“There’s the letter,” Elfrida pointed out.
“The letter isn’t important.”
“It’s important to me. I’m so glad to know that Grandfather had forgiven Marjory and had tried to find her and it’s good that his last wish can be carried out. He wanted someone to live here and love the place; he wanted Mountain Cross to be ‘self-supporting.’ The farm can be made to pay if we can buy back some of the fields.”
Ronnie nodded. “Yes, everything will be all right if the album was in the house when you came into possession. If not . . . well, it’s no good thinking about that until we know. We must ask Chowne what he did with the album; then I can ring up Uncle Bob.”
“The Chownes had to go over to Cherleigh this afternoon . . . which reminds me that I promised to milk Pansy and feed the pigs.”
“Oh, well, we shall have to wait till he comes back,” said Ronnie. He rose and added, “I’ll come with you, Elfrida Jane. I can’t offer to milk Pansy, but I can help you feed the pigs.”
*
36
“Is the parent playing up again?” asked Ronnie as he and Elfrida walked up the hill to the farm.
“Oh, did Emma tell you about him? Yes, he has been rather troublesome lately, poor old thing. I have a feeling that sooner or later he’ll have to come and live at Mountain Cross . . . but, never mind that, tell me more about the album. I’m very ignorant, of course, but it seems strange the stamps should be so valuable.”
“It’s the rare ones—and because there are complete sets—and because some of the stamps are faulty.”
“Faulty?”
“If there’s a small mistake in the printing or the watermark it makes them much more valuable. Uncle Bob could tell you more about it; he was closeted with Mr. Riggs for hours, going through the album carefully and making notes. He asked me to tell you that he would have come to see you himself but he had an appointment with an important client this afternoon.”
(Uncle Bob had said, “I’m sorry to have to send you down there again, Ronnie; you’ve just got home and it’s a long and tiresome journey, but I can’t go myself so I’m afraid there’s nothing else for it. You can take my car; it will be less tiring for you than your own little bus. I want you to tell her that the album is valuable, but don’t mention any figure—I can’t believe Riggs’ estimate, it’s fantastic, so I’m taking further advice—and for heaven’s sake make her understand that she mustn’t give the album to Whitgreave! She’s quite capable of saying she must keep her promise, but a promise made in ignorance isn’t binding. Whitgreave told her that the collection was ‘of sentimental value only’ . . . and, mark my words, Ronnie; Whitgreave must have known his uncle’s collection was worth hard money.”
Ronnie had replied, “I only saw ‘Walt’ for a few minutes, when he called at the office, but he struck me as being pretty hard-boiled.”
“Exactly my own opinion,” Uncle Bob had declared. “I would have taken a stronger line with the fellow, but Elfrida didn’t want any unpleasantness.”)
“Ronnie, wake up! What are you thinking about?” asked Elfrida.
“I was thinking about a conversation I had with Uncle Bob. He said I was to make sure that you didn’t intend to give the album to Whitgreave.”
“Oh, I couldn’t!” she exclaimed. “When I said I’d give it to him I thought it belonged to me; but it belongs to Mountain Cross. Grandfather said so in his letter . . . and anyhow, Cousin Walt behaved very deceitfully. He said he knew all about stamps so he must have known the album was valuable. I thought at the time it was rather queer that he should be so frightfully keen to have it.” She hesitated and then added, “As a matter of fact I didn’t think it was the album he wanted.”
“You didn’t think he wanted it? But I thought he spent hours hunting for it,” said Ronnie in bewilderment.
“I thought the album was just an excuse,” explained Elfrida. “I thought he wanted to have a look round the house to see if he could find Grandfather’s will—I mean a later will, leaving Mountain Cross to him.”
“That was a very ingenious idea!” declared Ronnie, surprised at her ingenuity. Who would have imagined that Elfrida Jane could have thought of such a dastardly plan?
“Mr. Sandford thought it was a silly idea,” said Elfrida smiling. “But you see I was so ignorant. It never crossed my mind that stamps could be worth a lot of money. Never for a moment.”
