The House on the Cliff

by D. E. Stevenson

  For a few minutes Elfrida lay there, breathless and exhausted, too upset by her horrible experience to move. Then she rose and made her way over the rocks, back to the shore.

  Never again! Never, never, never! thought Elfrida looking at the smooth water in horror.

  A few days later Elfrida was talking to Mr. Cobley, who was still at work in the copse. By this time Mr. Cobley had become a trusted friend so it was natural that she should tell him of her experience and of her determination never, never, never to bathe again.

  “Gracious, goodness, you must ’ave gone in on the ebb!” he exclaimed. “That’s dangerous, that is!”

  “On the ebb?” asked Elfrida, in puzzled tones.

  Mr. Cobley took a stick and drawing a diagram on the ground explained the matter carefully. “’Ere’s the promontory, Miss Ware. It sticks out on the west side of the bay—sticks out into the sea like this . . . that’s why the bay’s so nice and sheltered.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Well, there’s a current flows past the outside of the bay—like this, you see—and when the tide’s on the ebb—going out, that is—the current draws the water out of the bay. If you bathe when the tide’s going out you’ll be drawn out and swept out to sea, which was what very nearly ’appened. See what I mean? Lucky for you it was a calm day; if the waves ’ad been rough you’d ’ave been done for.”

  “Yes, I see,” said Elfrida. “But my mother used to bathe in that little bay, so why——”

  “I dessay she did when the tide was flowing—coming in, that is—it’s quite safe then.”

  “Really safe?”

  “Safe as the Bank of England. You’ve got to watch the tide, that’s all.”

  Elfrida had such absolute confidence in Mr. Cobley that she bathed safely and with enjoyment, sometimes before breakfast and sometimes later in the day, depending upon the state of the tide.

  She spent many hours in the little bay for if she could not bathe she could always sunbathe in the sheltered corner and it was too warm to walk far. The lanes with their high banks were airless and baking hot; the sun shone brilliantly in a cloudless sky . . . a sky that no longer was blue but almost white with heat.

  Elfrida had now become strong and brown; her eyes were clear and her hair, which had been stringy and lifeless, was glossy and full of golden lights. She had never felt so fit in all her life, so there was no longer any excuse for idleness. The rose-garden was hopeless (as she had said to Lucius she did not know where to begin) but she worked in the vegetable-garden every evening after tea—it was cooler then. Chowne supervised her labours and found her an apt pupil; he had come out of his shell and talked to her occasionally in a queer laconic manner accompanied by expressive gestures of his large hands . . . or sometimes he would take a hoe and show her how he wanted the earth gently loosened and the weeds turned over to wither in the sun.

  There was a great deal of hoeing done in the vegetable garden at Mountain Cross.

  Chowne had promised, through his interpreter, to do “light work on the farm” but in addition to looking after all the animals and keeping them clean he worked early and late in the garden. Elfrida was worried about him; she was aware that he was subject to “blackouts” if he were tired or upset so quite often when he was digging or carrying heavy cans of water she approached him and told him to go and sit down in the shade. It was useless, in fact it was worse than useless, for Chowne only smiled and shook his head and worked all the harder.

  Chowne’s smile was somewhat alarming: it split his lean brown face in half from ear to ear and displayed a double row of enormous white teeth.

  Part Three

  19

  One evening after tea when Elfrida was working in the garden as usual (weeding a row of beans very carefully by hand so as not to disturb the roots) she heard someone calling her and looked up to see Mrs. Chowne trotting down the path.

  “Quick, Miss Elfrida!” cried Mrs. Chowne, in breathless excitement. “Quick, it’s a visitor! Oh, dear, what a mess you’re in!”

  “You can’t weed a garden without getting in a mess,” declared Elfrida, sitting back on her heels and laughing.

  “It’s a visitor,” repeated Mrs. Chowne. “He’s a great friend of yours—such a nice friendly gentleman! If you’d told me he was coming I could have had a lovely dinner for him.”

  “But I didn’t know! Who is he? Do you mean he intends to stay to dinner? We haven’t enough food!”

