“Have you heard from him lately?”
Mr. Sandford nodded. “Yes, I wrote to him, advising him of your grandfather’s illness and mentioned that the Wares had lost money recently and had been obliged to use capital for the repair of the roof.”
“Did he take the hint?” asked Mr. Leighton.
“It wasn’t really a hint . . . or at least it was only a very gentle hint,” replied Mr. Sandford. “I had no right to do as much as that (Mr. Ware wouldn’t have liked it) but it seemed to me that Whitgreave should be informed of the state of affairs. His uncle had been extremely good to him so I hoped he would feel it his duty to come over and put things right. People can get about the world so easily nowadays. He replied to my letter very unsympathetically, saying that it was impossible for him to come over at the moment as he was in the midst of a very delicate business transaction.”
“That was all?” asked Mr. Leighton.
“That was all,” agreed Mr. Sandford. “As a matter of fact I thought ‘delicate’ was a curious word to use in connection with a business transaction—but that’s neither here nor there. I discovered afterwards that Mr. Ware had written, telling Whitgreave about his illness and asking him to come. He received the same reply.”
“Ungrateful beast,” murmured Mr. Leighton under his breath.
Mr. Sandford pretended not to have heard; he changed the subject by asking Elfrida to let him know when she wanted to go to Mountain Cross, so that he could ring up the couple who were looking after the place and warn them of her arrival.
“Shall I find out about trains for Miss Thistlewood?” suggested Mr. Leighton. “She’ll have to change at Exeter, I expect.”
“That would be very kind of you,” said Elfrida gratefully.
“No bother at all,” declared Mr. Leighton. “I’ll ring you up and let you know. What’s your number?”
She gave him Miss Martineau’s number and watched him write it upon the back of a used envelope. Three days ago she had given Glen the same information . . . Glen had Written it in his engagement book and had said, “There, I shan’t forget that.”
Mr. Leighton made no such promise.
Having fixed up these matters Elfrida said good-bye and hurried home. She had a feeling that Glen might have rung up in her absence but Miss Martineau assured her that there was no message for her.
That settles the matter, thought Elfrida and she went to look out her clothes for packing. Her clothes were “town clothes,” and she came to the conclusion that she had nothing suitable to wear in the country, so the following morning she went shopping and bought a pair of strong brown shoes, a tweed coat and a skirt to match. It was a light-brown tweed flecked with white and she was rather pleased with it. She also bought a couple of pullovers and some stockings.
Miss Martineau was interested and came upstairs to watch her try on her purchases.
“Yes,” said Miss Martineau nodding in approval. “You look well in tweeds, which just shows I was right.”
“What do you mean?” asked Elfrida, as she surveyed herself in the mirror.
“You’re County, that’s what you are. It’s a bit difficult to explain,” she continued, wrinkling her brows thoughtfully. “I haven’t met many County people—they haven’t come my way—but you can recognise them a mile off. They’ve lived in the same place for hundreds of years and they sort of belong to their land. I expect your mother was County, wasn’t she?”
“Well, her family has lived at Mountain Cross for hundreds of years,” admitted Elfrida, smiling.
“I thought so. County people can dress up and look smart, if they want, but they’re better in tweeds and pullovers with a string of pearls round their necks. You’d better get a string of pearls, dulling,” added Miss Martineau. “Ciro’s if you can run to it but, if not, you’ll get quite a nice one at Woolworth’s.”
This was the only piece of advice Elfrida did not take.
At lunch-time Mr. Leighton rang up; he sounded very businesslike and Elfrida felt sure he was not alone.
“Miss Thistlewood?” asked Mr. Leighton. “Oh, good afternoon, Miss Thistlewood. I haven’t looked up the trains for you because Mr. Sandford has suggested that I should take you down to Mountain Cross by road. He thinks it would be more pleasant for you.”
“Oh, yes!” replied Elfrida. “It would be lovely.”
“Mr. Sandford wishes me to say he would take you himself but it’s difficult for him to get away from the office at the moment.”
“Oh, I know how busy he is!”
