(3/20) Storm in the Village by Miss Read Page B

course I will,' said Miss Jackson heartily. She seemed relieved that the subject had been changed, and Miss Clare's misgivings grew. Who on earth could it be? She pondered the question as she made her way wearily up the little staircase.
    Although it was late, it was some time before Miss Clare fell asleep. Her lodger had gone, singing, to bed. Miss Clare had waited for the two thumps which were the sign that Miss Jackson's shoes had been kicked off, for the click of the light switch, and the final creak as Miss Jackson clambered into the high feather bed.
    Somewhere, in the velvety darkness, a nightingale throbbed out his song from a spray of blossom. He was urgent and languorous in turn, now brittle and staccato, now pouring forth a low, steady ripple of bubbling sound. Miss Clare lay in her shadowy room, listening to him, and thinking of the girl beyond the wall, so young, so very ignorant, and so pathetically sure of herself.
    'She's really old enough to know what she's about,' Miss Clare told herself, 'And yet—how I wish her parents were here.'
    She heard the church clock at Beech Green strike two before she fell asleep. And still the nightingale sang of love and trouble, trouble and love, as though his heart were full to overflowing.

    It was Amy who first told me that Miss Jackson and the Franklyn man had been seen about together, on several occasions, in Caxley.
    'They were in the cinema the other night,' said Amy, 'holding hands and with eyes only for each other. I wonder why courting couples pay good money to sit through films which must be a great interruption to them?'
    'Nowhere else to go, I expect,' I said, trying to sound less concerned than I felt. 'But Amy, are you sure it was Franklyn?'
    'How do I know?' said Amy reasonably enough, 'But Joy Miller was with me, and she said that she thought it was her uncle's gamekeeper from Springbourne. He was a biggish fellow with sandy hair and white eyelashes. Most unattractive I thought, but there—love is blind, they say.'
    'It certainly sounds like him,' I observed. Amy and I had met one Saturday morning and were now having coffee together. We stirred our cups in silence.
    'Isn't it the limit?' I said, after a bit.
    'Jealous?' asked Amy slyly.
    'No, I'm blowed if I am!' I responded inelegantly, and with sudden warmth. 'The older I get, the more delighted I am that I'm single. Love seems a frightful nuisance.'
    'Sure you're not having a reaction from Mr Mawne's perfidious attentions?' suggested Amy. 'Is this the brave front out on by an unfulfilled female of uncertain age?'
    I looked at her acidly across the rickety oak table.
    'If you're going to act the goat, and talk like that ghastly Crabbe woman Miss Jackson's always thrusting down my throat,' I said coldly, 'I shall leave you at once—and what's more, you can pay the bill!'
    'Pax, pax!' said Amy hastily, crossing her fingers. 'Take back all I said! See my finger wet, see my finger dry, may I slit my throat, if——'
    'All right, all right!' I broke in upon her gabbling, 'But talk sense for a moment. Do you really think Miss Jackson is serious about this man?'
    'Looked like it,' said Amy.
    'But he must be nearly forty—and his wife's only been dead a few months,' I objected.
    'Just when he'd feel the need for a little sympathy and feminine company,' replied Amy, 'And dozens of men are at their most attractive at forty. What's against him? Do you think that his intentions are not matrimonial?'
    'I don't think he'd marry Miss Jackson for a minute,' I said. 'And a very good thing too. It would be quite unsuitable. They've absolutely nothing in common. He's already got a daughter, he has a bad name in the village, and Miss Jackson's such an utter fool that she'd never see anything until she was in a complete mess, and then she'd be too pigheaded to ask for help. I don't like this business at all. If you ask me, he's a thoroughly bad lot!'

    Mrs Pringle thought so too. I had wondered how soon the rumours would