by Sara Seale
"The question of salary never entered my head," she managed to say with comparative calmness. "I would have
willingly stayed for less than you're paying me if I thought it was right."
"What do you mean by right?" he countered with bitter sarcasm. "Right to prefer the comforts of a home to the cheese-paring shoddiness of a cheap hostel, despite the fact that your employer and his household may be uncongenial to you?"
"You don't understand," she said helplessly. "There's nothing personal in this."
"Isn't there?" he said grimly, and the look he gave her suddenly stripped down the barrier she had instinctively built up between them, because all along she had subconsciously known that she might not continue to be indifferent to Pendragon.
"I expect you would like me to leave as soon as possible," she said and, at the note of defeat in her voice, he looked at her more closely, seeing the whiteness of her face and the exaggerated proportions of her widely stretched eyes. She was only nineteen, he thought impatiently, a child, when all was said and done, not a great deal older than Doone of whom no one expected adult reasoning.
"Not at all," he replied more gently. "I expect you to keep to the letter of our agreement and stay until the end of your month. If I sent you away now I would be breaking my bond, wouldn't I?"
"Does a week make much difference?" she asked, too tired after the scenes and upsets of the day to respond to the kindlier note in his voice.
"A contract is a contract. When it has run out we can talk again," he replied, and she pushed the hair back from her face with a weary gesture.
"Very well," she said. "I'll say again I'm sorry, Pendragon. I—I had never meant to be the cause of all this upset."
"Very likely not—but think twice another time. Goodnight," he said, suddenly dismissing the whole affair.
She was glad the following day that Doone was confined to her bed which necessitated the sharing of her spare time and even of meals. It was a relief not to have to sit at table with the rest of the family, and when Pendragon came to see his half-sister, she slipped into the schoolroom
and left them together. He did not, however, repeat the visit, and Emma informed Alice that he thought it best to keep away for a time.
"Don't take it too hard," she said, observing the girl's distressed face. "We're all of us used to these times. It's a big house so we can keep out of each other's way. The pity of it is Pendragon bears the brunt. Keverne, of course, doesn't care one way or the other."
Even Mrs. Biddle, when she came with fresh linen for Alice's room, added her reassurance to Emma's.
"There's no cause to fret, m'dear," she said with her burring west country lilt. "The little maid's properly better since you came to Polrame. Doctor says 'tes nothing but tantrums makes her poorly, but there, Pendragon never would see it, blaming himself for the accident."
"What happened?" Alice asked, puzzled by the half-truths which no one would bring into the light.
"Why, 'twas on account of that great shark they've got stuffed in the day -room," the woman said, plumping up pillows with energy. "Pendragon and Mr. Keverne took Miss Trelawny and Doone with them in the boat and there was a rare old tussle with the little old shark which was one of the biggest caught in these parts, and some say 'twas Pendragon's wish to bring 'un in that caused the trouble."
"How?"
"Well, there's danger in shark-fishing, see? You'm strapped in a kind of harness and if you take passengers they must do as they're told. Well, Doone being high spirited-like, wouldn't listen and nearly upset the boat so I believe, and then they all was swamped and the shark fighting fit to drown 'un, and Mr. Keverne shouting to put back to land but Pendragon wouldn't, so they say. Well, of course a wetting doesn't hurt no one when 'tes sea-water, but Doone had hit her head on summat and was lying in all the wet, half mazed, and it took a long time to bring that fish in. Some say if Pendragon had agreed to cut the line they'd have been home in half the time, but there—who's to think of things like rheumatic fever when there's a prize like that to be brought in?"
"So Pendragon blames himself," said Alice slowly, and Mrs. Biddle slapped on the clean sheets with cheerful gusto.
"Well, 'tes natural, I suppose. Pendragon isn't selfish like they other two, for all his hard ways. No one talks about it now, and Doone don't remember much."
"I think she does," said Alice. "I think she bears him a great grudge."
"Never! Her were mazed most of the time from that bang on the head. How would her know?"
"Then someone's been talking to her," said Alice shrewdly and the woman reddened.