“Yes, he’s very busy. As you know I’ve been to Mountain Cross quite recently so I could give you any information you require.”
“But wouldn’t it be a bother for you?”
“Not at all. When would you like to go?”
“Could we go to-morrow, Mr. Leighton?”
Mr. Leighton replied that to-morrow would suit him admirably and added that he would call for Miss Thistlewood at six-thirty because the roads would be less crowded in the early morning.
*
5
The expedition to Mountain Cross had been settled so quickly that Elfrida felt quite breathless—she could not believe she was going to Mountain Cross to-morrow! And why had she said to-morrow? There were all sorts of things to be done. She could not possibly be ready at six-thirty to-morrow morning!
“Of course you can be ready,” Miss Martineau declared. “You won’t have to press your frocks or wash your nylons . . . I suppose there’ll be water at that place and an iron of some sort. When you’ve made up your mind to take a plunge it’s better to go straight in—not stand and shiver on the brink.”
Elfrida laughed.
Miss Martineau laughed too; she had a fat, jolly laugh. “Well, I’ve watched them at Margate,” she said. “People standing in a bitter east wind with nothing on but a bathing-dress, trying to make up their minds. It’s enough to make a cat laugh! You go and pack your things like a sensible girl!”
The following morning Elfrida was up at five so she was all ready by six-thirty . . . and in spite of the early hour Miss Martineau came downstairs, attired in a bright pink house-coat with blue flowers all over it, her hair firmly encased in a bright pink net.
“I wanted to give you a send-off,” she explained. “I feel a bit guilty; you wouldn’t be going to that place if it hadn’t been for me talking to you like an old granny. I just hope it’s the right thing. If you can’t stand it you must come back here; I’ll always find a bed for you . . . I mean that, dulling.”
“Thank you,” said Elfrida huskily. “You’ve been terribly kind to me, Miss Martineau.”
“What am I to say to Glen Siddons if he rings up?”
“‘Annie doesn’t live here any more’,” replied Elfrida. She was in a somewhat hysterical condition, hovering between laughter and tears.
“Very well,” agreed Miss Martineau. “You’re wise to make a clean break; that man is no good to you.”
Elfrida had come to the same conclusion; she had decided to push Glen out of her mind . . . but she had a feeling that it was not going to be easy.
“Now, are you sure you’ve got everything?” Miss Martineau inquired. “You haven’t forgotten your hot-water bottle, have you? It’ll be cold in that big empty house.”
By this time it was six-thirty. “Supposing he doesn’t come?” said Elfrida. She was in such a state of apprehension that she hoped he had forgotten all about it.
“He’ll come,” declared Miss Martineau in soothing tones. “That clock is a bit fast . . . and anyhow you can’t expect an elderly gentleman to get up at dawn, can you?”
Elfrida was about to explain that the junior partner of Riggs, Sandford and Wilkins was not “an elderly gentleman” when Miss Martineau, who had been peeping out of the dining-room window, gave a loud squeak.
“Here’s the car!” she cried. “Oh, what a lovely big black shiny car! Run, quick, and open the door! We don’t want him ringing the bell and wakening everyone in the hou
se!”
Elfrida opened the front door and exchanged greetings with Mr. Leighton.
“We’re lucky,” he said. “It’s going to be a lovely day. Don’t bother about your suit-cases, I’ll get them.”
He looked a little startled when he was introduced to Miss Martineau . . . but Miss Martineau looked even more astonished. For a moment or two they gazed at each other speechlessly.
“We had better be going,” said Elfrida. She kissed Miss Martineau fondly and ran down the steps to the car.
Mr. Leighton followed with the luggage, stowed it in the boot, got in beside his passenger and drove off.
For a time they were silent.
At last Elfrida said, “I know she looks funny, but really and truly she’s a darling.”
“Oh, of course,” he agreed hastily. “I mean, I’m sure she’s a good sort; it was just seeing her suddenly . . . so early in the morning.”
“She’s the only friend I’ve got in the world.”
“The only friend?”
“Yes.”
“There’s me,” suggested Mr. Leighton diffidently. “I mean we aren’t in the office now—and we’re going to drive a long way together—so, if you’re interested, my name is Ronald. Ronnie to my friends, of course.”
