Inheritors

by Неизвестный

  So he turned to Harriet with the exigence of a man protecting his last illusion, his last spark of an excuse for living and suffering.

  Harriet would have nothing to do with him. Though he knew he was in the right he begged her to forgive him. He begged abjectly, like a lover, but Harriet had his own iron in her heart. He complained of pains over his sound eye and pretended to be sick, but she took no notice.

  “You don't care for your father any more?”

  “After what you've done to me, and to Larry, and to James?”

  “It's not what I've done to Larry and James, it's what Cash, the swine, has done to you.”

  “He's done nothing.”

  “Don't tell me, girl. He must have. To love a man like that—it's incredible!”

  “A man like that! He'd've protected me from you.”

  Cabell laughed wildly. “Him protect you! He couldn't protect himself. Look at that.” He pushed the paper in front of her and pointed at a splash of headlines. “The Queensland Incorporated Bank's bust. All his money was in it. D'you understand? He's a pauper. He couldn't buy you a loaf of bread.”

  Harriet looked at him. “But how could he lose his money? Weren't you to look after it?”

  “Yes, yes,” he muttered, turning from her eyes, “but accidents happen.”

  Chapter Nine: He Loves Me; He Loves Me Not

  Her father had ruined Cash: Harriet was sure of it. But for the moment she was less concerned with the cause of the calamity than with the awful fact that Cash was penniless. What would become of him? She thought at once of the twenty-five thousand pounds. He must take that back now, but how was she to tell him so? Apart from the insurmountable difficulty of writing and sending off a letter under Miss Montaulk's eye, where should a letter be sent? She looked at the map. Months might pass before he touched at one of those little pinpricks of land on the blue waste and learn what had happened. She guessed how he would take it, not very tragically, and she guessed, too, that he would not return to Australia. He would fear the very thing she wanted to do. He had given her the money for a special purpose and nothing would persuade him to take it back. Writing letters, she admitted on second thoughts, would be a waste of time. There was nothing left for her except to spend her compassion on the picture of a victimized, and therefore still more lovable Cash.

  Cabell hung round the house for a week complaining of pains over his eye, trying to wring some sympathy from her, but Harriet hardened her heart, refused to go to meals, and finally locked herself in her room with a vague idea of forcing him to make up some of the damage he had done to Cash. Heavily he took himself off to Waterfall again.

  The day after he left Geoffrey came up from Brisbane. The collapse of the Investment Corporation and its bank had mercifully relieved him of a job, and the flood had interfered with his more serious activities around Frogs' Hollow, so he returned to the Reach for a spell. Also, he had an end in view.

  “I say, Sis, heard about Cash?”

  “Heard what?”

  “He's ruined.”

  “Oh, Father did say something.”

  Geoffrey looked at her slyly. “Did he tell you how?” “Some bank closed up.”

  “But the old man didn't have any spondulicks in it to lose. He saw it coming, didn't he? And yet he was Cash's trustee!” He winked. “I say, Sis, you know what they reckon down in Brisbane? That it was the old man who put the kibosh on him.”

  “He says it was an accident.”

  “HE says.” Geoffrey sniffed at her simplicity. “Then why aren't they on speaking terms?”

  “They were. Till Cash went away.”

  Geoffrey thumbed his arm-holes and rocked on his heels. “D'you want me to tell you something, Sis—something that will make your little maiden heart go pit-a-pat?”

  Excitement tightened Harriet's throat. She could hardly say “What?” “Cash didn't go away.”

  “Oh, but. . . are you sure?”

  Geoffrey grinned as he watched the colour rise in his sister's face. “So the yarn going round Brisbane IS true, is it?”

  “About Cash?”

  “About Cash and the old man and you.”

  “What do they say?”

  “What do you expect them to say when a girl nurses a fellow for three months (a fellow who wants to knock off blokes' heads in pubs for talking about her, mind you), and then he makes her a present of twentyfive thousand quid and her old man turns round and does him out of all his dough?”

