“I’m in a hurry, Glen.”
“So am I,” he replied. “But before I dash off to Tommy’s party I want to know what I’ve done to upset you.”
“Nothing, Glen! Don’t be silly!”
She tried to evade him but he took her by the arm. “Come into my room for a minute. There’s always a howling draught in these passages . . . we can’t talk here.”
As she followed him into his dressing-room it flashed across her mind that Miss Martineau had been right: to hang about and wait for a smile was not the way to treat Glen Siddons.
“There,” he said, shutting the door. “That’s better. I’ve been hanging about waiting for you—in a howling draught. Heaven knows why I ever decided to make a career on the stage; it’s the draughtiest place in the world.”
Elfrida smiled; she was aware of Glen’s allergy to draught. “This room is like an oven,” she said.
“That’s how I like it. Sit down, Elfie, and tell me what’s the matter.”
By this time Elfrida had recovered her wits. She said briskly, “Nothing is the matter. Perhaps I was a bit—a bit wandery to-night, but I’m rather excited. I’ve just heard that I’ve got a house.”
“I didn’t know you were looking for a house.”
“Oh, I wasn’t! It’s—it’s an old house on a cliff near the sea. My grandmother died and left it to me in her will.”
Glen perched himself on the end of the sofa. “The ancestral home,” he suggested.
“Yes, it is—really.”
“Why do you get it?”
“Because there’s nobody else,” replied Elfrida. “At least there doesn’t seem to be.”
“I’m so glad, Elfie,” declared Glen, smiling at her very kindly. “You’ll be able to sell it and get pots of money, won’t you?”
It was funny how everyone had the same idea. “But I don’t want to sell it,” she told him.
“What are you going to do with it?”
“Live in it.”
“That’s a good joke!”
“It isn’t a joke,” said Elfrida. “I’ve decided to go and live there. I’m glad I saw you to-night because I wanted to tell you about it.”
“You can’t be serious! Darling Elfie, what do you think you would do with yourself sitting in a dilapidated old house on the top of a cliff—like Mariana at the moated grange or something?”
“I didn’t say it was dilapidated.”
“It’s sure to be; moated granges are always dilapidated. I can imagine you sitting, gazing out of the window. ‘There, at the moated grange, resides this dejected Mariana’.”
“Oh, I shan’t have time to sit and look out of the window,” replied Elfrida with spirit. “I shan’t have time to be dejected . . . I intend to keep ducks.”
“Ducks?”
She nodded. It had only just occurred to her that she might keep ducks; they waddled and quacked and would be much more friendly and amusing than chickens.
“Good heavens, I believe the girl really means it!” exclaimed Glen.
“Of course I mean it. The house belongs to me; I’m longing to see it!”
Glen frowned. He said, “You aren’t chucking The Motor Car, I hope.”
“But Glen!” she said hastily. “It’s practically dead—you said so yourself! You told me you were on the lookout for something else. It won’t matter a bit if I give up my part—it won’t upset anything—Dolly can step into my shoes to-morrow! She’s been longing for me to be ill so that she can play Mrs. Carruthers. Oh, I want to get away soon! I want peace and quiet; I want a holiday near the sea——”
“My dear girl, you had better calm down and tell me about it properly.”
“I told you,” she said, trying to speak reasonably. “It’s an old house and probably a bit old-fashioned, but it was Mother’s home when she was a girl and she loved it, so I shall love it too. Mother used to talk about it to me, she longed for the lovely fresh air. There’s a path down the cliff, leading to a sandy beach; there’s a little wood and a farm and fields and a walled-garden with apple trees. It’s called Mountain Cross.”
“There’s a village called Mountain Cross in Devonshire.”
“Yes, that’s it! Do you know it, Glen?”
“I’ve been there once or twice. Sometimes I have to go down to that part of the country on business and I remember passing the village and seeing the name on the post office. It’s a very isolated place—dead as mutton. Have you got enough money to live on?”
“I don’t know, exactly. The lawyer said there wouldn’t be much.”
“You can’t live on fresh air—and apples.”