Elfrida was feeling tearful again and was annoyed with herself. What on earth was the matter with her this morning? She swallowed a lump in her throat and said, “How nice of you, Ronnie. I’m Elfrida . . . but you know that, don’t you?”
“Elfrida Jane,” he replied. “Elfrida isn’t quite right for you, somehow, but Elfrida Jane is perfect. When I saw your name in Uncle Bob’s notes I was sure you would be you. Names are awfully important, aren’t they?”
Elfrida thought of Glen Siddons and agreed. She could not imagine him with any other name.
“Elfrida is a very uncommon name,” added Ronnie.
“Mother found it in an old book and she thought it was the feminine of Frederick.”
“Oh, I see! And Jane was after your grandmother, of course.”
Elfrida was silent. This was a new idea to her . . . and a very interesting idea. If her mother had given her the name of Jane because it was her grandmother’s name it meant that there was no feeling of resentment in her heart. It meant that Elfrida Jane’s mother still loved old Mrs. Ware in spite of everything.
“This is a lovely car,” said Elfrida after a short silence. “Does it belong to you, Ronnie?”
“Goodness, no! It belongs to Uncle Bob; that’s why I’m being super-careful. I’ve got a Wisp—it’s quite a good little bus but it isn’t comfortable for long trips. At least not for a girl. All the same I was a bit surprised when Uncle Bob said I was to take you in his Jag.”
“It was awfully kind of him.”
“He’s fond of you; that’s the reason.”
“Fond of me!” exclaimed Elfrida. “He can’t be fond of me; I saw him for the first time on Friday afternoon—and I refused to take his advice. He thinks I’m foolish and unreasonable.”
“He’s fond of you,” repeated Ronnie with conviction. “I know him pretty well and I could see that he was very fond of you. I thought he had known you since you were a child—dandled you on his knee when you were an infant. Are you sure——”
“I’m perfectly certain.”
They were out of town by this time so Ronnie was able to put on speed, but the big car ran so smoothly that the pace was not noticeable.
“Am I going too fast for you?” asked Ronnie.
“Not a bit. It’s lovely.”
“Good. This is such a marvellous machine that you don’t notice the speed. I promised Uncle Bob that I wouldn’t go too fast . . . but of course it depends upon what you call ‘too fast,’ doesn’t it?”
She smiled and agreed, adding, “It’s very kind of you to take me like this—ever so much nicer than the train.”
“Kind of me! I was just thinking how lucky I am to be here instead of cooped up in the office.”
“Don’t you like being a lawyer?”
“Oh, it’s quite interesting,” replied Ronnie, without enthusiasm. “I’d have liked an out-door life. I’d have liked to have a farm—growing things and breeding animals—but you must have capital behind you if you’re going to make anything out of farming.”
“You said you lived with your mother.”
“Yes, she has a little house at Uxbridge, quite near Uncle Bob. As a matter of fact Uncle Bob bought it for her. Father died when I was a small child.”
“Oh, I’m sorry!” exclaimed Elfrida. “It must be especially sad for a boy not to have a father.”
“Yes, I suppose so, but I was so young when he died that I never missed him . . . besides I had Uncle Bob. He was always there—if you know what I mean—so I could ask him things. When I was at school he used to come and take me out to lunch. I’ve known lots of fellows whose fathers weren’t nearly such good value. I could always depend on Uncle Bob. I can still depend upon him,” added Ronnie.
“Have you got any other relations?” asked Elfrida.
“Too many.”
“Too many?” she echoed incredulously. “But it must be lovely to have lots of relations!”
He remembered that this girl had no relations—none at all—and realised that she must be lonely. “Oh, well,” he said. “You see, Uncle Bob has four sisters. The two eldest are married and have families and live quite near us at Uxbridge. Then there’s Mother and Aunt Millie—she’s the youngest sister and lives with Uncle Bob and keeps house for him. It wouldn’t be so bad if they weren’t all very sociable and fond of parties.”
“Don’t you like parties?”
“I like a few—now and then—but not all the time.”