" 'Tweren't me, Miss Alice," she said decisively. "Us were given our orders. Pendragon didn't want the child remembering a frightening experience."
"But you do gossip to her about the family," said Alice gently.
"Only what she knows already," the woman said uncomfortably, "and Cornish legends and such-like that you ask about yourself. Did I ever tell you how St. Mewan once killed a dragon?"
"The saint the village takes its name from?" asked Alice, diverted as easily as Doone would have been. Legends of all kinds fascinated her, just as the old fairy-tales did.
"Ay. 'Tes said in these parts that 'twas really a Pendragon was killed, and out of that the legend grew and the place got its name, but I don't know about that. They was a wild lot, the Pendragons, in the days of the tinners and before, so I shouldn't wonder if 'twasn't true."
"Such strange names . . . Keir . . . Keverne . . . Merryn . . ." Alice mused, her mind still half-occupied with the story of the mako.
"All Cornish saints," said Mrs. Biddle with pride. "Leastways, I'm told Pendragon's name is from the Welsh, but I don't doubt the Welsh have their saints, too, heathens though they may be. Now m'dear, you forget what I've told you about that accident — maybe I've got it wrong. Pendragon's an upright man, and a just one. 'Tes Mr. Keverne who don't care about nothing, and, of course, the little maid worships 'e for it."
No, thought Alice, when the younger Pendragon looked in later to see Doone, Keverne did not care about any-
one and that was his strength. She watched with sadness the ease with which he charmed the child into laughter and admiration and felt uncomfortable when she found his bold eyes were watching her with a hint of malice.
"Well, Alice-where-art-thou, I understand you've had a taste of the rough side of Pendragon's tongue at last," he said. "He can fairly tear strips off you when he gets going, can't he?"
"What's that? Has the Dragon been bullying my Alice?" shouted Doone excitedly and Alice replied quickly, frowning at Keverne:
"Of course not. He was naturally upset on your account, and I just explained, that's all." She had purposely kept all mention of her unpleasant interview with Pendragon from Doone, not wishing to add any more to the child's resentment for her half-brother, but Keverne grinned wickedly.
"I bet you did a lot of explaining!" he laughed. "Who christened our revered head of the house the Dragon?"
"She did!" said Doone, sounding pleased. "Don't you think it was clever of her?"
"Oh, very clever! Does he know?"
"Of course not," said Alice uncomfortably. "It was just a silly joke and Doone's not supposed to keep it up."
"Like the Zombies," said Doone. "But Alice isn't a bit like a Zombie, is she, Keverne?"
"H'm . . . time will tell," he said with a wink at Alice. "Did you know Trelawny's back, Doone?"
"Trelawny . . ." The child repeated the name with slow surprise and Alice, for no known reason, experienced an illogical sense of uneasiness.
"Trelawny!" Doone exclaimed again, and this time with excitement. "Does Pendragon know?"
"By now, I imagine. It's all over St. Mewan."
"But when — how — where is she living?"
"In the old home, I believe. Got tired of her travels, so I'm told, and wants to settle down."
"Alone?"
"Ah, well, as to that, my chicken, who can tell? But Trelawny was neve
r the gal to enjoy her own company for long."
"Then Pendragon will get her, and it should have been you . . . it's always Pendragon who gets everything . . ." said Doone and began to cry.
Alice got up to soothe her and turned an exasperated face to Keverne.
"You'd better go now," she said severely. "You must have known she's supposed to be kept very quiet for a day or two. What did you want to go and upset her for?"
"How was I to know the mention of our beautiful cousin would upset her?" he drawled. "I thought the news would cheer her up."
"Did you?" said Alice, her eyes suddenly very green and clear.
He shrugged indifferently as he got to his feet, and stood grinning at her.
"What do you know about Trelawny?" he asked a little mockingly.
"Nothing."
"No? What green eyes you have, grandmama — you might have the makings of a pretty wench, yet, Alice-in-Wonderland. Be seeing you!" he observed with cheerful insolence and lounged out of the room.
