CHAPTER VIII
Gregory, on presenting himself at the Great House on the followingmorning, received the news of Mr. Endacott's absence with markedinterest.
"Gone to London, has he?" he observed. "That means that you're leftalone for the day."
"Scarcely a tragedy," she smiled. "There's my aunt across the way whom Imust go in and see some time, a perfectly delightful new piano that onlyarrived this morning, dozens of books to read and, if I feel energeticenough, I am going to practise mashie shots with the club you gave me."
"A thoroughly selfish programme," he pronounced.
"Why selfish?"
"Because it is a solitary one."
"Improve upon it then," she suggested.
"Easily," he assented. "I brought my two-seater round, anyhow, hopingfor the best, but with your uncle away the thing is preordained. I havegiven you six lessons at golf in the park. You're doing thundering well,but not well enough. Let's go to some real golf links."
She considered the matter.
"Where?" she enquired.
"Cromer," he answered promptly. "It may be rather crowded there but weshall arrive late. We can choose two or three vacant holes, have somelunch at the club house and motor home another way."
"I should love it," she acquiesced enthusiastically.
"I'll go and tune up the old bus while you get ready," he suggested.
It was a day which she never forgot; a day when all the little thingswent right, into which no jarring note of incident or conversation wasever introduced, when the sun shone, when everything which happenedseemed to become an aid to further content. They motored lazily alongthe country lanes to the links, where Gregory was obliged to go andfetch the professional to see his amazing pupil. Afterwards theyselected clubs, lunched, sat on the terrace for a time and motored by adevious way homewards. A mile or so from Ballaston, just inside thepark, crossing which had afforded them a short cut, he stopped the carin the shadow of a great beech tree. She looked at him enquiringly.
"Puncture?"
"Sheer fatigue," he rejoined mendaciously. "Great strain driving a carlike this. Do you mind, just for a moment?"
"Why, surely not," she answered, leaning back and taking out hercigarette case. "It's perfectly delightful here. Won't you smoke?"
He shook his head.
"Not just for a moment," he answered, looking straight at the mascotupon the bonnet of his car. "I want to talk and I'm a jolly bad hand atit, anyway."
"You're not so hopeless," she assured him encouragingly. "You can gostraight on. I'll help you out when it's necessary."
She spoke lightly enough but already a queer little sense of excitementwarned her to keep her face turned away from his. The things which hemight say seemed incredible. She was passionately anxious and yet afraidto hear them.
"You see, Miss Claire," he began, "I made a jolly bad start with you andthat makes me extra careful. I never thought I was going to turnsuperstitious, but I can assure you of one thing--I haven't trustedmyself alone in Uncle Henry's room with that Image since I got back."
"I hope your Uncle Henry's behaviour," she began, with a faint smile----
"Oh, don't chaff," he interrupted. "I think it would take the devilhimself to persuade Uncle Henry to step out of the narrow paths. This iswhat I wanted to say--Claire."
He paused again, unrebuked. His eyes looked up the avenue towards thehouse. His slim fingers played nervously with the steering wheel.
"We're in for a big family smash, we Ballastons," he confided. "Whatlittle there is left when it comes will have to go, of course, to thegovernor and to Uncle Henry. For me there won't be anything. I'm notcomplaining. I'm young enough still. I have wonderful health and,although I'm an ass at all the things that money's made out of, I canride, I understand farming and horses and all that sort of thing. I havemade up my mind what to do. I am going out to Canada."
"Canada!" she murmured under her breath.
"Yes. I know some fellows there who are doing quite decently. I shall beable to get just the sort of start I want. Now of course," he went on,"under the circumstances, I ought not to say what I'm going to say toyou, but I am going to say it all the same. I asked you to marry meonce, Claire. It wasn't any good, of course. You had only seen therotten side of me then, but you understood. To-day I can't ask you tomarry me, but I want to tell you that I have all that feeling which aman should have when he asks such a thing, and ten thousand times morethan most men have."
He paused again. She said nothing. Her face was turned even a littlefarther away. He went on.
"Of course, I've done no particular good in the world--have been allsorts of a rotter from one point of view--but I've kept moderatelystraight about girls and here's the truth, anyhow. I never came nearcaring for one before, and I love you."
"Gregory!" she whispered.
At the sight of her eyes, the sound of her voice, he was suddenly sweptalmost off his feet. It was amazing.
"Sweetheart, you mustn't," he begged, holding her hand firmly. "I knowI'm doing wrong to tell you. On the other hand, it seems to me that Iwould be doing wrong if I went away and you didn't know. So there youare! I can't ask you to marry me, but I'm going to work like a horse assoon as I get away, and if I have any of the luck of the Ballastons theyused to talk about, I shall only value it for one thing. I'm not askingyou for anything--not for a thought even, much less a promise--but if atthe end of a few years I see my way--I wonder----"
"You dear thing, Gregory," she interrupted. "Kiss me at once."
"You know I didn't mean this, Claire," he said, a little remorsefully,as he stopped the car at the gates of the Great House.
"I hoped you did," she answered demurely.
"Idiot!" he smiled. "Remember, we're not engaged. You haven't promisedanything. You've been sweet and dear and given me just the stimulus forwork I needed."
"Supposing," she whispered, "that you found the treasure; you might nothave to go to Canada."
He shook his head gloomily.
"I daren't trust myself to think about that," he said. "Your uncle seemsto have made up his mind not to help us, and I'm beginning to lose faithin the whole story."
"Still," she persisted, "if the story should turn out to be true--andUncle believes it--your home might be saved, and you would not have togo abroad at all."
"It would be wonderful," he admitted.
"Don't give up hope then," she whispered. "Uncle was quite sweet to melast night--absolutely different. He's gone to London--but there,perhaps I ought not to tell you. Just wait. Something pleasant mayhappen, after all."
The door was thrown open by Andrews, the butler. She gave Gregory herhand which he held for a moment and raised to his lips. Her farewellglance lingered long in his memory.
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