They overtook and passed an enormous lorry, laden with iron bars. If “Uncle Bob” had been in the car he would almost certainly have thought that Ronnie was going too fast . . . even Elfrida, who enjoyed speed, felt her toes curling up in her new brown shoes.
Nothing more was said for quite a long time. Elfrida was enjoying the swift rush along the Great West Road and the fresh breeze from the open window. They sped along past woods and fields and villages, all bathed in the morning sunshine.
“Let’s see now,” said Ronnie at last. “There are several things I’ve got to ask you. It was Mrs. Ware’s wish that the owner of Mountain Cross should take the name of Ware.”
“I took it years ago.”
“I know you called yourself Ware, but it isn’t really your name. It will have to be done by deed poll. People can’t just change their names whenever they feel inclined.”
“Stage people do.”
“You aren’t a stage person any more. If you intend to live at Mountain Cross you’ll have to——”
“I mean to live there if I possibly can,” declared Elfrida. “And I’ll be Elfrida Ware. I’ve been Elfrida Ware for years, so it sounds queer when people call me Thistlewood . . . as if it wasn’t me.”
“We’ll have to wait until——”
“I’m Elfrida Ware from now on,” said Elfrida firmly.
He glanced at her sideways and, seeing her determined expression, decided to change the subject. “There’s another thing,” he said. “Uncle Bob told me that I wasn’t to stay at Mountain Cross, I was to put up at the inn in the village, but it seems to me that you might like to have someone you know staying with you. I mean it’s pretty dismal for you to arrive at a strange place amongst strange people. You don’t know the Chownes, do you?”
“The Chownes?”
“That’s the name of the couple who are looking after the place. They’ve been there for years.”
“Oh, I see! It’s a funny name, isn’t it? Yes, of course you must stay at Mountain Cross. I suppose there will be a bed?”
“Half a dozen beds,” replied Ronnie, smiling. He hesitated and then added, “I shall have to tell Uncle Bob that you wanted me to stay.”
“Oh, I do,” declared Elfrida. “Please stay, Ronnie. The Ch
ownes may be horrid for all I know. You could cope with them, couldn’t you?”
“They aren’t horrid, but if there’s any coping to be done I’m quite willing to do it.” He slowed down to a crawl, turned in at a wide gateway and added, “This is where we’re having lunch.”
It was a beautiful old country-house which had been turned into a hotel. There was a park with fine trees, and a sweep of gravel in front of the pillared portico; half a dozen large shiny cars were parked in an open space.
“It looks terribly expensive,” murmured Elfrida apprehensively.
“It is,” said Ronnie. “But not to worry; Uncle Bob said to lunch here and gave me lots of money. I’m ready for a good blow-out—so I hope you are, too. We had breakfast terribly early, didn’t we?”
The hotel was luxuriously furnished with thick carpets, easy chairs and shining mirrors. Elfrida went to the ladies’ room to tidy up and when she returned she found Ronnie waiting for her in the hall. He led the way to the dining-room where they were given a table in an alcove and presented with an extensive menu.
“Not many people here to-day,” said Ronnie to the waiter.
“You’re early, sir,” explained the man. “The place will fill up later on. Would you like the luncheon or would you rather choose something à la carte.”
“We’ll have the luncheon,” replied Ronnie. “We left London at dawn so we’re hungry . . . at least I am.”
“You’ve made good time,” said the waiter smiling.
When they had ordered their meal Ronnie leant forward and said, “I rang up Mrs. Chowne. I told her I was bringing you in Mr. Sandford’s car and would stay the night at Mountain Cross. She’s going to make up a bed for me.”
“Good,” said Elfrida, nodding.
“She knows me, of course. I’ve been there before, several times.”
“What is she like?”
“Oh, she’s nice—I’m sure you’ll like her—but she’s an awful talker. She never stops talking for a moment; I expect she talks in her sleep. The only thing that annoys me is that she treats me as if I were ten years old. When I was looking through Mrs. Ware’s papers—after the funeral—she came in and gazed at me in a funny sort of way.”
The House on the Cliff Page 4