Ronnie could not blame her for her ignorance. He had known stamps could be valuable, of course, but it had never crossed his mind that they could be worth the fantastic figure which had been mentioned with bated breath by Mr. Arnold Riggs.
By this time they had arrived at the farm, so the interesting conversation was over.
Pansy was a beautiful creature and was so quiet and friendly that Elfrida had learnt to milk her without any difficulty. She was standing at the gate of the paddock waiting patiently. She showed signs of pleasure at the blandishments of her owner and allowed her owner’s companion to stroke her neck. Then she walked across the yard to her stall, and turning her head, watched the preparations with interest.
“Darling Pansy! She’s almost human, isn’t she?” said Elfrida as she found a large white apron and tied it round her waist.
Ronnie agreed. As a matter of fact he had known several “humans” who were not as human as Pansy . . . but the milking had begun and Elfrida Jane was intent upon her task so he held his peace and watched.
The stall was whitewashed and meticulously clean, there was a large pile of straw in the corner and a rack of hay in the manger. Elfrida Jane sat on a three-legged stool; her head was bent and showed the lovely curve of her neck and one little pink ear; a bright beam of sunshine from the skylight found golden lights in her light-brown hair.
It was a charming picture and Ronnie found it unexpectedly moving for there was a bond of sympathy and loving-kindness between Elfrida Jane and the little cow. As Ronnie watched he thought of the long tradition of milking. The task had been performed for hundreds of years in exactly the same way. He had been told by a dairy-farmer that machines were more efficient—and he had seen them working efficiently—but a machine was not beautiful and gentle; a machine did not murmur praise and soft endearments as the creamy milk hissed into the pail.
Something was lost when machines took over this kind of work, thought Ronnie. Something was lost when tractors, instead of fine horses, were used to plough the land. You had to move with the times—this was the machine age—but something important and beautiful was lost for ever.
When Pansy had been milked to the last drops she was taken back to the paddock; the milk was poured into large white bowls in the spotlessly clean dairy and Ronnie and Elfrida went into the barn to look at the pigs.
The twenty small pigs had grown enormously; which was very satisfactory, of course, but sad to say they were not nearly as attractive as they had been when they were young and frisky and playful, so Ronnie and Elfrida moved on to the third pen which housed a large pink sow.
Ronnie had heard all about her and was aware that half of her belonged to Chowne and half to Elfrida Jane.
She was lying on a bed of straw but when she realised that she had admiring visitors she rose in a dignified manner and came to speak to them.
“I always give her a bun,” said Elfrida, producing one from her pocket. “She loves buns . . . it’s a funny taste, isn’t it?”
“What’s her name?” asked Ronnie.
“She has got a proper name, but it’s very long so Chowne calls her Pinkie. She’s sweet, isn’t she, Ronnie? I can’t help feeling that it must be dull for her to be all by herself, but she’s going to have lots of piglets . . . that will be fun for her.”
“Oh, Elfrida Jane!” exclaimed Ronnie. “I do love you so frightfully!”
She looked at him in surprise.
“Oh, you needn’t say anything,” continued Ronnie in a low breathless voice. “I know it’s hopeless . . . I’ve known it was hopeless from the v
ery beginning and now there’s another fellow, so it’s more hopeless than ever . . . but it just came over me all of a sudden and I couldn’t keep it in any longer. I love you so frightfully much——”
“But Ronnie——”
“Didn’t you know? Oh, goodness, I’m just being silly! Of course you didn’t know what I was feeling—how could you? Elfrida Jane! Darling Elfrida Jane! I’ve been wanting to say it for ages, but I knew it was hopeless—and there aren’t any words—and I thought I could go on like this, being your friend and chatting and having jokes and doing things for you—but I can’t any longer. I can’t, really, because I can’t bear to be with you for a few days and then go away. I’ll have to go away and never come back, because I can’t bear it any more.”
“But Ronnie, I couldn’t bear it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I couldn’t bear it if you went away and never came back.”
