"No. I'm going to the big house. Mr. Yorke's house." The farmer took off his hat and wiped his forehead with a large handkerchief.
"Housekeeper's niece?" he asked curiously.
"No," Norma said, with the now familiar sensation of dropping a small bomb. "I'm Mr. Yorke's ward. But I've never been to Bishop stone before. That's why I have to ask the way."
"Justin Yorke's ward, are you?" The farmer continued to wipe his forehead, as though her statement made him perspire afresh. "Well, well, just think of that! I didn't know he had a girl ward."
"I've only just become his ward," explained Norma, now quite pat with her story. "We've not met each other before."
"You mean you've never seen him?" "No, never."
"Well, well, just think of that," said the farmer again. And Norma was almost, fascinated into asking whether he thought her guardian sinister but attractive, and also how old he was. Because it had occurred to her in the last few minutes that she had no clear idea of what sort of age he was.
However, of course, one did not say these things to a stranger. So she thanked the farmer and, picking up her case once more, dodged the active gosling who had stuck out his neck almost far enough to nip her leg in passing, and started down the road which had been pointed out to her.
She was almost sure that the farmer stared after her, with the ghoulish interest of one watching a naive early Christian walk unknowingly towards the lion-trap. But pride forbade her to look back, and she walked steadily onwards towards the crossroads.
It was early evening by now, but a beautiful warm July evening, and, unencumbered by her case, she would have enjoyed the walk. At least, she would have enjoyed it if the implications had not been that she was unwelcome at Bishop stone. Of course it was possible that a car had been sent to the wrong station, or that an error had been made about train times.
But errors of that kind were seldom made about people who were eagerly expected or even conscientiously welcome. And, though Norma felt no special slight at the omission, she did feel faintly chilled.
Still, there was no need to exaggerate small matters.
And at least her new guardian had unproved on Aunt Janet's technique to the extent of inviting her home for the holidays. And that without even seeing her.
At the crossroads Norma set down her case, rubbed her arm, and looked around her.
On every side stretched rolling, wooded hills, though the country was not sufficiently forbidding to be called wild, and, though there was hardly a house in sight except for distant isolated farmhouses there was no impression of loneliness.
Away to the west, the evening sun was sending bright streamers of light down a faintly overcast sky, and over all the countryside lay the mellow hush of an early summer evening.
It all looked rather friendly, Norma thought, and she noticed that though the road which she had to take sloped upwards, it was a gentle slope, unlike some of the more distant hills which looked formidably steep. Even if she had to walk all the way, there would be no great hardship in that.
But, hardly had she picked up her case and started off again, when distant, but clear in the evening silence came the sound of an approaching car. It was not coming towards her and could therefore hardly be a delayed car from Bishop stone. But, unless it turned off towards the station, it must certainly overtake her and, with any luck, she ought to be able to get a lift part of the way.
She had just arrived at this comforting reflection when the car swung into sight round a bend in the road. A dashing, low-slung little car, built for speed, and the sole occupant was a very cheerful looking young man at the wheel.
"Hallo." He drew neatly to a standstill just beside Norma. "D'you want a lift?"
"I'd love one, if you're going my way. I'm going to Bishop stone. "
"That's the only place this road goes to. Hop in."
And he opened the door of the car, reached out for her case, which he tossed into the back, and made room for her beside himself.
Gratefully, Norma slipped into the seat beside him, and the car started off again.
"Are you staying at Bishop stone?" he inquired presently, having apparently drawn his own conclusions from the suit case.
"Yes. With Mr. Yorke. I'm his ward," explained Norma, thinking she had better get her "piece" over at once, before he started indiscreet disclosures.
"Great Scot! How awful," was the cheerful retort.
"How do you get on with him?"
"I don't know. I'm meeting him for the first time." "Oh, I say I'm sorry. Well, don't let me discourage you. I dare say I'm a bit prejudiced in these matters, having never had a guardian to knock me into shape nor even a father after my first birthday. I'm that ghastly social product, the only son of a widowed and indulgent mother. But possibly that's "written all over me, and you've drawn the right conclusion for yourself."