  Harriet's face burnt. “I don't know what they say, but it's a lie if it's. . . that.”

  “No need to try and pull my leg, Sis,” Geoffrey reassured her. “I'm a man of the world. I understand.” He strutted round the room and stopped in front of her with a sympathetic look. “I always liked you, Sis, and did you a good turn more than once, didn't I? I might be able to do you another some day. By the way, did he really give you twenty-five thousand quid?”

  Harriet was impatient to know what Geoffrey meant by saying that Cash had never gone away, but she knew better than to put a high price on the information by asking outright. “Yes, yes,” she said, “he did. Before he sailed he gave Father some shares in Waterfall for me.”

  “Oh, shares. Not dough. And the old man's got them.” Geoffrey screwed up his nose. “That's different. I thought if you had all that dough lying around you might like me to invest a few hundred for you. I know a dead cert down Randwick for next month. Don't expect you'd tap the old man. . .?”

  “No.”

  “There,” Geoffrey said indignantly. “That's all the thanks a bloke gets. Well, you wait till the next time you ask me. . .”

  “I've got my jewels,” Harriet said to placate him. “Perhaps if you wanted it badly. . .”

  “You can keep them. There's not a pop-shop open in Brisbane and Cash hasn't got a bean. The other night in the Royal he couldn't lend me a fiver.”

  “Oh, then he's at the Royal Hotel in Brisbane!” Harriet cried.

  “Cash? Yes, of course. I was going to tell you. He gave me a message for you. Only, by jove, Harriet, a chap oughtn't to be carrying messages to his sister from a fellow like that. I ought to tell the old man by rights.”

  “Tell him then,” Harriet said disdainfully, but Geoffrey's “Serve you right if I did, you stingy little beast,” brought her to heel. “No, Geoff, don't. I'll get you the money somehow if you'll wait. I promise. Only. . . what did Mr Cash say?”

  Geoffrey nudged her. “Jacky, you mean, not mister. Now no tricks, Sis. You'll get the money?”

  “I swear.”

  “Well, he just said to tell you that a storm blew his mast out but he expected to be ready to sail again soon.”

  “Is that all?”

  “And he said it wasn't as serious as it seemed at first and nobody was to blame. D'you know what he means?”

  “He means his ship.”

  “Aw, my eye. He means his money, and that it's not the old man's fault.”

  “But it must be.”

  “Everybody knows that. But what follows? That the old man found out that you and Cash. . .”

  “Geoffrey!”

  “I'm only telling you what they say.”

  “Then Cash knows—I mean that Father. . .”

  “Knows? Aw, Sis, come off it. He could make a long guess, I suppose, even if everybody wasn't talking about it. And isn't that why he tells them that it wasn't the old man's fault he lost his money, just to cover up your tracks? But the way he says it—you'd think he was ready to fetch them one for slinging mud at the OLD MAN'S honour.”

  “But why doesn't he come and see Father and have it out with him?”

  “Why?” Geoffrey said. “And naughty echo answers why? What D'YOU think?”

  “I don't know what to think?” Harriet said worriedly. “But how is he? How does he look?”

  “How d'you expect a man to look after losing all his dough? But as a matter of fact, he doesn't. He looks nearly cheerful. Perhaps he's saved some. They reckon the bank
will pay—in years to come.”

  Harriet caught his hand. “Does he? Looks pleased? As if he'd just found out something good? Or as if he'd just suspected it, eh? As if it was just dawning on him? As if he didn't know whether to believe it or not?”

  “Hold on. Stop jabbering. What d'you mean?”

  “He might have found out that I love him,” Harriet said excitedly. “I told Father and he turned on Cash, the beast. He kept us apart and lied to me and searched my room and stole a letter. He thinks that Cash knows too. But he doesn't. Unless he's guessed now and. . . Wouldn't he ask himself why Father should have done this unless I'd. . .” She covered her face in her hands. “Oh, I'm going crazy. How could he suspect? There must be some other reason why Father ruined him, something we don't know of. Or just Father's greed perhaps. And even if he did suspect, perhaps he wouldn't care. Would he, Geoff? What do you think?”

