“Mountain Cross and—and——”
“Yes. I can’t remember the actual wording—and I don’t suppose you would be much the wiser if I sent for the document and read it to you—but the estate includes a farm, fields and woods, a large walled-garden containing fruit-trees and a greenhouse, etc., and the mansion-house of Mountain Cross and its contents.”
“All mine?” asked Elfrida incredulously.
“All yours,” nodded Mr. Sandford. “There’s very little money, I’m sorry to say. At one time the Wares were very well off, but Mr. Ware was not a good business man so his income had dwindled considerably in recent years and, in addition to that, he seemed to be spending a good deal of money. I tried to find out what he was doing with it but he was very secretive. In fact he told me, quite kindly, to mind my own business.” Mr. Sandford sighed and added, “Latterly the Wares were spending capital.”
Elfrida was silent. She was so stunned by the news that she had become the owner of her mother’s beloved home that she scarcely took in what Mr. Sandford was saying.
“Well, that’s the position,” continued Mr. Sandford. “It’s unfortunate, but it can’t be helped. Mountain Cross isn’t the sort of place that will sell very easily, but we’ll do our best to find a buyer. I shall put it into the hands of a house-property agent and——”
“You can’t sell Mountain Cross!”
“It will be difficult, I admit, but we must do our best.”
“I mean—I mean, if it’s really mine I don’t want to sell it.”
“You don’t want to sell it?”
She shook her head and said, “No.”
“What do you propose to do with it?”
“I don’t know,” she said breathlessly. “I haven’t thought . . . but if it belongs to me I want to keep it.”
Mr. Sandford looked at her and his eyebrows rose. They were very dark eyebrows and they could show quite a number of different emotions. At the moment they showed disapproval. “But my dear Miss Thistlewood,” he said. “You are an actress, so I imagine that most of your time will be spent in London—or on tour. Mountain Cross would be a white elephant to you.”
“I could go there when I was resting.”
“You would be very ill-advised to let the house stand empty. An old house deteriorates very quickly if it isn’t lived in and taken care of.”
“We could get a caretaker, couldn’t we?”
“I doubt if there will be sufficient money to pay a caretaker. There will be a little, of course; I can’t tell you how much until Mrs. Ware’s estate has been settled.”
“Couldn’t we wait and see?”
“At the moment the place is in reasonably good order so it would be wiser to sell it as soon as possible.”
“But I don’t want to sell it!” cried Elfrida.
Mr. Sandford sighed. She really was very obstinate. “You had better consult your friends,” he said patiently. “I’m sure your friends will advise you——”
“But I haven’t any friends—at least I haven’t anyone I could consult about that sort of thing.”
“Nobody at all?”
She shook her head.
“Well, you had better think it over,” said Mr. Sandford. “Let’s see now: this is Friday. My junior partner has gone to Mrs. Ware’s funeral; he’ll be back on Monday, so I suggest you should come in on Tuesday and have a chat with him. He will be able to tell you all about Mountain Cross.”
“I’ll come on Tuesday afternoon,” she agreed.
*
2
When Elfrida returned to Miss Martineau’s boarding-house she was very tired so she went upstairs to her bedroom. It was an attic room but it had a good window and was bright and comfortable. Elfrida took off her coat and hat and lay down on the bed. She was often tired nowadays—in fact she was tired all the time. Presently she heard the attic stairs creaking, as they always did beneath their owner’s weight.
Miss May Martineau had been on the stage when young. In real life she was Mrs. Norman Potts and was now a widow, nearing fifty; she was still keenly interested in the theatre and ran her boarding-house for members of “the profession,” which kept her in touch with theatrical affairs. She was short and fat with improbably golden hair, tightly permed, and her pink and white complexion came out of jars and boxes . . . but in spite of her flamboyant appearance she had an extremely tender heart.
She knocked gently upon Elfrida’s door and, on being invited to enter, came in and sat on the end of the bed.
