The House on the Cliff

by D. E. Stevenson

  As she got into Judy’s bed, and snuggled down thankfully, Elfrida reviewed the events of the day and was surprised to discover that she had not enjoyed the outing with Glen as much as she had expected.

  *

  25

  The south-westerly wind had blown all night but the sound of it had not disturbed Elfrida, for the Chownes’ quarters were situated at the east end of the house and therefore were much more sheltered than her own room. This was the third night she had spent in Judy’s bed and now all her daily requirements had been moved downstairs, so she had her bath in the Chownes’ bathroom and was fully dressed when she emerged from the red baize door.

  Glen was coming downstairs and they met in the hall. “Still sleeping with the Chownes, Elfie?” he inquired, raising his eyebrows. “They must be more attractive than they look.”

  “My room is so noisy in a west wind,” she replied. This was perfectly true but all the same she felt herself blushing.

  Patrick was waiting for them in the dining-room; he was standing at the table with a postcard in his hand. He looked up, smiling cheerfully and said good morning. Already, after three days at Mountain Cross, he was beginning to look less pinched and there was a little colour in his thin cheeks.

  “Hallo, Jackol Has one of your pals sent you a card?” asked Glen.

  “It’s for Miss Ware,” replied Patrick, putting it down on the table. “It’s a picture of people sunbathing in Spain. It looks a gorgeous place.”

  “You took Miss Ware’s card—and read it?”

  “Not read it, exactly. I was just looking at the picture.”

  “You must have read it, or you wouldn’t have known it was for Miss Ware. I suppose it’s too much to ask that my son should behave like a gentleman?”

  Patrick looked at his father anxiously.

  “Gentlemen are not in the habit of examining other people’s correspondence,” explained Glen.

  “I wasn’t . . .” began the child in a trembling voice.

  “You were examining the card, weren’t you?”

  “I was just . . . just looking at the p-picture. Such a lovely bright p-picture of people sitting on the shore and . . . and flowers. Besides it’s just . . . just a postcard. I mean the p-postman . . . or anyone . . . could read it.”

  “You are not a postman.”

  “No, but I mean . . .”

  “You are my son and therefore you are expected to behave in a manner befitting a gentleman.”

  Elfrida had been silent, she had felt it was not her business to interfere, but the child had become as white as a ghost and the agonised look on his face was more than she could bear. “It’s all right, Glen,” she said quickly. “He was just looking at the picture. The card is from Dolly—you told me she was in Spain, didn’t you? She just says she’s having a wonderful time, that’s all.”

  Elfrida held out the card to Glen, but he waved it away.

  “Please accept my apologies, Elfrida,” he said formally. “I shall not ask the boy to apologise, because——”

  “Of course not!” cried Elfrida. “There’s no need for any apologies.”

  “I was about to say because it is my fault. Yes, my fault for not having seen that the child was being properly brought up. My only excuse is that I am a widower, Elfrida. The child has never known a mother’s care.”

  “It’s all right,” she repeated breathlessly. “Please, Glen——”

  “It is very far from ‘all right.’ My son has put me to shame.”

  Patrick burst into tears and blundered out of the room.

  “Oh, Glen!” cried Elfrida. “Oh, Glen, how could you! He’s only a child! You’ve upset him dreadfully.”

  “He has upset me dreadfully.”

  “What nonsense! He was doing no harm——”

  “He has upset me—dreadfully,” repeated Glen with a heavy sigh. “I feel quite shattered.”

  “Really, Glen, you’re making——”

  “Quite shattered . . . but I shall have to pull myself together and deal with the matter as calmly as I can. The child must be punished, of course. I shall have to——”

  “Glen, you mustn’t! Patrick has been punished enough already—far too heavily punished! Didn’t you see his poor little face? It was tragic.”

  Glen hesitated.

  “It was tragic,” she repeated. “He was heartbroken. Oh, how could you be so cruel!”

  “But Elfrida, he must learn——”

  “No!” she cried. “I shall never forgive you if you say another word about it.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  “Oh, well,” said Glen. “If you put it like that . . .” He threw out his hands in a gesture of renunciation and sank gracefully into a chair.

