Over the Blue Mountains

by Mary Burchell

  “No,” Juliet said slowly. “No, it wasn’t even accidental. It was quite—deliberate. He has ... married someone else.”

  “Oh, God! I’m sorry.”

  She could not imagine why she had told him—baldly like that, as though he had a right to know and were someone in whom she would naturally confide. But there was no doubting the sincerity of his dismayed sympathy.

  “Look here, would you like me to come in with you now?”

  His hand was under her elbow, and though the touch was quite light, it gave her the curious feeling that there was still something between her and ultimate disaster.

  She did not even stop to think about the humiliation of having to hear the truth from a stranger, in front of someone else who was also virtually a stranger. She only knew that Max Ormathon’s presence was something to be thankful for in the welter of dismay and bewilderment that had swept over her.

  “It would be very kind—” she began softly and in a voice that trembled slightly.

  “Come along,” he said, without giving her time to finish, and he accompanied her into the house.

  The woman, who had watched all this rather curiously from the doorway, led the way into a conventionally furnished but quite comfortable sitting room.

  “Sit you down,” she urged, and she shook up a couple of cushions unnecessarily and glanced a little nervously at Max Ormathon.

  “This is Mr. Ormathon, a friend of my uncle and aunt,” Juliet explained with an effort. “And you must be Mrs. Jarvis, I suppose.”

  “Yes. That’s right.” Mrs. Jarvis seemed pleased to find something on which they could agree wholeheartedly. “I’m real sorry about this business. It must be a shock for you, coming out from home and all. But he did write to tell you about marrying this other girl, and she’s a sweet, pretty girl, and not the kind who’d want to hurt anyone on purpose. But—you know how it is.”

  This last remark was addressed to Max Ormathon, presumably on the assumption that he was the more worldly and less personally involved of the two, and would thus be able to look at the situation more objectively.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know how it was in this particular case,” was the rather disagreeable reply. “But if you mean that people do protest about not wanting to hurt others, while at the same time proceeding to do so without loss of time, of course I can only agree with you.”

  Mrs. Jarvis looked faintly puzzled. But went on almost immediately, and with a touch of enthusiasm.

  “Well, anyway, you could see it was a case of love at first sight with both of them. And of course people do change their minds. I know I changed mine twice before I married my husband, and many’s the time I’ve wished there’d been an opportunity to change it again.”

  “Most interesting,” Max Ormathon said coldly, in a tone that successfully dried up the stream of reminiscence that was obviously threatening to break loose. “But if there’s nothing more that Miss Andlers wishes to ask...” He looked inquiringly at Juliet, and she struggled to think of something that she did want to ask.

  But what was there? What was there, even, that one could say? Martin had done this terrible thing to her, and the details seemed immeasurably unimportant.

  “Perhaps you’d like his address?” Mrs. Jarvis prompted helpfully. “Then you could write to him.”

  “Yes,” Juliet agreed. “I think—I’d like his address.”

  But even as she said that, she wondered what in the world there was left to write about. There was no question of reproaching or unbraiding him. The very idea was abhorrent. Everything between them was utterly and irrevocably finished. Why write about it now?

  Even if she had known beforehand—even if he had written in time and she had received the letter—she could have done nothing but release him. He had merely anticipated—with heartless haste, perhaps—her inevitable agreement.

  By no hint or process of reasoning could he have foreseen her own ridiculously impulsive departure for Australia, since, as seemed obvious now, he could not have received her letter before he left for his honeymoon. She might as logically blame her own impulsiveness as his indecent haste for her present predicament.

  But there was one thing she thought she would like to be sure about.

  “Do you know,” she asked, a little huskily, “if Mar—if he received a letter from me just before he went away?”

  “I couldn’t say, I’m sure.” Mrs. Jarvis was not committing herself so far. “But there are one or two I’m waiting to send on to him when he gets settled at the new address. There’s an English one among those, I think.”

  “Might I see it?” Juliet asked with an effort.

