“Yes, I see,” said Elfrida thoughtfully. Here was another new light on Marjory . . . and a new light on Marjory’s mother.
“It wasn’t quite so bad while Mr. Ware was alive,” continued Mrs. Chowne. “But after he died Mrs. Ware was all alone, so she wanted Miss Marjory more than ever.”
“She sent for Mr. Sandford, didn’t she?”
“It was me that asked him to come. He was here a lot in the old days so I knew him quite well. Then, after his father died, he took over Mr. Ware’s business affairs so he used to come about that . . . and he came for Mr. Ware’s funeral, of course. There was nobody else I could think of to ask what to do and I was worried to death. When I rang him up and said Mrs. Ware was ill and would like to see him he came at once and he was as kind as kind—nobody could have been kinder. Mrs. Ware told him she was longing to see Miss Marjory and he said he would try his best to find her. Well, he tried his best but he couldn’t find her anyhow.”
Mrs. Chowne sighed and added, “I was almost sorry I’d got Mr. Sandford to come.”
“Why were you sorry?”
“Because it made her hopeful and she kept on asking. Every time the telephone rang she used to ask. At first she’d say it: ‘Any news, Emma?’ and then, when the days went by and there was no news, she’d ask me with her eyes. I couldn’t bear her asking me so I’d come into her room and say quickly, ‘That was the butcher; he’s got lambs’ sweetbreads to-day so I told him to send them up. You’ll enjoy them for your dinner, won’t you?’—or whatever it happened to be.”
“Oh, dear, how sad!” said Elfrida mournfully. “If only we had known . . .”
“Would she have come, Miss Elfrida?”
“Of course she would have come if she had known her mother wanted her. She was longing to come home to Mountain Cross.”
There was a little silence. Then Mrs. Chowne took out her handkerchief and blew her nose violently. “I’m an old silly, keeping you talking till all hours and making you miserable,” she said.
*
22
Elfrida was very sleepy next morning—she was not used to late hours—but she felt better when she had had her bath and she was ready for breakfast at nine. Glen was late; he came down looking rather cross. Actors are never at their best in the morning so Elfrida was not surprised; she told him to help himself to grapefruit or bacon and eggs or whatever he would like and did not bother him. There was no sign of Patrick.
Presently Glen said, “I thought that was your room at the end of the passage, Elfie.”
“Yes, it is.”
“But you weren’t there last night. I had a touch of neuralgia and went along to see if you had some aspirin.”
“Oh, I’m sleeping downstairs just now. I’m so sorry about the neuralgia, Glen. Is it better this morning? There’s a bottle of aspirin in the bathroom cupboard. Shall I get it for you?”
“You’re sleeping downstairs?”
“With Mrs Chowne,” explained Elfrida. “Here’s your coffee, Glen. Just help yourself to sugar.”
“I don’t like sugar in my coffee. What’s the idea of sleeping with Mrs. Thingamybob?”
“Her husband had to go and see his father at Cherleigh and she’s nervous of being alone on the ground floor.”
“What an extraordinary arrangement! Couldn’t the woman have come into the house?”
“She could, I suppose,” admitted Elfrida . . . and left it at that. After all it was not Glen’s business and if he had been up and about late at night and had wandered into her room—looking for aspirin—perhaps it was just as well that she had moved downstairs to the Chownes’ flat.
At this moment Patrick appeared. He slid into his chair and said, “Sorry, Glen! I woke up early and went out to look at the sea. It was gorgeous!”
“You should apologise to your hostess for being late.”
He turned at once. “I’m sorry, Miss Ware. I didn’t mean to be late—but it really was simply gorgeous.”
“It doesn’t matter,” replied Elfrida, smiling at him. “Mrs. Chowne is keeping your breakfast hot. Do you think you could find your way to the kitchen and fetch it?”
“You bet! I can smell bacon!” cried Patrick and was off like a rocket.
He appeared a few moments later, carrying the plate very carefully. “It’s sausage and bacon and egg—gorgeous!” he said and putting it on the table fell to with a will.
