The House on the Cliff

by D. E. Stevenson

  This incident reminded Elfrida of the secret understanding between Mr. Cobley and Chowne about the “pens” (there had been so much to think of lately that it had vanished from her mind) and she went home determined to get to the bottom of the matter.

  The best way of getting information from Mrs. Chowne was to approach her obliquely—Elfrida had learned this from experience—so when Mrs. Chowne brought in her tea she opened the subject in a round-about way.

  “Those barns have been empty for a long time,” said Elfrida.

  “You’re telling me!” exclaimed Mrs. Chowne. “Those big barns standing empty get on Ernie’s nerves. He can’t bear waste—neither can I, really. Things come in useful if you keep them long enough, put away carefully in mothballs. I said that to Ernie and he said he couldn’t put the barns in mothballs . . . but he did, in a way. He’s kept them clean and weathertight all these years and now you’re going to use them, so I was right.”

  Elfrida was silent. She had no idea how she was going to use them but Mrs. Chowne would tell her if she waited.

  “There’s money in pigs,” continued Mrs. Chowne. “Ernie likes pigs—he asked Mr. Ware but Mr. Ware wouldn’t hear of it. Ernie says he told you about it, Miss Elfrida.”

  “Pens,” murmured Elfrida.

  “Yes,” agreed Mrs. Chowne. “Ernie’ll make pens with some of the wood that Charlie Cobley doesn’t want. You’ve got to have properly made pens. Pigs don’t thrive unless you treat them right. You buy them young and feed them up and then you sell them . . . you can make them streaky for bacon or let them gorge themselves into heavy hogs. Ernie knows.”

  “But I haven’t any money to buy pigs!”

  “You could buy a few to start with, couldn’t you? They don’t cost much when they’re young . . . and we thought,” said Mrs. Chowne, twisting the corner of her apron in an embarrassed manner. “We thought . . . perhaps . . . you wouldn’t mind if Ernie bought some too. You see, Miss Elfrida, we’ve got a little money saved up in the post office and there’s plenty of room in those big barns. It would make Ernie so happy,” added Mrs. Chowne in wheedling tones.

  “I see,” said Elfrida thoughtfully. “Well, I don’t mind if he wants to have pigs . . . as long as he looks after them properly and keeps them clean.”

  “Oh, he will!” cried Mrs. Chowne joyfully.

  “But I don’t think I can afford to buy any.”

  “Just a few, Miss Elfrida. Just a few to start with. Ernie will buy them for you at the market in Cherleigh—you won’t have any bother—Ernie will look after them, he knows about pigs. When he was with Sir Henry—before I married him—there were hundreds of pigs.”

  Elfrida hesitated. She thought of the two hundred pounds which Mr. Sandford had put in the bank for her to “tide her over” until her grandmother’s affairs had been settled. “Perhaps I could buy a few if they aren’t very expensive——” she began in doubtful tones.

  “Of course you could,” Mrs. Chowne assured her. “Ernie’ll watch the market; the price of pigs goes up and down.”

  There was a good deal more talk about the matter but Chowne was so cheerful at the prospect of keeping pigs that Elfrida had not the heart to disappoint him . . . besides, the Chownes were very kind, and she was not paying them anything, so if they could make a little money by keeping pigs it was all to the good.

  The pens were constructed in the smaller barn (a friend of the Chownes came up from the village and lent a hand) and before many days had passed Elfrida was the owner of ten small pigs. They were unexpectedly attractive; they frisked about playfully in their nice clean pen, ate large quantities of food and snuggled down at night upon their comfortable bed of straw. In the pen next to them were ten little pigs which belonged to Chowne and, beyond that, a very large sow in a pen by herself. She had been a good deal more expensive but Chowne had lost his heart to her so Elfrida had agreed to “go fifty-fifty with him” in the purchase.