“I just—wondered,” she said breathlessly (the stairs made her puff like an old-fashioned steam-engine) “I just—wondered if you saw—that lawyer.”
“Yes, I did. He was very kind.”
“Is there money in it, dulling?”
“He said there would be a little and——”
“Oh, good!” cried Miss Martineau. “I was right to make you go and see him, wasn’t I? Has someone died, or what?”
“Yes, my grandmother died. She left some money and there’s a house. It’s Mother’s old home in Devonshire.”
“You could sell it, couldn’t you?”
“That’s what Mr. Sandford said . . . but I don’t want to sell it.”
“You don’t want to sell it? What else could you do with it?”
Elfrida was silent. She did not see what else she could do with it, and she knew she was being unreasonable, but all the same she was quite determined not to sell Mountain Cross.
“Why don’t you want to sell it?” Miss Martineau inquired.
“I don’t know—really,” replied Elfrida thoughtfully. “It’s just—well, it’s just a sort of feeling I have. Mother loved her home; she used to tell me what a lovely place it was; she talked about it so much that I can almost see it. I’d like to tell you all about it if you aren’t too busy.”
This was what Miss Martineau had hoped for, so she settled herself more comfortably on the end of the bed and listened. She was not disappointed; Elfrida’s recital of all that had happened from the moment when she had met Mr. Sandford at the bottom of the steps until the moment when she had shaken hands and said good-bye was quite enthralling. Even more enthralling was Elfrida’s description of Mountain Cross, and the little photographs of the house on the cliff which were produced for her inspection.
“Yes, I see,” said Miss Martineau, nodding her golden head. “It’s a great big beautiful place, but what would you do with it, dulling? Mountain Cross is a dream—that’s why you don’t want to sell it—but this is real life, you know. I should wait a bit if I were you. I mean you don’t have to make up your mind all of a sudden. I always say it’s a good thing to sleep on a problem . . . though, as a matter of fact, I’ve found that if it’s a very complicated problem you’re more likely to lie awake on it.”
“Yes,” agreed Elfrida, smiling in spite of herself.
“You’re to go back on Tuesday,” Miss Martineau pointed out. “Well, something may happen before Tuesday.”
“Something may happen?”
“Something to help you to make up your mind. And anyhow,” added Miss Martineau. “Anyhow you’ll have to discuss it with Him, won’t you?”
“Him!” exclaimed Elfrida in alarm. “Whom do you mean?”
“I don’t know, dulling. All I know is there’s a man somewhere about. I’ve seen a good deal in my time so I know the symptoms. You’re as thin as a lath; you don’t eat your food; you don’t listen when people talk to you. They say it’s love that makes the world go round but I’ve always found it stops the world going round . . . for most girls.”
Elfrida hesitated. Then she said, “Yes, I suppose it’s true . . . in a way.”
“Are you engaged?”
“Oh, no!”
“Does he love you?”
“No, I don’t think so. At least . . .”
“But you must know,” said Miss Martineau sensibly. “Any girl can tell by the way a man looks at her.”
“He smiles at me as if there were n
obody else in the world.”
“Well, then, what more do you want?”
“He smiles at other people too.”
“That’s not so good.”
Elfrida sat up and pushed back her hair. She said: “It’s no use talking about it because it’s quite hopeless . . . it’s Glen Siddons.”
“Goodness, that’s a bit of a facer!” exclaimed Miss Martineau. “I don’t know him, of course, but I’ve seen him on the stage and he’s certainly a charmer. Well, I never thought it could be him! He’s everybody’s idol.”
“I know,” said Elfrida nodding. “I know quite well that I’m a perfect fool but I can’t help it. You see it happened quite suddenly the first time I saw him. I wasn’t expecting it . . . but it just . . . happened.”