The week perhaps because she knew it might be her last, seemed unusually trying. Keverne still pursued his efforts to embarrass her, Doone was inordinately demanding, and Pendragon, himself, appeared distant and exacting. Only Emma and, perhaps, Merryn because his interest affected, and in the Sunday, after a gale had reminded seemed centred entirely in his aquarium, seemed un-them all that the spring had not, as yet, come to stay, Trelawny arrived among them, bringing that sense of unrest which Alice was always to associate with her.
They were all out on the terrace in front of the house before the luncheon hour, inspecting the bits of rock and seaweed which had been hurled there by the storm. Doone was in her wheel-chair having been pushed round the grounds by Alice, acompanied by Emma with the baby in its pram, which happening always put the child into a bad humor.
"Pushed about like that dumb, helpless infant!" she was complaining to her brother who, with Keir, had come
round a corner of the house, the greyhounds at their heels.
The baby, as if indignant at being labelled dumb, let out a yell and Keir said good-temperedly:
"Well, you don't need to be pushed, so Mackinnon tells me. You could quite well walk and save Alice the effort of pushing the chair."
"There you go, putting me in the wrong," Doone grumbled at once. "You are the one, Pendragon, who insisted on the chair and all the other things I mustn't do."
"Well, perhaps I was wrong," he replied equably. "I think you can do far more than you'd have us believe, don't you, Alice?"
"Yes," said Alice, wishing she could tell him not to make an issue out of this at a moment when the child was merely seeking an excuse to provoke a scene, and for once she was grateful to Keverne for creating a diversion by demanding irritably that his wife should stop the baby howling.
Emma picked her son up and rocked him into quietness, her face above his, calm and oblivious to the bickerings of the others, and at that moment they heard a shout from the garden and Alice saw the tall figure of a girl crossing the lawn, her body braced in a graceful curve to the leash against which a brace of greyhounds strained as they bounded forward.
"Well, well ... if it isn't Trelawny!" murmured Keverne softly and went to meet her.
Alice saw Emma stiffen as she held the baby to her breast, and saw, too, the watchful stillness of Pendragon who remained where he was and waited. The greyhounds, Bryn and Buckie, had followed Keverne and all at once a fight started. It seemed to Alice that there was a murderous melee of lean twisting flanks and snapping teeth and a cacophony of noise that started the baby yelling again, him yelping across the lawn, and the girl, with a deft Keverne gave the black and white dog a kick that sent twist, released the slip-collar of one of her dogs which ran to join the craven Buckie, then stood, watching the remaining two fight.
"Go on, Dusty!" she cried. "Let him have it!" At the
same time, Keverne was urging on Bryn and Alice stood appalled by the complete lack of human intervention. Even Doone was sitting up in her chair, her cheeks scarlet, cheering on the Polrame dog.
"Why doesn't someone stop them!" Alice cried, her knees beginning to shake as they always did when she saw two dogs fighting, then, unable to bear it any longer, she began to run across the drive to the lawn. Before she could reach the snarling combatants, however, a steel grip wrenched at her shoulder, almost pulling her over.
"Get back, you little fool!" Keir exclaimed furiously. "Do you want to get bitten for your pains?"
He pushed past her and, in a moment, he was in the centre of the fight, grasping a dog by the scruff in each hand, shouting at his half-brother, to come and help. Alice, from where she stood, could see now the savage beauty of Trelawny's face, so like Doone's, the excitement in her eyes as she watched Pendragon struggling with the animals. It seemed an age before Keverne stepped forward unhurriedly and seized Bryn, holding him long enough for Keir to release the other dog's grip on his throat.
"Take him into the house and shut him up," Keir ordered, at the same time snatching the leash from the girl's hand and looping it round his captive's neck in a throttling hold.
"Spoling sport, as usual?" Keverne observed, looking like a boy cheated of his fun, but he walked back to the house, nevertheless, dragging the reluctant Bryn after him.
"Well, Trelawny, you haven't changed, I see," Keir said to his cousin and stood, looking her up and down, unmindful of Alice still standing helplessly a few feet away.
