CHAPTER IX OLDSTONE COTTAGE
The journey from Montricheux to London accomplished, Ann was speeding through the familiar English country-side once more and finding it doubly attractive after her six months’ sojourn abroad. The train slowed down to manipulate a rather sharp curve in the line as it approached Silverquay station, and she peered eagerly out of the window to see the place which was henceforth to mean home to her. She caught a fleeting glimpse of white cliffs, crowned with the waving green of woods, of the dazzling blue of a bay far below, and of a straggling, picturesque village which climbed the side of a steep hill sloping upward from the shore. Over all lay the warm haze of early July sunshine. Then the train ran into the station and she had eyes only for Robin’s tall, straight figure as he came striding along the platform to meet her.
Brother and sister resembled each other but slightly. In place of Ann’s tempestuous coppery hair Robin was endowed with sober brown, and for her golden-hazel eyes, with their changeful lights, nature had substituted in him a pair of serious greenish-brown ones. But they were attractive eyes, for all that, with a steady, “trustable” expression in them that reminded one of the eyes of a nice fox terrier.
“Robin!” Ann sprang out of the railway-carriage and precipitated herself upon him with unconcealed delight. “Oh, my dear, how are you? Let me have a good look at you!”
She pushed him a little away from her and her eyes flashed over his face and figure searchingly. Then she nodded as though satisfied with her inspection. Whereas when she had last seen him he had limped a bit as a consequence of his wound, to-day he had crossed the platform with the old, easy, swinging stride of the pre-war Robin, and although his face was still rather on the thin side, it had lost the look of delicacy which, a year ago, had worried her considerably.
“Isn’t this all simply splendid, Robin?” she said gaily, as, after giving her luggage in charge of a porter, they made their way out of the station. “Never tell me dreams don’t come true after this—if you dream them hard enough!”
He smiled down at her. Her spontaneous enthusiasm was infectious.
“It certainly looks as if they do,” he agreed. “Here’s our trap. Jump in!”
She regarded the smart ralli-cart and bright bay cob with interest. The latter, held with difficulty by a lad Robin had left in charge, was dancing gently between the shafts, impatient to be off.
“Our trap?” queried Ann.
“Yes. It goes with the cottage,” explained Robin. “Coventry’s been awfully decent over everything. Of course, he provides me with a gee to get about on, but as soon as he heard I had a sister coming to live with me he sent down this pony and cart from his own stables. Naturally, I told him that that kind of thing wasn’t included in the bond, but he shut me up with the remark that no woman could be expected to settle down at the back of beyond unless she had something to drive.”
“He must be an extremely nice young man,” commented Ann, as she settled herself in the trap.
Robin gathered up the reins and they set off, the sleek little cob at once breaking into a sharp trot which carried them swiftly along the leafy country road.
“Coventry’s not very young,” observed Robin, as they sped along. “Must be six or seven and thirty, at least. And I don’t think you would describe him as ‘nice’ if you’d met him. He’s very brusque in his manner at times, and I don’t fancy women figure much in his scheme of existence.”
“Oh, well, he’s of no importance beyond being the source of a perfectly topping billet for you.” Ann brushed the owner of Heronsmere off the map with an airy wave of her hand. “He’s quite at liberty to enjoy his womanless Eden as far as I’m concerned. Men—other than extremely nice brothers, of course!—are really far more bother than they’re worth. They’re—they’re so unexpected”—with a swift recollection of the upsetting vagaries of mood exhibited by a certain member of the sex.
Robin threw her a brief glance, then, drawing his whip lightly across the cob’s glossy flanks, he asked casually:
“And how did you leave the Brabazons?”
“They’re both looking very fit after three months in Switzerland, of course, but I think Tony found it a bit boring compared with Monte Carlo. They came straight on to Montricheux from Mentone, you know.”
“Tony still gambles as much as ever, then?”
Ann’s face clouded.
“I’m afraid he does,” she acknowledged. “At least, whenever he gets the chance.”
“Well, he won’t get much chance down at Lorne,” remarked Robin philosophically.
“They’re not going down to Lorne yet. They go back to Audley Square till the end of this month. That’s quite long enough for Tony to get into trouble”—ruefully. “Lady Susan says he plays a lot in her nephew’s set—that’s the Brett Forrester Tony sometimes speaks of as such a fine bridge player.”