  “Perhaps he would,” Geoffrey said, preening his side-levers with a faraway look in his little currant eyes.

  “What makes you think so? Did he say something more? A word?”

  Geoffrey winked. “I'm not saying he did and not saying he didn't. But what suppose he did?”

  “Oh, if I knew for certain I'd. . .” She hesitated.

  “Yes?” he prompted.

  Her eye penetrated his solicitous interest. “You sneak, Geoffrey, you're trying to make me say something so that you can tell Father like you did with James.”

  Geoffrey was affronted. “I'll be blowed, if that's not the last time I. . .” Harriet ran after him. “I didn't mean it, Geoff. I trust you. Haven't I told you everything?”

  “As if I wanted to know. Only that I felt sorry for you. . .”

  “Oh yes, Geoffrey, I do want your advice. You know what men are like. Did it seem as if he might—perhaps—not exactly love me—but. . .”

  “Well, now I come to think of it perhaps. . .”

  “But can't you say for certain,” Harriet cried impatiently. “Oh, if I could only be sure!”

  “You'd clear out again?”

  “Yes, I would, and take him back the money he gave me.”

  “So you would?”

  The satisfaction in his voice alarmed her. “But you won't tell Father?” “By jove, a chap ought to resent aspersions like that.” Geoffrey said, “if he didn't know you were a bit unbalanced!”

  Harriet locked the door on him and sat down to think. Her brain was unbalanced, as Geoffrey said, and what wonder? What she had dreamed of secretly for months past had happened, when she had at last given up hope that it would ever happened: Cash had come back. Among all other uncertainties and possibilities that stood out clear and positive in her mind, but when she tried to resolve the muddle of theories and rumours and doubts around it she became confused again and depressed. Cash was back, but what then? Was she to write and tell him that he was the man without money whom she loved against her father's wish? What would he answer? A few weeks ago she was sure he loved her, but now that she looked for the reasons which made her sure they turned out to be as tenuous as the suspicions she had already discounted. He gave her a present and told her that her happiness was important to him? What did that prove? To the scandal-mongers it proved that she and Cash were lovers already, so might not her deductions be wrong too. “If only I could see him and talk to him.” But how? By running away? It was all very well to make glib, heroic resolves, but how was she to run away without money, even supposing she could evade Miss Montaulk and her father. Besides, to run away and go to Cash, with everybody in Brisbane already whispering and remembering Doug Peppiott. . . Oh, the shame if Cash sent her back, the terrible uncertainty, if he married her, that he might do so because he was generous and chivalrous, not because he loved her. No, she could not run away, not unless she was sure.

  And yet. . . why did he not come to see her father, unless he knew that Cabell had ruined him through some spite it would be useless to argue against? Mustn't he suspect the truth? Surely, if there was some other reason than that which the gossips in Brisbane gave him, such as greed for instance, he wouldn't try to pretend that Cabell was blameless. Yes, it MUST be true, as Geoffrey said, that he did so because he knew and wanted to put people off the track for her sake, and that he avoided her father because. . . why, of course, BECAUSE HE FELT GUILTY. Yes, yes, that's what his message meant. “It's not your father's fault, it's my own, because I fell in love with you and tried to interfere with his plans.” That was what he meant. Wasn't it possible that he had actually told her father that he loved her and that they had quarrelled about it, which would explain why her father had been so vindictive even before Cash gave her the present and she confessed. . . Then there was that other part of the message—that “it wasn't so serious as it seemed.” But it was serious. He had lost all his money. Her heart leapt. But it wouldn't be serious if by losing all his money he had discovered that she loved him—supposing he loved her. And mightn't he guess that when he tried to explain why her father had turned on him suddenly. It wasn't impossible even that Cabell had written and told him why he had ruined him. Yes, Cabell would do that. And if he had written, or if Cash had guessed it for himself, and if his message meant that he had found out and that he was glad of the calamity which had opened his blind eyes, didn't she have all the assurance she needed? He might even have said more and Geoffrey not told her, for Geoffrey was her father's sneak. But he had hinted, hadn't he? SURELY he had hinted!