  A voice from behind her said, “Don’t worry, Elfie! Bread and cheese will do.”

  Elfrida leapt to her feet—and turned—and saw him standing there, smiling at her in the old way “as if there were nobody else in the world.” She was speechless with astonishment.

  “Here’s a wanderer,” he said. “Here’s a stranger within your gates, come to beg for a night’s lodging.”

  “Glen! Oh, Glen! Yes, of course you must stay! Where have you come from? Why didn’t you let me know?”

  “Because I didn’t know myself,” said Glen, laughing. “I had to come down to this part of the world on business.”

  “On business?”

  “Yes, I had business in Morchester—it’s only about twenty miles from here—so I thought I’d look in and see how you were getting on. I couldn’t go back to London without a glimpse of you, Elfie. You aren’t cross with me, are you?”

  “Why should I be cross?”

  “No reason at all,” replied Glen cheerfully. “I rang up that number you gave me but the woman said you had gone to Mountain Cross. I meant to write to you, of course, but I’ve been so terribly busy—and worried. How are things going, Elfie? Are the ducks behaving properly? I’ve been thinking about you so much . . .”

  He went on talking; he had taken her hands and was holding them. Elfrida was too upset to listen properly; she had imagined herself “cured,” but his voice and his smile were as charming as ever and she was falling under the spell.

  “Oh, Glen,” she cried. “You must stay as long as you like! It’s a lovely surprise.”

  Mrs. Chowne murmured something about dinner and beds and hastened away.

  “A few days, perhaps,” said Glen. “This is a beautiful place—and so peaceful. If you could bear to have us for a few days it could be delightful. I’ve been having rather a difficult time—one way and another. We’ll help, of course; we shan’t cause any trouble. You mustn’t put yourself out——”

  “We?” she asked.

  “The boy is with me. I left him in the car until I saw if you could have us.”

  “What boy?”

  “My little son,” explained Glen. “You knew I had been married, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. At least someone said——”

  “Let’s sit down on that seat over there and I’ll tell you about it,” said Glen.

  She followed him to the wooden seat near the lily-pool. Like everything else in this part of the garden the lily-pool was weedy and neglected.

  “I’m going to clean it out when I have time,” said Elfrida apologetically. “One of my neighbours has promised me some water-lilies. This part of the garden is a disgrace.”

  “It’s a Sleeping Beauty garden,” declared Glen, looking round in delight. “What a wonderful set for a ballet!”

  She smiled at his unusual reaction to her jungle.

  “I said I’d tell you about my marriage,” continued Glen, as he sat down beside her on the seat. “It all happened so long ago that I feel as if it had happened to someone else. I met Bridget in Dublin when I was playing Lorenzo in The Merchant—I was very young at the time. Bridget was even younger; she was a lovely creature with dark hair and a roseleaf skin and Irish eyes. We fell in love madly and, as neither of us had any relations, there was nothing to prevent our marriage. I had a little money which had been left to me by an old aunt so we rented a cottage and stayed there together, living the simple life. We stayed there until there was no money left . . . not very wise, you’ll say, but it seemed to us that nobod
y had ever been young and in love before so we gathered our rosebuds while they were in bloom. Then, when the money was all gone, she went to the nuns to have the child and I went back to the stage.” Glen paused for a few moments and then continued in a low voice. “There was no ‘sweet sorrow’ about our parting—it was agony to both of us—but you can’t live on air. I think I said that to you, Elfie. I’ve tried it, you see. It doesn’t work.”

  “I’m sorry, Glen,” she said sadly.

  “It all happened a long time ago.”

  For a few moments there was silence . . . absolute silence except for a bird twittering gently in one of the straggly bushes.

  “How quiet it is!” said Glen. “I’d forgotten what silence was like. I haven’t known real silence since that time in Ireland with Bridget. The cottage where we lived was in the depths of the Irish countryside—a beautiful place but very small and not very civilised.”

  “How old is your child, Glen?”