It had happened like a flash of lightning at the first rehearsal of The Motor Car. Elfrida had been feeling cold and miserable and frightened . . . then Glen Siddons arrived. He was tall and slender with brown eyes and dark hair brushed back from his forehead in a shallow wave. The others knew him—they had been with him in The Beggar King—so they gathered round, talking and laughing delightedly. Elfrida did not know him; she stood apart waiting for the rehearsal to begin. Suddenly Glen Siddons turned his head and saw her . . . and smiled to her. He had smiled to her as if they two were alone in the world and she had fallen in love with him then and there.
Afterwards, when the rehearsal was over, he had spoken to her and asked why she looked unhappy. He had asked so kindly—as if he really wanted to know—that she told him her mother was seriously ill and getting weaker every day. It was easy for Glen to be kind; he had listened sympathetically and had given Elfrida a bouquet of pink carnations (which had been sent to him by one of his many admirers) and had asked her to give it to her mother with his love.
Perhaps if Elfrida had not been in such an emotional condition she would not have been bowled over so completely.
“He’s certainly a charmer,” repeated Miss Martineau in thoughtful tones. “I saw him in The Beggar King and he was marvellous. I don’t wonder at any girl falling for him, but—well—to tell you the truth I’d rather have someone a bit less glamorous, someone who kept his smiles for me. Norman wasn’t glamorous by any means, but he never looked at another girl—it was me he wanted—so I married him and I never regretted it for a minute. We were happy together, we were all in all to each other. Yes,” said Miss Martineau, nodding wisely. “Yes, that’s what you want in marriage, to be all in all to each other.”
Elfrida was silent; she had never envisaged marriage with her idol. All she wanted was to be near him, to hear his voice and to see him smile at her.
“Glen Siddons is a widower,” said Miss Martineau; there was nothing much she did not know about theatrical personalities.
“I never knew that!” Elfrida exclaimed.
“It was a boy and girl affair, long before your time. He met her in Ireland and they were married there. I never saw her but someone told me she was beautiful and they were very much in love. His name isn’t Siddons, of course.”
“I thought he was related to Mrs. Siddons.”
“That’s what you’re meant to think,” replied Miss Martineau quite seriously. “Of course he may be related to her for all I know. I mean people are often related to people with different names. I knew a chap who said he was related to—to Risotto—or something.”
“Rossetti?”
“Yes, that was it. You know a lot, don’t you?” said Miss Martineau admiringly.
“Mother was very fond of the poems of Christina Rossetti,” explained Elfrida. “She had a little book of them and read it so often that it has almost fallen to pieces. I could lend it to you if you like.”
“Well, I’m not really very keen on poems, dulling, but thank you all the same. I was just telling you about Rossetti because of this chap I used to know. His name was Charlie Stubbs but he really was related to Rossetti through his grandmother or somebody—I can’t remember exactly—so you see Glen Siddons may be related to Mrs. Siddons.” She hesitated and then added, “Or may not.”
Elfrida could not help smiling.
“But all that has nothing to do with it,” declared Miss Martineau. “The important thing is do you think he’s seriously fond of you?”
“Sometimes I’ve thought he was.”
“Sometimes isn’t much use.”
“Oh, I know!” cried Elfrida. “I know I’m a fool—but what am I to do?”
“Get over it.”
“Get over it? But I couldn’t——”
“There’s no future in it,” Miss Martineau pointed out. “If there’s no future in what you’re doing it’s better to cut your losses and try a new line. That’s what Norman and I did when we left the stage and bought this house . . . it was a plunge but we took it together. Now listen, dulling: you aren’t doing yourself any good dreaming about Glen Siddons; you’re getting thinner and paler and more woe-begone every day. You’ll get ill if you don’t take care—and then what? You’d much better make up your mind to get over it. Oh, it won’t be easy but you’ll be able to do it if you try hard enough. You’ll feel pretty miserable for a bit, but it’s better to be miserable now than miserable all your life . . . and miserable all your life is what you’d be with Glen Siddons.”
“But Miss Martineau, I never thought——”
“No, listen, dulling! I’ve talked to you like this because you’re different from the other girls.”
“Different?”
“Yes, you’re made of different stuff.”
“You mean I shall never be an actress?”