Norma laughed, and turned her head to study him with more attention.
She saw a tall, well set-up, broad-shouldered young man in his late twenties. His brown skin and the sunbleached tinge to his brown hair suggested that he was very much an open-air type, and the strong line of his jaw and his rather wide cheek-bones gave him an air of unshakeable if good-tempered determination. His eyes were grey, frank and well spaced, and, as they glanced at Norma now, in amused acknowledgment of her scrutiny, they held a very friendly light.
"I don't think you look a ghastly social product at all," Norma said finally, at which he laughed a good deal. "And I expect you're a very nice, attentive son to your widowed mother."
"Oh, Xenia and I get on very well," he declared airily. "That's her name, you know. She doesn't much like being called anything else, because she's really much too young arid pretty to have a son my age. I only call her 'Mother' when I want to annoy her, and 'Mother dear' when I want to make her furious. By the way, my name is Paul Cantlin."
"And mine is Norma Lacey," Norma told him, suddenly very glad to find herself on such friendly terms with this young man. "What did you say your mother's name was? It sounded very nice and strange."
"Xenia. It's Russian, you know. She is half Russian, but it doesn't show, except that she's small-boned and elegant in the way aristocratic Russians used to be when there were any of them. But she's neither the melancholy intellectual, mourning futilely for the impossible, nor a red-hot bolshie rushing around champing for world chaos and a stinking time for all. In fact, she's really rather nice and very beautiful," added Paul Cantlin with ill-concealed pride.
"She sounds delightful," Norma said with sincerity. "Well, you'll see her for yourself, of course."
"Shall I?" Norma smiled with pleased anticipation. "Why, of course, if you're staying in Bishop stone any length of time. How long are you staying with your Uncle Silas, by the way?"
"My what?"
"Your Uncle Silas. Did you never read Sheridan Lefanu's Uncle Silas? He's the prototype of all sinister, attractive guardians."
Norma glanced curiously at her companion.
"And you think my guardian is sinister and attractive?"
"Oh , no not really. I'm only teasing you," Paul Cantlin declared. "How long are you staying?"
"All the school holidays, I think. That is until the middle of September."
"Then you must come up to our place and meet Xenia. I'll get her to call and arrange it. I don't think your guardian likes me. And, though he probably doesn't like Xenia either, she's a difficult person to say 'no' to with any effect, bless her!"
"Why doesn't my guardian like you?" asked Norma earnestly.
"I don't know, I'm sure. I can't imagine anyone not liking me," Paul Cantlin told her with a grin. "As a matter of fact, I think he coldly dislikes most people, on principle. But particularly bumptious young men who obviously dislike him"
"Oh, dear!" Norma sighed slightly, seeing that life at Bishop stone was going to have its difficulties.
"Don't worry," her companion said kindly. "My guess is that, after the first day or two, he'll practica
lly ignore you and, so long as you don't touch his first editions or interfere with his various plans, you'll probably be allowed to do much as you like."
"And what do you mean by his various plans?"
inquired Norma with interest.
"Well, I'm not quite sure," Paul Cantlin admitted frankly. "Justin York though I shouldn't really be gossiping to you about your guardian like this is the kind of man who, in the eighteenth century would have made or broken kings, or, at least, minor European princes. He's a born puller of strings and manipulator of events. There isn't much scope for that sort of thing now, of course. At least, not in the life of an English country gentleman. But I think he applies the fascinating technique to anything he wants to accomplish, whether it's the purchase of another bit of land to add to his already excellent estate, or to defeat a prospective member of the rural council whose face he doesn't like."
"I see. Is that why he is unpopular in the district?" "What makes you think he is?"
"Well he is, isn't he?"