“‘Gorgeous!’” said Glen irritably. “Is that the only word you know? If you use it to describe the sea it’s unsuitable for a plate of bacon and egg.”
Patrick stopped eating and looked at his father in alarm.
“What about ‘delicious’?” suggested Elfrida, smiling at the child.
“Dilishuss,” said Patrick, grinning. “Yes, that’s a good word. I’m having a dilishuss breakfast. This is a dilishuss house . . . everything here is dilishuss and——”
“Oh, shut up!” exclaimed Glen, rising and walking out of the room.
“Glen’s cross with me,” said Patrick and his lip quivered.
“I shouldn’t worry if I were you,” Elfrida told him. “People are often a little cross in the morning, especially actors like Glen.” She hesitated, looking at Patrick and wondering whether he was old enough to understand what she wanted to say—she knew so little about children—but perhaps it was worth trying. “Glen wasn’t really cross with you,” she said. “He was just cross.”
Patrick looked at her with a worried frown.
“There’s a lot of difference,” Elfrida told him. “If people are just cross you needn’t worry. It’s only when they’re cross with you that it matters. Remember that when you go with Glen to Brittany . . . and remember not to chat to him at breakfast. Now, finish up your bacon and egg before it gets cold and then we can go out. There’s a cow up at the farm—you’d like to see her, wouldn’t you?—and I’ve got some pigs too.”
“Oh, how gor— I mean how nice,” said Patrick.
Elfrida found Glen in the parlour reading the paper. He had recovered from his ill-humour and when she told him she was going to take Patrick up to the farm he said he would like to come with them.
“I’m interested in those ducks,” declared Glen, putting down the paper and rising.
“It’s pigs,” said Elfrida. “Pigs and a cow called Pansy. She’s a darling and she knows me quite well. I didn’t get ducks because there isn’t a suitable pond.”
“Oh, dear, I was looking forward to seeing the ducks!” exclaimed Glen, registering a ludicrous expression of disappointment.
Elfrida laughed. She was not surprised to find that the thunder-cloud had passed so quickly; she had spent most of her life rubbing shoulders with actors so “the artistic temperament” was nothing new. People like Glen who could move thousands to laughter or tears, people like Glen who had the Gift, were liable to blow up suddenly and explode with a resounding bang and then forget all about it. You could not judge them by ordinary standards because they were not ordinary people. Elfrida was all the more willing to make allowances for Glen because she admired him so much . . . and because she had a pretty shrewd idea what it was that had upset him.
They spent some time walking round the farm and looking at the animals. The pigs were growing bigger and fatter every day in a most satisfactory manner . . . but Glen was not really interested in pigs; he became rather bored and said he would go home and ring up his agent in London—if Elfie didn’t mind—and wandered off by himself.
Just beyond Pansy’s paddock there was a seven-acre field which originally had been part of the Mountain Cross estate but had been sold some years ago to a neighbouring farmer. It was Elfrida’s “Naboth’s Vineyard”; she always looked at it when she visited Pansy and wished that her grandfather had not sold it—or that she had enough money to buy it back! The love of land is hereditary; it was strong in Elfrida but apparently it had had no lodging in the heart of the late Mr. Ware.
Elfrida took Patrick to the gate and they stood and looked at the field. She ha
d watched the hay grow and ripen in the sunshine; she had seen it being cut; to-day she saw that the swaths of dry hay were being gathered by a machine towed by a tractor. It was a very clever machine for it picked up the loose swaths of hay and transformed them into neat bales . . . and then threw them out.
“How does it do it?” asked Patrick when they had watched the process for a minute or two.
Elfrida could not tell him; she had been wondering exactly the same thing herself.
Presently the man who was driving the tractor stopped at the gate and asked if the little lad would like a ride. He smiled kindly and added that he had a little lad of his own who liked riding on the tractor.
Patrick was charmed with the idea; he climbed up nimbly and off they went. Elfrida could see that he was enjoying himself immensely. They went round and round the field, gathering up the hay; every time they passed the gate Patrick waved joyously and Elfrida waved back.