“No, that isn’t what I mean,” said Miss Martineau, frowning in perplexity. “It’s true that you’ll never be a star with your name in electric lights over the entrance to the theatre—you haven’t got it in you—but there’s lots of girls who’ll never be stars and they’re quite happy playing small parts and having a good time, flirting a bit with Tom, Dick and Harry, going to parties every night.”
“I don’t enjoy parties.”
Miss Martineau smiled. “I know that. I’ve watched you wriggling out of invitations more than once. Dolly was fed up when you refused to go to her twenty-first celebration.”
“I just couldn’t,” declared Elfrida. “I’ve been to that kind of party before so I knew what it would be like . . . hot and smoky and terribly noisy. They play pop music on the gramophone and everyone talks louder and louder . . . and nobody listens; people drink too much and get silly. I can’t understand how anyone can enjoy it.”
“Because you’re made of different stuff, that’s why.”
“I suppose I must be,” said Elfrida wearily.
“What you need is a nice kind husband,” declared Miss Martineau. “Someone who’ll look after you; someone who likes the same sort of things that you like.”
“Where am I to find him?” asked Elfrida, with an involuntary giggle.
“Oh, don’t you worry, there’s plenty of time; Mr. Right will come along one of these days. Meanwhile you’ll have to work Glen Siddons out of your system . . . and you’ll never do that as long as you go on seeing him every night in The Motor Car.”
“But I can’t help——”
“I know!” cried Miss Martineau with sudden inspiration. “I know what you’d better do. You’d better go to Devonshire and live in that old house.”
“Live there!”
“Well, why not? It belongs to you, doesn’t it? I don’t suppose it would be very comfortable—you said it was old-fashioned, didn’t you?—but you could go and have a look at the place.”
The idea was new to Elfrida but now that Miss Martineau had put it into her head she realised that she was very anxious “to have a look at the place.” In fact she was longing to see Mountain Cross (perhaps that was the reason why she had refused to let it be sold!).
“A change of air would do you all the good in the world,” added Miss Martineau persuasively.
“Yes,” said Elfrida—but she
said it doubtfully. The mere thought of going away was almost unbearable. If she gave up her part in The Motor Car and went away she would lose him completely . . . she might never see him again.
“He would forget me in a week,” she murmured unhappily.
“Forget you in a week!” cried Miss Martineau. “If that’s the way of it you’d better get over it as quickly as you can.”
“I didn’t mean it literally.”
“Oh, I know that, but all the same . . .” She hesitated and then added, “We’re told in the Bible that we ought to be meek, but that doesn’t seem very sensible to me. A little pride never did anyone any harm.”
“Pride?” asked Elfrida. “Do you mean . . .”
“I mean you shouldn’t hang about and wait for a smile—that isn’t the way to treat a man like him—there are too many girls hanging about and waiting for his smile. Well, good-bye for now,” added Miss Martineau, rising and toddling to the door. “I take a pride in making my boarders happy and if I don’t get a move on there’ll be no supper.”
Elfrida lay and stared at the ceiling; there were curiously-shaped cracks in it and a stain where water had come through the roof. She had often stared at it and sometimes it seemed that the stain was the shape of an elephant. She stared at the elephant and thought of all that Miss Martineau had said; every word was true. Especially true were her parting words about pride. When Miss Martineau said “pride” she really meant self-respect, but she had got hold of the right idea. Elfrida remembered how often she had hung about in the draughty passage outside the door of Glen’s dressing-room in the hope of seeing him for a few moments and hearing him say good-night. After that she could go home with a warm feeling in her heart. There was not much “pride” about that.
*
3
Having decided that Miss Martineau’s advice was sound, Elfrida proceeded to carry it out to the best of her ability, and the following evening at the performance of The Motor Car she avoided Glen and chatted to other people. It was easily done; she was sure nobody had noticed, least of all Glen. However, when the play was over and she had changed, Glen was waiting for her in the passage.
“I want to speak to you,” he said.
The House on the Cliff Page 2