“I’ve heard of Forrester from other people,” observed Robin. “He’s got the reputation of being one of the most dare-devil gamblers in London—in every shape and form. Cards, horses, roulette—anything you like as long as it’s got the element of chance in it.”
Ann’s brows drew together.
“That may be all right for Mr. Forrester. As Lady Susan says, he can afford to throw money away if he chooses. Tony can’t, you know. Sir Philip’s pretty strict over his allowance.”
“I’m rather anxious to meet your Lady Susan,” said Robin. “It was very decent of her to let you leave her almost at once like that.”
“Lady Susan always would do the decent thing, I think,” returned Ann, smiling. “The other thing doesn’t seem to occur to her. You’ll meet her before long, as she comes straight home from Paris. Isn’t it strange that you should get this berth and that we should come to live quite close to her?”
“Rather a coincidence.” Robin, occupied in restraining a sudden tendency on the part of the pony to frolic a little as they neared home, replied somewhat abstractedly. He was a good whip, and under his quiet handling the cob soon steadied down to a more reasonable gait and finally pulled up decorously at a green-painted gateway. A diminutive and hugely self-important young urchin, whom Ann learned later to know as Billy Brewster, the odd-job boy, appeared simultaneously and flew to the pony’s head, grasping his bridle with as much promptitude as if there were imminent danger of his bolting at sight. Billy’s ultimate ambition in life was to be a groom—he adored horses—and although, at present, the exigencies of fate ordained that boots, coals, and knives should be added to his lot, he proposed to lose no opportunity of acquiring the right touch of smartness requisite for his future profession.
Ann laughed as she passed through the gate which Robin held open for her, while Billy touched his hat rapturously for the third time.
“Who is that fascinating imp?” she asked. “Is he one of our retainers, Robin?”
He nodded, smiling.
“That’s Billy. He does everything Maria doesn’t choose to do, in addition to grooming the horses. You will observe he is the complete groom—minus livery!”
Ann’s eager glance swept the low, two-storied cottage which faced her. It was a cosy, home-like looking little house, approached by a wide flagged path bordered with sweet, old-fashioned country flowers. One of its walls was half concealed beneath a purple mist of wistaria, while on the other side of the porch roses nodded their heads right up to the very eaves of the roof. From the green-clothed porch itself clustered trumpets of honeysuckle bloom poured forth their meltingly sweet perfume on the air. And framed in the green and gold of the honeysuckle, her face wreathed in smiles, stood the comfortable figure of Maria Coombe.
Ann was conscious of a sudden tightening about her throat. The sight of Maria, with her shrewd, kindly eyes smiling above her plump pink cheeks, and her hands thrust deep into the big, capacious pockets of her snowy apron, just as she remembered her in the long-ago nursery days at Lovell, brought back a flood of tender memories—of the old home in Devon which she had loved so intensely, of Virginia, frail and sweet, filling the place of that dead mother whom she had never known, of all that had gone to make up the happy, care-free days of childhood.
“Maria!” With a cry Ann fled up the flagged path, and the next moment Maria’s arms had enveloped her and she was coaxing and patting and hugging her just as she had done through a hundred childish tragedies in years gone by, with the soft, slurred Devon brogue making familiar music in Ann’s ears.
“There now, there now, miss dear, don’t ‘ee take on like that. ‘Tis a cup of tea you be wanting, sure’s I’m here. An’ I’ve a nice drop of water nearing the boil to make it for you.”
She drew Ann into the living-room—a pleasant sunshiny room with a huge open hearth that promised roaring fires when winter came—and whisked away into the back regions to brew the tea.
Ann smiled up at Robin rather dewily.
“Oh, Robin, we ought to be awfully happy here!” she exclaimed. As she spoke, like a shadow passing betwixt her and the sun, came the memory of the morning at Montricheux, when she had been waiting for Lady Susan’s coming and some vague foreboding of the future had knocked warningly at the door of her consciousness. For a moment the walls of the little room seemed to melt away, dissolving into thick folds of fog which rolled towards her in ever darker and darker waves, threatening to engulf her. Instinctively she stretched out her hand to ward them off, but they only drew nearer, closing round her relentlessly. And then, just as she felt that there was no escape, and that they must submerge her utterly, there came the rattle of crockery, followed by Maria’s heavy tread as she marched into the room carrying the tea-tray, and the illusion vanished.