  “I suppose he must be seven or eight,” Glen replied vaguely. “Time passes so quickly, doesn’t it? His name is Patrick; the nuns christened him when he was born. Bridget was terribly ill, so they wired for me and I flew over but she was dead when I got there. They showed me my child.”

  Glen paused . . . but Elfrida could find nothing to say.

  “It gave me a frightful shock,” he continued. “I had expected to see a baby—a chubby little cherub—not a wizened little creature like a monkey. They told me he was all right but I didn’t believe them. He’s still like a monkey . . . which seems odd (Bridget was so lovely and I’m not exactly an ogre); but he’s a good quiet child which is something to be thankful for. I left him with the nuns—what else could I do—and went to New York with a Gilbert and Sullivan opera.”

  “You said he was here.”

  “Yes, he’s here. The nuns couldn’t keep him after he was four years old, so I had to make other arrangements. I found a place for him in London; but that didn’t work, so I moved him again, this time to Morchester, and he has been there ever since.”

  “That’s what you were doing in Morchester!”

  “Yes, I came to fetch the boy. Mrs. Landor is a widow—a nice kindly woman—but she wrote and said she was getting too old to cope with a child so I must make some other arrangement.” Glen sighed and added, “I’ve promised to have him with me for a time, I shall take him to Brittany for a holiday. Now you know the whole story so we needn’t talk about it any more.”

  “But Glen——”

  “I mean it,” he said earnestly. “It hurts me to speak of it. I’ve told you because you’re so sympathetic and kind; I don’t talk about it to other people. Tell me about you. How are things going? Are you tired of your moated grange? Are you ready to come back to civilisation?”

  “No.”

  “Not yet?”

  “Not ever,” she declared vehemently. “This kind of life is right for me. I’m happy.”

  He looked at her critically. “I believe it’s true! You have become exceedingly pretty . . . twice as pretty!”

  “Fresh air and hard work suits me.”

  “It wouldn’t suit me. Your moated grange is certainly very beautiful—delightful for a holiday—but after a bit I should want a fuller life, and so will you.”

  She shook her head. “I belong here, Glen. I’m the sort of person who needs a home. Look at this handful of earth! It’s mine. That satisfies something inside me. Don’t you understand?”

  Glen smiled at her. “Not really . . . but I’m interested. You’ll have to teach me, Elfie.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by the clamour of a large hand-bell, with which Mrs. Chowne was wont to summon Elfrida to meals. It was being rung even more energetically than usual.

  “Good lord! Is the house on fire?” exclaimed Glen.

  “Only supper . . . I think,” replied Elfrida, leaping up.

  The ringing continued until Elfrida and Glen left the garden and hastened up the path to the house . . . a small boy in long red pants and a blue pullover was standing at the back door ringing the bell with all his might. Glen sprinted up the path and seized the bell out of his hands.

  Elfrida, following more slowly heard the child say, “But, Glen, she said I was to ring it hard. Supper’s nearly ready. I helped her to lay the table.”

  “That was very kind of you,” said Elfrida. “You’re Patrick, aren’t you?”

  He glanced at his father and then nodded, “The nuns called me Patrick.”

  “I call him Jacko,” said Glen laughing.

  *

  Mrs. Chowne had managed to produce a very satisfactory supper in record time. It was a cheerful meal, for although Elfrida had left the stage and had no intention of returning, she was interested to hear all the gossip—and Glen could make a good story out of the most unpromising material. The Motor Car had died a lingering death and the cast was scattered: Clarissa was going to America, Dolly Garden was in Spain with a friend—she had said she wanted a long holiday. Several of “the gang” had managed to get parts in a new play which was even sillier than The Motor Car . . . and so on and so forth.

  Presently Elfrida said, “And what about you, Glen? You told me you had heard of something good.”

  “Oh, that fell through! Jacko and I are going to Brittany together.”

  Patrick had been silent. He had enjoyed the meal and was now indulging in strawberries and cream; but he put down his spoon and looked at his father sadly.

  “What’s the matter, Jacko?” asked Glen.