  “Promise me,” said Elfrida earnestly. “Promise me that you won’t say another word about it.”

  “I promise,” he murmured in a trembling voice. “Yes, I give you my solemn promise.”

  *

  Elfrida left him, sitting at the table in a dejected pose, and hurried upstairs to find Patrick. He was lying on his bed with his face buried in the pillow, weeping bitterly.

  “Oh, Patrick!” exclaimed Elfrida. “Patrick, darling, don’t cry like that!”

  “Glen was angry,” croaked the muffled voice. “He said . . . he said he was . . . ashamed of me.”

  She hesitated, wondering how to deal with this; then she sat down beside him on the bed and took his hand.

  “Patrick, listen! It was all a mistake,” she said.

  “I didn’t mean to be naughty,” he wailed. “I didn’t—really. I didn’t know . . . it was naughty to—to look at the p-picture.”

  “It was a mistake,” repeated Elfrida.

  “What was . . . a mistake?”

  “Glen didn’t understand. He thought you had read the postcard, but——”

  “I didn’t!”

  “I know. You were just looking at the picture, that’s all. I explained it to Glen and he understands.”

  “He’s angry—with me,” sobbed Patrick. “He’s t-terribly angry. You said—you said it didn’t matter—if people were cross—as long as they weren’t—cross with me. Glen’s angry—with me.”

  “Not now,” declared Elfrida earnestly. “He isn’t angry with you, Patrick. He isn’t angry at all. I explained it to him so he understands.” She gave his hot little hand a firm squeeze and added, “It’s all right, now, Patrick. It’s all over, Glen isn’t angry any more.”

  It was some time before she could get him quietened—but she repeated the same words over and over again; it had all been a mistake; she had explained it to Glen and he had understood; he wasn’t angry any more; it was all right now.

  At last the storm of tears was over. Patrick sat up and let her hug him and dry his eyes. She sat on the bed, holding the child in her arms and stroking his hair. (How thin he was! Elfrida could feel every bone in his little body! She wondered if that woman had given him enough to eat!) Then she helped him to sponge his face in tepid water and they came downstairs hand in hand.

  Fortunately Glen had finished his breakfast and gone away so they sat down at the table together. Neither of them wanted much to eat but Mrs. Chowne heated up the coffee and brought in a rack of fresh toast. She looked at the child compassionately but Elfrida signed to her not to speak.

  The storm had upset Elfrida almost as badly as Patrick—but for a different reason. She had realised that Glen was a fraud.

  Elfrida had known that Glen was an actor—and not only an actor when he was on the stage—there was studied grace in his every gesture and in every pose of his body, but this had been part of his charm. There had been nothing charming in the scene which had taken place this morning!

  That was what it was, thought Elfrida. It was a scene. She had known at the time that it was not real; she had known all the time that Glen was not in the least distressed . . . and now, looking back and thinking about it, she realised that he had been revelling in his own perf
ormance, a performance in which the incomparable Glen Siddons was a widowed father “dreadfully upset” over the behaviour of his motherless son. It was a performance which would have brought lumps to the throats of his fans—how they would have enjoyed it!—but Elfrida had been one of the actors in the scene and had not enjoyed it. In fact she was of the opinion that the incomparable Glen Siddons had overplayed his part.

  Patrick, the third actor in the scene, had certainly not enjoyed it. He had been sacrificed . . . yes, sacrificed was the word. It was cruel; it was a wicked thing to have rent the heart of a little boy! Let Glen put on his performances for grown-up people, thought Elfrida, as she glanced at Patrick’s puffy face and swollen eyes and watched him trying to swallow a piece of toast.

  She discovered, when she tried to pour out a cup of coffee, that her hand was shaking with rage.

  Goodness! she thought. I must try to calm down. For Patrick’s sake I must put the whole thing out of my mind and behave as if nothing had happened. The performance is over . . . Glen has probably forgotten all about it.

  Two cups of strong hot coffee helped to steady her nerves and presently she got up from the table and went in search of Glen.