  Part Two

  16

  Spring came to Mountain Cross with dramatic suddenness—or so it seemed to the girl who never before had experienced country life. She had watched spring creep shyly into the city; swell the buds on the trees in the square gardens; awaken drifts of crocuses and fill the flower-shops with flowers and the windows of the big stores with delightful garments . . . this had pleased her because it was a sign that winter was past. Here at Mountain Cross there was nothing surreptitious about spring; it came like an army with banners. All of a sudden the chill east wind had gone and a soft south-wester was blowing (Mr. Cobley called it “the ladies’ breeze”). Showers fell gently and between the slowly moving clouds, there were large expanses of blue, blue sky.

  Elfrida was happy, who would not be happy amongst all these wonders? She was out all day walking through lanes and woods and fields. There was beauty everywhere. The sheltered lane where she had found early primroses and violets was now a mass of may-blossom, so thick and heavy that it looked as though the trees were weighed down with pink and white snow. The scent, confined by the high banks, was so strong that it caught her breath . . . and, from top to bottom, the whole lane was buzzing and humming with thousands of wild bees. In the old garden the fruit-trees had burst into blossom and there was a group of lilacs filling the air with fragrance. There were syringas and old gnarled laburnums with golden necklaces which hung down almost touching the ground. The huge blooms on the rhododendrons flaunted their brilliant colours in the sunshine and, at dusk, seemed to glow with an inner light, like lanterns amongst their dark green foliage. In the fields there were ox-eyed daises, scarlet poppies and a small but very blue variety of cornflower amongst the ripening hay . . . and there were sheets of bluebells, spread beneath the trees, and lily of the valley in shady corners where the ground was moist.

  In one place, where a stream wandered through a green meadow, Elfrida found a little backwater with watercress growing in it . . . and a great many other water-plants and flowers which she had never seen before. She knew watercress because Marjory had been fond of it, and occasionally had brought a small basket of it from the little shop at the corner near their flat, but to Elfrida it had seemed dry and tough and tasteless. This watercress which she picked and took home with her, was very different; it was delicious. Perhaps, long ago, Marjory had found the streamlet and gathered watercress and taken it home! Perhaps the wretched little basket packed with dried-up salad had reminded her of the delicate flavour and crunchy consistency of these fresh green leaves! Perhaps that was why Marjory had enjoyed it, thought Marjory’s daughter sadly.

  One day when Elfrida went to pick her salad she found the backwater hopping with thousands of frogs . . . yes, literally thousands! The whole place seemed alive with the tiny creatures. She had never before seen a real live frog and would not have known what they were if she had not been acquainted with Mr. Jeremy Fisher, depicted by Beatrix Potter in the children’s classic . . . but, there was not the slightest doubt about it, here was Mr. Jeremy Fisher at home, with his brothers and sisters and hordes of children! It was an enchanting discovery; Elfrida sat down on the bank and watched them.

  Time was no object here; she had all the time in the world at her disposal. She wandered vaguely, half dazed with delight, making new and interesting discoveries wherever she went. Birds flew from the hedges as she approached and she found their nests, with blue or brown or speckled eggs lying cosily in beds of woven grass and feathers. There were little animals, too; a field mouse, balancing precariously on a slender stem of flowering grass; a squirrel sitting on the branch of a tree, chattering with annoyance at being disturbed by a human wanderer; a hedgehog running across the path and curling into a spiky ball at the sound of a human footstep.

  At first Elfrida tired easily, not only because she was unused to walking but because there was so much to see, so many new and exciting sights and sounds and scents but soon she was able to walk farther and found even more to delight her senses. She would take a couple of sandwiches in her pocket and st
ay out all day, returning at tea-time tired and happy and drowsy with the sweet air, to sit by the log fire in the parlour and enjoy tea and cakes and read poetry.

  Poetry seemed the only kind of reading for this time of blossoming; her grandfather’s shelves provided ample fare. At night she drifted into dreamless sleep, lulled by the sound of waves splashing on the rocks beneath her window.

  The old house became familiar and friendly, every creak in the wooden stair became known to her; she began to feel as if she had been born and bred in the old house.

  For the first time in her life Elfrida was enjoying the peace and security of a settled home, in which—wonder of wonders—everything belonged to her. Everything belonged to her, it was an amazing thought! She could not get used to the strange idea. She would pause for a few moments with her hand on a fine old chest of drawers and say to herself in wondering tones, “This belongs to me!”