This went on for some time and there was still a great deal of hay to be gathered and baled. Elfrida was beginning to wonder how she would be able to tear him away from the entrancing entertainment when the tractor stopped and Patrick came running back to her across the field.
“It’s Joe’s dinner-time,” he announced breathlessly. “That man is called Joe and he has four children. He said he would take me for another ride whenever I liked. He said I mustn’t tell anyone because it’s against the law.”
“Against the law?”
“That’s what he said but it’s all right if I don’t tell anyone. I like secrets, don’t you, Miss Ware?”
Elfrida did not really believe it was “against the law” but she promised to keep the secret.
All the way home Patrick prattled excitedly: he was going to be a farmer when he grew up; he was going to have pigs, and a cow just like Pansy; he was going to have a huge hayfield with lots of white daisies and blue cornflowers growing in it; he was going to have a tractor and a baler to fit on it—just like Joe.
“I thought you were going to be an actor, like Glen,” objected Elfrida. “That’s what you said last night.”
“No, I’ve changed my mind. Joe says it’s grand to be a farmer. He said if I was bigger he would take me on as a farm-hand. I wonder how big I would have to be . . .”
Elfrida listened in amusement; it was a new experience for her to be in close contact with a child. Patrick had been a little shy at first, but now quite suddenly he had become friendly; the anxious look, which had seemed so unchildlike, had completely vanished. Elfrida was pleased about this; she was even more pleased when she felt a small, hot, grubby hand slide into hers in a confiding manner.
*
23
In the afternoon Elfrida took her guests down to the bay, to her favourite nook in the shelter of the rocky promontory. It was so warm and sunny that she and Glen were able to lie on rugs and sunbathe while Patrick pottered about on the shore.
“It’s warm enough to bathe,” said Glen after a short silence.
“You’d find it pretty cold,” replied Elfrida, smiling at the idea of Glen, the hot-house plant, splashing in the sea. She added, “Besides there’s a strong back-wash at ebb-tide.”
“Please enlighten the landlubber.”
“Mr. Cobley explained it to me; he knows all about tides.” She cat up as she spoke and proceeded to draw Mr. Cobley’s diagram on the sand. “Look, Glen, here’s the promontory running out into the sea. A current flows past the entrance to our bay and when the tide is going out the current sucks the water out of the bay.”
“Why?” asked Glen, who had been following the explanation with interest.
“I don’t know why . . . but I know it does. I had a horrid experience one day when I was bathing so now I never bathe unless the tide is coming in.”
“What happened, Elfie?”
“I found I was being carried out to sea. Fortunately it was a very calm day so I managed to swim to a rock . . . if the sea had been rough I wouldn’t have had a chance.”
Glen said no more about the matter . . . and she was glad for she disliked speaking of it. She had tried hard to forget all about those horrible moments when she had struggled against the pull of the tide, but she still dreamt about it sometimes and wakened bathed in perspiration.
“Tuppence for your thoughts, Elfie,” said Glen suddenly.
“They aren’t worth the money.”
“I’ll tell you mine for nothing.”
She looked at him and saw that he was lying back with his hands behind his head . . . and was smiling at her. Glen’s smile had always charmed her; yes, “charmed” was the word. There was magic in Glen’s smile.
“I was thinking about you,” he said. “You’re a golden girl, Elfie.”
“I’m very sunburnt,” she agreed.
“Golden,” said Glen in a thoughtful voice. “Gold all over from head to foot . . . your feet are beautiful. It’s a joy to see beautiful feet! So few women have beautiful feet! No, don’t hide them under the rug; I want to look at them.”
“Patrick is—enjoying himself,” said Elfrida with a little gasp. “Look at him, Glen!”
“I don’t want to look at the little monkey; I want to look at you. There are a lot of very interesting things about you, Elfie. Perhaps the most interesting of all is the way you glow . . . it’s a sort of radiance, as if you had a light inside.”
“Nonsense, Glen!”
“It isn’t nonsense. I’m sure you would shine in the dark. We must make an experiment—a scientific experiment—and see if I’m right. We shall have to do it at night, of course. It would be no use in the day-time.”
