Marry a Stranger

by Susan Barrie

  “Very well,” she said quietly, after a moment. “But as you’ve come to that decision I’ve also come to the decision that it would be better after all to postpone our evening together. I don’t think I really feel like it, as a matter of fact. Possibly the heat has affected me, too”—with a cold little smile playing round her mouth.

  “Possibly,” he agreed, absolutely smoothly, and he even smiled at Stacey in the way he had first smiled at her in his consulting room, on the evening of the day she had come all the way up from Herefordshire. “I think you’re wise,” he added coolly. “It’s a nasty, sticky night, and by the time you’d rushed and changed, and one thing and another, I don’t think you would enjoy it.”

  Vera Hunt drove her faultless white teeth even lower into her scarlet underlip, and Stacey was amazed that she kept so much control over herself. But she felt guilty—horribly guilty—because she had spoiled Vera’s evening.

  Dr. Guelder did not after all drive her to his flat that night, since Vera looked as if she might explode altogether if he insisted, and since she promised to be on hand should Stacey require anything before morning, he gave way with a perfectly amiable grace.

  Vera did not look so friendly when they reached the flat and they were alone, but she did see Stacey into bed herself and offered to provide her with a drink of some sort if she wanted it. But Stacey desired nothing more than to be left alone, and permitted to stretch her tired limbs between the cool sheets; and in the morning, having slept much better than she had expected herself, she was able to present herself at the shop as usual, looking quite normal, apart from her pronounced pallor.

  Just before lunch time Dr. Guelder strode quickly into the outer salon, and he did not concern himself with anyone except Stacey, whom he subjected to a close scrutiny. And then he said: “I think you’d better call it a day, Miss Brent, and go home and have a rest like a good girl. Miss Hunt, I’m sure will make it convenient to do without you.”

  But Miss Hunt, who had been answering a telephone call, came sweeping from her little office. A dull red color rose up in her face.

  “Really, Martin,” she protested, “aren’t you being a little absurd? Miss Brent feels perfectly fit today, and I’m sure there’s no reason why she should go home. I’m already doing my best to struggle along without Irmgard—”

  “That’s very awkward, I’ll admit,” he said smoothly, regarding her with that bland, cool look which discomposed her sometimes. “But are you trying to teach me my job? Because I certainly would never presume to teach you yours!”

  “Oh, well, of course I’m not trying to do anything of the kind,” Vera answered, her color increasing; “but there is such a thing as being over-anxious.”

  “There is no reason at all why I should be overanxious on Miss Brent’s behalf,” he reminded her.

  “Isn’t there!” She suddenly lost her temper and spat at him: “Then all I can say is that I think it’s very strange that you should have been so ready to let her occupy your flat, and you seem most anxious to get her back into it again! A friend of her father!”—with the utmost scorn. “How do I know that you aren’t a particularly close friend to this girl?”

  “You don’t,” he agreed, his voice icy. He turned to Stacey. “If you’re ready to leave, Miss Brent, my flat is still at your disposal. And I think Mrs. Elbe is the person to look after you just now, until we can make some other arrangements for you. I’ve just time to drive you there, and to stop at Miss Hunt’s flat on the way to collect your luggage. You don’t object, I suppose, to our calling at your flat,” looking in an expressionless fashion at Vera.

  “Not at all,” she answered, her face both hard and frustrated. “But don’t ask me to have this young woman back again when you find you re not quite certain what to do with her, will you?”—with a sneer in the words. “Because after this I wash my hands of her.”

  “You needn’t worry,” he returned composedly. “Miss Brent will never return to your care,” and he led the way out to his car.

  Once again Stacey sank back against the silver-grey upholstery with a feeling of relief amounting almost to gratitude because it was so soft and yielding. But this time her thoughts were in such a whirl, her mind in such a state of conflict because she realized that she was responsible for endangering a friendship, while she was so wholeheartedly thankful to escape from the shop for good, that she could say nothing at all to the man who had supported her so strongly. He took his place beside her at the wheel, and the car glided away from the shop, and for a full five minutes after that neither of them uttered a word, and Dr. Guelder gave all his attention to the business of getting away from Bond Street.

