Harry Garlett was lying on the bank of a Norwegian fjord. It was a
beautiful warm September day. He felt well in soul and body, and
intended to give himself three more months’ good holiday.
With just a touch of reluctance he opened a packet of letters which had
followed him to this remote, delicious place. Old Dodson’s letter,
doubtless a brief dictated summary of what had been happening at the
factory, was, as usual, addressed in the girlish handwriting of Jean
Bower.
The sight of that handwriting made his thoughts stray for a while to the
place which he still called “home.” He was indeed a lucky chap to have
such a steady old soul as Dodson, and such a thoroughly nice, sensible
young woman as was Jean Bower, looking after the business from which he
drew part of his large income.
He opened the envelope and then, as he read the typewritten sheet, his
face clouded with deep and even deeper dismay.
DEAR MR. GARLETT,
I hope you will not think I am exceeding my duty in writing to tell
you that I am becoming very anxious about the state, not only of Mr.
Dodson’s health, but also of his brain.
It seems a shame to interrupt your holiday, but I really don’t know
what to do. I am supposed to be the only person who has any influence
over Mr. Dodson, but I have very little influence indeed, none where
the real conduct of the business is concerned. My uncle agrees with me
that you ought to know the state of things as soon as possible.
Believe me to remain, yours sincerely,
JEAN BOWER.
He got up from where he had been lying so luxuriously in the long grass,
feeling as if he hadn’t a care in the world. There was evidently nothing
for it but to go home and face out a difficult and disagreeable
situation. And yet he felt sharply annoyed with Jean Bower. No doubt she
was exaggerating as to old Dodson’s condition. But there it was; he
couldn’t neglect such a letter as that! He told himself that he had been
a fool to leave a girl in so responsible a position.
This was why his friends and neighbours welcomed Harry Garlett back in
their midst full three months before he had been expected home.
In such a place as Grendon everybody is interested in every other body’s
business. As soon as he had come back Harry Garlett had sent off Jean
Bower for a short holiday, and soon, to his mingled amusement and
annoyance, he found he could hardly take a step down the High Street
without some good-natured gossip telling him how splendidly the girl had
managed poor crazy old Dodson! Even his head foreman seemed quite lost
without her, and, as a matter of fact, things didn’t begin going right
again till she came back, and in her quiet and diffident, yet competent,
way, began to “put him wise” with regard to all those matters which
Dodson had always tried to keep jealously in his own hands.
And then, as the days went on, Harry Garlett began to find himself
taking a keen, even an excited, interest in his work. The business which
had meant little to him in the old days now gripped and absorbed him, or
so he honestly thought, to the exclusion of all else.
Times were bad, every one in the country economizing, going in more and
more for the cheap, rather than for the good, and the china made in the
Etna works had never been cheap, though always good. And soon it became
known in the town that Harry Garlett was trying to prove what even now
few people believe—that is, that homely, everyday objects can be cheap
and beautiful at the same time.
Never had time gone by so quickly as with these two eager workers! In
the old days time had hung sometimes very heavily on Harry Garlett’s
hands during the late autumn and winter months. But now he found there
were not hours enough for all he wanted to do.
With the brain side of the business increasing at the rate it was doing,
it became necessary to engage a new shorthand writer, and at the
suggestion of Jean Bower, the daughter of a local solicitor killed in
the war was given the coveted post. This was considered a kindly and
generous act on Miss Bower’s part. Most young women in the position in
which she found herself would not have cared to have another girl,
younger, most people would have said prettier, than herself, sharing her
secretarial position.
But, as a matter of fact, Jean no longer took down letters. Almost at
once, though neither she nor Harry Garlett realized it, she had slipped
into the position of a partner. They were a happy family at the Etna
China works. “All jolly and friendly together,” as the head foreman
expressed it.
And then, late in November, a word was uttered which changed, for ever,
both their lives.
It was Sunday evening, and Harry Garlett was on his way to supper at
Bonnie Doon. He went out often to dinner, having a large circle of
acquaintances, but he generally had supper with the Macleans on Sunday,
and as it was with him a dull, solitary day he used to look forward very
eagerly to the evening. Since his return home, on the pretext that he
was still in mourning, he no longer accepted invitations for week-end
visits.
To-night, as he passed the Thatched Cottage, Miss Prince came running
out of her door; it was almost as if she had been waiting for him.
“Harry!” she exclaimed. “May I walk a few yards with you? I want to ask
you a favour.” Inconsequently, she added: “Your wife and I were lifelong
friends, you know.”
She began walking along the road by his side, anxious to be quite out of
earshot of her maid, who, by the way, was Lucy Warren. Lucy had always
been a favourite of Miss Prince, and, to Agatha Cheale’s indignation,
after the girl’s dismissal from the Thatched House, she had at once
taken her back into her own service.
“Well, Miss Prince, what can I do for you?”
Harry Garlett never felt quite at ease with the gossiping spinster. They
had once, years ago, had a real quarrel. He had caught her trying to
make mischief between himself and his wife, and though they had formally
“made it up” neither really liked the other.