“But—but I’ve told you I can’t go on like this, and Mrs. Chowne said . . .” began Ronnie in bewilderment.
“Emma Chowne is very romantic.”
“Romantic?”
“Very romantic,” said Elfrida, nodding. “Lucius brought me roses and that was quite enough for Emma. Roses and romance go together, don’t they?”
“She said you liked him! I thought——”
“I do like him; he’s a dear. The Babbingtons have been awfully kind to me. I like Charlie Cobley, too—very much indeed—but I don’t intend to marry him.”
“Does that mean——”
“Yes, of course it does,” she said, turning and putting her hands on his shoulders and smiling at him.
“I can’t believe it!” he cried joyously and seized her in his arms.
When she was able to speak she said, “Oh, Ronnie, darling!”
He kissed her again.
After some time they sat down together on a sack of meal.
“When did you begin to love me?” asked Ronnie.
It was the age-old question of lovers . . . but Elfrida could not answer it.
“Well, never mind,” said Ronnie. “You love me now, that’s all that matters.”
“Yes, that’s all that matters.”
“You looked so surprised when I said I loved you.”
“I was a little surprised,” admitted Elfrida. “We were talking about Pinkie’s piglets, weren’t we? I knew you loved me, Ronnie, but I didn’t expect you to say it just then.”
“You knew? When did you know?”
“That afternoon on the beach. I knew by the way you looked at me; I was ‘certain sure’ when you said I couldn’t have done anything else except dash into the sea and try to save Patrick.”
“You couldn’t have done anything else!”
“Of course I couldn’t! But you were the only person who seemed to realise that I couldn’t have stood on the beach and watched him drowning.”
“I loved you the very first moment I saw you in Uncle Bob’s office,” said Ronnie seriously.
“Not really?”
“Yes, really and truly. We sat by the fire together and I told you about Mountain Cross. I remember just how you looked. You looked a little frightened and I wanted to take you in my arms and comfort you and take care of you for ever and ever.”
“Oh, Ronnie!”
“Coming down in the car I loved you more every minute . . . but I thought it was quite, quite hopeless. I made up my mind that I should have to get over it, somehow or other. You were friendly and kind but you were—you were sort of untouchable. It was like seeing a girl through a plate-glass window.”
Elfrida thought about this; it was because her thoughts had been full of Glen—yes, that was the reason—but she did not say so. She said, “I didn’t know. I thought we were just good friends until that day on the beach. When I was ‘certain sure’ you loved me I told you about Glen because I wanted to give you a chance of changing your mind about me.”
“Changing my mind?”
“Backing out before it was too late. You might have been put off when you realised I was a silly donkey.”
“You weren’t a silly donkey! Lots of girls——”
“Yes, I was. But I’ve learnt my lesson; nothing like that will ever happen again.” She sighed blissfully and leant her head against Ronnie’s shoulder; it was a nice solid shoulder clad in Harris tweed.
“I shall take good care that it doesn’t,” declared Ronnie, tightening his arm round her waist.
They were silent for a little while. It was very quiet in the barn; the only sound was the rhythmic snoring of Pinkie.
“Oh, darling,” said Ronnie at last. “It’s wonderful that you love me, but . . . but what are we going to do? There’s Uncle Bob, you see. He has been so good to me and now I’m just beginning to get the hang of things and be useful to him.”
“He said you had become good value.”
“Yes,” said Ronnie with a big sigh.
“It means we shall have to live in London.”
“You wouldn’t like that, would you?”
“Well, I do love Mountain Cross,” admitted Elfrida. “But there’s nothing else for it; we want to be together, don’t we?”
“Darling, of course! It will be absolute bliss . . . but supposing you were unhappy in London? You hated it, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but that was because I was so lonely. I was dreadfully lonely after Mother died.”
“You won’t be lonely any more.”
“No, never any more,” she agreed. “Let’s make plans, Ronnie. We shall have to find a little house.”
“Not at Uxbridge,” said Ronnie hastily. “Too many people live there: Mother and Uncle Bob and Mr. Riggs and a whole flock of partners and relations. We want to be on our own.”