  Then, when they were held up by traffic lights, he glanced at her sideways and gave her a keen look. “All right?” he asked.

  She nodded. There was a kind of lump in her throat, and her mouth felt dry, and she could still say nothing.

  “I think it would be a good idea if we went and had some lunch somewhere,” he said, in a conversational way. “I haven’t an appointment until quite late this afternoon, so there’s plenty of time to collect your things and deliver you to Mrs. Elbe. And I don’t suppose you had much breakfast, did you?”

  Again she shook her head.

  “Then a good square meal is what you require.” He gave her a smile, and she felt certain that if she had been a year or two younger he would have leaned over and patted her hands to reassure her. As it was she did feel a sudden little surge of returning confidence and strength flow into her at the way in which he talked to her, and his easy and natural manner. And yet—as she glanced at him, without appearing to do so, sideways, she thought that there was a certain grimness about his lips, and he was rather paler than when he had arrived at the shop, unless it was the effect of the strong sunlight. Which could mean that underneath his calm and unperturbed exterior he was either angry or disturbed— possibly a little of both, she thought. For Vera Hunt might mean quite a lot to him—he was not the type of man to dance attendance on a pretty woman simply because she was pretty, and with nothing more behind it—and Vera’s accusations had been hurled with considerable venom. He was no doubt writhing inwardly under the lash of her uncontrolled tongue, and possibly also feeling amazed because it had been so uncontrolled.

  They were gliding along Piccadilly, and very shortly after that had drawn up outside a most exclusive type of restaurant. Stacey descended from the car and followed her escort and a quietly understanding waiter, who accorded a particularly deferential acknowledgment to the doctor, to a table in a corner that was as quiet as an oasis in the desert, and sank down gratefully on to the chair that was pulled out for her. The large room was air-conditioned, and as yet uncrowded, and the scent of carnations reached her from a vase on a level with her eyes.

  Stacey felt as if this was a little unreal, and it was not Martin Guelder who sank down opposite to her on the other side of the table and picked up the wine list and studied it. The wine waiter was at his elbow in an instant.

  “A sherry, I think?” the doctor said, looking across the table at Stacey. “Would you like a brown sherry, Miss Brent?”

  “Thank you,” she murmured, rewarding him with a wan smile.

  “You look as if you could do with a whole bottle of champagne,” he declared, smiling back at her a little peculiarly. “But as that would probably lay you out under the table we won’t risk it—just yet!”

  “I’ve only once tasted champagne in my life,” she told him, “and that was when Daddy was left a small legacy by a grateful patient, and decided to celebrate. We spent a night in London and had dinner and did a show—the only time I’d ever really been to London before I came away from Herefordshire for—for good!”

  “And that’s only six weeks ago,” he reminded her.

  She said simply, with a weary look on her face: “It’s seemed a very long six weeks.”

  He looked at her gravely, consideringly. Her bone formation was very fine, but it was never meant to
be as noticeable as it was now. There was something ethereal about her appearance, too, and her pallor was particularly striking in the cool dimness of the restaurant. And her eyes looked enormous under their heavy lids. He felt almost guilty every time his glance rested upon her.

  “You don’t like London?” he said. “You much prefer living in the country?”

  “I prefer the country, of course—” She hesitated. “But it’s not so easy to earn one’s living in the country.”

  “No, I suppose not,” he agreed. “Unless you decide to become a land-girl, or a kennel-maid, or something of the sort. And you’ve scarcely the physique for that”—with a faintly teasing smile at her.

  “All the same, I’m a country girl,” she asserted. “There might be something I could do.”

  “There might,” he agreed.