  “Surely you can.” Mrs. Jarvis went away with an air of obliging haste, and the two left behind in the small clean, highly polished room maintained complete silence. For, again, what was there left to say?

  She returned in a few moments, holding Juliet’s letter in her hand.

  “This is it,” she said.

  “Yes—that’s it,” Juliet agreed heavily. Then she could say no more because, suddenly, there was a dreadful tightening of her throat as she saw again, in these unbelievable circumstances, the letter that she had written with such high hopes and such golden anticipation. She remembered exactly how she had felt as her pen ran on, line after line, page after page, detailing that first wonderful encounter with the Australian relations.

  That thick envelope, with the familiar English stamp seemed to epitomize the ruin of all her hopes.

  “Maybe you’d like it back again,” Mrs. Jarvis suggested.

  Juliet took the proffered letter because that was preferable to leaving it for Martin to read in embarrassment and regret.

  But she shuddered a little as she thrust it into her handbag. Then she turned helplessly to Max Ormathon because she suddenly felt the last of her own initiative drain from her.

  He seemed to understand immediately that, if any decision were to be taken, he would have to take it.

  “I don’t think we need trouble you any further, Mrs. Jarvis,” he said, getting up. “Obviously there is nothing to be done by remaining here. Thank you for your help.”

  Mrs. Jarvis followed them to the door, saying, rather unnecessarily, that she was that sorry, but there it was.

  The light pressure of Max Ormathon’s hand on her arm guided Juliet to the car, but she would have gone with him anyway, as she would have gone with anyone who proposed a definite course of action at that moment.

  She had expected to stay in this place and make her home, but now there was no room for her and she must go. But where she could go, or what in the world she was to do next, were matters with which her mind simply refused to grapple.

  As they drove away, she sat up very straight in the seat beside Max Ormathon, but she shut her eyes so that she should see no more of the pretty little township that had meant so much to her in anticipation, and nothing at all in reality.

  “Relax,” he said briefly at last. And obediently she slumped back in the seat—and then the tears came.

  He allowed her to cry without interruption for a while. Then he handed her his large, clean handkerchief, in place of a damp little wad to which she had reduced hers, and said, “He isn’t worth so many tears. You’ve paid him too handsome a tribute already.”

  “It isn’t a question of ... tribute,” she returned impatiently, but she had to stop crying in order to reply. “It’s more that ... I don’t know what on earth I’m to do next.”

  “Events have decided that for you,” he pointed out. “You’ll have to come with me, and stay with my sister for the moment.”

  “But—” She looked at him in astonishment over his own handkerchief. “I can’t just wish myself onto a stranger like that.”

  “Don’t make difficulties,” he advised her with a smile. “You have enough ready-made ones already. My sister isn’t exactly a stranger and in any case, we are quite used to welcoming the unexpected visitor in these parts. Carol will probably be glad to
have another girl for company. Her husband is out a good deal on the station, and she is often alone with the children for days.”

  “Oh—she has children?” Faint interest crept into Juliet’s tone.

  “Yes. Isobel who is seven, and Peter, who is four and a half.”

  He spoke, Juliet could not help thinking, with the exactness of an uncle who found his niece and nephew interesting.

  “Perhaps,” Juliet suggested diffidently, “I could be of some use to your sister with the children while I—I am discovering what to do next.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  Juliet secretly wondered whether his confidence on that point was due to an intimate understanding of his sister or just sheer masculine obtuseness.

  Juliet had had too many shocks and disappointments lately to indulge in any easy hopes, and she knew quite well that Max Ormathon’s sister might be anything but pleased to see her. But at least there was a prospect of a roof over her head during the next few days. And that would give her time to think of something—almost anything—as an alternative to the humiliating and dreadful possibility of having to appeal to her relations for help.

  They were descending rapidly now toward the plains through the darkening afternoon, and to Juliet the scenery no longer seemed beautiful and exciting and friendly. The brief winter sunshine had gone, and the deepening shadows on the mountains made the scene melancholy and obscure.