  Ah, but could she trust Geoffrey? Or any one else? Doubt pricked the hopes which had run away with her and down came all her sophistical arguments. “What rot. Why should any of that be true? He doesn't come to the Reach merely because he doesn't want to give me the chance to offer the present back—or else he's too busy, which is more likely. And why shouldn't his message mean exactly what it says and all the rest be Geoffrey's invention, even the tale about people talking? And how could he guess what had happened up here, unless he had second sight? And. . . and I'm a fool.”

  Up and down the room, up and down all the afternoon she went, churning these vain hypotheses over in her brain till she felt sick. Oh, for somebody to talk to about it, for somebody to advice her!

  She went out on to the veranda. Geoffrey was there, smoking a big cigar. He put it away guiltily when he heard a step, but grinned when he saw her and stuck it jauntily in the corner of his mouth. It was one of Cabell's, which he had stolen.

  She turned away impatiently from his fat, over-indulged face and eyes of a dog which never knows whether it is to be stroked or kicked. How could he help her? She wanted somebody to steel her against her father and the smirking, whispering world, and of course there was no one. Under this roof he had broken them all.

  Chapter Ten: Mother and Daughter

  She stopped on her way back to the room, remembering her mother. There was one who could help her—if she would. For a moment she hesitated, then hurried around the veranda to the back of the house where the old kitchen jutted into the yard. There was a new kitchen now, for when Cabell brought in a Chinese cook and appointed Miss Montaulk housekeeper Emma refused to be driven from her old haunts and even began to sleep across the hearth on a dirty bundle of rags. A devastating and final change was at work in her. She was over seventy now and the weight of all those years seemed to have fallen upon her suddenly. She had begun to look dirty. Grease-spots mildewed on her dress and the soot of the fire caked in the fine wrinkles of her face. The kitchen, which had been her pride, with its shining brass pots and shining black stove and flagstones and walls whitewashed once a week, was invaded by rats and by flies which buzzed about forgotten scraps of meat. “She's going back to type,” Cabell told himself, and Miss Montaulk said she was going mad.

  The kitchen door was ajar. Harriet paused and looked in through the crack. Emma was sitting on her heels before the fire with her shawl over her shoulders and her few wisps of hair hanging down, and the glow from the flames glittering on her face. She was whispering to herself, frowning, waving her hand
s. Her face looked more squawlike than ever in its emaciation—the face of an old gipsy woman weaving spells with sibyllic patience and fore-knowledge, Harriet thought. As she watched, the faith she had always had in her mother's power and knowledge of life was reinforced by a sudden, literal belief in the old woman's witchlike wisdom. It overcame her shyness at the door and took her to the table where she stood waiting for Emma to look round and see her. But she had to say, “Mother, may I speak to you a minute?” and repeat it twice before Emma turned her head, cringing, with her eyes at the corner of their narrow lids.

  “I have something to tell you. I want your help,” Harriet said.

  Her mother looked away as though she did not recognize her, but the unsteadiness of Harriet's voice, or perhaps the unwashed tear-stains on her face, had caught Emma's attention, and she glanced up again smiling. It was an unpleasant smile, and disconcerted Harriet. She backed defensively against the table and jerked out a nervous, “But if you're busy I'll go away.”

  Emma grunted. “Been grizzling again? You're always grizzling. One day you'll get something to grizzle for.”

  “Oh, don't you start, Mother,” Harriet said. “I'm. . . oh, Mother, I'm so unhappy.”

  Emma cackled. “You spoilt brat. Have you felt a pea under your feather mattress or what?”