“I can live on very little.”
“Darling, listen to me,” said Glen, smiling at her with his slow lazy smile. “It strikes me that you’re looking at your ancestral mansion through rose-coloured spectacles. You see yourself sunbathing in a bikini, picking apples attired in a sunbonnet, and scattering corn for the ducks . . . whereas in reality the house will be full of rats, the roof will leak, the chimneys will smoke and a howling draught will blow in under the badly-fitting doors.”
She laughed.
“Oh, well, perhaps I’m exaggerating a bit,” admitted Glen. “But, honestly, I’m sure the right thing to do is to sell the place. You think the simple life would be fun but it would be lonely and dull—you would be sick and tired of it in a month.”
“I’m lonely in London,” she murmured.
“Of course you are! We’re all lonely sometimes, but there’s no need to sit down and mope. You can always get hold of someone to talk to . . . or you can throw a party and ask the gang and have a cheery time.”
“I don’t like parties.”
“Well, you don’t exactly shine at parties,” he admitted, smiling at her. “You don’t make any effort to be sociable. You could if you liked, you know.”
Elfrida was silent.
“Listen, Elfie,” said Glen earnestly. “You needn’t decide at once, need you? Let’s talk it over together—let’s have a real good chat about your plans. This play is a mess but I happen to know that something pretty good is coming along soon. I can’t tell you about it because it’s top secret, but——”
“Do you mean there might be something in it for me?”
He nodded mysteriously. “Promise not to fix anything until we’ve had a talk.”
“I have to decide before Tuesday.”
“Oh, well, that gives us lots of time. Let’s see, now: to-morrow is hopeless, of course (how I hate Saturday matinées!); but we could go for a spin on Sunday afternoon and have tea somewhere. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
She nodded. Of course she would like to go for a spin with Glen.
“That’s settled then.” he said. “If by any chance I can’t manage Sunday afternoon we could meet and have lunch together on Monday. I had better ring you up and let you know definitely. What’s your number?”
Elfrida gave him Miss Martineau’s number and repeated that she must decide upon her plans before Tuesday.
“There, I shan’t forget that.” he said, as he wrote the number in his engagement book. “Yes, I know Tuesday is the day of decision; you told me that before. I’m going to think of all sorts of reasons why you shouldn’t bury yourself in the moated grange and I may be able to tell you a bit more about the good thing that’s coming along. No time to argue with you now! I’m half an hour late for Tommy’s party and it will take me at least twenty minutes to get there.” He put his arm round her shoulders and added, “You mustn’t go, Elfie. I should miss you dreadfully. You know that, don’t you?” Then he kissed her lightly on the cheek and strode off down the passage.
It meant nothing, of course; she knew it meant nothing, but all the same she felt dizzy and her heart was beating against her ribs like an imprisoned bird. She had to lean against the wall for a minute or two until she recovered sufficiently to make her way home.
Elfrida slept very badly that night; her mind was in a turmoil. She had decided
to take Miss Martineau’s advice and “get over” Glen Siddons; she had decided to give up her part in The Motor Car and go to Mountain Cross. This was the right thing to do—Elfrida knew it—but her interview with Glen had upset these sensible plans. I’ll wait and see, thought Elfrida. It will be lovely to go out with Glen on Sunday. I’ll see what he says . . .
There were two performances of The Motor Car on Saturday but Elfrida had no opportunity to speak to Glen. On Sunday morning she felt ill and wretched; she stayed in the house, hoping for a telephone message . . . but there was none. She thought of ringing him up, but pride came to her aid and she refrained. Glen knew her plans; he was aware that Tuesday was “the day of decision,” so he was sure to ring up on Monday morning and arrange a time and place for lunch.
She hung about near the telephone all morning, but the only call was for Dolly Garden; it was from Sylvia Stone asking Dolly to a party.
*
4
When Elfrida was shown into Mr. Sandford’s room he rose from his desk and came forward to shake hands with her.