  Like my own future, Juliet thought, and then told herself not to be self-pitying.

  The first numbing effects of the shock were beginning to wear off and, with the immediate problem of a temporary home solved, Juliet found her thoughts turning restlessly to the pain and misery of her actual loss.

  Martin! Martin no longer part of her life, the central point of her future. Martin married to another girl. For a while, a sort of despairing rage seized her. She recognized it as cold, blind jealousy and tried to fight it down. But, even when she had thrust it from her, there was little to take its place but an aching sense of loss—the absolute nothingness of life without Martin.

  “We shall be there in about a quarter of an hour,” Max Ormathon’s voice said coolly at that point. And, snatching at the relief of any distraction, she exclaimed almost feverishly, “Shall we? I’m so glad. Tell me something about your sister before we arrive.”

  “She is rather younger than I am,” he began obligingly, in a matter-of-fact tone that was steadying. “But we have always been very close to each other in feeling. Even her marriage made little difference to that. She and Henry are exceedingly happy together, and they are kind enough to keep a place always ready for me in their family life. No bachelor brother can ask more.”

  “No, indeed. And the children? You’re very fond of them, aren’t you?”

  “As far as my type is ever fond of anyone,” he replied, rather unexpectedly. “The little girl thinks me wonderful, and Peter is curiously like me to look at. Both facts flatter my ego, I suppose. It’s difficult not to like children who do such pleasant things to one’s pride.”

  “Oh...” He actually forced a laugh from her at that, though a protesting one. “I think you’re being rather hard on yourself.”

  “Do you?” He looked amused, too, then. “It’s not a habit of mine.”

  He turned the car off the road at that moment, crossed an earth ramp over a deep ditch, and began to drive along a rutted, distinctly secondary road.

  “That was the fire break that we crossed,” he explained. “And this is the beginning of the station.”

  “But I don’t see any sort of village or township.”

  “Oh, there isn’t one. Carol’s nearest neighbors are about ten miles away in one direction, and nearly twenty miles in the other. That’s one excellent reason why visitors are always welcome.”

  “I see,” Juliet said soberly, and she began to have fewer misgivings about her unannounced arrival.

  Ten minutes later they were driving past the cottages and outbuildings of what was obviously a considerable farm or homestead, and when they finally arrived at the main building, it proved to be an attractive mixture of country house and farm.

  Already people were coming from one or other of the outbuildings, for evidently visitors were an event, as Max had said. And, even as they got out of the car, the front door was flung open, and an eager girl, with soft, dark hair flying, rushed down the steps and flung herself into Max’s arms.

  “Darling, darling Max! How wonderful! I didn’t expect you for another two days at least. Henry won’t be home till tomorrow, and the children are in bed, but—” She stopped suddenly, seeing Juliet. “Oh! I didn’t realize...” She smiled apologetically.

  “All right.” Max ruffled her hair as though she were a child. “I’ve brought you a visitor. This is—”

  “Don’t tell me! You don’t have to.” The girl took both Juliet’s hands and kissed her warmly. “You’re Verity, aren’t you? And just as I hoped you would be.”

  “Oh...” Juliet had returned the kiss before she realized the mistake. “No, I’m sorry. I’m not Verity. I’m her cousin, and my name is Juliet.”

  “Well—” still holding her hand, Carol turned once more to her brother “—she’s welcome, just the same. If Verity is as pretty as her cousin, you’ve done well, Max.”

  “An admirable recovery,” her brother observed, a little sardonically.

  But Carol only laughed and said, “The joys of having a brother to be teasing and critical again! Come into the house, Juliet. You must be cold and tired. I may call you Juliet, mayn’t I?”

  “Of course. And may I call you Carol?”

  “Few people ever call me anything else. Sometimes I almost forget my other name, which is Denver.”