"Neither have you, Pendragon," Trelawny answered coolly. "Keverne would have let them fight it out to a finish."
"Apart from the fact that I dislike witnessing unnecessary suffering, I'm not prepared to lose my best dog to make a Roman holiday for you and Keverne," he replied as coolly, and Alice could feel the antagonism between them as if it were a tangible thing.
"Perhaps not, on consideration," she said quite seriously. I want to mate my bitch with one of yours, when the
time comes — not Buckie, he's craven. That was the bitch — the one I released. She's a marvellous courser."
"Is that all you came over to see me about after nearly two years?"
"It was as good a reason as any other. I knew I'd find you all at home on a Sunday morning. Who's that?"
She had become aware of Alice who, lost once more in amazement at the extraordinary relationship which seemed to exist between all these Pendragons, had forgotten to move away tactfully.
"That," Keir replied in unruffled tones, "is Miss Alice Brown who, most ill-advisedly, was about to rush into the fray. She looks after Doone and has no very great opinion of Pendragon standards."
"Oh, another Zombie," Trelawn said, losing interest. "Well, Keir, aren't you going to ask me to stop for lunch?"
"Naturally," he answered smoothly, and as he handed the now quiescent dog back into his cousin's keeping, Alice gave a little exclamation of distress.
"You've been bitten!" she cried, and he inspected his hand on which a jagged gash was beginning to bleed profusely.
"So I have," he said. "I hope your brute's teeth are clean, Trelawny."
"It was probably Bryn who bit you," Trelawny said aggressively and Alice suddenly lost patience.
"Oh, be quiet, the pair of you!" she exclaimed, forgetting, in her exasperation with them, that she was addressing Pendragon. "You ought to be ashamed of yourselves carrying on like — like a couple of children! Let me look at that wound, please, Pendragon."
He held out his hand meekly, his eyebrows lifting a little at the corners, and Trelawny, her attention caught anew, ran her eyes slowly over Alice, registering the details of the slight, immature figure, of the fair hear reflecting the pale sunshine of the March morning as she bent over Keir's hand to inspect the wound.
"Come into the house and I'll dress it for you. It probably ought to be stitched," Alice said, and Trelawny laughed.
"And can you accomplish that, too, Miss Brown?" she said, with an echo of Keverne's drawl.
"No, but I've learnt first-aid," Alice re
plied, taking the remark literally. "Please come in now, Pendragon, and let me attend to you."
"And you'll tell me to be quiet if I yell when you hurt me, I suppose," he said and she glanced at him a little anxiously, then saw that he was smiling.
They walked back to the house, all three together, and Buckie and the bitch followed at a distance.
"Shut your two in the stable during lunch, please, Trelawny. We don't want another fight in the house," Keir said, and then they were beside Doone who was struggling out of her chair to greet Trelawny, her eyes growing round at the sight of the blood trickling from her half-brother's hand.
Alice glanced at her quickly, wondering whether the upset would bring on an attack, but Doone's cheeks were pink with pleasure and her eyes brilliant with interest. It was, Alice realized, not for the first time, only the forced excitements of her own making which ended in the tantrums which were supposed to be bad for her.
"Hullo, Trelawny — do you think I've grown?" she said, stretching on her toes to make herself tall.
"About a foot," Trelawny replied, touching the child's cheek with a careless caress. "Are you better?"
"Yes. Wasn't it a grand fight? Pendragon would have to spoil it all by stopping them."
"And got badly bitten for his trouble. Don't be such a little show-off, Doone," said Alice sharply.
"Serve him right!" answered Doone, grinning at Trelawny, and Keir remarked unexpectedly:
"Shut up, Doone! Your delight in any misfortune that might befall me is becoming rather overdone."
It was so unusual for him to speak sharply to the child that Alice glanced at him quickly and became aware at once that he was in some considerable pain as a result of the bite.
"Come on. I'm going to get you fixed up — and with a strong drink, too," she said, adding firmly: "And after lunch, I shall ring up Dr. Mackinnon."
"Well!" she heard Trelawny observe as they went into the house. "You do seem to have got yourself a possessive