  The drawing-room furniture was swathed in dust-sheets and at first Elfrida had avoided this room, but one very wet afternoon she went in and found a glass-fronted cabinet standing against an inner wall so she pushed aside the sheet and opened the doors. The cabinet was full of treasures: little figurines of shepherds and shepherdesses; tiny Venetian-glass vases; a whole set of ivory chessmen, intricately carved, and several china cottages with thatched roofs and china roses growing at their doors. Elfrida took them out one by one and looked at them—they belonged to her! They belonged to Elfrida Jane Ware who had led a hand to mouth existence ever since she could remember, who had never owned anything pretty and utterly useless in all her life, who had to think twice and count her pennies before she could buy a new blouse and had shed futile tears over a ladder in a new pair of nylon stockings.

  *

  Quite often during her wandering and discoveries Elfrida thought of Ronnie . . . for Ronnie had said, “I do envy you spending spring at Mountain Cross!” Elfrida had not understood at the time—not really understood—but now she realised why he had envied her. She had received a very nice bread-and-butter letter from Ronnie and had answered, thanking him for it. Then, after a while, Ronnie wrote again, asking how she was getting on and whether the arrangement he had made with the Chownes was working out well. He went on to say, “I feel a bit worried about you sometimes, because it was I who encouraged you to go to Mountain Cross. I do hope you are not feeling lonely and missing all your friends. The Senior Partner seems to have enjoyed his visit to you—all except the lunch with ‘Cousin Walt’ who must be a very irritating individual! I heard all about what he said and did! London is dry and dusty. I wish I were a farmer in ‘the West Countree’.”

  It was such a kind friendly letter that Elfrida sat down to answer it at once and this time she had plenty to tell him so it was quite a long letter all about what she was doing; all about Mr. Cobley’s work in the copse and the ten little pigs which Chowne had bought for her at Cherleigh Market. She told him about the cross on the hillock and Mr. Cobley’s explanation of its use in bygone days and she told him that she was busy and happy and was learning all sorts of interesting things about country life, including the very useful art of milking a cow.

  The letter was finished late at night and the next morning she went down to the village to post it.

  For some time after her arrival Elfrida had avoided the village which lay at her gates. She was afraid the villagers might resent the presence of the new owner of Mountain Cross but, quite by accident, she had discovered that they were anxious to meet her and eager to be friendly. The older people remembered her mother and invited Elfrida into their cottages and offered her tea . . . and told her stories about “Miss Marjory when she was a girl.”

  Most of the cottages were old, with small windows and few modern conveniences, but the people who lived in them seemed quite contented with their lot. The largest cottage and the most up-to-date was the post office and general store; it had a pillar-box outside the door and a telephone kiosk. Mr. Doubleday, the postmaster, lived here, of course, with his wife and son.

  It was in the post office, where she was buying stamps, that Elfrida saw Lucius Babbington. A tall, dark-haired man in grey slacks and a tweed jacket was leaning against the counter, chatting to Mr. Doubleday and enjoying a joke with that worthy. Elfrida, being unused to country ways, was not interested in the man and had no idea that he could be interested in her, so she bought her stamps from Mrs. Doubleday and asked how Henry James was getting on at school. Then she stuck a stamp on to Ronnie’s letter and went out to post it.

  She was just about to slip the letter into the pillar-box when she discovered that the tall, dark-haired stranger had followed her and was waiting to speak to her.

  “You’re Miss Ware of Mountain Cross,” he said.

  “That sounds very grand!” exclaimed Elfrida, taken by surprise.

  He smiled at her. “But it’s true, isn’t it? I’m Lucius Babbington; we’re near neighbours. My sister meant to call on you when you arrived but she has been laid up with a sprained ankle.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry!”

  “It’s a good deal better, but she still can’t get about very easily and it’s maddening for her. She’s a very energetic person, you see. Will you come and have lunch with us one day? She would like to meet you.”

  Elfrida was not very pleased; she was shy of strangers and was perfectly happy wandering about the country by herself, but when Mr. Babbington suggested Friday and offered to call for her at twelve-thirty in his car she could find no reasonable excuse.