  They went into the house together, Juliet feeling for the first time since she had left England that she was really and truly at home. It was difficult to say what it was about this girl that made Juliet feel that she had known her always. There was a likeness to her brother, particularly about the eyes, though Carol’s were kinder. But it was no passing familiarity of that sort that made her seem part of a known background.

  The fact was, of course, that Carol was one of those rare creatures who love and know their fellow men and women by instinct, and to her no one was a stranger. Once or twice during the last hour, Juliet had wondered just how she was to explain her presence to Max’s sister. Now she knew no explanation was necessary. She stepped into that warm, lighted hall, and became part of the household.

  “Mommy! Mommy!” sounded shrilly from upstairs. “Is that daddy come home?”

  “No, darling. Uncle Max.” Shrieks and whoops of joy greeted this intelligence. “And, if you stay quietly in bed, he’ll come up to say good-night to you.”

  “May I go up, too?” Juliet asked.

  “Why, of course.”

  Max, having garaged the car, joined them almost immediately, and together they went up the shallow, not quite even stairs to the square landing above.

  In spite of warnings about staying quietly in bed, two eager little heads were popping backward and forward around one of the white painted doors and, at the sight of Max, there was a delighted scuffle, and two small pajamaed figures streaked across the landing.

  With surprising dexterity, Max scooped them both up and kissed them. Then he turned to introduce them to Juliet.

  The children were not at all alike, lsobel being dark and slight and elfin, and the little boy, with obstinate chin and brilliant blue eyes, being—as Max himself had said—ridiculously like his uncle. Both children accepted Juliet with casual and unquestioning friendliness.

  Isobel asked sociably, “Are you going to marry Uncle Max?”

  But, when she had been set right on that point—her uncle remarking dryly that she was indeed her mother’s daughter—she sought no further explanation of Juliet’s presence there.

  Somewhat to Juliet’s surprise, Carol left Max to see the children safely back into bed, and took her guest into a
pleasant room at the back of the house. Here, as on the stairs, the floor boards had an attractive, faintly uneven quality—proof that the world of the standardized and the mass-produced was very far away.

  There was nothing at all modern about the room, but the furniture was good and solid, the bed looked comfortable, and the flower pattern on the linen curtains and bedspread was pretty and, in some curious way, timeless.

  “Oh, how restful!” Juliet exclaimed, with an involuntary sigh.

  “You poor girl! Are you worn-out, then?” Carol asked sympathetically.

  “Oh ... no. Not in the ordinary physical sense. But—” Suddenly she wanted to tell Carol what had happened to her, and it seemed such a simple and reasonable want when the other girl was looking at her in that curiously understanding way, that the words came tumbling out almost of their own volition. “You see, I came out here from England to marry someone to whom I had been engaged for more than a year. Your brother—took me to the place this afternoon. And when I got there—he had married someone else.”

  “Just ... like that?” Carol’s eyes were enormous in their expression of shocked dismay, and she did not look in the least like her brother now.

  “Yes—just like that.” Juliet wondered now if it had been tasteless of her to blurt all this out before she had so much as taken off her hat. She gave a nervous, unhappy little laugh. “It’s almost ... ludicrous, isn’t it?”

  “No. It’s not ludicrous at all,” Carol stated firmly. “It’s tragic and it’s shattering, and I can’t imagine how you manage to be so calm and collected about it.”

  “I wasn’t calm at first,” Juliet said slowly. “I ... cried.”

  “Of course you cried,” Carol exclaimed, and Juliet felt suddenly that she loved this girl because there were genuine tears in her own eyes for the distress of someone she hardly knew. “Any girl would have cried. I know I would have. I hope Max was kind and understanding.”

  “He was very kind and—” Juliet smiled faintly “—I think astringent is more the word.”

  “Oh...” Max’s sister laughed deprecatingly. “I know what you mean. But it’s rather a pose of his not to have any deep feelings, you know.” She went over and drew the curtains against the darkness of the evening. “Tell me frankly—would you rather have something to eat up here and do a private little moan on your own, or will you come down with Max and me?”