“If and when Jean Bower gives up her job at the Etna works, I do beg
you, Harry, to offer the position to Agatha Cheale.”
“Agatha Cheale?” Harry Garlett repeated the name mechanically.
His whole mind, aye, and his whole heart, were full of the first words
she had spoken—“If and when Jean Bower gives up her job——”
“Have you any reason for thinking that Miss Bower is going to give up
her position?”
He felt—he could not see, for it was dark—that Miss Prince smiled. It
was a smile he knew and had always hated, for it generally presaged on
her part the saying of something spiteful and unpleasant. But, whatever
it was she was about to say, she now seemed in no hurry to say it.
“Well,” she said at last, “you go to the Macleans so often I should have
thought you must have guessed what’s in the wind?”
It was not true that he went often to Bonnie Doon. As a matter of fact
he had a curious distaste in seeing Jean Bower in the company of her
uncle and aunt, for the reason that they two had now many interests in
common that they could not share with outsiders—however kind those
outsiders might be.
“In the wind, Miss Prince? I don’t understand what you mean.”
“If you were living where I live, on the road, you’d notice how often
Dr. Tasker goes in and out of Bonnie Doon. Why, it’s as good as a play!
There was a time when the man would hardly put his foot in Terriford
village. We were supposed to belong to Dr. Maclean—and we did, too.
There wasn’t much love lost between them before Miss Jean came along—but
now they’re kissing kind! I’m expecting to hear of Jean’s engagement to
Dr. Tasker any day.”
Harry Garlett fenced with his tormentor. “I now see your point about
Miss Cheale,” he said quietly, “but I doubt if she would give up her
work in London.”
“She gave it up before to please you.” Her tone was significant, though
he could not see her meaning look. She added hastily:
“Agatha is devoted to this place, and so I thought I would take time by
the forelock. Once it’s known that Jean Bower is leaving the factory,
there’ll be plenty of people anxious to work their idle, silly daughters
into her pleasant job. If you are wise, Harry Garlett, you will bear
Agatha Cheale in mind.”
“I will, indeed, Miss Prince. Thank you for mentioning her.”
Miss Prince turned back toward her house, while Harry Garlett walked on,
in a turmoil of astonishment and, yes, of bitter, intolerable jealousy.
Jean Bower and that red-haired brute, Tasker? Why, the mere thought of
their names being associated in the way he had just heard it done made
him feel beside himself with anger.
He quickened his footsteps, even now unaware of what was the matter with
him. Indeed, as he went up the drive leading to the Macleans’ front
door, he seriously told himself that his feeling of utter dismay was
owing to the loss Jean would be to him from a business point of view.
A most miserable evening followed. Whenever Harry Garlett had a chance
of doing so he would stare furtively, his heart full of jealousy and
suspicious misery, at Jean Bower’s bright, animated face.
He wondered whether Tasker had been there on Friday afternoon? The day
before yesterday Miss Bower had asked for the afternoon off—a most
unusual thing for her to do.
Jean? What a lovely unusual name! Till this evening she had been “Miss
Bower” even in Harry Garlett’s inmost thoughts. Henceforth she would
always be Jean....
He was so silent, so constrained in his manner, that the doctor and Mrs.
Maclean noticed that something was wrong. But they were, as Jean’s aunt
expressed it afterwards, a hundred miles from suspecting the truth. By
both these good people Harry Garlett was still regarded as the newly
made widower of “poor Emily,” and as for their dear little niece, they
were secretly happy in the belief that she would soon be Mrs. Tasker,
settled within a pleasantly easy distance of themselves, with her future
assured, even if the young medical man, whom they had regarded with such
very different feelings till a few months ago, were not exactly a hero
of romance. Tasker was proceeding in his wooing in a leisurely, cautious
manner, but neither of the onlookers suspected the truth—the truth being
that he felt as if there were an invisible, but strong, barrier between
the girl and himself.
The next morning Jean was ten minutes late in arriving at the factory.
As a rule she was five minutes early. But some one had come to Bonnie
Doon with a cut hand, and the doctor, who generally motored her into
Grendon, had wished to attend to the injury himself.
Those ten minutes had seemed to Harry Garlett an eternity. That she who
was always early should be late, seemed to his jealous, excited fancy to
confirm Miss Prince’s outspoken hint, and when at last she did come in,
with a half-smiling apology, he turned on her roughly.
“I hope that you won’t be delayed like this again, Miss Bower, however
good the reason. It gives a bad example,” and she was frightened, cowed,
by his look of mingled anger and contempt.
Each of them got through his and her morning work with difficulty—Jean
often on the point of tears.
What had happened to her kind, considerate employer, the man with whom,
in her guilelessness, she had thought herself almost on the terms of a
younger sister?
At last, at about a quarter to one, he turned on her with: “And what do
you see to admire, Miss Bower, in Dr. Tasker?”
It was a monstrous, an outrageous, question, and the colour flew into
her face.
She turned away and answered in what she meant should be a cheerful,
chaffing voice, though she felt not only astounded, but hot with anger.
“What makes you think I admire Dr. Tasker, Mr. Garlett?”
He said, “I’m told you do,” in a short, cutting voice.
