Marry a Stranger by Susan Barrie Page A

herself the chatelaine of the house. “I hope you haven’t bothered about dinner for us, Jane. We stopped and had it on the road, but if my wife’s room is ready I’d like to get her up to it as quickly as possible. As you can see, she is not exactly in a robust state of health, and a little care and coddling will be essential for some weeks. Which room have you given her?”
    Miss Fountain’s face was a mask as she replied: “Naturally I haven’t given her the room you once occupied, but the main guest-room overlooking the flower garden at the back is quite definitely the most pleasant. There is a view of the Welsh hills from there also. And the little dressing room next door you will probably like to have as your own dressing room — ”
    “Never mind such unimportant matters as dressing rooms!” he exclaimed impatiently. “The main thing is to get her upstairs.”
    He looked down at Stacey, and her face started to flame because he had referred to her as Mrs. Guelder and his wife in a matter of seconds, and it sounded so utterly strange to her. For she could not believe that she was really married to him—that the simple ceremony in the Registrar’s Office that morning had given him the right to order all her movements in future, and given her the right to look to him if she felt like it for support in every emergency. His arm about her as he led her to the stairs was a perfectly legal and lawful arm; he had the right to swing her up off her feet, as he did, and hold her lying like a blown leaf against his chest while he carried her up the shallow, shining oaken treads of the staircase to the room which had been set apart for her on the first floor. There he set her down in a large armchair near the window, through which the last of the light was filtering wanly, and she looked around at heavy crimson hangings and the furniture which had the patina that only centuries of continuous high polish could have bestowed on it, and thought that she was going to be a little overawed by her new surroundings.
    Not that they were altogether luxurious, as could be seen immediately the light was switched on—a cold, pendant light like a candelabra—for that same rich crimson brocade had been repeatedly darned, and the plain red Wilton carpet was almost threadbare in places. But the dressing table, with its triple mirrors, was enormous, and so was the wardrobe which seemed to touch the ceiling. There was a lot of old-fashioned silver on the dressing table—perfume bottles and trinket boxes and a handsome, heavily-backed mirror with its accompanying brushes and combs—and it was reflected somewhat eerily in the triple mirrors. The bed was huge and ornate, of the half-tester variety, and the curtains were looped back with heavy cords like bell-ropes.
    There was a door in the farther wall which, she thought, might admit to the dressing room; but it seemed very far away, for the room was huge, like everything in it, with great windows overlooking the garden.
    Miss Fountain, who had accompanied them upstairs, gave a twitch to the curtains, and they sprang together with a noisy rattle of curtain rings. Then she looked around her as if making sure that the room contained all that it should contain for the comfort of the new mistress, and for the first time a curious kind of half-satisfied smile appeared on her face.
    “You’ll find the bed very comfortable,” she said. “It’s a feather bed, of course. We are not very modern here at Fountains.”
    Stacey said nothing, but Martin Guelder seemed to be frowning slightly as he also looked about the room. He took a turn or two about it, fingering the antique silver on the dressing table, and eyeing a choicely worked sampler on the wall above the fireplace which exhorted him in sombre colors to “Boast not thyself of tomorrow, for thou knowest not what a day may bring forth!”
    “This room is quite close to a bathroom, isn’t it?” he asked his cousin abruptly.
    “Oh,