, the dance forgotten, Judith told her history as she saw it. Able now to imitate again, she built for Philip clear pictures of Mother, the Stratford-Dericksons and Miss Simpson. She was able to catch Mother’s voice calling the Winsters “The Unmentionables”. She revealed, without knowing it, that she had invented the Mother she wanted, rather than accepted the Mother she had. Then she took Philip to England and in a series of sketches showed him her introduction to the Winster world. “You can’t imagine my surprise, Philip. They wanted me, actually wanted me.” All through the story the word recurred. Granny had wanted her. Daddy had wanted her. Back abroad Simpsy had wanted her. It was in part two of the story that the theme changed to “nobody wanted me”. “Robert wanted me but he went back to school and stopped caring.” “Aunt Mercy wanted me, but she went away.” “Even Simpsy seemed to stop caring, but I know now that wasn’t true, Simpsy and Aunt Mercy both wanted to look after me, but they weren’t allowed to. Imagine, Philip, Simpsy flew over here to tell Daddy and Marion I must come to live with them.” She did not tell Philip much about Lance. She had a feeling he would not understand about Lance as Marion did. Lance became “there was a man whom I knew at that school, but everything went wrong, so then I was sent to Gling Castle, where nobody cared what happened to me. Oh, Philip, you’ll never know how awful it is to be absolutely alone, with nobody caring what happens to you.” Then she smiled. “Now I’ve told you, so you can understand why I talk so much about Marion. You see, I feel safe, which I haven’t felt for ages and ages.”

  The moon was rising and in its light Philip saw the doting look was back on Judith’s face, and it was more than he could stand. He put his hands on her shoulders and gave her a brotherly shake.

  “Would you like to know what I think? Well, I’m disgusted. What you are suffering from, my girl, is self-pity. All right, your Father and Mother separated. You aren’t the first child that has happened to, and you won’t be the last, and you did have a governess you were fond of, some kids have nobody . . .”

  “But . . .”

  “Don’t interrupt me now I’ve started. Let me get it off my chest. The trouble with you is that you want too much. If you had had a normal home, Father, Mother and all the fixings, you would still have had to learn to get through life on your own. You keep talking about people loving you and wanting you. Have you ever thought that you are quite capable of getting along on your own steam?”

  “But I’m not. I don’t want to. That’s why I’m so glad to have a home and . . .”

  “Don’t say it—Marion. So you have a stepmother. Do you hope to cling on to her hand all your days? Why don’t you take a grip on yourself? Get a job. Go off alone, you don’t need someone to hold on to.”

  “But I do.”

  Philip’s hands were still on Judith’s shoulders. As she spoke he discovered, to his dismay, that he liked holding her, that he did not want to take his hands away, that he wanted more, that if he didn’t move soon he would be taking more, and in an unseemly uninhibited way. A startled whisper escaped him.

  “Judith! Oh Judith, we ought to be going.”

  Judith was as amazed as Philip. One minute ago he had just been the visitor staying in the house, who had been scolding, even shaking her, now he was changing as she watched. A queer warmth crept over her, and with it a melting feeling. She stared into his eyes, puzzled, a little afraid. Then she was in his arms.

  * * * * *

  It had been, for the Winster family, a major shock when Charles had announced not only that Judith was to be married, but was to be married in England. Telephone lines had buzzed. It was so tactless. It would have been so easy for them to have been married in America, where there was no gossip to be raked up. What was the point of a wedding in England, where Charles knew no one except the family?

  “I hear,” Bruce’s Daphne had said to Charlotte: “It’s because he wants the Stratford-Dericksons to be there.”

  Charlotte had laughed.

  “Since none of my relations ever liked Avis’s family it ought to make the hell of a party. As well perhaps Avis will come, and, if she does, who will receive? She, Marion or both?”

  On top of the wedding, news had come of an even more startling fact. The reception would be held in the Carlyles’ house.

  “My goodness,” Charlotte had said to Edward, “what I would have given to have been a fly on the wall when that was arranged. I can’t wait to hear Beatrice’s reactions.”

  Actually no one had been more surprised at the coming arrangements than Charles, who was supposedly making them. Everything planned had been the result of a kind of song without words between Philip and Marion. Philip had no intention of allowing Judith to escape a family wedding. He knew the idea appalled her, but he was not letting her off, she must face things in future, not run away from them, or invent them. Marion knew Mr. Prist thought Judith should return to England with a fanfare of trumpets, and what could be nearer that than a wedding? So when Philip had stuck out his chin and said he wanted an English wedding, Marion, without giving her reasons, quietly backed him, and made Charles write to his family saying that the decision was his. But if Mr. Prist was to have his fanfare of trumpets for Judith the wedding must be of some importance, a white bride, bridesmaids and all the paraphernalia, but how was that to be accomplished when Charles knew no one in England except his family? A wedding of Winsters and Ironsides could only be a small affair. It was then Marion had thought of Basil. She knew from Judith that he had always been her friend, though of necessity rather a friend in the background. She judged from what she had heard that Basil would be likely to have a feeling of shame about the Judith episode, and she planned to trade on it. It was a pity Alice Winster was dead, she was the one to have handled things, instead Charles must do it. Marion had written down for Charles the outline of a letter, and this, after much persuasion, he had written and sent to Basil’s business address. The letter had been a straightforward request for the loan of Basil’s house for the wedding, and as well had asked for Basil’s support, and the presence of his friends. It had suggested that Charles knew that Basil would
be glad to help; conscience had not been mentioned, but it was implicit in the letter.

  Basil had said “yes” by telephone, and told Beatrice afterwards. She had been livid.

  “I refuse. That girl has caused enough trouble in this house, I will not have her married from here. If Charles must have her married in England he must take a room in an hotel.”

  Basil had sounded firmer than he felt.

  “We can’t refuse now. I have already said that we shall be delighted.”

  “Delighted! It’s too much. When I think of the scandal she brought to this house . . .”

  Greatly daring Basil had spoken his mind.

  “It’s because of that I said yes. I have not mentioned the wretched affair because hard words would not help Judith, but we, and forgive me for saying so, especially you, were greatly to blame. You never liked the girl and you let her know it. Was it any wonder that in her loneliness she turned to the first person who wanted her?”

  Beatrice had fought hard, but Basil for once had his way. He had made things easier for himself by announcing to his friends a niece would be married from his house in the late autumn, but it was not outside pressure that won the day, but Basil’s stubbornness, against which Beatrice vainly flung her arguments. In the end she had to accept the inevitable.

  “All right, have the wedding here. But I don’t approve, and nothing will make me approve. But we don’t want outsiders to know we are in disagreement, so I’ll put as good a face on the business as I can.”

  In her wordless song with Philip Marion had discovered he was on her side in thinking the wedding should be held in the Carlyle home. Philip’s reasons for approving had been two-fold. It would be an effort for Judith, but the sooner she forgot there had ever been trouble in that house the sooner she would be free of her phobias. His second reason was his family. If the wedding was in an hotel it would be impossible to hide what it cost, and though nothing might be said directly to him, the word “indulgence” would run round the family. Afterwards, however careful a housewife Judith might prove to be, everything she did would be judged by the standard set at her wedding.