  “Do you think you’re going to like being here?” he asked doubtfully.

  “Oh, I’m loving every moment of it!” she replied. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in my life. The flowers are wonderful. Look at that chestnut tree with its pink candles! How could anyone not like it?”

  “I’m so glad,” he said. “Of course we think this is just about the most beautiful place on earth, but we wondered if you would find it dull.”

  “Dull?”

  “I mean you’re used to a gay life in London, aren’t you? Lots of parties and—and all that sort of thing.”

  “I didn’t find it—gay,” replied Elfrida. There was a lot more she could have said about her life in London, but she did not know Mr. Babbington well enough.

  “I’m so glad you feel you can settle down here,” declared Mr. Babbington. “Mary will be delighted when I tell her about you; it makes such a difference having congenial neighbours.”

  *

  17

  Mrs. Chowne was quite excited to hear about the luncheon at Winford Hall . . . and burst into a torrent of information. “It will be nice for you to get to know some nice people, Miss Elfrida—you wander about by yourself far too much—and the Babbingtons are nice, you’ll like them. Mr. Lucius was at Eton—I remember him at church in his Eton jacket and striped trousers, very smart he was! Their parents were great friends of Mrs. Ware and used to come to dinner in the old days when there were big dinner-parties. They’re both dead now, so Winford Hall belongs to Mr. Lucius; it’s a lovely big place with several farms on the estate. Mr. Lucius farms them himself—and a very good farmer he is! Mr. Lucius and Miss Mary used to come here when they were children; there are some ‘snaps’ of them in Mr. Ware’s album—I could show them to you if you like. Mr. Lucius must be about—about thirty-five now,” declared Mrs. Chowne making hasty calculations. “Miss Mary is a big younger. I haven’t seen them for years, of course; there was no entertaining when Mr. Ware was ill—he was ill off and on for a long time—and after he died Mrs. Ware didn’t feel like seeing people. It’s been a very quiet house for years, but now that you’re here it’ll be nice to see some life about the place. You could have a party, couldn’t you? We could open up the drawing-room and——”

  “I don’t know anyone to ask to a party.”

  “No, but you will. You just need a start-off, that’s all. Perhaps there’ll be some other people at the luncheon on Friday,” she continued hopefully. “None of the people roun
d about are very young, of course—except the Harlows and they aren’t likely to be at Winford Hall—but Mr. and Mrs. Endicott are nice, everyone likes them, and Colonel and Mrs. Ferrier of Heatherdale Manor are sure to be there. The colonel is a funny old gentleman with a red face and a white moustache. They’ve got two sons, one of them is in the Navy and sometimes comes home on leave. Heatherdale Manor is about seven miles from here, but if they ask you to tea—or anything—I can lend you my bicycle.”

  “I’ve never ridden a bicycle in my life,” said Elfrida shortly. She was getting a little tired of the saga.

  “Ernie could teach you,” suggested Mrs. Chowne.

  Elfrida thanked her, but declined the offer; she knew her limitations and was aware that she did not shine in the company of strangers. She would have to go to the luncheon on Friday, but that would be the end of it as far as her neighbours were concerned.

  *

  Seven people had been invited to lunch at Winford Hall and they all came, full of interest and eager to meet the new owner of Mountain Cross. She was reputed to be an actress, so she was not likely to settle down and be a congenial neighbour but all the same they wanted to see her.

  Mrs. Chowne had been correct in her prophecy; Colonel and Mrs. Ferrier were there, so also were Mr. and Mrs. Endicott. There was a Mr. Maldon, and his two young daughters but there were no Harlows.

  Elfrida remembered Miss Martineau’s advice, went to the luncheon in tweeds, and wore a string of pearls which she had found in her grandmother’s jewel-case. She was interested to observe that all the female members of the party, except the younger Miss Maldon, were similarly attired. She went with reluctance, and at first she was so frightened of all these strangers that she could scarcely speak, but she had not been there long before she began to feel better. They were friendly people; there was nothing the least alarming about them, and although they all knew each other—and she did not know any of them—they were taking trouble to talk to her so that she should not feel out in the cold.