“There’s your tea, Miss Ann and Master Robin, an’ some nice hot cakes as I’ve baked for you.” Maria surveyed her handiwork with obvious satisfaction. “And I’m sure I wish you both luck and may a dark woman be the first to cross your threshold.”
“You superstitious old thing, Maria!” laughed Robin. “As if it could make twopenny-worth of difference whether a blonde or brunette called upon us first!”
“I don’t know nothing about blondes and brunettes, sir,” replied Maria, with truth. “But they do say ‘twill bring you luck if so be a dark woman’s the first to cross your threshold after the New Year’s in, and it seems only reasonable that ‘twould be the same when you go into a new house.”
Unfortunately Maria’s hopes were not destined to be fulfilled, as the first person to cross the threshold of Oldstone Cottage after Ann’s arrival was Caroline Tempest, the rector’s sister. “Miss Caroline,” as she was invariably called by the villagers, was a flat-chested, colourless individual with one of those thin noses which seem to have grown permanently elongated at the point in the process of prying into other people’s business. Her hair, once flaxen, was now turning the ugly yellowish grey which is the fair woman’s curse, and her eyes were like pale blue china beads.
She appeared, accompanied by the rector, about half an hour after Maria had brought in tea, and seemed overwhelmed to discover that Ann herself had only just arrived.
“I really must apologise,” she declared, in the voice of a superior person making a very generous concession. “I quite thought you were expecting your sister yesterday, Mr. Lovell. I told you so, didn’t I, Brian?” She appealed to her brother, who nodded rather unhappily. “And we thought we’d like to call as soon as possible and welcome you to the parish.”
Ann didn’t believe a word of it.
“She knew perfectly well you were expecting me to-day,” she declared when, later on, she and Robin found themselves alone again. “Though I haven’t the slightest doubt she told that nice brother of hers just what she wished him to believe. She simply wanted to have first look at me so as to be able to give the village to-morrow a full, true, and particular account of what I’m like.”
However, she replied to Miss Caroline’s apologies with the necessary cordiality demanded by the occasion and, ringing for Maria, ordered fresh tea. The rector protested.
“No, no,” he said hastily. “You must be far too tired to want visitors when you’ve only just come off a long journey. We’ll pay our call another day.”
Brian Tempest was the very antithesis of his sister—tall and somewhat ascetic-looking, with a face to which one was almost tempted to apply the word beautiful, it was so well-proportioned and cut with the sure fineness of a cameo. His dark hair was sprinkled with grey at the temples, and beneath a broad, tranquil brow looked out a pair of kindly, luminous eyes that were neither all brown nor all grey. Later, when she knew him better, Ann was wont to inform him that his eyes were a “heather mixture—like tweed.” Small, fine lines puckered humorously at their corners, and there was humour, too, in the long, thin-lipped mouth.
Robin and Ann brushed aside his protest with a hearty sincerity there was no mistaking. Whatever each of them might feel concerning Miss Caroline, they were in complete accord in the welcome they extended to her brother. He was no stranger to Robin. The latter had put up at the village inn during the time occupied by Maria Coombe in “cleaning down” the Cottage and making it habitable, and the rector had dropped in to see him in a characteristically informal, friendly fashion on more than one occasion.
The two chatted together while Miss Caroline put Ann through a searching catechism as to her past, present, and future mode of life, including the age at which her parents had died, the particular kind of work she had undertaken during the war—appearing somewhat taken aback when Ann explained that she had driven a car, the making of shirts and mufflers coming more within the scope of Caroline’s own idea as to what was “suitable” work for a young girl—and the length of time she had lived with Lady Susan. The coincidence of Robin’s obtaining a post in the neighbourhood of Lady Susan’s home impressed her enormously, as fate’s unexpected shufflings of the cards invariably do impress those whose existence is passed in a very narrow groove.