  *

  Elfrida found Glen in the parlour, sitting at Mrs. Ware’s bureau in the window, writing a letter. She saw at once that she had been correct in her surmise; he had forgotten all about it.

  He looked up with his usual charming smile. “I hope you don’t mind, Elfie. I ought to have asked your permission . . . but I didn’t know where you’d gone and I want to get this letter off by the midday post if possible. I found some writing-paper in the desk but there aren’t any envelopes.”

  “I’ll get you some envelopes,” said Elfrida. “If you want your letter to catch the post to London I can send Chowne over to Cherleigh on his bicycle. It’s no good posting it here.”

  “We can go in the car,” said Glen. “It will be a nice run—we can take Jacko with us—and I want some petrol.”

  Elfrida hesitated. Could she bear to spend the morning sitting beside Glen in his car? And what about Patrick?

  “Don’t you want to come?” asked Glen in surprise.

  “I really ought to go up to the farm this morning,” she replied. “I’ll take Patrick with me, if you don’t mind. He likes seeing the pigs.”

  “Goodness, Elfie!” exclaimed Glen, laughing. “Don’t look so tragic about it! You can do as you like, of course. I’ll nip over to Cherleigh myself.”

  *

  26

  Glen had said he disliked picnics, but it was such a fine sunny afternoon that Elfrida managed to persuade him to have tea on the beach. Patrick was delighted, of course; he had asked several times if they could have a picnic. Burdened with rugs and vacuum flasks, and a basketful of cakes and sandwiches, they made their way down the cliff-path and stood for a minute or two watching the waves.

  The south-west wind had been blowing for two days and nights so the waves were coming in from the Atlantic in long green rollers, hurling themselves upon the rocks of the promontory and throwing up clouds of spray, they were rolling into the bay and breaking into foam on the steeply-shelving beach.

  “It’s a fine sight,” said Glen. “But it will be too windy to have tea on the beach.”

  “It won’t be windy in the sheltered corner,” Elfrida replied, leading the way to her favourite nook.

  They spread the rugs and sat down. It was not warm enough for sunbathing to-day but all the same it was very pleasant; even Glen did not complain. He began to talk, reminding Elfrida that she had promised to throw a party so that he could meet her neighbours and suggesting that she should ring them up to-night after dinner and fix a day.

  Elfrida had not promised to throw a party and was even less pleased with the idea than before. She said, “Quite honestly, Glen, I couldn’t afford it. I told you I wouldn’t have much money, didn’t I?”

  “We’ll have a cocktail party,” said Glen cheerfully. “I’ll provide the drink . . . you needn’t worry about anything. All you’ve got to do is ring up your pals.”

  “It’s very kind of you . . . I’ll think about it,” she told him.

  “Think about it soon,” he said. “I shall have to be on the move one of these days.”

  Elfrida unpacked the basket and poured out tea. She was glad to see that Patrick had quite recovered from the “scene” and was natural and cheerful. Unfortunately Elfrida had not recovered; she felt neither natural nor cheerful. Quite suddenly her eyes had been opened and she saw Glen Siddons clearly . . . there was no more magic in him as far as she was concerned. His manly beauty and grace—the very charms which had attracted her—were exposed as fraudulent, and repelled her so forcibly that she could scarcely bear to be near him.

  “You were right, Elfie,” said Glen as he helped himself to a sandwich. “This is really delightful. Oh, how wonderful to be able to rest in peace with no sound except the splash of the waves! No rehearsals, no worries, no arguments, no leading lady getting into tantrums and clamouring for limelight!”

  “I thought you enjoyed all that sort of thing,” said Elfrida coldly.

  “You misunderstood me,” said Glen plaintively. “I don’t enjoy it, Elfie. It’s my métier. One has to work, you see. No work, no bread and butter! But I often wish I had chosen a different trade. One gets so tired of it all, so tired of being ‘on the stage’ all the time . . . there’s no privacy for Glen Siddons. You saw that yesterday when we were having lunch at the hotel, didn’t you, Elfie? Instead of the quiet, peaceful meal we had planned I was besieged by people . . . people asking silly questions, children producing autograph books and clamouring for my signature!” He sighed and added, “Here, in these beautiful peaceful surroundings I can relax and be myself.”