“Yes, we want to be on our own . . . except for Patrick. I told you I’d got Patrick ‘for keeps,’ didn’t I? He has been given to me to take care of.”
“I know. I shall help you to take care of him.”
“Good,” said Elfrida happily. “I just wanted to be sure.”
“What about Mountain Cross?” asked Ronnie. “You can’t sell it, of course. We can come here for holidays. Could Chowne run the place?”
“Not by himself,” replied Elfrida. “We must get a man to help him, but I don’t suppose that will be difficult. You said there would be quite a lot of money when the album was sold.”
“Oh, goodness!” exclaimed Ronnie in dismay. “I’d forgotten! I can’t marry you! I shouldn’t have asked you!”
“Ronnie, what do you mean?”
“Uncle Bob will be furious with me.”
“Why should he be furious? We’ve agreed that we’re going to live in London, so you can go on working in the office just the same. It will make no difference to——”
“It isn’t that.”
“What is it, then?”
“I’ve got no money,” groaned Ronnie.
“You said the album was valuable.”
“But it’s yours,” said Ronnie, getting up and standing looking at her. “The album is yours so the money will be yours. I’ve got no money except what I earn.”
“Money, money, money,” said Elfrida impatiently. “I thought you loved me.”
“I do, terribly much, but——”
“There aren’t any ‘buts’.”
“There are lots of ‘buts.’ A man shouldn’t ask a girl to marry him until he is making enough money to support her.”
“That’s a silly idea!”
“It isn’t a silly idea; it’s what Uncle Bob will say.”
“Oh, Ronnie, we’re quarrelling!”
“No, darling. I’m only trying to make you understand. It isn’t what I think that matters; it’s what Uncle Bob will think.”
“It’s our lives that matter.”
“Listen, darling, Elfrida Jane!” exclaimed Ronnie in desperation. “I shall have to do what Uncle Bob wants me to do. I can’t possibly go against him, or do anything that he doesn’t approve o
f, because he has been so frightfully decent to me. You see that, don’t you?”
“Yes, I see that,” she agreed, nodding thoughtfully. “Yes, you’ll have to consult him . . . but are you sure he won’t approve of your being married?”
“Yes,” replied Ronnie, miserably. “He’ll say I shouldn’t have asked you to marry me until I was making enough money to support a wife; he’ll say I shouldn’t think of marriage until I’ve made my way in the firm.”
“But you can’t be certain what he’ll say until you’ve asked him.”
“I know his views about young men getting married.”
“You’ll have to tell him about us.”
“Yes, of course . . . but I know what he’ll say.”
“Why not ring him up to-night?”
Ronnie looked doubtful. “I think it would be better not to ring him up. He doesn’t like telephone conversations . . . and it would be difficult to explain.”
“Yes, you could explain it all much better if you saw him.”
“I’ll go to-morrow.”
“To-morrow? Oh, Ronnie, need you? I hoped you would be able to stay two days at least! Why must you——”
“I can’t bear the suspense,” declared Ronnie. “I must get it settled as soon as possible. It’s no good, of course; I know what he’ll say . . . and Mother will back him up.”
For the first time Elfrida was really alarmed. She knew Mr. Sandford (he was a dear and she could not believe he would “be silly about it”) but Mrs. Leighton was an unknown quantity. Ronnie had mentioned her several times in the course of conversation so Elfrida was aware that she liked going to parties . . . and liked Ronnie to go with her. She liked travelling abroad . . . if Ronnie went with her. She liked Ronnie to take her for a spin in the Wisp on a Sunday afternoon. Obviously Mrs. Leighton would not like a daughter-in-law.
“I suppose your mother won’t want you to—to marry me?” asked Elfrida in a doubtful voice.
“I’m afraid she won’t be too keen on it,” admitted Ronnie. He added hastily, “She hasn’t seen you, of course. When she sees you she’ll realise that you’re a million times more lovely and sweet and beautiful than Anthea.”
The House on the Cliff Page 24