“How cold you are!” he exclaimed. “Come and sit near the fire, Miss Thistlewood. My partners think I’m mad to have a coal fire, but in spite of their wonderful central heating my room is the most comfortable and best ventilated in the house, I want you to meet my partner, Mr. Leighton, who returned from Mountain Cross last night.”
Mr. Sandford rang the bell and in a few minutes the door opened to admit a very large young man; his fair hair and blue eyes and ruddy complexion made him look very young indeed; Elfrida could scarcely believe he was the partner referred to by Mr. Sandford.
“Mr. Leighton will tell you all about it,” said Mr. Sandford as he introduced them. “I have an appointment, so perhaps you’ll excuse me if I leave you for twenty minutes or so. You aren’t in a hurry to get away, I hope.”
“Oh, no, I can stay as long as you want me,” she replied.
When Mr. Sandford had gone Mr. Leighton took up the poker and livened up the fire, then he sat down beside Elfrida on a stool and said, “I like coal fires; there’s something very friendly about them.”
There was something very friendly about Mr. Leighton so she smiled at him and agreed. “But people say they make a lot of dust,” she added.
“That’s what Mother says,” declared Mr. Leighton. “I live with her; it’s an all-electric house; labour-saving, but not very cosy. Sometimes I wish I had lived in the times when you had oil lamps and coal fires in every room.”
“And lots of servants,” suggested Elfrida.
“Of course,” he agreed. “What fun it would be to pull a bell when you wanted something! . . . but we’re wasting time, aren’t We? You want me to tell you about your grandmother’s funeral.”
“I’d rather you told me about Mountain Cross.”
“You’ve seen the place, haven’t you?”
“No, but I heard a lot about it from Mother. I’ve decided to go and live there.”
“Live there? Mr. Sandford said you were selling it!”
“It’s mine,” declared Elfrida.
“Oh, definitely yours, but——”
“Listen, Mr. Leighton, I don’t want to be—to be stubborn and unreasonable, but you see I’ve never had a house of my own before. I’ve never owned a square yard of ground—so I feel rather excited about it.”
“I should think so!” he exclaimed. “Of course it’s exciting! I’ve never owned a square yard of ground and I’m not likely to—until I can afford to buy a miserable little villa in the suburbs. If Mountain Cross belonged to me I’d be crazy with delight.”
“You liked it?”
“Liked isn’t the word,” declared Mr. Leighton enthusiastically. “It’s a real house. It has been there, sitting on the top of the cliff for hundreds of years; it looks as if it had grown there, like a mushroom . . . no, not like a mushroom (they’re impermanent), it’s more like a fine old tree, deeply rooted in the soil. I suppose your ancestors have always lived at Mountain Cross?”
“I don’t know.”
“We must ask Uncle Bob; he’ll be able to tell us.”
“Uncle Bob?”
“Mr. Sandford,” explained Mr. Leighton. “I call him Mr. Sandford in the office because he’s the boss, but in private life he’s Mother’s brother—see?”
Elfrida nodded.
“But that reminds me,” said Mr. Leighton, pulling himself together. “That reminds me that I’m supposed to be trying to persuade you that Mountain Cross ought to be put into the hands of a house-property agent and sold as soon as possible.”
“You would be wasting your time.”
“It’s a biggish house, rather old-fashioned, and it’s very isolated. You would find it lonely. I mean you’re used to a gay life, lots of people and parties and things.”
He looked so worried that Elfrida could not help smiling. She said, “Well, you’ve done your duty—you’ve warned me—so now you can go on telling me about Mountain Cross.”
“Uncle Bob will be annoyed with me.”
“No, he won’t,” said Elfrida in comforting tones. “Tell me about Mountain Cross. Did you have a look round the place when you were there?”
“I had a good look round. We wanted a report upon the condition of the roof, so I got the local builder and he found it in very good order. The farm-buildings are all right . . . in fact the whole place is in good condition except the little wood on the hill where some of the trees have been blown down. I expect it would take time and money to clear it up properly. I went round the garden too; it’s in a sheltered position behind the house and there’s a high wall all round. There are fruit trees: peaches and plums and apples. They have been well cared for but the rest of the garden is pretty wild, and the greenhouse has practically fallen to bits . . .”