This time she remained silent, and after pretending for a moment or two
to be busily engaged in correcting the proofs of a new trade catalogue
she put her pen down and turned to walk toward the door—no longer
mistress of herself.
Harry Garlett leaped to his feet, and before she could reach the door he
caught her up and masterfully—yet, oh how gently—took her in his arms.
“Jean! Don’t be cruel,” he whispered. “Surely—surely you know I love
you—adore you—worship you?”
For a long moment they gazed into each other’s eyes, and then his lips
sought and found her soft, quivering mouth....
Early that afternoon—it was the first of December—Jean went home and
quietly told her dismayed aunt that she and Harry Garlett loved one
another. She admitted that it was very strange that neither of them had
known it before to-day, but she went on to say that now they did know
it, they were very, very happy.
Poor Mrs. Maclean! For the first time in her life she felt as if she
could not cope with a situation—and she prayed for the doctor’s return
home.
But when he did come in, tired out, from a difficult case, he only said
grumpily: “So that was what was the matter with him yesterday? We were
fools not to have foreseen it,” and telephoned to ask Harry Garlett to
supper.
How different was this evening from that spent by them all the night
before! Even Mrs. Maclean, staid Scots body that she was, caught fire at
the great shaft of pure white flame which seemed to envelop those two
who had now become lovers.
To her husband she might mutter that it was only just over six months
since “poor Emily” died, but to herself she kept saying how wonderful,
how uplifting, even only to watch, was this ecstatic passion between a
man she had secretly imagined incapable of love, and her matter-of-fact,
capable, merry little Jean.
Dr. Maclean was far from pleased. He kept wondering, ruefully, what he
should say to Tasker. The man would undoubtedly be bitterly
disappointed. Nay, more, he might feel that he hadn’t been treated quite
fairly.
The doctor was also uncomfortably aware that there would be “talk,” and
almost as if his wife were able to see into his mind, just before Harry
Garlett at last got up, Mrs. Maclean suddenly exclaimed:
“There’s one thing I’m minded to say, Harry. I’m afraid Jean mustn’t go
to the factory any more—not till you’re married, that is.”
As both the girl and her lover exclaimed against the cruel decision, Dr.
Maclean clinched the matter.
“Your aunt’s quite right,” he said firmly. “Grendon’s the greatest place
for gossip in England.”
“We don’t mind gossip.”
Dr. Maclean looked gravely at the two fine-looking young people standing
before him in the lamplight.
Harry Garlett had never looked his age, and now, to-night, he looked
years younger than yesterday. As for Jean, not only her radiant face,
but her supple, graceful figure seemed transfigured—she looked a lovely
ageless nymph no sorrow or decay could touch.
“I fancy that even you would mind being spied on and sniggered at,” said
the doctor dryly.
And so there began for those two who loved one another so dearly a
strange period of mingled pain and bliss. They hated to be apart, and
yet they were not allowed to be together in what seemed to them both the
only seemly, natural way—that in their joint everyday work.
Mrs. Maclean showed what even Jean considered an almost absurd fear of
what even the people of Terriford might say. She did not like the lovers
to stray outside the large garden and paddock of Bonnie Doon, and she
ordained that “for the present” the engagement should remain private.
Small wonder that at the end of about ten days Miss Prince asked
inquisitively: “Why has Jean left off going to the factory?”
“Jean has only had a few days’ holiday since she first went there,”
answered Jean’s aunt evasively.
But Miss Prince shook her head. “I don’t know why you should hide the
truth from me, Mrs. Maclean? It’s been plain for a good while what was
the matter with Harry Garlett. I knew it before he knew it himself! But
I didn’t believe that the girl liked him. I thought she preferred Dr.
Tasker. Well, well! Poor Emily has soon been forgotten——”
After some three weeks of this state of things had gone on, Dr. Maclean
suddenly said to his wife: “There’s nothing for it but to get them
married! There’ll only be more talk if they don’t.”
And Mrs. Maclean answered with something like a groan: “There’ll be a
lot of talk if they do.”
“Yes, but what’s to be done, my dear? The poor fellow has never been in
love till now, so he doesn’t know how to behave——”
And so it was that at last it was decided that the two should be married
on the nineteenth of December, by special license, very quietly, not to
say secretly, in Terriford village church. They would then go to London
for a week’s honeymoon, and, during that week, Dr. and Mrs. Maclean
would tell all their neighbours and friends what had happened.
The doctor and his wife reminded each other that there was something
about Jean which attracted even cold people. She had such a bright,
happy, eager nature. As for Harry Garlett, he was always ready to do
anybody a good turn, and also, as a great cricketer, was very popular.
Though some old-fashioned people might be shocked by so early a second
marriage, every one knew that his late wife had been an invalid for
years.
There was only one person to whom, for a reason he would have found it
difficult to define even to himself, Harry Garlett felt bound to
announce his forthcoming marriage. This was Agatha Cheale.
In answer to his brief letter, there came one even briefer:
DEAR MR. GARLETT,
I am interested in your news, and I trust you will be as happy as you
deserve to be.
Yours sincerely,
AGATHA CHEALE.