“I don’t like scientific experiments.”
“But this would be so interesting, Elfie.”
She shook her head.
“Why not?” asked Glen. “All I want is to try a scientific experiment. What’s the harm in that?”
“It might go off with a bang,” replied Elfrida, trying to speak lightly. She had few illusions about Glen and was aware that he could no more help flirting with a reasonably good-looking young woman than he could help breathing. To Glen it was a game . . . but unfortunately this particular reasonably good-looking young woman was not an adept at the game; besides her emotions were too deeply involved. There was a curious magnetism in Glen which affected her profoundly.
The magnetism was very real, it was Glen’s chief attribute as an actor, but he had other attractions as well. There was magic in his slow lazy smile; the musical cadences of his voice had enraptured thousands; his hands were long-fingered and shapely—and he used them with easy grace. In addition to all his natural endowments Glen Siddons had cultivated an engaging manner and gave the impression that the woman to whom he happened to be speaking was the only woman in the world.
“This is a delightful place,” said Glen, after a little silence. “The house has a strong atmosphere of bygone days. This morning, when I came back from the farm, I sat in your little parlour for quite a time and I felt as if I were drifting back into the days of long ago. I could have gone back quite easily—and how interesting it would have been to see the people who used to live here!”
“I know what you mean,” said Elfrida eagerly. “I’ve felt it often. The people of long ago are quite near and friendly.”
“They were your ancestors, I suppose?”
“Yes, of course! They loved Mountain Cross and I love it too—more and more every day.”
“You’ll get tired of it, Elfie.”
“No, never!” she exclaimed. “This is my home.”
“You will,” Glen told her. “This is a marvellous place for a holiday, it’s very kind of you to have us and I’m enjoying every moment, but a week of it would be enough for me. After that I should begin to long for the bright lights of London, the stir and the bustle and the chat. I should long to be in the middle of things with something interesting going on all the time . . . even the quarrels are exhilarating! You’re out of the world here and the mere idea of settling d
own and living here for ever and ever gives me the pip . . . I couldn’t bear it!”
“Could you bear to live anywhere for ever and ever?”
“Clever Elfie!” he exclaimed, smiling at her. “No, of course I couldn’t. I’m a nomad. I’d like to be a Bedouin, riding on a camel from one oasis to another, sleeping under the stars.”
“For ever and ever?”
“Well, perhaps not,” he admitted. “One might get bored with the desert after a bit. Do you think I’d make a good Bedouin sheik?”
She looked at him critically . . . not that she knew much about Bedouins except that they had dark hair and hawk-like eyes.
He was laughing. “Oh, I shall have to be made up a good deal, but that won’t be difficult——”
“Oh. Glen!” she cried. “Are you going to play the part of a Bedouin sheik? How exciting! When and where? Do tell me about it!”
“My dear Elfie, you do jump to conclusions, don’t you? I said I’d like to be a Bedouin, riding on a camel and sleeping under the stars . . . and I added that I should have to be made up a good deal to play the part. If you thought for a moment you would realise that a Bedouin sheik isn’t my line of country.”
“No, of course it isn’t,” she agreed. She saw now that she had been rather silly; Glen’s line of country was to play the part of a prince of romance. “You were wonderful in The Beggar King,” she added. “I wish you could find another play like that.”
“I’m tired,” declared Glen. “What I want is a nice long holiday. That wretched Motor Car took a lot out of me; we rehearsed it for weeks and then, after all the trouble, the damn’ thing was a flop. Clarissa is an absolute wreck—you found it exhausting, yourself!—so what about me? I had the heaviest part of the burden.”
“Oh, I know!” she exclaimed. “I used to feel sorry for you, Glen. You deserve a long holiday . . . besides you promised Patrick to take him to Brittany.”
Glen nodded. “I haven’t seen much of the child; I’ve been too busy—and you can’t drag a child about all over the place when you’re working—but it’s time we got to know each other better.”
“Yes, of course.”
The House on the Cliff Page 15