He was still telling her about Mountain Cross when Mr. Sandford returned.
“Well, now,” said Mr. Sandford cheerfully. “You’ve fixed it all up, I expect?”
“Not really,” replied Elfrida. “Mr. Leighton says it’s a big house and rather isolated, standing on the cliff. He thinks it would be difficult for me to live there alone, but——”
“It would be impossible!” interrupted Mr. Sandford in horrified tones.
“Well, perhaps . . . but it was Mother’s home and I can’t decide anything until I’ve seen it.”
“It would be better to sell it at once.”
“That’s what Mr. Leighton said, but I can’t sell it without seeing it.”
He saw by her attitude that it was useless to argue with her. “You’re very determined,” he said with a sigh.
“I don’t want to be unreasonable,” said Elfrida, smiling at him, persuasively. “But, honestly, Mr. Sandford, is it unreasonable to want to see my mother’s old home?”
“Well, perhaps not,” he replied. “Would it be possible for you to get a few days’ holiday? If so you could go and have a look at Mountain Cross. I’m sure you would realise that you couldn’t possibly live there.”
“I can have as long as I want.”
“Do you mean you are free? Have you given up your part in that play?”
She nodded. “I just felt I couldn’t . . . couldn’t go on with it.”
“Was that wise?” asked Mr. Sandford, frowning.
Mr. Leighton had been silent, but now he intervened, saying hastily, “I went and saw it last night; it’s a silly play and it’s going down the drain. Miss Thistlewood is well out of it.”
“Oh, I see,” said Mr. Sandford. “I’m bound to admit that I know very little about theatrical matters. I suppose there will be no difficulty in Miss Thistlewood obtaining a part in some other production?”
Elfrida was silent. She was aware that it would be very difficult indeed. By walking out of The Motor Car she had burnt her boats.
The manager had been quite pleasant to her when she told him that she wanted to break her contract (glad to get rid of me, Elfrida had thought!) but Glen would be very angry w
hen he heard what she had done; Clarissa Downes would be angry. In fact the whole cast would be annoyed with her . . . all except Dolly Garden who was stepping into her shoes.
“I mustn’t take up too much of your time, Mr. Sandford,” said Elfrida. “There are just one or two things I want to know. Mother told me she had a cousin; she thought he would inherit Mountain Cross.”
“Ah, yes, young Whitgreave!”
“Is he dead?”
“Dear me, no! He’s very much alive.” Mr. Sandford put his elbows on the table and fitted his fingers together. “It’s like this,” he said. “Your grandfather’s sister, Doris Ware, married James Whitgreave and they went to Canada. They had one son called Walter, who was about the same age as your mother—they were cousins, of course. For some reason Walter’s parents sent him to an English public school and he often spent his holidays at Mountain Cross.”
“Did you know him?”
“Yes, I met him at Mountain Cross quite frequently. Your grandparents were very kind to me and I used to go and stay there whenever I could . . .” Mr. Sandford hesitated and then continued, “But we were talking about Walter Whitgreave. When he left school he went to Canada, to join his parents, and your grandfather gave him sufficient capital to set him up in business. I can’t remember the exact amount but it was a substantial sum. In those days Mr. Ware was well off, so he could afford it, and I remember his saying to me, ‘It’s better for the boy to be given money now, when he needs it, instead of having to wait until I’m dead’.”
“Will he be disappointed when he hears that he isn’t going to get Mountain Cross?”
“I doubt it,” replied Mr. Sandford. “His business is in Montreal so Mountain Cross wouldn’t be much use to him. At any rate he has no cause to complain. Mr. Ware gave him capital when he needed it, to start him off in business; not many uncles would do that.”
“Whitgreave isn’t the only man to have a generous uncle,” put in Mr. Leighton.
Mr. Sandford looked at him and frowned in a forbidding manner.
There was a short silence.
Elfrida was the first to speak. “Did Mr. Whitgreave succeed in business?”
“From what I hear he’s very well off.”
The House on the Cliff Page 3