  “Nothing,” replied Patrick. “Except—well—except that I’d like to see you acting. You said before that I wasn’t old enough, but I’m eight now—and I wouldn’t be a nuisance.”

  “Don’t you want a holiday in Brittany?”

  “If you’re going for a holiday I want to come . . . and if you’re going to act in a play I want to see you acting.”

  Glen looked at him in surprise. “Well, you seem to know what you want.”

  “Yes, I know what I want,” said the child gravely.

  It was a curious little exchange. Elfrida did not understand what it meant but she had a feeling that it was important. What a strange little boy he was! She knew very little about children but it seemed to her that he was too “quiet.” He was not attractive in appearance: his dark hair was long and straggled over his forehead; his brown eyes were too large for his thin white face and, when in repose, his face wore an anxious expression which was very unchildlike. This anxious expression gave Patrick a fleeting resemblance to a monkey—Elfrida had seen monkeys at the zoo with exactly that same worried look upon their poor little wizened faces—but all the same it was not right for Glen to call him “Jacko” . . . nor did she approve of the child calling his father “Glen.”

  I suppose I’m old-fashioned, she thought. Anyhow it’s none of my business.

  *

  20

  It was a lovely mild evening, so after Patrick had been sent to bed his elders went out and sat in an old summerhouse which Elfrida had discovered on the edge of the cliff. Mrs. Chowne had told her that it had been put there for Mrs. Ware, who loved looking at the sea and watching the seagulls.

  Although Elfrida had seen a great deal of Glen, had been in his company every day for weeks, she had never been alone with him before—not really alone, thought Elfrida—they had always been surrounded by a crowd. All the talks they had had were hurried and uneasy: a few hasty words at rehearsals or between scenes or when Glen was on his way to one of the innumerable parties. There was no hurry here, no interruptions; there was time for little silences which were more revealing than words. At the moment the little silence told Elfrida that Glen was happy and comfortable.

  Presently, however, he began to talk; he had travelled widely, on tour with repertory companies, and had had many amusing experiences.

  “What a lot you’ve seen and done!” exclaimed Elfrida. “You’ve had a pretty hard life, one way and another—I never realised that before—
but now you’ve arrived, haven’t you?”

  He laughed and replied, “I’m still ambitious. I want to play Hamlet. That’s what every actor wants, isn’t it?”

  “Why shouldn’t you?”

  “Because, my dear Elfie, I’m on the wrong road.”

  “Yes, I see what you mean; you’ve made your name by playing in musicals and drawing-room comedies. Still, I don’t see why you shouldn’t——”

  “And anyhow,” interrupted Glen, “I should want to play Hamlet quite differently. I have a feeling that nobody has ever got to the bottom of Hamlet.”

  “How would you play him?”

  “Oh, that’s too long a story—too serious a story for a summer’s evening. ‘In such a night

  “Troilus methinks mounted the Troyan walls,

  “And sigh’d his soul toward the Grecian tents,

  “Where Cressid lay that night’.”

  Fortunately Elfrida knew The Merchant of Venice pretty well—it was her favourite—so she replied, “‘In such a night

  “Did Thisby fearfully o’ertrip the dew,

  “And saw the lion’s shadow ere himself,

  “And ran dismayed away’.”

  Glen looked at her in astonishment. He had not expected this! He said, “‘In such a night

  “Stood Dido with a willow in her hand

  “Upon the wild sea-banks, and waft her love

  “To come again to Carthage’.”

  “‘In such a night

  “Medea gathered the enchanted herbs

  “That did renew old Æson’.”

  “‘In such a night

  “Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew,

  “And with an unthrift love did run from Venice

  “As far as Belmont’.”

  Elfrida hesitated for a moment and then said, “‘I would out-night you did no body come’.”

  “Here!” exclaimed Glen. “You’ve missed your cue . . . and we were getting on so nicely!”

  She had missed her cue because she could not bring herself to say that in such a night Lorenzo had stolen her soul “with many vows of faith.” It might have been possible on the stage, where she could have imagined herself speaking to Lorenzo but here, in the summer-house at Mountain Cross, this was Glen and she was “Elfie.”