  He did not worry her with the menu, but he consulted her as to her various likes and dislikes, and by the time she had consumed the lightly done chicken he ordered for her—they both decided it was too hot for soup—followed by the fresh fruit salad served with whipped cream, and two cups of coffee, she was feeling decidedly better. He asked her whether she would like a liqueur with her coffee, but she declined, and as she sat smoking one of his cigarettes while he regarded her thoughtfully she wondered what she ought to say to him about the morning’s episode, and in particular whether she should make him an apology for involving him in such a disturbing scene. She was turning the words over in her mind, trying to string together the ones she felt most suitable, and also trying to get together the courage to utter them, when he made it unnecessary for her to do so by apparently reading her thoughts, and gently shaking his head at her.

  “Forget it,” he advised. “Unpleasant scenes are always best forgotten, and you’re not really strong enough to concern your head about them at the moment. But what I can’t quite understand is why you stuck it so long. Why didn’t you let me know that it was not at all the right job for you, and that the hours were too long, and so forth?”

  “Oh, but I'm not so sure that they really were so long—it was probably because I haven't been used to confinement that I couldn’t stand them.”

  “That and the fact that you apparently never found time to eat!”

  She flushed a little.

  “That wasn’t Miss Hunt’s fault. It was just that, when I got home at night, I was too tired to do cooking, and I hadn’t much time to go shopping—”

  “So you had nothing to cook!”

  Her flush deepened.

  “I expect Miss Hunt would have allowed me time off if I had asked her. But I never thought of it,” she defended her ex-employer.

  “And what did you do at weekends?”

  “Oh, I just stayed in and did odd jobs—or sometimes I went for walks in the park.”

  “And returned to a sandwich and a cup of coffee, I suppose?”

  “Something like that,” she admitted, wishing he wouldn’t watch her so closely.

  “And Miss Hunt never stayed in with you?”

  “She has so many engagements,” she told him.

  “Oh, quite!” he said, and stubbed out his cigarette in the ash tray.

  His face was now almost inscrutable, but his eyes regarded her steadily. What he was feeling about Vera Hunt she could only imagine—it was certainly not given away by his expression.

  She got out hurriedly, the words stumbling over one another: “I’m so terribly sorry, Dr. Guelder, that through me you—and Miss Hunt—that I’ve made things unpleasant for you—possibly awkward...”

  “In what way are they awkward?” the doctor enquired, lighting another cigarette with intense deliberation.

  “Well, I—” She spread her hands rather helplessly, while her color flamed wildly, and she no longer looked in the least ill. “I’m turning you out of your flat again, aren’t I? And Miss Hunt seemed to think that might be harmful to a man in your position, and I don’t want to do anything that’s going to injure your reputation in the very slightest. Daddy would never forgive me if I did. And there’s Miss Hunt—through me you’ve had a kind of quarrel...”

  “Quarrels can soon be made up again,” he assured her, smiling—but no longer with his eyes. His eyes were glittering rather strangely. “Was it because Miss Hunt insisted that your occupation of my flat might injure my reputation that you went away from it so suddenly?” he asked her rather abruptly. “Without even waiting for Mrs. Elbe to return from her shopping and say goodbye to her?”

  She looked suddenly, wildly concerned.

  “Oh, I was so sorry I couldn’t say goodbye to Mrs. Elbe,” she told him, looking at him appealingly. “But Miss Hunt couldn’t wait—and she assured me that you knew—that you approved—”

  “I see,” he said slowly.

  “Then you didn’t know?” she asked, looking at him wide-eyed across the table. “It wasn’t your idea that I should go to her? And go so quickly?”

  “She said that she might possibly find you a job—in time,” he informed her. “But I was amazed to find you gone when I looked in at the flat that night.”

  “Oh!” Her heart sank. “Then what must you have thought! ... Then you didn’t even get my message of thanks for your kindness? And Miss Hunt promised...”