"That about describes him," her companion agreed. "I heard some people in the train talking about him," Norma explained. And she sounded so serious that Paul Cantlin laughed sympathetically and said: "You poor kid! Don't get the willies about him in advance. You'll manage all right. Here's the gate of the < drive. I expect it would be more tactful if! didn't come ; right up to the house with you. But I'll phone later this "evening and see that you're all right." " "Will you really?" Norma smiled brilliantly at him. ""How very kind of you."
"Not at all. And don't forget you're coming up to see ; Xenia and me quite soon."
"I won't forget," Norma promised, as she got out of I the car and took the case from his outstretched hand. I Indeed, she thought it was the straw to which she H would cling most fervently during the difficult time 'ahead.
He watched her until, just before a bend in the drive hid him from view, she turned to wave her hand to him. The he waved cheerily in reply, and drove away.
The drive laurel lined and a trifle gloomy took one or two more twists and turns before Norma came in full view of the house. Then she stopped short in delighted amazement. For before her lay the most beautiful Tudor manor house, its rosy brickwork mellow in the evening light, its long, diamond-pane windows giving back the glitter of the sunset, and its tall twisted chimneys stretching up into a pale blue sky.
Since it looked so perfect, Norma guessed that it was probably not all the original building, but any restoration had been done with such taste and skill that it was impossible to tell where art had held time at bay.
To the sides, and obviously stretching away behind, one could see smooth lawns and the distant coloured splashes of a flower garden, and Norma felt sure that, at the back of the house there must be one of those enchanting terraces, built for the promenading of ladies in farthingales and gentlemen in doublet and hose.
She felt very much a twentieth century intruder as she walked along the last short stretch of the drive, and up to the thick oak door, beside which hung a long, polished bell pull.
Rather diffidently, Norma tugged this, and a mellow bell sounded somewhere in the distance, as though it were far back in time as well as space.
However, the figure which opened the door to Norma was as modem as herself. A decorously dressed manservant, with no hint of the colourfully picturesque about him.
"I'm Miss Norma Lacey," Norma informed him. "I think I am expected."
"Will you come in, madam, please," the man said, not committing himself on the question of whether she were expected or not. "And I will call Mrs. Parry, the housekeeper. "
So Norma was admitted to an enchanting panelled hall, and left sitting in a high-backed chair of stamped Spanish leather, feeling rather small and nervous, while the manservant disappeared into the remoter regions of the house to summon the housekeeper.
Evidently one approached her guardian only through the right series of intermediaries. Or else the man was not prepared to take personal responsibility for accepting her story at its face value, and preferred to leave that to the housekeeper.
At any rate, a few moments later, an elderly woman in dull black silk rustled forward from the far end of the hall.
"Miss Lacey?" she inquired a trifle severely, as Norma stood up to greet her.
"Yes," Norma admitted, with the feeling that she had arrived either much too early or much too late but certainly not at the correct time.
"I understand that you went on to Munley Halt in error," stated the housekeeper, with an air of knowing so completely all about everything that, for a moment, Norma wondered if she were a thought-reader.
"It wasn't in error," explained Norma, seizing on the one point on which Mrs. Parry seemed misinformed. "Mr. Sylvester the solicitor, you know, told me to get out at Munley."
"He should have told you Rossingdale. Jenkins took the car there and waited for you."
"I'm so sorry," Norma said, feeling that this was expected.
However Mrs. Parry stated with great impartiality: "It was not your fault. In any case, Miss Bawdley of the White House in Rossingdale, told Jenkins that you had gone on to Munley. He was just going down there to fetch you, but brought the evening papers for Mr. Yorke first."
"Oh, well, I got a lift, so it was quite all right," Norma explained with a smile.
Mrs. Parry did not smile, and Norma thought that, on the whole, she disapproved of "lifts" or of the expression or of life in general. Norma was not quite sure which.
"Well, I'll show you to your room now," Mrs. Parry said. "And, when you have had a wash and tidied up Mr. Yorke would like to see you."