“It’s really most extraordinary!” she declared, scrutinising Ann much as though she suspected her of having somehow juggled matters in order to produce such a phenomenon. “Did you hear that, Brian? Miss Lovell has been living with our dear Lady Susan.” She spoke as if she held proprietary rights in Lady Susan. “Isn’t it extraordinary that now she and her brother should have come to live so near White Windows?”
“I think it’s a very charming happening,” replied the rector, “since Oldstone Cottage is even nearer to the rectory!”
He smiled across at Ann—a quick, sympathetic smile that seemed to establish them on a footing of friendly intimacy at once.
“Really,” went on Miss Caroline, doggedly pursuing the line of thought to the bitter end of her commonplace mind, “it’s as though it were meant in some way—that you should come to Silverquay.”
“Probably it was,” returned the rector simply, and Ann observed a quiet, dreaming expression come into his eyes—a look of inner vision, tranquilly content and confident.
“Fancy if it turns out like that!” exclaimed Miss Caroline. “It would be a most singular thing, wouldn’t it, if it was really intended?”
“Not at all,” answered Brian composedly. “You’re speaking as though you regarded the Almighty as a thoughtless kind of person who would let things happen, just anyhow.”
“Brian!” Miss Caroline’s tones shuddered with shocked reproach. Her brother often shocked her; he seemed to think of God as simply and naturally as he might of any other friend. She herself, in the course of her parochial work in the village, habitually represented Him as a somewhat prying and easily offended individual who kept a particularly sharp eye on the inhabitants of Silverquay.
She hastily turned the conversation on to less debatable ground.
“We shall have quite a lot of fresh people in the neighbourhood,” she remarked sociably. “Mr. Coventry himself is a stranger to us all, and then there will be a new-comer at the Priory, too.”
“Mrs. Hilyard, you mean?” said Robin.
“Yes.” Miss Caroline looked full of importance. “I hear she arrives to-day. The carrier told our cook that he was ordered to meet the four-thirty train this afternoon—to fetch a quantity of luggage.”
“Is there a Mr. Hilyard?” asked Ann casually. She could see that Miss Caroline was bursting with gossipy news which she was aching to impart.
“No, she’s a widow, I hear, and very wealthy. The furniture that’s been coming down by rail is of most excellent quality—most excellent!”
“How do you know, Caroline?” inquired the rector, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
“Well, entirely by accident, I happened to be taking a basin of chicken broth to old Mrs. Skinner—you know, she lives in one of the Priory cottages—on the very day the pantechnicons were delivering at the house, and I saw quite a number of the chairs and tables as they were being carried in.”
The twinkle in Brian’s eyes grew more pronounced.
“I’m afraid you must have stood and watched the unloading process, then.”
“Well, I suppose I did—just for a minute,” she acknowledged, adding with some asperity: “It would be quite fitting if you took a little keener interest in future parishioners, Brian.”
“My interest in my future parishioners is quite keen, I assure you—though I don’t know that it extends to their furniture,” replied the rector, laughing.
“Oh, well, it’s nice to know that some one has taken the Priory who is in a position to keep it up properly,” persisted his sister. “Don’t you agree, Miss Lovell?”
“Of course,” said Ann. “Besides”—smiling across at the rector—“as we’re as poor as church mice, it’s just as well the new arrival at the Priory should he rich—to even things up.”
“I think it’s all very interesting,” pursued Miss Caroline, still intent on her own train of thought. “Here’s Mr. Coventry come home at last to live at Heronsmere—a very eligible bachelor—and with this Mrs. Hilyard, a wealthy widow, living so near by it wouldn’t be at all surprising if something came of it.”
The rector jumped up, laughing good-humouredly.
“Caroline! Caroline! I must really take you home after that, or Miss Lovell will think Silverquay is a veritable hot-bed of gossip. Coventry hasn’t been in the neighbourhood a month, poor man, and here you are trying to tie him up with a lady who doesn’t even arrive until this afternoon!”
“Besides,” suggested Robin, smiling broadly, “she may be a really disconsolate widow, you know.”
Miss Caroline shook her head.
“I don’t think so,” she answered obstinately. “The furniture didn’t look like it. One of the packages was a little torn, and I caught sight of the curtains inside. They were rose colour.”
“That was really quite bright of Miss Caroline,” observed Ann with some amusement, when the rector and his sister had started for home. “Only she didn’t know it!”