  “The only explanation I had of your leaving was when I received your letter,” he told her gravely. “And in my reply I let you know, of course, that I quite understood, which, naturally, I did. It showed for one thing that you were quite serious about getting a job when you seized the first thing that came along. I rather liked your independence. It was so exactly like your father.”

  “But I never received your reply to my letter,” she informed him, in a whisper.

  “Didn’t you?” His expression seemed to tighten, and the look in his grey eyes was less revealing than ever. He summoned the waiter and demanded his bill. “Well, we’ll forget about it now,” he said, “and concentrate on getting you back to my fiat. At least I hope you’ve enjoyed your lunch?” He sounded completely conventional.

  “Thank you, I’ve enjoyed it very much indeed.” His glance swept over her.

  “And you look slightly less like a living reproach than you did when I reached the shop this morning,” he told her. He laid light fingers upon her arm. “Come along, and we’ll hand you over to Mrs. Elbe.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  But he did not after all hand her over to Mrs. Elbe until much later in the day. When they got outside the restaurant they were caught up in a traffic jam, and while they sat waiting for the assortment of vehicles ahead of them to move on, and the afternoon sunlight fell hotly and strongly all around them.

  Stacey, lying back in her corner of the big black car, felt a delicious kind of drowsiness steal over her. No doubt it was partly the effect of the lunch she had eaten, combined with the after-effects of a solitary sherry to which she was not accustomed, and lack of sleep and weariness during recent weeks; but whatever it was her eyelids began to feel weighted with lead and to droop down over her eyes, and by the time they entered the quiet street where his flat was situated she was so nearly asleep that, obeying an impulse, he decided to continue on his way. It was not long before they had left London behind them, and were running along beside a sleepy-flowing Thames.

  When Stacey opened her eyes she saw the glitter of the sunlight on the water, and there were green banks with willows trailing feathery tresses in the river. There were white house-boats, too, and sun umbrellas on the farther bank, and swans being carried upstream and looking proud and dignified with their rosy-orange bills uplifted to the ruddy fire of the afternoon sunshine. And there was a cool, zephyr-like breeze, and the noisy heat of London was something which might never have been.

  Stacey could scarcely believe the evidence of her eyes, and she sat up and looked about her, amazed. Dr. Guelder, quietly smoking a cigarette behind the wheel of the car, which he had brought to rest just off the tow-path, regarded her with a certain amount of amusement in his otherwise g
rave grey eyes.

  “Well?” he said. “You’ve slept quite a long time. How do you feel now?”

  “Wonderful!” she answered, her deep violet eyes sparkling at him with a mixture of wonderment and delight. “Absolutely wonderful!” She gazed at the river, at the opposite bank, at the blue sky above them, at the languid tresses of willow dangling above the roof of the car. “But how did we get here? And why? You were taking me to your flat ... Why did you change your mind?”

  “Because you fell fast asleep on my hands,” he answered her, with such solemn gravity that she flushed rather deliciously with embarrassment. “And short of having to carry you out of the car and into my flat I could see nothing for it but heading for somewhere away from London, where you could sleep off the effects of too much lunch, and do it with the minimum of interruption. It’s delightfully peaceful here, and I’ve been enjoying myself very much while you’ve been wrapped in the arms of Morpheus.”

  She looked quite horrified.

  “But how long have I slept? And what about your—your patients?”

  “As a matter of fact,” he admitted, “I had only one patient this afternoon, and he was not coming to see me until a quarter to five. But, realizing that I might be late, I stopped and rang my secretary when we were a little way out of London, and she told me that the gentleman in question had had to ask for the appointment to be postponed, and so now I’m entirely free for the rest of the day. Which is quite a unique experience for me.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad.” She let out a kind of long-drawn sigh of relief. “It would have been dreadful if I’d been responsible for making you late for your appointments. And now I can enjoy the river, and thank you for bringing me here. But I’m so sorry, she added apologetically, “for falling asleep. It was a poor return for taking me out to lunch.”