The way she said this made Norma feel very dirty and dishevelled, and quite unfit for her guardian's presence. So she meekly followed Mrs. Parry upstairs, hoping devoutly that she would be able to live up to the standard of civilization which appeared to be set here.
At the top of the stairs, Mrs. Parry turned along a highly-polished corridor leading out of the large square landing, and opened the door of the end room.
To Norma's dazzled and delighted eyes, it seemed that she almost walked forward into the sunset, for the beautiful panelled room, with its subdued yet mellow colouring, was flooded with evening sunlight.
"What a lovely room," cried Norma. "Is it really mine?"
"Why, yes. Miss Norma." Mrs. Parry unbent to the extent of using her Christian name. "I'm glad you like it so much."
"Anyone would love it! I've never been in such a beautiful room." Norma wandered round, touching one or two things with fascinated interest. "Did you choose it for me, Mrs. Parry?"
"Oh, no, Miss Norma!" The housekeeper seemed faintly shocked at the idea of a decision of this sort being left to her. "Mr. Yorke said you were to have it. He said young things needed light and colour," she added without expression.
"He said that?" Norma turned and looked at the housekeeper curiously. "How very kind of him."
Mrs. Parry refrained from either confirming or questioning this comment on her master. She merely said: "Come downstairs when you're ready. You will find me in my room at the end of the hall."
Then she left Norma to her own devices.
There was not time to make more than a cursory examination of her domain, but Norma gathered that, though the house might be the perfection of Tudor design outside, very much more than a Tudor standard of comfort was maintained indoors. The carved oak furniture and the blue and cream blocked linen hangings were quite in keeping with the period, but a skilful hand had added all the means for twentieth century comfort of a high order. And what had obviously been a dressing room, leading out of the larger room and possibly a powder closet in later days had been converted into a frankly modem bathroom.
As she washed, and brushed her dark hair, and changed into a wine coloured dress which emphasized her warm, colourful beauty, Norma looked round, noting each new detail with pleasure, and also pondered on her guardian's remark that "young things needed light and colour."
That sounded
not at all in keeping with the man who had been described to her from various angles during the last few hours. It was a kind and rather indulgent remark. The sort of remark which Aunt Janet would not have uttered in a hundred years.
Though her heart was beginning to beat uncomfortably hard by now, it was also with feelings of liveliest curiosity that Norma went downstairs when she was ready.
The big hall was empty, the house very silent though with a warm and friendly silence and Norma paused for a moment at the bottom of the stairs. Then, remembering the room from which Mrs. Parry had issued on her arrival, she went over to it and gently pushed open the door. But the room was empty.
Just for a moment, Norma had the rather panic-stricken impression that she was alone in the house.
This was ridiculous, of course, for the place must be full of silent, well-trained servants, in order to maintain the standard of comfort and, indeed, luxury which surrounded her. Mrs. Parry was probably giving strict orders to some of those same silent, well-trained servants at this moment, and would be back immediately.
Walking very quietly in fact, almost on tiptoe Norma retraced her steps toward the front of the hall, noting that all the beautiful carved oak doors were closed, except one which stood slightly ajar.
With a sudden quickening of anticipatory excitement, Norma softly pushed the door further open, and looked into the room.
. It was a very beautiful room, with much the same aspect as her own bedroom. Another of these enchanting, mellow rooms, thought Norma, as she stood in the Doorway, looking across to the single occupant, who was, for the moment, unaware of her presence.
In that first glimpse of Justin Yorke, Norma realized afterwards, she took in an absolute and complete impression of him. Most people create an impression by deepening degrees. With him it was not so. She was completely and acutely aware of him. And she thought him, unquestionably, the handsomest man she had ever seen.
He was sitting by the window, and she saw him in profile, the setting sun casting a curious effect of light around him which reminded her forcibly of her assertion that Lucifer meant "the shining one." But the odd radiance was not entirely from without, she knew. Something within him repeated the suggestion of light. Clear, cold and inescapable.
Ward of Lucifer Page 2