  But he was not being himself, thought Elfrida. He was playing the part of a leading actor relaxing and being himself.

  Patrick had been silent, eating steadily, but now he could eat no more. He said suddenly, “Can I take off my shoes and socks? I want to paddle, Glen.”

  “Go ahead, old chap,” said Glen lazily.

  “Glen, he mustn’t paddle!” exclaimed Elfrida. “The tide has turned and the beach shelves very steeply. We’ll come down in the morning if he wants to paddle.”

  “It won’t hurt him if he falls in and gets a wetting; one shouldn’t keep children in cotton-wool.”

  “It’s dangerous—really!”

  “Oh, well, it’s for you to say. Come on, Jacko, your aged father will help you build a sand-castle—the biggest ever!” Glen rose and added, “Or we can play ‘retrievers’.”

  “What’s retrievers?”

  “It’s a game I used to play when I was your age.”

  “Yes, but what is it?”

  “What a lot of things you don’t know! Never mind, Jacko! Someday I’ll give you a dog of your very own; a retriever with long ears and a silky coat. You’ll have to train him to run after a ball and fetch it back to you.”

  “When can I have him?” asked Patrick eagerly.

  “Someday . . . when my ship comes home,” replied Glen, laughing. “Meanwhile we’ll build a great big sand-castle. Where’s your spade?”

  They went off together and began to build a sand-castle; Elfrida watched them for a few minutes—Patrick digging industriously and Glen looking on—then she lay back and rested. She felt tired and miserable; it is not a happy experience to see an idol, lying broken at one’s feet.

  Why have I begun to think that everything Glen does is acting? thought Elfrida, as she lay and looked up at the sky. Isn’t there anything real about Glen? He was acting that frightful scene this morning; he’s acting now—acting the part of a father playing on the beach with his son—he was acting a few minutes ago when he pretended he was tired of being Glen Siddons . . . as for yesterday, at the hotel, it was nonsense to say he was “besieged by people”; he walked the whole length of the room and thrust himself upon that wedding-party! They were pleased, of course, t
hey welcomed him and surrendered to his charm . . . as everyone does.

  One thought led to another. Elfrida decided quite definitely that she would not ask her neighbours “to meet Glen Siddons.” Her neighbours might like him—or might not!—but she would know that his beautiful manners were insincere; it would be just another performance by the incomparable Glen Siddons and she would not be able to bear it. Somehow or other she must make Glen understand that there was to be no party at Mountain Cross.

  He can’t make me do it, thought Elfrida, setting her mouth in a firm line.

  Having reached this decision, she sat up to see how the sand-castle was getting on. She hoped Glen was taking his turn at digging; it was too hot and exhausting for the child.

  There was little sign of a sand-castle; the work had been abandoned and Glen and Patrick had gone down to the edge of the sea.

  At first Elfrida could not make out what they were doing but when she shaded her eyes from the glare she realised that they were playing “retrievers.” Glen was throwing sticks into the sea and Patrick was dodging between the waves and “fetching” them.

  It was a foolish game—foolish and dangerous!—she leapt to her feet and shouted, but they were so near the sea that the sound of the waves drowned her voice. She had begun to run down the beach to warn them when she saw it happen . . . Glen threw a stick farther into the sea and the boy hesitated.

  “Go on, Jacko! Fetch it, good dog!” cried Glen, waving his arms and laughing excitedly.

  Patrick dashed after the stick, seized it and turned . . . he was too late. The wave broke over his head and knocked him down; the backwash swept him seawards; he rolled over and over and disappeared from view.

  Elfrida ran, as she had never run before, down the beach and straight into the sea. A huge wave curled over her head . . . she saw the child’s leg and seized hold of his ankle. The next moment she was engulfed in broken swirling water, lifted up like a cork and flung face downwards on the pebbles.

  The wave retreated, the backwash tore at her—it was terrifying! Her clothes, wet and clinging, held her down; the pebbles were sucked from beneath her with a loud rattling noise—she was deafened and blinded, gasping for breath—she felt herself slipping backwards, pulled backwards by an irresistible force.